The Burden of Doubt (8 page)

‘Do you think you will ever find the whereabouts of your prime suspect?’ Patel asked. ‘This Shaun Busfield?’

‘Yes.’ Swift had not hesitated.

‘And do you really think he killed my wife?’

‘As I told you previously, Professor, we have evidence to link him with the crime,’ Swift said.

‘Yes,’ Patel agreed slowly, his expression suggesting that he found the notion of Moira’s having been killed by a virtual stranger hard to credit.

Swift got to his feet, bringing the interview to a close. ‘You could move back to your own house tomorrow,’ he said gently. ‘We’ve finished gathering evidence.’

A tremor crossed Patel’s face; he closed his eyes briefly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. My neighbour is not back for another few days. I know she won’t mind if I stay on here for a little longer.’

As Swift let himself out, he asked himself, not for the first time, what he would have chosen to do about his living arrangements if Kate had been killed in their house. On balance he thought he couldn’t have borne to set foot in the place ever again once the body had been taken away. But maybe the reality would have been different.

Later on, when Patel was again on his own he let his thoughts linger on Moira’s sudden and brutal death. He forced himself to say the words. ‘My beloved wife has been cut down and murdered in the prime of her life. At a time when she was expecting my
child
. And that of another man,’ he whispered, his voice crumbling with grief. For a brief moment it occurred to him that his own status as a suspect must have gained some weight for DCI Swift following the discovery of Moira’s betrayal. He had a motive to kill, one of the oldest grievances in time. It didn’t matter. Thoughts of saving his own skin were irrelevant. He needed to savour his grief.

The world, of course, would move on and forget about Moira. He recalled the stages of bereavement which those who had lost a loved one were supposed to go through – shock, denial, guilt, anger, depression, acceptance. Acceptance! And then you ‘moved on’. But he felt himself to be empty. He had nowhere left to move on from, and nowhere obvious to go.

For the police and all those people who took an interest in violent crime, Moira would become a statistic. Like other wretched victims who had been slain either by loved ones or strangers, she would eventually achieve some kind of sainthood, an angel who had given herself as sacrifice to the forces of evil.

Slowly he gathered up all the photographs scattered around him and stashed them in a folder. Having checked that all the outer doors were locked, he returned the study, gave himself a shot of morphine and lay down to sleep on the sofa without bothering to take off his clothes.

The early morning clouds which had sent down a coating of grainy sleet had cleared away and the sky above the moors guarding the valley shone with crystal winter blue, its light glinting off the great rocks crowning Ilkley Moor and tinting the slate roofs of the town to a deep sapphire.

It was the fourth day of the investigation and Swift was considering the way forward. The search for Shaun Busfield was urgent and ongoing, involving a great many staff and a sizeable chunk of Damian Finch’s budget – as the superintendent would frequently deplore – but for the moment there was no sign of reaping any reward for the outlay and effort expended.

So far Tina Frazer had shown no inclination to lead the police a merry dance. She went to work, she went to the supermarket, she went home. She stayed in at night and watched TV until around one in the morning when she went to bed. As regards phone contact between Shaun and Tina, Doug’s careful investigations had revealed that Shaun’s house had no landline, and that Tina had made no calls from her mobile. If she was contacting Shaun it was either from work, from a friend’s phone, or from payphones. But the officers tailing her had not seen her use a payphone and her supervisor had told Doug that all calls made from the salon where Tina worked had to be logged and paid for, and that Tina had not requested the use of the business phone. The issue of discovering friends who would allow Tina to use their phones was much more problematic: friend who were prepared to co-operate
with Busfield’s beleaguered consort were not likely to spill information to the police.

Swift worked a pencil through his fingers, point down on the desk, top down on the desk, over and over, mirroring his frustration. And maybe all the effort was pointless. Maybe Busfield was a blind alley. A pair of bloodstained trainers hardly made a case to present to the CPS.

He laid the pencil down on the table. He knew he should talk to Patel again, press him on the issue of Moira’s lover. He closed his eyes briefly: there was something about Patel which hit a raw nerve. He guessed he must see something in Patel’s grief which reminded him of his own pain following Kate’s death. In which case, he had to come to terms with that, put it on one side and treat Patel just like any other suspect.

He took up the pencil and wrote ‘MOIRA’S LOVER’ on his pad. Then underlined it. Then sat back.

He reached for his phone and called the reception desk at
The Yorkshire Echo.

Putting his head through the door of the incident room, he spotted Laura standing in front of the whiteboard, a small frown of concentration stamping a small V between her eyebrows as she reviewed pictures of the dead Moira Farrell and the portrait gallery of witnesses and possible suspects.

‘Any new ideas?’ he asked, knowing that neither Laura nor Doug were one hundred per cent convinced about Busfield’s status as prime suspect. Not as yet.

She shook her head. She had an air of patient frustration about her.

‘Let’s go out and do a bit of digging,’ he said. ‘And I’m not talking about the snow.’

The offices of the Women’s Page and Features department at
The Yorkshire Echo
were as cramped as those of the CID – and even more grubby and slum-like. Mugs of cold half-drunk coffee littered the desk tops, a number of them crowned with drowned, half-smoked cigarette ends. Balls of screwed-up paper from reporters’ notebooks were scattered at intervals over the floor,
presumably having been lobbed unsuccessfully in the direction of the one and only wastepaper basket.

There were just two personnel present: a fifty-something woman with a helmet of blonde hair, and the young journalist who had spoken up at the press conference. Once again she was wearing her battered bikers’ leathers and her black hair stuck up like porcupine spines. She looked up as the two detectives entered and gave a foxy grin.

In a brief appraising glance, Laura noticed that the young journalist’s nose was broad and snubbed, her eyes a brownish-black, lit with a cunning glitter. That, together with her wide, scarlet lips and flashing white teeth gave an overall mad and sexy effect. She wondered what Swift made of her, aware that his assessments were usually quieter and more balanced than hers. She wondered also, how far the reporter would go in keeping them dangling for the information they wanted. And how Swift would deal with that. Anticipation built within her.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Swift,’ the young reporter said, her voice filled with gruff, ironic welcome. ‘I wondered when you’d be coming. Sit down!’ Her guileful gaze lighted on Laura. ‘I see you’ve brought a pal along.’

‘Detective Constable Laura Ferguson.’ Laura returned the toothy grin as she introduced herself, then sat down on an office chair which wobbled slightly on a wonky tubular steel leg.

The older reporter had looked up, faintly concerned. ‘Do you want me to push off, Georgie?’

‘Nah, Barbara, you’re cool. Stay right there.’

Swift sat down and leaned forward slightly. ‘Georgina Tyson?’

‘You’ve been doing your homework!’ The girl leaned back in her seat, entirely at her ease, giving every indication of having an intention to enjoy herself during the next few minutes. ‘Call me Georgie,’ she said.

‘You’ve got information we need,’ Swift commented.

Georgie Tyson nodded. ‘I can’t really deny that, can I? Seeing as I decided to torment you with it at the press bash.’

Swift smiled, long beyond becoming riled by cocksure youngsters. ‘Trouble at the hospital, you said. Difficult staff relationships.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Issues which could have a bearing on Moira Farrell’s killing.’ There was an edge to his voice, a warning to the young reporter not to mess with him.

Keeping her eyes on Swift’s face as though she had him under surveillance, Georgie Tyson reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled out a brown A4 envelope. With the considered timing of a conjurer she slowly slid the contents from their paper sheath, and held them out, keeping them a few inches in front of Swift’s reach so that he had to stretch forward to take them.

He considered the four shiny images Georgie Tyson had offered, then passed them to Laura, who stared in fascination at pictures of Moira Farrell shown engaged in some kind of angry altercation with a tall, solidly built man dressed in a dark suit.

‘When were these taken?’ Swift asked Georgie, taking the photos back from Laura and slipping them back into the envelope.

‘Around a month ago. I took them with my mobile phone. They’re still stored there with a date on them if you want to check.’

‘Who is Dr Farrell talking to?’ Laura asked.

Georgie Tyson smiled. ‘Mr Adrian Cavanagh. Clinical Director of Gynaecology and Obstetrics at the local hospital.’ Her voice had smoothed and lowered, giving a very creditable imitation of a man charmed with his own status and ability. ‘A very important job, and doesn’t he know it?’

‘How come you took these?’ Swift asked.

Georgie stared at him, her eyes laced with the triumph of a secret known only to herself. ‘I’m interested in him.’

‘For a Women’s Page features article?’ Swift said. Watching her he saw that with this simple question he had made a small hit on her Achilles heel.

‘Maybe.’ Her irises stilled and glinted like black ice.

‘I don’t think so,’ Swift said. ‘My guess is that you’ve got your sights on writing something for the front page. Hot news. A scandal involving a local doctor would do nicely, wouldn’t it? Get you noticed by the national dailies maybe?’

The spiky-haired reporter gave a studied shrug. Her colleague at the adjacent desk was now listening to the interchange with
undisguised interest, her eyes hovering over the younger woman with an air of amused calculation.

Swift stood up. ‘Miss Tyson,’ he said, ‘I’ve no intention of wasting my time trying to squeeze information out of you. And I’m sure you’re bright enough to know that I could come down on you pretty hard if I found you were wilfully withholding evidence relevant to our investigation into Moira Farrell’s murder.’ Without waiting for a response to this deliberately formal speech he was out of the room and striding down the corridor. The envelope with the photographs was in his hand.

Laura shot Georgie Tyson a confirmatory warning glance and followed her boss, having to break into a trot to catch up with him. She guessed the young newshound would be cursing herself for trying to play Swift like a partly hooked fish. And would be more than a little annoyed at having been deprived of the excitement of goading him. Laura smiled to herself, reflecting that there was nothing worse than being cut off in full flow and being ignored.

‘What do you think she knows?’ she asked Swift as they fell into step together.

‘A little more than she’s telling us, at the very least,’ he said. ‘But maybe not much more. I’d say her main preoccupation at the moment is wanting to leave her desk in Features and become a hard-nosed newshound writing lead articles for the front page. But she’s obviously on to something regarding Cavanagh, or she wouldn’t have been hanging around trailing him with her phone on photo alert.’

‘How long before she gets back to us?’ Laura said.

Swift lifted his shoulders, his expression focused and purposeful. ‘We don’t need to wait for Miss Georgina Tyson to favour us with her tips and innuendos.’ He looked down at Laura. ‘Do we?’

‘There’s something about a detective chief inspector, isn’t there?’ Georgie said to Barbara once the two detectives were safely out of earshot.

‘Do you mean DCIs in general, or that one in particular?’ Barbara asked.

‘Both probably. It’s that mixture of calm authority with an above average knowledge about the wicked ways of the world and the frailties of its inhabitants.’

‘Mmm,’ said Barbara, smiling. Georgie Tyson had some wicked ways herself and also a few nice turns of phrase at the ready to get herself noticed by a senior editor who could give her a leg up in her career. Barbara judged her young colleague might not go quite as far as she wanted in the newshound business, but wherever she did get to, it certainly wouldn’t be for want of trying.

‘Yeah, DC Swift is one fit guy in my book,’ Georgie said thoughtfully, putting her feet up on the desk and twiddling with an ear-ring. ‘I’ve always had a fancy for older men.’

‘You mean you think he’s worth crossing swords with?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean, Barbara.’

‘So what do you know that you haven’t you been telling the fanciable Detective Chief Inspector Swift?’ Barbara queried.

‘About Adrian Cavanagh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing the chief inspector won’t soon find out for himself. And, mark my words, he’ll soon be on the trail. Rumours about docs who aren’t quite up to the job soon spread like wildfire.’

‘You controlling little vixen,’ Barbara said. ‘Just make sure you don’t go too far and get the nice Inspector Swift to set the hounds on you.’

‘Ooh, that’d be fun.’ There was now an air of calculation and mystery swirling in the room like smoke.

‘Well, little Miss Ambitious, are you going to keep me in suspense all day?’ Barbara demanded. ‘What are you plotting?’

‘In my book Adrian Cavanagh is a great big red herring,’ Georgie said in a tone of dismissal. ‘It’s Shaun Busfield I’m interested in.’

Barbara had a quick think. ‘The guy the police are looking for to “help them with their enquiries”? The one whose ugly mug is forever popping up on the TV?’

‘That’s the one. I used to go to primary school with him. We used to live on the same scruffy estate in Bradford.’

‘Really! Were you pals?’

‘No. He was two years ahead of me. He was a bit of a wild boy, always bunking off school, running around doing a bit of petty shoplifting and slashing car tyres. And who could blame him? His father cut and ran when he was tiny and his mother was a slag.’ She took her feet off the desk and picked up a rubber band lying on her desk. ‘He was a bit like me,’ she said reflectively, ‘an only child with parents who weren’t really interested in kids.’ She wound the band around her hand, pulling it tight across her hollowed palm and twanging it like a guitar string. ‘His mum was the feckless type, sleep with any fella sniffing around and never make the bed in case it might come in handy. Whereas my parents were poor and honest do-gooders, more interested in worrying about starving orphans in Africa than their own offspring. So I spent a lot of time on my own as well.’

‘Don’t tell me you went on little shoplifting sprees with the delinquent Shaun?’

Georgie grimaced. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but, no. Ten-year-old boys aren’t famous for asking girls to join in their petty criminal sprees.’

‘What did you do with yourself, then? I don’t see you as a kittens and puppies, little-princess type.’

‘I used to read boys comics and then I went on to my granddad’s Sidney Sheldon and Ian Fleming paperbacks. And after that I got into the tabloids and the Sunday papers. I used to pick up copies left on the buses and on the benches in the park.’ She gave the band a final twang and threw it back on to the desk. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a top journalist,’ she said. ‘As in chief news reporter. For as long as I can remember really wanting anything.’

‘And how is plaguing Chief Inspector Swift going to help you?’ Barbara asked.

‘I’m not quite sure yet,’ Georgie said. ‘But at least it’ll be fun along the way.’

‘Just take care,’ Barbara warned.

‘Not my style,’ Georgie said.

‘And where does Shaun Busfield come into this?

‘That’s an interesting question.’ Georgie frowned in thought. ‘It
can’t be long before the police or some gallant member of the public sniffs him out. And then he’ll be taken in for questioning.’ She picked up the band again and wound it around her knuckles until they became streaked with red lines.

Barbara sat patiently waiting.

‘That’s when I’ll have to get some sort of strategy up and running.’ She thought of the current chief reporter, a portly middle-aged man who still suffered from acne, but continued to think of himself as God’s gift. On the rare occasions he sat at Georgie’s table in the canteen he treated her with tiptoeing politeness, using the sort of voice adults used to speak to kids. Patronizing bastard. True, he filed good copy. He was the best
The Echo
had, but Georgie knew she could do better than that.