Separated at Death (The Lakeland Murders) (28 page)

‘And that’s what you’re saying is it?’ asked Hall, looking straight at Simon Hamilton.

‘Of course. I didn’t stop on Queen’s Road last Wednesday evening.’

Hamilton was doing his best to sound convincing. Hall’s expression told him that it wasn’t working. ‘You see the thing is, the car that our witness saw wasn’t just the same make, model and colour as yours, but it also had a bike rack on it.’ Hall held his hand up to stop the solicitor from interrupting. ‘And it was the exact same model as yours Mr Hamilton, the very same one. What are the chances of that, do you think?’

‘It wasn’t my car’ Hamilton paused, and then went on before his lawyer could stop him. ‘It might have been my car, but on another evening. Because I might have stopped and eaten a take-away up there, maybe Monday or Tuesday of last week. I’d forgotten about that.’

‘I see. So you think that your car might have been there at that time, but on a different evening? And this is something that you haven’t thought to mention before?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten. It didn’t seem important before.’

‘It didn’t seem important’ echoed Hall. ‘But what if I told you that our witness is certain that it was on Wednesday evening.’

‘I’d say that your witness is wrong. It definitely wasn’t Wednesday.’

Jane Francis noticed the way that the lawyer was looking at his client. She had a strong feeling that Simon Hamilton was about to discover that his fees were about to go up.

‘You were right boss, he’s sticking to his story’, said Jane as they walked to Hall’s car.

‘He’s dug himself in even deeper though, hasn’t he? He’s now admitting that he was parked there, but claiming that we’ve got the wrong day. That’s going to be easy to break down, because all we’ll do is take the CCTV from town for both days from 6pm ‘til midnight, and unless we see him stop at a take-away and turn left at the town hall up the hill we’ve pretty much got him on that, even if it’s not enough to convict on its own. He should have kept his mouth firmly shut. I bet Jenkins is explaining that to him right now.’

‘But it gives us more to go at the wife with, anyway.’

‘It does indeed. And I’ve got a suggestion about how you like might to play it.’

‘I’m all ears, boss.’

‘Jane, I’ve been meaning to say that it’s fine to call me Andy when we’re on our own or with close colleagues like Ian Mann. Uniforms like all that saluting and stuff, but you’re in CID now. OK?’

‘Yes, fine. So, Andy, how do you suggest I play it?’

‘It’s a bit of a gamble, but why not base everything you say on the assumption that your idea about why Sarah is covering for him is right? So we know he’s a wrong-un, and that you understand that she’s covering for some other kind of criminality. But it’s actually more serious now, because what she’s actually doing is giving him an alibi for the murder of a young girl, who she must have known since she was a baby. I’d play that card hard.’

Jane Francis looked at Hall as he drove.

‘You’re thinking about the fact that she’s childless, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, among other things.’

‘Don’t you think you’re making an assumption though Andy? That all women want to be mothers. I don’t see why that should be any truer than it is of men, do you?’

‘Sorry, Jane, that’s not really what I meant.’ Hall looked uncomfortable, and Jane Francis decided to go easy, for now at least. ‘I meant that Sarah must have known Amy really well.’

‘Don’t worry Andy, I do get your drift. Make her think about exactly what her husband has done, say we understand that she had no part in it, and maybe suggest that the courts will be kind to her if she helps us, even now.’

‘Be careful on that one Jane. By all means hint at a defence that she and her lawyers could use, like coercion and even physical fear of her husband, because they’ll use that anyway, but don’t imply that a deal is on offer. It just isn’t. If she wants to lie for him, then she needs to understand that there’s a price to be paid.’

Jane nodded. For a moment she thought she could hear a bit more emotion in Hall’s voice than she was used to hearing.

‘Anything else you want to go through before we get there? asked Hall, sounding as calm as ever.

‘No Andy, I’m fine.’

‘You’ll do a great job, I know you will. And don’t worry if she doesn’t shift her position, it’s her own look-out. We’re giving her every chance to tell the truth. If she doesn’t take it then she’ll do some jail time if Simon’s convicted, I promise you that.’

They fell silent and Hall drove slowly past Windermere golf course. The sun came out from behind a bank of grey cloud, the shower passed, and suddenly the fields were the extraordinarily vivid green that Hall always thought that you only ever saw in the Lakes. It looked as if the rain had washed the world.

Sarah Hamilton came to the door, as Hall knew she would. Because he’d had an unmarked car at the end of the road since eight, so he knew for sure that she was at home.

‘Can we come in Mrs Hamilton?’ asked Jane.

‘It’s not convenient.’

‘That’s a shame, because the only alternative I can offer is for you to come down to the station with us. Now.’

‘I see, I’d better call our solicitor then.’

‘We’re here to help you, Mrs Hamilton. If you ask us in we can have an informal chat. It’s really in your best interests.’ Hall thought he heard a slight emphasis on the ‘your’ and sensed that Sarah Hamilton had picked it up too.

‘In that case, come in for a minute. I’m sorry about the state of the place.’

It looked immaculate to Hall, but then Sarah Hamilton didn’t have teenagers to tidy up after. Hall volunteered to make coffee for them all, and said that he’d find the cups. ‘I’m not a detective for nothing.’

It wasn’t his best ever effort, but it seemed to help relax the atmosphere slightly, so he took his time making the coffee, knowing that Jane wouldn’t get on to any substantive issues until he was in the room with her.

‘Here we are’ he said, handing out the drinks and looking around for coasters.

‘We’ve just been talking about the house, and what a lovely spot this is’ said Jane.

Hall nodded and smiled. He wanted to stay in the background, so he sat back on the big leather sofa and slipped his notebook from his pocket. Jane took the hint. ‘So Sarah, you know that your husband has been helping us again this morning. Do you know what we’ve been asking him about?’

‘No, he didn’t know.’

‘We have a witness who saw a car, just like your Mercedes and with exactly the same type of bike rack on it, parked very near to where Amy’s body was found, and it was certainly there just before she was killed.’

‘No, it can’t have been his car. He didn’t stop in Kendal last Wednesday. He told me that, and he told you too.’

‘Yes, he certainly did.’ Jane paused, then changed tack. ‘You never believed that John killed his own daughter, did you?’

Sarah looked surprised.

‘But you charged him with it. Simon said you found Amy’s phone, and so it must have been him.’

‘That’s right, we did find Amy’s phone. Except we don’t think that John brought the phone home at all. We think that someone else planted it, to make it look as if it was John. And you see what that means, do you?’

Sarah Hamilton shook her head.

‘It means that whoever it was who strangled Amy to death, when she was all alone in that dark wood, hates John too. You can see that?’

This time Sarah Hamilton nodded slowly, and just once.

‘And it also means that the person who murdered Amy had access to John’s house. And you see how that narrows the field of suspects?’

This time it was Sarah who changed the subject.

‘I always knew it wasn’t John, it couldn’t be. He’s a good man, and he loves his girls more than anything. I always knew that.’

Jane reached out, and took hold of Sarah’s hand. She had started to sob, quietly. ‘You see Sarah, I don’t think you know anything about murder, but you do know about something else, something that Simon has been doing. Something that maybe he doesn’t want the taxman to know about, and maybe even something that he doesn’t want us to know about. And I think you’ve said that he was home by half nine last Wednesday because you wanted to help him with an alibi for something else, and certainly not the murder of your own niece. Am I right?’

Sarah sat, hands clasped on her lap, with her head down. She seemed to have stopped crying. Hall realised that he was holding his breath, hoping that Jane would stay quiet. She did, and they sat silently for fully a minute. Eventually Sarah looked up. ‘What I told you was true. He was home by nine thirty at the very latest.’

‘And you can’t even have been a few minutes out? Perhaps he didn’t get back until quarter to ten, or a little bit later?’

‘I’ve told you, no.’

Jane paused again, and glanced briefly at Hall. He was quite still. ‘You do understand that if your husband is charged with murder then you’ll probably be charged with one or more very serious offences, because we don’t believe he could have been back when he said. You do understand that?’

Sarah Hamilton didn’t reply.

‘This is probably your very last chance to change your statement Sarah. It’s up to you, but do think about it. Imagine standing in the dock next to the man who stands accused of killing a young girl in cold blood.’

Sarah looked straight at Jane Francis. Her voice was stronger now.

‘I love my husband.’

He still couldn’t see a solution. Taking on Simon, Carl and whoever else they had in their crew wasn’t an option, and grassing them up wouldn’t get him anywhere, except dead. The chances of some kind of witness protection were, he knew, nil. The old lady two doors down couldn’t even get the cops to stop the local kids from pinching her pension on the way back from town, and she deserved to be looked after.

Then Ryan thought of old Bill Thompson. His dad had often spoken of him, and the stuff that he and his boys had got up to in the sixties and seventies. Armed robbery, protection - which came to light after a couple of hotels in the Lakes had suffered nasty kitchen fires - even prostitution. And drugs of course.

Ryan knew how unreliable his father was, he knew that better than anyone, but he remembered him saying that Thompson always looked after his own, and didn’t take kindly to offcomers. Hadn’t there been a knife fight at the Jungle Cafe out on the Shap road in the early sixties, when some city boys tried to move in on Thompson’s prostitution action there? The way his dad told it Thompson and his boys had made quite sure that they never came back, and that a few had some nasty scars to remember the Jungle Cafe by. His dad liked that story.

But that was then, old man Thompson would probably be in his eighties by now, and Ryan needed a more modern solution to his problem. He couldn’t rely on any of his mates on the estate, because most would be no better than Wayne, and would probably sell him out for a hundred quid’s worth of gear. He kept coming back to that copper: there was just something about him that Ryan trusted. It wasn’t much, but no matter how hard he tried it was all he could think of.

So he drove back to Kendal, parked his mum’s car in town, then walked back to the estate, using the little ginnels to drop down through it. He kept his hoodie up, and didn’t see anyone he knew. It was well after ten now, so he walked straight up to Mann’s parents’ house and knocked on the door.

An old man answered, trying to stand up straight but hunched forward, and asked, in a friendly tone, what Ryan wanted.

‘I need to talk your son.’

‘Which one? Ian, Michael or Peter?’

‘The one who’s a copper in Kendal.’

‘That will be Ian. I expect he’s at the station if he’s on duty. If you go the desk they’ll find out for you.’ The old man paused. ‘Aren’t you one of the Wilson lads?’

‘Aye.’

‘My eldest went to school with your dad. He used to come round here for tea sometimes when he was a lad you know. They used to play with Peter’s train set. We were really sorry about what happened to your dad.’

Ryan stood on the doorstep. He felt very visible, but not sure of what to say.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ asked the old man, sensing Ryan’s discomfort. Ryan nodded and followed him in. The house smelt of old people, but it was warm too, he noticed that straight away.

Ryan sensed that the old man was alone in the house, and while he was sitting in the living room he found himself totting up the value of his possessions. It was just habit, and in any case nothing looked worth much at all. The TV was small and old fashioned, and he couldn’t see a computer at all.

He could hear the old man in the kitchen though, whistling along with the kettle. When he reappeared he was carrying a tray with two mugs on it, and a couple of plates with slices of Parkin. The old man sat in an armchair with its back to the window.