A Wreath for my Sister (15 page)

Joanna sighed and took a swift glance at Mike. He was looking fed up. She had another thought. ‘Well,' she said. ‘If you didn't really notice him, did you see his car?'

‘Nope. If I had I might have guessed something was going on. But I didn't see a car.' He thought for a moment. ‘There weren't no car.'

‘Might it have been parked round the corner?' Mike asked helpfully.

‘There ain't a corner near the house,' he said, | scowling. ‘It's a long straight road. And there weren't no bloody cars.'

‘He must have walked, then.'

‘A neighbour?' Mike suggested.

‘Don't be bloody daft,' Finnigan said. ‘I knew everyone in the road. They wouldn't have gone with her. They'd have known what was coming to them if they had. I'd have bloody killed them. Besides, I'd have recognized a neighbour, wouldn't I?'

‘Didn't anyone see the man running off?'

‘It was three o'clock in the bloody morning.'

Mike was watching Finnigan suspiciously. ‘If it was three in the morning, Finnigan, and you were supposed to be working all night,' he said, ‘why did you come home?'

Finnigan shifted, uncomfortable. ‘I thought something was going on,' he said.

‘Why?'

Finnigan glared at her. ‘Because she never felt like it,' he said. ‘She was off sex. And that was like a pig going off its swill.'

Joanna tried another track. ‘Since you split up,' she said, ‘have you had much contact with Sharon?'

‘Nah, court order,' he said. ‘If I'd have seen her likely I'd have knocked her. Anyway, she kept out of my way.' He tried to take another swig out of the can, found it empty and stared miserably into it.

‘And the children, October and William?'

Finnigan shook his head. ‘Only with a social worker. Couple of hours a week.' He made a face. ‘I'm no good with kids.'

Joanna crossed her legs, leaned back on the sofa, aware of lumps beneath the cushions. Lager cans?

‘Where were you on Tuesday night, Mr Finnigan?'

He slewed a sideways glance at her. ‘You sure I don't need my solicitor?' he asked suspiciously.

‘Not yet,' Joanna said innocently. ‘Now where were you the night she died?'

‘Here,' Finnigan said. ‘Watching telly. Drinking lager.' With sudden, shocking violence he crunched the can to an hourglass shape and hurled it across the room. It gave a hollow ping as it hit the side of the room and spat lager on to the yellowing wallpaper to join the random pattern of other dents and drips. ‘Where the fuck do you think I go on a UB40? The fucking Ritz?'

Joanna felt oppressed and nauseated by the stuffy, smelly atmosphere, and was anxious to leave. But Mike's interest was aroused.

‘Can you prove you were here all evening?' His voice was hard. Joanna knew his fists would be itching. Finnigan knew it too and eyed the Detective Sergeant uneasily. Slowly he shook his head.

Joanna moved to another area. ‘Who was the married man Sharon had been seeing?'

Finnigan shook his head. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘After my time, thank God. I heard she was seeing someone. I heard it was a rich guy, married. I said good luck to her. Of course,' he added cynically, ‘he dropped her when Ryan was on the way.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Rattle,' he said. ‘She's a bugger for the gossip. Besides,' he added, ‘why would she advertise if she wasn't short of a bloke?'

‘You knew about the advert?'

He nodded. ‘Cheap, weren't it? I never thought she'd stoop so low.'

Mike leaned forward. ‘How did you know she had an advert in the paper?'

‘I read it,' Finnigan said. ‘It was bloody obvious it was her.'

‘How?'

Finnigan thought. ‘Well, she was always on about wanting a Prince Charming. Bloody obsessed. She fancied herself in red and was always saying she wanted a bit of sparkle. Know what I mean?'

‘Are you saying anyone could have guessed it was Sharon who put that advert in?'

Finnigan shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘I ain't. I m saying anyone who knew her well would know it was her. He stopped for a minute. ‘They would have to know her
well
.'

Joanna glanced at Mike and knew exactly what he was thinking. It was a long list.

Once back inside the police car Joanna glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, Mike,' she said. ‘There are a few things I want to do, and then I want to get the briefing over and done with and get home. I'm tired.' She yawned.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘And I had you earmarked for a late night tonight.'

‘I would do,' she said, ‘but I really am knackered.' She grinned at him. ‘It's a bath, a book and bed for me tonight.' She looked at him. ‘Mike,' she said tentatively. ‘How much do you think we should be looking at Stacey's murder rather than concentrating on Sharon?'

‘I've glanced through the file,' he said. ‘There doesn't seem anything particular to go on. No descriptions. No identity. Nothing.' He stopped.

‘Perhaps they'll have the DNA test results at the hospital. I'll give Matthew a ring.'

Mike grimaced. ‘I suppose they might.'

They were silent for a while, then Joanna spoke. ‘Do you think it could have been someone who worked at Blyton's? Maybe the man Finnigan found her in bed with?'

‘Well, someone will know,' he said. ‘You know what gossips people in small firms are. Someone will know.' And she was inclined to agree with him.

They had reached the station. She parked the car and switched off the engine, but neither of them moved.

What if someone heard her talking about the advert,' Joanna mused, ‘either at work or one of the men she had already been sleeping with? What if they decided to set her up, meet her, kill her?'

‘There's so many possibilities,' Mike grumbled. ‘It gives me a headache just thinking about it.'

‘We'd better set up a line of enquiry at Blyton's?'

Mike nodded in agreement.

‘Good.' She was satisfied. ‘I have the feeling that Blyton's will bear fruit.'

‘It had better,' Mike said soberly. ‘Because Colclough's going to want results.'

The team was already assembled as she and Mike walked in. He sat beside her at the table.

So far the results of the investigations were disappointing. All the work – the interviews with everyone who had been at the pub that night, the combing of the moors, the examination of Sharon Priest's house, the studying of the remaining letters – had yielded disappointingly little.

No one had yet found the missing shoe. Still no one had tracked down the twisted steel cable used to kill her.

The assembled officers felt disheartened. Because they all knew he was out there. And now they were worried that they would fail and the killer of Stacey Farmer who had got away with it would also get away with murdering Sharon Priest.

Only Joanna, even at this early stage of the investigation, had not the slightest doubt that they would catch him. She stood up after listening to the various reports.

‘Our next step,' she said, ‘should be to scrutinize Blyton's, where Sharon Priest worked as a cleaner two evenings a week.' She nibbled her thumbnail.

‘At the moment,' she continued, ‘we know that our killer may have murdered before. We're waiting for DNA results which will confirm or deny this. It's possible he comes from Leek. It's also possible that he already knew Sharon Priest when he replied to her advert. According to Sam Finnigan, Sharon's ex-husband, anyone who knew Sharon reasonably well would have connected the lonely hearts ad with her. Certain typical phrases were used.

‘We still don't know all of Sharon's men friends. notably the married man she had an affair with, the father of her youngest child, Ryan, and also the man she had an affair with while still married to Sam Finnigan, the man he found her in bed with.'

She turned to Mike and spoke to him. ‘And I wouldn't mind betting someone tipped Finnigan off that his wife was having an affair. I expect they rang him that night at work.'

Mike's eyes gleamed and he nodded. ‘I thought coming home at three in the morning was a bit strange.'

She turned her attention back to the room. ‘Now, Sharon might have discussed the insertion of the advert with someone at work. That person might have leaked the information – perhaps unintentionally – or they might have been overheard.'

She smiled. ‘Any questions?'

‘Finnigan,' someone called. ‘Is he clean?'

‘He fits the psychologist's profile. He's quite bitter against Sharon, and even to us he didn't fake any real grief for her. But so far,' she said, ‘he's clean. We've nothing on him.'

‘And Agnew?' someone muttered. ‘Pot-smoking little prat.'

‘I don't know. There's something unsavoury about him.' She stopped. ‘But as for being a killer – I don't know.'

‘Yeah, but, ma'am.' PC Mark Timmis could be quite persistent at times. ‘He was at the pub that night.'

‘I know,' she said, ‘but he's so fuddled with marijuana half the time I honestly don't know whether he even registered the fact that Sharon was in the Quiet Woman at all. Agnew claims he spent the rest of the evening back at home with his new girlfriend, Leanne Ferry.' The name continued to buzz around at the back of her mind like a bloodthirsty mosquito ...

She had barely turned out her bike on to the main road when Stuart shouted, ‘Joanna!'

She slowed and waited for him to catch her up. He was panting hard. She raised her hand. ‘Hi,' she said. ‘Just finished work?'

Today he was fly-eyed in tinted goggles and crash helmet. And he was struggling to catch his breath. ‘Don't usually see you on your way home.' He panted. ‘Working late or finishing early?'

She grimaced. ‘I seem to finish at a different time every day. I don't really work regular hours.'

They approached the brow of the hill. In front of them the temptation of swift descent. But the sudden blast of an easterly almost threw Joanna off balance.

‘Traffic's easier today,' Stuart commented as they flew downwards.

‘Yes,' she agreed.

But all descents come to an end and now there was the long hill to climb and a steady flow of traffic passing them.

An ambulance screamed behind them and instinctively they pulled in. Once stopped Stuart pushed his goggles up and blinked.

‘Joanna,' he said shyly, ‘do you mind if I ask you something?'

For some unknown reason she imagined it would be to do with her work. But it wasn't. And afterwards she realized he didn't even know she was in the police force.

‘I wondered if you'd like to come out one night, for a drink?' He paused. ‘Would you?'

Despite the cold her face felt hot. She didn't know what to say. Embarrassment was quickly replaced with anger with herself. For goodness' sake, Matthew was married. She might as well get on with her life solo. But she couldn't quite convince herself.

‘Look,' she said, hesitating. ‘I'm a bit tied up at work at the moment. I would like to – maybe in a week or two?'

He grinned and she had another glimpse of his beautiful teeth.

Joanna knew if she was to find any pleasure in life she must deny the spectre of Matthew which prevented her from forming other relationships. Even this vague arrangement with Stuart was making her feel marginally guilty as she pushed her feet back into the toe clips and sped along the flat.

Stuart soon caught up with her and handed her a slip of paper. ‘Here's my telephone number. Just give me a buzz when you're free.'

She had trouble holding the paper between her thumb and finger. It threatened to blow away. Laughing, she tucked it in the back pocket of her cycling top.

Even beneath his Oakleys she could see he was pleased. There was a change in the shape of his mouth, a satisfied tilt upwards.

She pedalled rhythmically to a pounding tone, reasoning with herself.

What about Matthew?

Why shouldn't I go out and enjoy myself? Stuart shot past her in a burst of energy and she continued her silent conversation. He's nice, he's pleasant. I bet he isn't married. I bet he doesn't have a daughter.

Stuart swerved out into the middle of the road in an exuberant, risky dance and, sharing his energy, she made a little bend too, a concession to having shed a small part of her load. Since her affair with Matthew she had led the life of a nun. Apart from Tom and Caro her life had been Work, only work.

Already she was feeling lighter. Maybe she could shed the whole load. Maybe she didn't really need to carry the guilt around with her like a frame rucksack.

The arguments achieved something. She decided. If – she quickly replaced the ‘if with a ‘when' –
when
they solved this case, she would enjoy a drink with him. Just a drink.

There was a note pushed under her front door and for a moment she caught her breath and thought it might be another threat from Jane. Then she recognized the writing.
I'm hoping you'll be home well before eight as I'm in a cooking frenzy. Beware the stomach!

The signature was a flourished ‘T'.

The scent of garlic wafted out of the doorway as she knocked to ask if she should bring red or white wine. Tom was dressed for the occasion in a navy and white striped butcher's apron. He grinned at her. ‘
Concocdon du cochon,
' he said and she laughed.

‘Good, I'm starving. Red or white?'

‘Uuum – red,' he said before taking her elbow firmly and steering her out through the door. ‘Now, you be a good girl. Have a shower and get dressed up. I promise it will be a meal ...' he rolled his eyes, ‘fit for a Detective Inspector.'

She laughed again and looked at him. His thin face was alight and warm. ‘You're celebrating something,' she said.