The Operator (Bruce and Bennett Crime Thriller 2) (20 page)

‘When we found you with Kingston’s body, it seemed
that you had nothing to do with the case. Now we find that you didn’t like him,
and that you had been treating his wife without his knowledge, and sympathising
with her supposed ill treatment by him. Encouraging her to leave him.’

‘I did nothing of the sort. I didn’t know she’d
left her husband. I didn’t know he, Kingston, was her husband then.’

‘We only have your word for that. Even if your
records show a false name, that doesn’t mean you didn’t know who she really
was. You’re trying to save her from suspicion now. Perhaps you were trying to
save her from him then. Perhaps violence seemed the only way. And a parody of
conventional medicine, such as an alternative therapist might think up.’

‘What? You’re insane! Look, I didn’t know the
details of his abuse until after the murder. Just that she was scared of her
husband to the point of using a false name.’

‘If that’s true,’ Will began.

‘What do you mean ‘if’?’

‘You lied to us!’

‘I didn’t. I just... didn’t mention when I knew.’

‘So IF it’s true, then your evidence that he was
abusive is worthless. It makes her look more suspicious, not less! She fed it
to you after his death! You must be very naive to believe her.’

‘I wasn’t surprised... it matched her previous
behaviour and her symptoms too. Look are you arresting me?’ She touched the
slip of paper with the solicitor’s name on it like a lucky charm in her pocket.

‘Not yet. But perhaps you should think about the
risks of playing detective just for the sake of a story in the local paper. ‘

‘I’m not ‘playing’ at anything, believe me.’

She was no Philippa Marlowe. She wanted to defend
Tessa, yes, but in the last analysis, she just had to
know
. Couldn’t
bear not to. She’d not told the officers about her golf ball injury. On the one
hand she could claim it might be a deliberate assault, and point to another
suspect. But that would mean more or less admitting she’d been poking about
behind the house on very shaky ‘journalistic’ grounds, and Will would pounce on
what could have been an attempt on her life to triumphantly point out that she
should keep out of things.

‘Good to know,’ he said, patronisingly. ‘Luckily
for you, Kingston had been dead since the previous night, or being found with
his body would look suspicious for you. Course, we’re checking and double
checking your movements the night before as best we can.’

‘That’s me, lucky. Now I must be going. I have
work to do, and I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time.’ She
hated Will for making her hungry, this was a dangerous situation when she might
easily lose control and eat too much, left with a bellyful of calories like an
unwanted pregnancy.

As she left, her knees were shaking and her arm
was aching where the bruise of the golf ball still throbbed. Ravenous,
dehydrated, and filled with unused adrenaline, she didn’t have time to go home
before her first appointment at Ivy Lodge so she stopped at a small coffee shop
and had ‘breakfast’ tea and toast. It was sliced white bread and the jam was
the kind you classify by colour rather than fruit, but she was so desperate,
the whole thing combined to make a sensual experience almost as blissful as her
night with Jamie. As the hot strong tea warmed her belly, she remembered that
night and began to feel good again.

She still had her life, after all, a life mostly on
her own terms, and Tessa was in good hands with her sister even if they charged
her. Erica was convinced Will would only charge Tessa if he was on safe ground.
He was the type who’d rather die than be shown up as wrong if he jumped the
gun. Typical Lycopodium. And if Tessa was charged and tried, Kingston’s
violence would be a powerful argument in mitigation.... she could easily
convince a jury she was a victim, a moist-eyed kitten in human form, even if it
was harder to convince Will and his master GB. How could Erica herself fancy a
man who came to heel every time that giant charity bag of rags and stains gave
him a look?

Erica’s amateur research had shown that there were
others who had hated Kingston. Where did that leave her? She didn’t want to
defend Tessa by putting other individuals in the frame. How could she throw
suspicion on Laura Gibson, who had confided in her, who had suffered? On Jamie,
whom she’d slept with? And each of them could represent a host of similar
colleagues and patients who felt the same way about Kingston. She could keep
trying those areas, but more and more suspects might emerge. Without actual
evidence, the motive alone would not be enough to get her any further.

Will was wondering about
Erica. She’d been in the hospital overnight? Or was she just yanking his chain?
He’d not liked to ask why. And yet sitting there, she had that look, the one he
remembered so well, kind of soft-eyed and dishevelled and not quite all there,
the look she usually had after a night of hot sex. He remembered what she’d
said about having a date.

‘Wassup Will, you look narked.’ Hassan came in
with some printouts. Will jumped.

‘Oh, just frustration - with the case. Any news?’

‘Well I was thinking we’d better follow up
Kingston’s cousin. His mother’s sister’s son, a - erm’ he looked at his notes, ‘Stephen
Blair. He’s Kingston’s executor and he inherits half the proceeds of Kingston’s
mother’s house sale. It gives Blair a motive, especially considering he’s in
credit card debt up to his eyebrows.’

‘Is he indeed. Maybe you and Paul could have a
word with Mr Blair. He might turn up at the inquest tomorrow.’

‘Bound to be a verdict of murder isn’t it? We’ve
got samples and so on from Kingston, and they’ll be releasing the body for
cremation.’

‘Speaking of samples, no drugs found in him.
Whoever clocked him one, he was very much alive and capable of kicking when
they did it.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Pretty risky, for a lass like Tessa, taking on a
healthy alert man she was scared of.’

‘IF she was scared.’

‘No defensive wounds, so there was no struggle.
Not easy to creep up on someone you’re terrified of, it happens all the time in
films and on TV but the chances are they’d look round and then you’d be in
trouble.’

‘Maybe she wasn’t that scared. We only have her
word for it. Tara and Erica are backing her up but they don’t have any real
evidence. And knowing he’d change his Will after a divorce makes her motive
even stronger.’

‘Actually I’m surprised he didn’t change it when
she left him. The thought of her nabbing all his dosh...’

‘He seems to have been an arrogant bloke though.
And doctors don’t expect to be patients, or corpses. Maybe he just didn’t think
he’d die in his prime. Or at all!’

‘Perhaps he thought she’d be back.’

At Ivy Lodge, Stacey was
being very conscientious about her internship all of a sudden. For a start she
was physically there, at an hour when she’d normally either be going home to
sleep or sleeping. Occasionally she gave a surface or two a once-over with
antiseptic wipes, when someone was looking, and spasmodically manned the
entrance like some sort of meeter and greeter in place of the receptionist they
couldn’t afford. Her instincts were telling her to be around, in case something
went down that might give her something to sell - anything which might bring the
notoriety of her dreams. Erica might find something that would make both their
names known.

‘So how was yer hot date with the baby doc? Yer
gonna give him another ride round the block, like?’

Erica gave her a brief summing up of her night of
passion followed by questioning at the copshop. ‘I suppose the police variety
of porridge is at least calorie-free. And as for Jamie, he had to rush off to
start work, and then I was in chains at the station... He’s a great kisser, and
adorable with it. And for a first time he was very promising. I can train him
up. But his work is so all-absorbing of his time and attention. And I doubt if
I can compete with all those pretty nurses.’

‘Hadaway man, Erica, nurses are aal ower shit n’
vomit, sooo not a good look yer knaa. And most of them are fat lasses.’

Erica forbore to point out that Stacey herself was
often in a similar condition of a night time.

‘He’s sent me some sexy texts.’

Stacey made a mental note to read them as soon as
Erica left her phone unattended. ‘And Wild Willy Bennett as well. Two fit
blokes after ye!’

‘Please don’t call him Willy...’

Just then Miles Fredericks, her hypnotist
colleague, dashed by her open door and paused to stick his head in.

‘Bit late!’ he panted. ‘Some sodding kids made a
disturbance outside my house late last night. Kept waking me up. Have you got
any of that night-nurses’ remedy available? I could do with some to take home.’

‘You mean Cocculus? Just a minute.’

Erica fetched him some tiny white tablets in a
brown paper envelope.

‘Usual procedure, as with all my remedies. No
coffee, no mint, no food or drink, no touching the tablets. Tip them into your
mouth. And I think your next victim is waiting.’

A man was sitting on a chair outside Miles’ room,
twitching with impatience. Something about the wrinkles round the eyes and
mouth, and the body language, said ‘repentant smoker.’

It was a very long shot, but she wondered if the
hoodies who used to hang about behind Kingston’s house had moved their drinking
den of vice near Miles’ house instead.

Miles lived on a modern estate of what are called ‘executive
homes’. They always have very pastoral sounding names, which are all that’s
left of the land they’ve covered up and destroyed. True to form, Miles’ estate
had been built on the fields of a vanished farm, and it was bounded by an
overgrown disused railway track beloved of walkers and cyclists during the day,
which formed the boundary of the far side of the golf course. So it was not so
unlikely that the youths had merely crossed the course to a new hangout.

She managed to buttonhole Miles later on.

‘Those youths who woke you. Could you text me next
time they turn up? I’d like to talk to them. I’m erm, researching a feature on
youth drug and alcohol abuse.’

‘Well I had been thinking of ringing the police. But
if you really want me to I’ll ring you instead.’

‘Last time they annoyed you, did you go outside to
chase them off?’

‘Yes, I did. Bloody cold it was too.’

‘Did you shut the door behind you when you ran
out?’

‘Come to think of it I don’t think I did, I just
ran out and when they’d gone, having given me a tour of the Anglo-Saxon history
of the English language, I went back in.’

‘And you ran out of sight of the door?’

‘Yeah, round the corner of the house.’

 ‘I bet you’ve got alarms all over your house, but
then you go running out leaving the door open. Someone could have got in while
you were chasing the others away.’

Miles was inclined to scoff at the idea. Besides,
his partner was inside to fight off any invaders. But his actions in leaving
the door open had illustrated how easy it would be for the killer to have got into
Kingston’s house without breaking in, or being someone he knew. Or, slipped
into his back garden, waited for him to come back through and bashed him over
the head as he passed by, before dragging him through the house for the rest of
his punishment. Bit handy for the killer, them being there, but then they had
been making trouble for some time, it was common knowledge.

Erica was feeling the lack
of sleep and the lack of time to shower properly. Once home, she would collapse
in a heap. She changed back into her sports top and bundled her now icky dress
into her bag with the strappy sandals. She got a suitably erotic text from
Jamie. Maybe it was going to be more than a one-night stand. She rather hoped
so; but not tonight, please not tonight.

Staggering in to her flat, she stripped, piled
everything but her shoes into the washer and set it going. Desperate times,
desperate measures, she thought recklessly as she microwaved some frozen mature
(lo-fat) cheddar before slapping it on wholemeal toast and bunging it under the
grill. She collapsed on her bed and ate the golden molten cheese, salty and
oily, gulping a mug of hot juice. Must organise some salads.... she made do
with a handful of red seedless grapes. Damn things have more calories than
blueberries but the ones in the fridge had gone squishy and white-ended and
disgusting. As usual, she tried to burst the grapes one by one against her
palate with her strenuous tongue, but they were too firm. Grapes must have
changed since Keats’ time. Still it was good exercise for her oral technique
which might be getting a lot of use in the near future. The washer rumbled and
swished, carrying her away on a wave of soapy sound. She crawled under the
duvet.

She woke next day, still filthy, and had a hot
bath. It was almost better than sex. The bruise on her arm was a pale mauve
already, fading outwards to yellow.

Golf balls, Jamie, texts... her thoughts swirled
like water down the plug. She belatedly texted him back.

Must friend him on facebook. But she’d asked him
out. Next move should be his. As she towelled herself, the black cotton against
her pale skin reminded her of his dark silky hair against her belly. A woman
cannot live by work and exercise alone. Or even cheese on toast.

The inquest came and went
with no surprises or revelations. Your basic ‘murder by persons unknown’.
Robert Kingston’s cousin and executor Stephen Blair, a skinnier, younger
version of Robert but with a rather down-at-heel look, had been questioned by
the police but not held. Erica presumed he had some sort of alibi.

The health page all done
and delivered ahead of deadline, Erica was reading the latest Ann Cleeves on
her kindle, curtains drawn, glass of claret at hand, perfect Cox’s Pippin chill
against her leg as she curled on the sofa, limbs relaxed and mind at ease after
a good gym session. A delightful work-out with Jamie had enlivened the previous
night, and they had woken together to renew their efforts. Then he’d bogged off
to work and she was now blissfully alone in her home, realising that she needed
both parts of the equation with him or any man, the being with and the bogging
off which had to be in balance. More equations, it was all about the Maths. Her
mobile vibrated against her thigh. It was Miles.

‘Erica? Those lads are round the side of the house
again. I don’t know if you want to come round now. Personally I think you’re
barking.’

‘Oh god. I don’t feel like it... bugger the lads.’

‘No thanks!’

‘I’ve just got cosied in for the night,’ she
grumbled unfairly. Do I still need to follow up this lead? With the police
still suspecting Tessa...

‘Mel thinks we should just ignore them. So if you
want to forget the whole thing... ‘

‘No, I’ll be there. Give me a while. I’ll be on my
bike. I didn’t realise Mel was back. Sorry to disturb.’

‘Don’t be silly. Come in and have a drink when you’ve
finished being beaten up.’

He rang off. Miles’ lover Mel did something fairly
well paid and financial and was often away in Europe and the US. Another keen
golfer, which was probably why they lived by a golf course. Duh.

Erica’s tyre needed pumping up, of course, and she
couldn’t find her bike lights at first. She put on warm clothes, feeling
insecure and tired. Needn’t worry she might inflame adolescent passions, to
them she’d probably seem ancient. She texted Stacey to say where she was going
and why, on the very slim chance she wanted to come along. It was unlikely she’d
be available at such short notice and she certainly wouldn’t have transport to
hand but in fact her presence could be useful with the hoodies. She probably
knew some of their older brothers and sisters from the Wydsand coastal clubbing
scene. Also some native caution made Erica feel somebody should know where she
was going and why.

It was cold when she set off, with a brisk wind
blowing the stars about and playfully gusting against her as she pedalled. Why
don’t I do something well paid and financial and get sent abroad all the time?
A question which occasionally popped up.

She pedalled up the winding paths set between
grass verges which the designers of the ‘executive estate’ had laid out so that
happy pram-pushing yummy mummies could stroll about traffic-free between culs
de sacs. As it turned out, those who moved into these little ghettos tended to
have several cars per family, so the drives and streets were littered with
glowering 4x4s and the separate footpaths became sad and leaf-strewn.

Miles’ house was on the end of a row, its side
parallel with the footpath. It was easy to pick out because of his kit car
parked outside, looking very eccentric in this setting. She wondered how the
neighbours felt about having a hypnotist in their midst. She also wondered why
all the cars were parked outside when nearly all the houses had huge double
garages. How much of a modern house was redundant? The requisite separate
dining room, never used due to the equally requisite ‘dining country kitchen,
the heart of the house’. The garage that held no cars. The study where nobody
studied.

A light went on at the side of Miles’s house. She
glimpsed movement. Then it went off again. A security light fixed high on the
wall. The wind brought a snatch of noise, garbled by the weather and
unrecognisable. But someone was definitely there. She went back the way she’d
come until she reached the previous street, turned down it and cycled along
Miles’ street as far as his house. She parked her bike between his car and Mel’s,
which was something shiny and curved like a crouching beast. She didn’t think
she’d gain cool points being seen arriving on a bike. Only losers use buses,
went the youthful creed thereabouts, god knows what they thought of two wheels
propelled by your own legs once you were past eleven years old.

She walked round the side of the house where a few
dark figures lurked close against the wall where a whimsical wrought-iron arch
heavily decked with clematis montana and the like formed a kind of shelter. The
wind still buffeted them, belting straight down the path. They were more or
less out of range of the security light, occasionally making it go on out of
defiance or carelessness as they jostled each other. She stood under it and it
went on, illuminating her in all her unthreatening smallness and spilling
enough light on them for her to see what sort of nest of iniquity she was
dealing with.

A small bunch of lads in the inevitable
low-hanging jeans with crotch stretched between knees, waistband and more of
their keks showing, knitted beanie hats and baggy t-shirts, thin and inadequate
for the weather and season. Little points of orange light glowed from their
cigarettes, and glanced off the straight sides of beer cans and a bottle of
something clear, vodka or tequila probably. Wary, arrogant, defensive, and
ball-shrivellingly cold. As true Geordie males, torture would not have made
them admit this last however.

‘Want something, pet?’ Asked with the obligatory
adolescent sneer.

‘Aa wouldn’t mind giving her somethin!’ another
said in a voice heavy with innuendo.

They laughed. Men, the lords of creation, reminding
Erica of her place in the world. Infuriatingly, they could indeed be a threat
to her physically. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use the pepper spray she’d
bought online and now had in her pocket.

‘Want a fag, darlin?’ The sneerer was holding out
a packet, the light cruelly illuminating his acne like the craters of the moon.

‘Not right now thanks. I just want to talk to you.
OK?’

‘We’ve got a right to be here,’ said the innuendo
chief. ‘Neebody can tell we to piss off.’

 ‘Or we’ll fkn tell them to piss off.’ Another was
keen to show off his bantering skills.

‘I’m a journalist, I write for the
Evening
Guardian
.’

She passed round the card which repeated the fact
in print. It was too dark to read it but they didn’t bother trying very hard.

‘Oh yeah?’

She showed them a page of the paper with her name
and photo on, glad she’d had the nous to bring it. They were probably not
regular readers of the local paper. Doomed to remain ignorant about the WI’s
latest speaker on ‘Dutch Tulip Fields’ and that hardy perennial topic, public
ire re dog mess.

‘Ye should get yer tits oot, that’d get folks
readin,’ opined one.