A Wreath for my Sister (19 page)

There was no point even trying to keep it behind his back.

‘Whose is it?' she whispered, and he knew she wouldn't believe he had never met its owner. He stared at her helplessly.

She walked around it, staring – not at him, but at it – studying it with a grim face.

‘I see,' she said. ‘Meeting tarts again, are we?'

Her lips pressed hard together. ‘I told you, Andrew,' she said with soft venom. ‘I did warn you, didn't I?'

‘Please, Lizzie.'

Her eyes were hard. ‘I'm listening,' she said, ‘to whatever story you're cooking up today. I'm listening, but whatever you say I'm not going to believe you.'

But Andrew Donovan's desperate mind was starting to work. And, much as he feared Lizzie, they
were
married. Two girls, late teens, left home. He didn't really want a divorce. He was comfortable here. And in a way he accepted his frumpy wife, flat heels and all. He was
used
to her. Most of his amorous trips came to fruition only in his mind. But his realistic side told him there was only one way to make Lizzie believe the story he was about to tell her.

She had become accustomed to Stuart's appearance on her morning cycle route. Cycling was more pleasant in pairs and she had noticed she was moving faster now, challenged by his speed. He was good company, but he had renewed his invitation and when she had refused he had appeared to take it as a challenge.

And her future with Matthew?

She pedalled faster, a joyful song in her heart. The event she had thought would never happen. He had left Jane.

‘You seem happy today.'

She glanced across at him, smiling. ‘I've had some good news.'

‘What sort of good news?' He gave her a strange look.

And she found she didn't want to tell him. Because she suddenly felt uneasy about his reaction.

‘Oh, just something to do with a friend,' she said vaguely.

‘What?' He was pedalling slower now, holding her up. It was making her wobble slightly.

‘A friend of mine,' she said squarely. ‘Some good news.' She pedalled faster, but he caught up with her, clamped his fist on her handlebars.

‘What?'

‘It's private,' she said crossly.

He let go with a suddenness that almost toppled her from her bike and she was left with an uncomfortable impression of a vicious, furious face.

She was glad when she reached the turn-off and bumped into Mike in the car park.

He nodded towards the lithe figure, bent over his handlebars, disappearing up the road.

‘Still got your travelling companion, I see.'

She gave a short outburst of breath. ‘Unfortunately,' she said.

‘And I thought you two were the best of friends.'

‘He's a very strange person.' Then she grinned at Mike. ‘Your turn to get the coffee today,' she said.

He was back a moment later with two steaming polystyrene cups. ‘So what's on the agenda today?'

‘I want to go over the statements from everyone at the Quiet Woman that night,' she said. ‘Especially the barmaids'. Then we've got an appointment with Mr Charles Haworth, accountant. And,' she added, ‘who knows what else?'

Mike nodded and handed her a complaints slip. ‘By the way,' he said. ‘I thought you'd like to know, your cleaner had a brick thrown through her window last night.'

‘Christine?'

He nodded. ‘I don't know whether it has anything to do with the case, but... Anyway, I thought you'd want to know.'

‘Was there a note thrown too, or just a brick?'

Mike glanced down at the slip.

Don't interfear in things what don't concern you. Stop rattling else it'll be your legs next.

He glanced at her. ‘Recognize the terminology?'

‘Twenty guesses. And they all spell Finnigan,' she said grimly. ‘Get hold of the original note and send it to forensics. If he's trying to silence a witness ...' She looked at Mike. ‘By God, I'll have him.'

Mike took a long sip of coffee. ‘What I want to know is,' he said, his eyes meeting hers thoughtfully, ‘what's Finnigan got to hide?'

She made a quick decision. ‘We'll call in at Christine's on the way to Haworth's,' she said. ‘He can wait a minute.' A sudden anger streaked through her. ‘Let him stew,' she said.

They settled down to comb through the statements.

‘What exactly are we looking for?' Mike asked.

‘I just wondered,' she replied slowly, leafing through the sheaf of papers. ‘Did anybody notice whether Sharon seemed to recognize the man?'

It was hard to find. People had noticed so little that evening. All had been immersed in their own conversations or wondering about the weather. Did they dare stay for one more drink and risk being caught by the threatened snow? In fact only Dianne, a young woman who had fallen out with her boyfriend that night, had been sitting opposite Sharon Priest and had noted the expression on her face.

‘She looked as though it had been a good joke,' she had said. And Sharon had stood up and said hello ... and ‘Oh, it's you.' And later on in the statement Dianne said she'd looked disappointed.

‘So she did know him. And what's more, it wasn't who she'd hoped it would be.'

Mike stood up. ‘So the ninety million dollar questions are,' he said: ‘Who did she hope it would be? And who was it?'

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I think we're getting nearer,' she said.

Christine's house was easy to spot from the end of the road. Four or five people were clustered at the garden wall, staring. They moved back, muttering, as the police car drew up outside and Joanna and Mike climbed out.

Christine's neat front garden shone with slivers of glass. The window itself was shattered with a jagged hole. They pushed open the gate and walked the few steps to the front door.

Christine was sitting in the lounge, a cigarette in her hand, watching the smoke waft delicately through the broken pane. She didn't even look up as they walked in.

‘Bloody starers,' she said. ‘Look at them – gawping. Love misfortune.' Her cigarette was dangling from trembling fingers. ‘I heard it, you know. Late. In the middle of the night.'

Joanna noticed how pale her face was.

‘It made such a bloody noise,' she said. ‘I heard someone running. I was lying there, in bed, too frightened to come down and see what was going on.' She swallowed. ‘I lay still until dawn. I thought he might come back. Then I rang the police.'

‘Finnigan?' Mike spoke angrily.

Christine Rattle looked at him with weary eyes. ‘What does it matter who it was?' she said. ‘You can't do anything.' She set a match to another cigarette. ‘No one will've seen him. And even if anyone did they won't say, else they'll get a little brick packet too.'

It was the cold cynicism that shocked Joanna.

‘And even if you get a conviction,' Christine carried on, ‘he won't get a custodial. He'll get a fine.' Her eyes narrowed. ‘And how the fuck is he going to pay a fine? He's on the bloody dole.' She looked at Joanna angrily. ‘So there you are, Detective Inspector of the Toyland Police Force. There you are. I gets a brick through my window. And he gets sod all.'

Her eyes dropped. ‘What if I'd been watching telly,' she asked, ‘with the kids? What if they'd been blinded?' Her eyes were moist and she put a hand up to cover her face. ‘This is my home,' she said. ‘It isn't worth a lot. But it's all I've got – me and my kids. Someone just invaded it.'

‘Where are the children?'

‘At my mum's. I got them there first thing. I don't feel safe here.'

‘Christine.' Joanna sat down on the sofa. ‘Why did he do it?'

And now she saw real fear in the woman's eyes. Christine licked her lips.

‘Come on, Christine.' Mike was standing over her. ‘Even Finnigan wouldn't shoot a brick through your window for nothing.' He was exasperated. ‘For goodness' sake.'

Christine seemed to shrink into the settee. Joanna shot Mike a swift glance. The girl was terrified and the thought wormed its way into her mind. Finnigan was by all accounts a violent man. What if he had preferred violent sex? But looking at Christine's hand shake as she put her cigarette to her lips, Joanna hesitated to ask the question. And it seemed that it would not have been answered anyway.

The cigarette was dragged on three times in rapid succession and ground out before Christine spoke again. ‘Leave me alone,' she pleaded. ‘Please, just leave me alone.'

It was the last thing Joanna wanted to do. All her instincts were to winkle the truth out of Christine before offering her protection, but she was stuck, limited by police rules, so she took the only option open to her. ‘We can protect you.'

Christine looked up with a world-weary face. ‘For how long?' she demanded. ‘The rest of my life? They get out, you know, settle old scores.'

She was silent for a minute before moving to more practical matters. ‘Who's going to put new glass in?' she said. ‘The council take ages and I can't afford it.'

The room was draughty and cold, wind whistling through the splintered glass. Christine threw a glance at the shards still lying around the guilty brick in the centre of the carpet.

‘The police took the paper,' she said. ‘I expect you've seen it.'

‘When I get back to the station.'

Christine nodded. ‘I've rung the council.' Her voice was dead. ‘They said they'd come round later.' She rubbed her eyes with her hands. ‘I can't cope with this,' she said. ‘I can't.'

She looked mournfully at Joanna. ‘And I don't know when I'll next be able to come to work,' she said, running her fingers through her hair. ‘I haven't felt right ever since Sharon died. Things aren't the same any more.' She puffed away at her cigarette. ‘They just don't seem normal.'

There was no answer to that.

‘The damn of it is,' Joanna said to Mike as they closed the garden gate behind them, ‘we can't eliminate anyone from our enquiries ... and definitely not Sam Finnigan.'

‘Maybe we should call on him again,' Mike said. ‘I'd like to have a word with him.'

‘Careful, Mike,' she warned. ‘Finnigan is just the type to retaliate at a vulnerable woman with a few kids to bring up on her own. He's a bully-boy.' She stopped and looked at him. ‘But you're right. This does bring him even further under suspicion. We'll bring him in. To the station this time.'

Mike's eyes were dark when he stared at her. As they climbed back into the squad car Joanna was glad to see council workmen draw up outside with a sheet of replacement glass.

‘Should we put her under police protection?'

Joanna shook her head slowly. ‘We'll just alert local bobbies ... the ones on the beat.' She glanced at him. ‘The one I want watched is Finnigan.' She watched the cluster of people grow smaller in the rear-view mirror and hoped this was not to prove a terrible mistake.

Haworth's office was in a pretty, traditional building standing at the top of Bath Street, pale green fancy blinds in Dickensian bowed windows. It looked prosperous, secure. They pulled up outside.

The obligatory receptionist sat at a desk. She wore a calf-length split skirt which revealed her long, skinny thighs until she stood up, when it drew modestly like curtains. She eyed both Joanna and Mike before speaking, then uttered just one word. ‘Police?'

Joanna nodded.

‘He was expecting you half an hour ago,' the girl said severely before adding, ‘He's a very busy man.'

‘Something cropped up, love,' Mike said, leaning over her. ‘So just give him a call, will you?'

The girl was impervious to Mike's charm. She gave him a haughty look and disappeared through the door marked ‘Charles Haworth'.

She came back a minute later and sat down carefully before she spoke. ‘Mr Haworth will see you in a minute.' And she resumed some typing.

Sure enough, a minute later the door opened and Haworth was standing in front of them, unsmiling. Less charming this time.

‘I don't have a lot of time,' he said. ‘I have an appointment.'

‘I'm sorry,' Joanna explained. ‘We had a problem. A brick thrown through someone's window.'

‘Oh dear,' Haworth said. ‘Well, do come in.'

Joanna gave Mike a quick glance and frowned. Something had altered Haworth. It was difficult to say what. She simply had the feeling that someone had touched a raw nerve.

Haworth led the way into his office. It too was traditional, furnished with antiques and clever drapes. An oil painting of a racehorse hung on the wall behind him, its body glistening with the sheen of a fine race. The painting looked valuable.

Charles Haworth leaned back in his fine mahogany chair and pressed his fingertips together. ‘All right,' he said. ‘Fire away.'

Joanna knew he was trying to intimidate her. She met his grey eyes. ‘You are the only accountant who works for Blyton's?'

Haworth's eyes narrowed. ‘What on earth has all this got to do with ...?'

‘I'll ask the questions, Mr Haworth.' Joanna's voice was commanding. ‘Are you?'

Haworth leaned forward. ‘Detective Inspector,' he said slowly. ‘Blyton's is a small, family-run firm employing about thirty people. One accountant is plenty.'

She nodded with a faint smile.

‘I've been with him ever since I first went into practice,' Haworth continued. ‘Richard Barratt and I were at the same boarding school.' A trace of humour crossed his face. ‘We shared the same dorm, Detective Inspector. He was the one who hauled me out of the toilet after my first “flushing”. Friends like that are made for life.'

‘I'm sure.' Joanna risked a swift glance at Mike. He was purple. ‘Do you spend much time at Blyton's?'