A Wreath for my Sister (17 page)

As they followed the signs for the town centre she risked an approach to Mike. ‘Spot of bother at home?' It was an attempt to lighten his mood, but it failed.

He grunted. ‘She doesn't like me working weekends.' There was no answer to that.

Detective Inspector Paul Austin was already in his office when they arrived. He had a brisk, pleasant attitude, an unremarkable face and steady brown eyes.

He briefly shook hands with them before settling behind his desk. ‘I don't envy you,' he said. ‘The Stacey Farmer case has haunted me for the last eighteen months. The sight of that poor girl ...'

He stared out of the window for a moment. ‘He must have been a ruddy ...' He drew in a deep breath. ‘To tempt a girl out – on a date – and then do that to her. And I reckon he must have planned it, so I knew sooner or later he'd do the same thing again.' He ran his fingers through the short, brown hair. ‘I've been waiting. But you know how it is. There's one sure way of getting more evidence.'

They all knew. A second murder provided fresh evidence yet there was no source they wanted less. Joanna felt a pang of sympathy for Paul Austin. ‘You must have dreaded this moment.'

He nodded.

They spent more than an hour talking to him and at the end he pushed a red file towards them. ‘I hope it gets you somewhere,' he said, ‘although I have my doubts. Between you and me I don't think we even interviewed the right guy. I don't think we got anywhere near him.' He tapped the file. ‘Maybe I'm wrong and there'll be something in there that can be used as evidence. I hope so. It would make me and the rest of the investigating officers feel a lot better.'

Joanna knew the feeling – the count of hours wasted when an investigation proved to be futile.

They drove back to Leek.

Weekends are an ideal time to find people at home so they had decided to spend the rest of Saturday and Sunday concentrating on the house-to-house interviews. The estate was a large one, densely populated and people had plenty to say. The trouble was that most of it had little relevance to the investigation. By late Sunday night they had a pile of statements to be checked through as well as the file on the murder of Stacey Farmer. Joanna yawned and stretched her arms. ‘I'd like to say I'll sit up all night reading these but I think it's more likely I'll fall asleep.' She eyed Mike across the desk. ‘You'd better get home. Fran will wonder what's happened to you.'

Mike stood up. ‘I think she has an idea,' he said shortly. ‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

She couldn't be certain but she imagined Stuart had been waiting for her to turn out on to the main road. He grinned, gripped her hand in a hard handshake, rattled his feet into their pedals and together they cycled along the road. He seemed cock-a-hoop today and she was sure he would ask her out again. But he didn't.

She watched his muscled brown legs working the pedals. He was a good-looking man, with neat, regular features, athletic and fit looking.

So why wasn't she flattered that he chose to ride with her?

Mike was late at his desk and when he arrived he had the swollen face of a man who had eventually induced sleep with a heavy night's drinking. Around him clung the faint odour of last night's beer. He groaned as he walked in.

‘I was praying you'd be late,' he said, ‘that I'd have time for a third cup of coffee and you wouldn't have cycled in. It makes you too bloody lively.'

She smiled sweetly, disappeared and returned with two cups of steaming coffee. She handed one to him and he sipped it cautiously.

‘Thanks,' he said, wiping his sweating forehead. ‘I need this.'

Joanna laughed.

Then he glanced at her crossed legs. ‘You aren't working in those, are you?'

‘No.' She looked down at the cycling shorts and nylon shirt and shook her head. ‘Mike ...' she paused. ‘Can I ask your advice?' She felt suddenly unsure of herself.

He looked up.

‘Someone threw a pot of red paint over my door two nights ago.'

‘Someone?'

She was silent and he gave a low whistle. ‘Matthew's wife, I suppose?'

She nodded. ‘She's been writing me fan mail, too.'

Mike's dark eyes were thoughtful. ‘If I were you, Jo,' he said, ‘I'd leave it. Don't stir it up. She'll soon get bored.'

‘But ...'

He touched her arm. ‘Leave it. Unless she does something worse.'

‘OK. Thanks, Mike,' she said. ‘Now, drink your coffee and we'll plan the day out. I want to go to Blyton's.'

He narrowed his eyes. ‘What exactly are we looking for?'

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I want to talk to that friend of hers. What was her name?'

‘Andrea,' he said.

‘She might be able to fill in some of the gaps. If only we could get the name of Ryan's father.' She paused for a moment, frowning. ‘Why did Doreen Priest dislike him so much?'

‘Hang on a minute,' Mike said. ‘Who says she didn't like him? She said she didn't even know who he was.'

‘She
said
.' Joanna stared at Mike. ‘Come on, she must have known who he was. Otherwise why is she so against Ryan? He's only six months old. While she's quite prepared to have the other two she'll throw Ryan to the wolves. Why?'

Mike shrugged his shoulders and winced at the pain in his head.

‘I suppose Andrea might know who it was that Finnigan found her in bed with,' she said slowly. ‘And she just might be able to tell us something about Prince Charming, too. Someone at Blyton's must know more about Sharon Priest than we've discovered so far.'

Half an hour later, dressed more demurely in a navy suit, Joanna was driving Mike into the yard of the small, family-run engineering firm. She had decided to drive after taking the decision that Mike was possibly still over the legal limit. Certainly he was bleary eyed and looked tired. ‘I ought to be breathalyzing you,' she said, ‘instead of acting as your chauffeur.'

He smiled.

‘You'd better take the rest of the day off,' she said, ‘once we've been to Blyton's.'

She steered the car into the parking space, next to a familiar white Mercedes – number plate RED 36. She sat and stared at it.

‘Well,' she said. ‘An old friend.'

Mike screwed up his face in puzzlement.

‘What a coincidence. Do you remember the night of the Legal Ball?' she said, still keeping her eyes fixed on the vehicle. ‘The night you got me stopped and breathalyzed? The same night Sharon Priest was murdered?'

‘Yes,' Mike said, giving her a sideways look. ‘I remember.'

She climbed out of the car and stared at the white Merc.

‘This car passed me.' She looked at Mike. ‘It
tore
past me, coming straight from the moors. It was late, too, well after the snow had started. Do you remember I asked you about it? What did you say the owner's name was?'

She stood and recalled the black night, spattered with huge snowflakes, the car screaming past.

‘Charles Haworth. He's an accountant.'

‘And here he is, working at the same company as Sharon.'

Her eyes rested on Mike. ‘Well,' she said, ‘what do you think?'

Mike shrugged. ‘I'll tell you what I don't think,' he said. ‘I don't think it's a coincidence.'

She leaned forward. ‘Then what do you think?'

‘She'd been having an affair – hadn't she? With a married man ... someone Christine Rattle – and others – described as being wealthy.'

‘She wasn't in the same class as this guy.'

‘No?'

‘She was a bloody cleaner.'

‘She was a very attractive cleaner,' Joanna said. ‘Attractive and available. And it looks as though he works here, at Blyton's. In the same place.'

Mike blinked. ‘And he was on the moors that night?'

Again the picture swam into her vision, clear and unmistakable. She shook her head. ‘Regretfully, no,' she said. ‘It was throwing a blizzard down here, in the town. We decided Sharon's body was dumped before the snow started. It was late when I saw him. Wherever he'd been it wasn't the moors. Oh well, nice try. But still, he did come from the direction of the Buxton road, which must have been closed for at least an hour before I saw him. He might have seen something.'

They climbed out of the car and entered the factory, which was dirty and noisy and stank of soldering flux, hot metal and grease. They picked their way past the machinery and through the noise until they reached a door marked ‘office', which sealed in thick carpets and the scent of lavender. A young woman with brown hair, teased into an improbable ponytail, stood up as they entered. She rubbed her hands down the side of her skirt. ‘Can I help you?' she asked.

Joanna nodded. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Piercy. I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge, please.'

‘Can you wait a minute?' the girl lisped. ‘He's got someone with him at the moment.'

‘Would that be a Mr Haworth?' Mike asked brusquely.

The girl blinked. ‘We're not supposed to divulge ...'

‘It's all right,' Joanna said resignedly. ‘We want to speak to him too.'

They sat down and waited.

The girl glanced across periodically. ‘He's our accountant,' she said eventually.

When the door finally opened, a distinguished, grey-haired man walked out. He was wearing a navy business suit somewhat spoiled by a bright yellow silk tie which gave him a foppish, effeminate air.

Joanna stood up. ‘Mr Haworth?'

He turned a pair of alert grey eyes on her. ‘Yes?'

‘I'm Detective Inspector Piercy,' Joanna said.

He held out a large hand and gave hers a firm shake. ‘Hello,' he said with a wide, warm smile. And quite unexpectedly Joanna found herself liking the man.

‘We're investigating the murder of Sharon Priest,' she said. ‘Did you know her?'

Haworth looked vaguely puzzled. ‘Sorry?' he queried.

‘She was a cleaner here.'

‘Actually,' he said, ‘I'm the accountant.' A ripple of humour passed across his face. ‘I don't really have a great deal to do with the cleaners.'

Behind Mike the girl with the unruly ponytail spluttered.

‘I know that.' Joanna was forced to put a little steel into her voice. ‘But I really would like to talk to you. Would tomorrow suit? Shall we say about eleven? At your offices?'

Haworth looked amazed. ‘What on earth do you want to ask me?'

‘We're interviewing everyone who knew her.'

‘But I've told you,' he said. ‘I
didn't
know her.' He paused for a moment, frowning. ‘Couldn't you ask me any questions here? Do you have to visit my offices?'

‘Well, yes, we do, Mr Haworth,' Joanna said. ‘You see, I've come here to talk to the MD and other employees of Blyton's today.' She stopped. ‘I want to visit you separately.'

He still looked puzzled but nodded briefly, his eyes wary. Then again he showed a faint touch of humour. ‘I don't suppose, Detective Inspector Piercy, that I have any choice in the matter, do I?'

And now she was smiling too. ‘No, Mr Haworth,' she said, ‘you don't.'

‘I thought not. Well, my offices are in Bath Street, near the top. But I assure you I know nothing about this ... You said she was a cleaner?'

Joanna nodded.

‘Until tomorrow, then,' he said, before turning on his heel and walking through the swing doors, leaving behind him a faint tang of expensive aftershave.

‘What a wanker,' Mike said under his breath.

Joanna turned to him. ‘I thought he was rather nice.'

Mike gave an explosive grunt.

The girl with the ponytail was speaking into the phone.

Joanna turned to see a short, balding man come out of the office and stand in the doorway. ‘Detective Inspector Piercy?' he asked.

She nodded and introduced Mike.

‘Richard Barratt,' he said. ‘Managing Director.' He glanced from one to the other. ‘Dreadful business,' he said. ‘Dreadful business.' But his eyes were cold and wary. ‘Naturally, only too anxious to help. You'd like some coffee?'

‘Thank you.'

‘Sarah ...' He glanced at the girl with a ponytail. ‘Do the honours, will you, dear?'

Joanna and Mike followed Richard Barratt into a spacious office lined with blue carpet and mahogany and he motioned them to chairs and then sat behind his desk. ‘Now, what exactly can I do for you?'

‘Tell me about Sharon Priest,' Joanna began.

The MD sighed. ‘Very sad. Tragic, in fact.' He lowered his voice. ‘Do you know yet when the funeral will be? We want to send flowers. You know ...' he finished inadequately.

‘What sort of a person was she?' Joanna asked. ‘How long had she worked here?'

‘Nearly three years,' Richard Barratt said. ‘She was ... quite a good worker.' He gave an apologetic smile. ‘You understand. There were the odd dirty corners. I expect she spent a bit too much time leaning on her brush ... But she did turn up. And when I had words with her she was always quite helpful – and polite,' he added.

‘Did you know anything of her personal life?'

‘No. No.' This time his voice was emphatic. ‘Nothing. I knew she had children. Split up with her husband. According to her records she had a couple of months' maternity leave for the two youngest. Apart from that, nothing.'

‘Did she have many friends here?'

‘I think she was quite pally with the other cleaner. They worked together, of course, although I sometimes thought it was a little counter-productive.' His face grew hard. ‘I'm sure I would have got much more than half the work done with just one cleaner.' He stopped, gave a false smile. ‘But this is a large factory. They were reluctant to come alone. But chatting time plus cup of tea time. Well ...' He waved his hands around. The coffee arrived and the next few minutes were spent watching Sarah prettily sorting out milk and sugar, stirring and passing the cups around. Joanna returned to the subject of the other cleaner.