A Wreath for my Sister (12 page)

‘If he is the same man – and I think he is – he got away with killing Stacey. I don't want him to get away with it this time. And I don't want there ever to be a next time.'

There was silence in the room now. The gossiping and chatting that normally took place in the background of a briefing had died out as the officers chewed over her words.

Joanna stood in front of them and outlined her plans. ‘DS Korpanski and I will speak to Sam Finnigan and Paul Agnew later on today, as well as Christine Rattle and Doreen Priest, Sharon's mother. Any questions?'

Timmis – always quick and vocal – objected. ‘Can we rule anyone out?' He frowned. ‘I mean a married man doesn't fit into the psychologist's profile, ma'am.'

‘He could do,' she said slowly, ‘if since the affair he split up acrimoniously from his wife. We don't know he's still married. He could be divorced. It is possible.' She felt she needed to concede a point. ‘Anyway, we can't afford to exclude someone from the enquiries just because he doesn't fit into the profile.' She ignored the smirks and glanced at Mike.

‘Tell them about the lonely hearts, Mike.' Gratefully she sat down.

Mike stood up, twisted the knot of his tie in embarrassment, cleared his throat. ‘She had more than forty replies,' he said, then grinned. ‘All those rampant men on the loose.'

‘Just get on with it, Mike.' But the comment had sent ripples round the room and it was a minute or two before it was quiet again.

‘I've managed to trace about half,' he said. ‘Some of them were married, just after a bit on the side. One or two were positively weird. Not one admitted to actually having met up with Sharon. So many of the replies had no address—'

‘They'll all have to be traced,' Joanna interrupted. ‘Just in case they can tell us anything.'

Mike was fiddling with his tie. He cracked his knuckles and held up a sheet of paper. ‘The letters from Prince Charming,' he said, ‘were all handwritten. I've sent the originals off to forensics just in case they can turn up anything, but a sprinkling of magic dust only turned up smudged fingerprints. I think she'd handled them a lot.'

‘We can live in hope,' she said. ‘There's always ESDA – impression reading to you morons,' she said, laughing. ‘But again, don't hold out too much hope. They'll also get the handwriting expert to take a look at them.'

Mike handed out a sheaf of paper. ‘These are photocopies. See if you can find anyone who recognizes the writing.'

‘It's a fairly distinctive hand,' Joanna said, glancing at one of Mike's copies.

WPC Sheila Locke spoke up. ‘What about the postmark?' she asked shrewdly.

Mike made a face. ‘No bloody envelope.'

As he cleared his throat and sat down, Joanna touched his shoulder briefly. ‘Thanks,' she said.

Mike looked at her, his eyes gleaming. For a minute or two his gaze rested on her, but he said nothing more and she turned her attention back to the room.

‘I don't suppose there's any lead on Cinderella's missing shoe?'

WPC Sheila Locke shook her head. ‘I've found the shop where she bought them,' she said. ‘They were brand new. She only bought them on Saturday, for a special date. The woman serving in the shop remembered Sharon. She said she seemed happy, lively and talkative and very friendly. And that's about it.' She looked at Joanna. ‘Apart from that I've found out nothing. She was wearing them that night – both of them. One of them's disappeared. That's all.' After Mike's story she knew it was an anti-climax. ‘I'm sorry,' she said and sat down.

Joanna looked at the knot of uniformed officers sitting halfway down the room on the right.

‘What about the cable used to strangle her?'

‘We've been everywhere – DIY, car shops, electrical retailers.' Greg Scott spoke up. ‘We've got nowhere. It seems no one quite uses that particular cable in that thickness or that twist. Sorry.' He sat down.

‘Don't worry,' she said, encouragingly. ‘It's early days yet. We've got time.' But under her breath she added, ‘I hope.'

Mike heard her, raised his eyebrows.

‘Well,' she said softly, frowning at him, ‘this is the second time – that we know of.'

He was staring at her. ‘That we know of?'

‘I've only looked at known murders,' she said. ‘I haven't even touched the Missing Persons Files. And how many of those do you know are single, on the hunt for adventure and excitement – Deborah Halliday, just for one?'

He blinked. ‘I hadn't thought of it,' he said.

She nodded. ‘Exactly.'

The team who had started interviewing everyone who had been at the Quiet Woman that night were next to report.

DC Alan King stood up, an impressive figure, standing six and a half feet tall. ‘Paul Agnew was at the Quiet Woman that night,' he blurted out.

‘What?'

‘The barmaid told us.' He leafed through his notebook.

‘Was he there at the same time?'

‘Apparently ...' DC King was reading through the barmaid's statement. ‘When she arrived he drained his glass and walked out without even looking at her. The barmaid knows Agnew by sight,' he added, ‘but not Sharon.'

Joanna spoke quietly to Mike. ‘Well, well,' she said. ‘The worms are starting to crawl out of the woodwork.'

Mike nodded.

‘Thanks, Alan,' Joanna said. ‘Leave the statement on my desk. Well done,' she added. ‘We'll have another briefing this evening, at six.'

The force dispersed.

When the room was empty Mike looked at her. ‘Who shall we start with?'

‘How about Doreen Priest?'Joanna said. ‘I'm curious to know what she's like. And she might be able to enlighten us on a few points.'

Sharon's mother lived in a small terraced house on the extreme northern edge of Leek, one of the last houses in the town before entering Blackshaw Moor, the start of the long climb up to the Winking Man, the stone crag at the highest point of the road to Buxton. The garden was untidy, with plants dangling over the path and the lawn a mixture of mud, weeds and grass. The door was scratched at paw level. Joanna lifted the knocker.

It was opened by a short, stocky woman with straw-coloured hair wearing a dressing gown. She glared at Joanna. ‘I was just going to bed,' she said in a voice gruff with too many cigarettes, and frankly hostile. But she didn't look distraught with grief.

‘I'm Detective Inspector Piercy,' Joanna said, flashing her ID card. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Korpanski. We're investigating the death of your daughter.'

A quick spasm of pain flashed across the woman's face. She blinked and pressed back against the door. ‘You'd better come in,' she said.

They followed her into a small, overheated room that stank of cigarettes. Doreen Priest switched the gas fire down.

‘Cup of tea?' she asked.

Both Mike and Joanna nodded. This would not be a quick business.

Doreen Priest had put the three mugs on a plastic tray. ‘I didn't know if you took sugar,' she said, handing round the bowl. Both declined and Doreen lit a cigarette.

‘I always thought something might happen to Sharon,' she said. Then she looked purposely at Mike. ‘You saw her. Good-looking girl, wasn't she?'

Mike nodded and Doreen took a long drag from her cigarette. ‘Too bloody good-looking, that was her problem.' She waved her cigarette at him. ‘Not that I'm saying she was a nympho. My Sharon wasn't like that. She was just a rotten picker. She got all the wrong men.' She gave a loud sniff and her breast heaved up and down quickly before she could speak. ‘It's the kids I feel sorry for,' she said in a strangled tone. ‘Them kids.'

‘Mrs Priest,' Joanna said softly, ‘were you on good terms with Sharon?'

Doreen crossed her short legs and considered. ‘We used to be.'

‘What happened?'Joanna leaned forwards.

Mrs Priest took another deep drag from her cigarette. ‘Well, I didn't blame her for splitting up with Finnigan. He was a brute. I knew that when they got married. I did warn her. “Watch him, my girl,” I said. “Watch him.'” Her small black eyes were bright as a robin's. ‘ “And watch him even more when he's a couple of pints inside him,” I said. I was right. Though he weren't bad with October and William. Give him his due.' She stopped and gave a small laugh. ‘But of course, you know Sharon ...'

Neither Joanna nor Mike felt inclined to mention that, no, they did not know Sharon. Had not known Sharon. And now would never know Sharon.

Doreen carried on regardless. ‘Anyway, Finnigan came home off nights – found her with this bloke.' She stopped. ‘Something must have snapped. He nearly bloody killed her. Had to have her jaw wired straight.'

‘Who was the man, Mrs Priest?' It was Mike who spoke.

They were due for a disappointment.

‘Oh, just some bloke from work,' she said, airily dismissing him with a wave of her smoking hand. She sighed. ‘Then she moved in with that nutcase, Agnew.'

She puffed twice on her cigarette before continuing her story. ‘Well, I knew that was a waste of time. Never even got off the ground because he was always flippin' high as a kite. Besides,' she gave Joanna a bawdy wink, ‘he had some very strange habits, that one. Personally me and Sharon thought he was pretty kinky. Then along comes this married man.' She stopped. ‘And that was when I fell out with her. A married man, Sharon, I said. No way. I mean, I've got my bloody standards. And husband-sharing I do not approve of.'

Joanna squirmed.

‘Who was the married man, Mrs Priest?' Mike spoke again.

An ugly, cunning look passed across the woman's face. ‘I don't know,' she said, watching the tip of her cigarette glow. ‘She never told me.'

Mike gave Joanna a swift glance.

‘We sort of lost contact then,' Doreen said. ‘I hadn't seen her since Ryan was born.'

‘So you knew nothing about her plea for a Prince Charming?'

Doreen bit her lip. ‘Not a thing,' she said. She waved her cigarette at them both. ‘I'll do right by them kids. I'm telling you. I'll have October and Little Wills here. They can live with their gran. I love 'em,' she said defiantly.

‘And Ryan?'

Doreen's face was stony now. ‘I'm not having that little bleeder here. He'll have to fend for 'imself.'

She watched them leave with a face still as hard as granite – unbending as far as Ryan was concerned.

‘What's going on?' Joanna said to Mike. ‘Ryan's her grandchild too. Why won't she take him?'

Mike shrugged. ‘Leave it to the social workers, Jo,' he said, but she refused to be sidetracked.

‘I'm just wondering whether her dislike of Ryan has any bearing on her daughter's murder.'

Mike made a face. ‘How could it?'

‘You tell me,' she said, ‘but I intend keeping it in mind. Ryan's quite different from the other two. He's prettier, plumper. His clothes looked just a bit smarter. Even his cot cover. It looked more expensive.' She glanced at him. ‘Surely you noticed?'

‘Can't say I did,' he grunted.

‘Well, I certainly did. He even sleeps with his mother.'

‘He's the youngest.'

‘And comes from a different stable,' she said decidedly.

Their car moved away from the small house and Joanna buckled her seat belt with a tinge of irritation.

‘I thought we'd at least come away with some answers,' she grumbled. ‘But we've gained nothing, just another question.'

She drew a lipstick across her mouth. ‘Let's hope Christine Rattle's got a few answers. I'm a bit fed up with all these imponderables.'

She glanced at Mike. ‘Drop me off, will you?'

‘You don't want me to come?'

‘I think she's more likely to talk to me alone than if you're there.'

He nodded. ‘OK. I'll carry on back at the station till you're done. Read a few statements. Take another look through those letters.'

‘We'll get the psychologist to study them.'

‘You pay too much attention to psychology and not enough to traditional police methods.'

‘I listen to both, Mike, but I can tell you, this killer has the
mind
of a killer. So it may well be that that traps him. Therefore we have to understand him.'

Mike grunted again and pressed the accelerator down hard.

Doreen Priest was watching as the police car drew away. She watched until it was out of sight and she felt sure they would not return. Then she drew her dressing gown tightly around her and sat with an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth. She stared at the telephone for a long time before picking it up and dialling a number. She knew exactly what she would say. No need for open threats. She would simply point out that she was due for a very expensive time for the next few years if she was to bring up Sharon's children. No need to mention to anyone what she intended doing about Ryan. Early days yet. There was plenty of time.

The long curved stretch of council houses was deserted except for a few stray dogs wandering across the streets. One of them started barking as the car pulled up outside Christine Rattle's house.

Christine had made an attempt to make the house comfortable – luxurious, even. The lawn was neatly mown, weeds pulled up, the laburnum bush trimmed against the autumn.

Joanna pushed open the gate and walked up the path. Christine had been watching for her. She stood in the window, waved a half-smoked cigarette and met her at the door.

‘I feel awful,' she said. ‘Bloody awful.'

Joanna had no need to ask why.

‘The kids.' Christine sank down on the sofa. ‘What was I going to tell those poor kids? I kept saying, “Mummy'll come home soon.'” She gave a short laugh. ‘Even bloody William didn't believe me in the end.'