Cold Sacrifice (7 page)

Ian dropped Rob off. As he turned into the side road next to Henry’s house he glanced back and saw his colleague, intermittently lit up and vanishing into the shadows between the street lamps. Tall and thin, he looked a menacing figure in his long black coat, with his collar turned up against the chill of the evening. The inspector had disappeared by the time Ian climbed out of the car. The air was crisp and he hummed to himself as he strode along. Rob was checking the neighbours opposite, leaving Ian to try next door. He rang the neighbour’s bell and a short plump woman came to the door. Ian introduced himself, holding up his warrant card. The woman’s expression relaxed. Ian returned her smile, encouraged by her reaction. People weren’t always pleased when the police came calling. He took a deep breath and began to question her, aware that statements from potential witnesses could be crucial. Discounting crackpots and neighbours with grievances, any piece of gossip might prove valuable.

Mrs Jamieson was eager to share her views, but it soon became apparent that she harboured a personal grudge against her neighbours. Ian kept his thoughts to himself, nodding solemnly while she told him about the shouting she had frequently heard from the house next door.

‘It was worse in the summer, when they had the windows open. In the cold weather, we hardly heard anything from them.’

‘What did you hear when the weather was fine?’

The neighbour hesitated. She looked embarrassed.

‘I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong impression. I mean, we didn’t sit here listening to them all the time. It was just that sometimes we couldn’t help hearing them, when we were out in the garden. It was him, mostly. I don’t ever remember hearing a peep out of her, poor soul, but he hectored her constantly. I’m telling you, he was a real bully, always on at her about something.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I don’t know, but we’d hear him shouting at her all the time, calling her stupid and things like that. He was always insulting her. It wasn’t what you’d call normal. We felt so sorry for that poor boy, their son. He was such a quiet gentle boy, and devoted to his poor mother. They were very close.’

Ian nodded. Henry had used the same phrase to describe his son’s relationship with his mother.

Ian refused tea and pressed her to tell him more about her neighbours.

‘Anything you can remember might help us build a picture of what went on next door.’

Mrs Jamieson’s eyes widened as she asked eagerly, ‘Was it him then?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Him, Henry Martin. He was the one who killed her, wasn’t he?’ She clapped her palms to her cheeks in a gesture of mock horror. ‘Oh my God, please tell me we haven’t got a killer living right next door to us.’

Ian shook his head.

‘I’m just here to make initial enquiries, Mrs Jamieson. There’s no need for you to be alarmed.’

He could see his advice was falling on deaf ears. As soon as he left, Mrs Jamieson would be on the phone to all her friends, telling them she was living next door to a man who had murdered his wife. For all Ian knew, she was right.

L
YING IN BED THAT
night, Ian was troubled by the idea that Henry might learn about his neighbour’s allegations. Mrs Jamieson didn’t strike him as a particularly discreet woman. If she mentioned her suspicions to enough people, sooner or later Henry would discover she was going round telling everyone he had killed his wife. And if she was correct, and he was indeed capable of homicide, there was no knowing what provocation would prompt him to kill again. The catalyst for another murder might well be a stupid woman running around blackening his name in the neighbourhood, with perhaps the added fear that she would convince the police to investigate his whereabouts on the night of his wife’s death. ‘There’s no need for you to be alarmed,’ were the last words he had spoken to her.

What if he was wrong?

‘Can’t you sleep either?’ Bev asked as he shifted position yet again. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘Nothing,’ he lied. ‘Go back to sleep.’

It was late. The problem was too complicated to discuss right then. In any case, he wasn’t sure Bev would understand his concern. There was nothing to suggest Henry had killed his wife. He could be suspecting an innocent man, and it was never helpful to allow his judgement to be clouded by vague impressions. He had to deal with facts. In his mind he ran through his meeting with the widower again. Henry hadn’t appeared upset by the news that his wife was dead. While that could be construed as suspicious, Ian would have expected some show of grief from him if he was actually guilty. At the same time, he had the distinct impression Henry was concealing something. And then there was the next-door neighbour who had quickly jumped to the conclusion that Henry was guilty. Perhaps there was more to her chatter than Ian had realised. He wished he had questioned her in more detail, and decided to speak to her again the following day. Having reached that decision, he turned to his wife.

‘It’s nothing,’ he repeated.

Bev always knew when he was lying.

‘Who is she?’ she asked.

‘Her name’s Patricia Jamieson –’

Too late, he realised Bev had been teasing. With a childish pout, she pulled away from his embrace and sat up. Leaning forward so that her chin rested on her knees, she wrapped her arms around her shins.

‘Who is she?’ she repeated, her voice unnaturally composed.

Ian half sat up, leaning his upper body weight on one elbow, so that he was facing her and stifled a sigh. This was all he needed right now, a tantrum from his beautiful wife at two o’clock in the morning.

‘She’s a witness in the case, at least she might be, and I’m afraid I may have been too quick to dismiss what she was saying, and as a result, there’s a chance her life might be in danger.’

It sounded foolishly melodramatic.

‘Bev?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Bev? Come on, lie down and let’s get some sleep. I’m knackered.’

Bev muttered something ominously under her breath, but she lay down and he closed his eyes gratefully.

He slept badly and woke very early, feeling as though he had a hangover. His throat was dry and slightly sore when he swallowed, and his head felt hot. A strong cup of tea and a fried egg on toast helped and he set off for work relieved that he didn’t seem to be going down with a cold after all. Bev was still asleep when he left, and he didn’t wake her. If she was going to be in a mood with him, he preferred not to let it ruin his day. He would deal with her later on. In the meantime, he had work to do. As the husband of the victim, Henry was automatically under suspicion until they could eliminate him from their list of suspects. As it happened, his name was currently the only one on the list. Polly had been looking in to Henry’s background. He had been employed as a washing machine fitter all his working life, and seemed to have been a hard worker, although he had never earned much. His wife, on the other hand, had been a relatively wealthy woman. An only child, she had inherited a sizeable fortune which had enabled her to move to Herne Bay and buy the large detached house where she had lived until her death. The house and a considerable portfolio of investments now belonged to Henry.

Ian wondered whether Henry might have murdered his wife for her money. If the evidence of their neighbour was reliable, the couple had not been on good terms. He bumped into Polly in the corridor and they went to his office to discuss the case. Leaning back in his chair, Ian couldn’t help thinking how nice it was to have an uncomplicated friendship with an attractive woman. He had been crazy about Bev since his teens, but he now wondered if he had mistaken adolescent infatuation for what was glibly called ‘the real thing’, whatever that was. They were so nearly well-suited, but the truth was that Bev would have been far happier with a dependable husband in a steady nine-to-five job. Henry had been married to Martha for over thirty years. Ian could see how that might wear a man down.

Polly looked surprised when he told her what he was thinking about the Martins.

‘Even if he was unhappy with her, murder’s a bit extreme, isn’t it, to say the least? I mean, if every husband who was fed up with his wife decided to kill her, instead of getting divorced, there wouldn’t be many married women left in the world.’

She was right, of course. Henry could have left his wife.

‘They had a son,’ Ian said. ‘Maybe he was afraid of alienating him if he left his wife.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and he wouldn’t have got his hands on all her money if he’d divorced her.’

‘Martha was brought up as a Catholic. Perhaps she didn’t believe in divorce.’

‘Do you really think so? In this day and age?’

‘There are still people who think marriage is sacred.’

He wondered what Bev’s view on divorce would be. They had never discussed it. Some topics were best left alone. Bev might be irritatingly possessive, but he couldn’t really complain about having a beautiful wife who loved him so much.

‘What are you grinning about?’ Polly asked.

Ian shrugged.

‘I was just thinking how helpful this is, being able to discuss the case with you. A woman’s perspective being different and all that –’ he faltered awkwardly, afraid she would accuse him of making sexist remarks. But Polly smiled.

I
T DIDN
’
T OCCUR TO
Henry to be seriously frightened until he passed one of his neighbours in the street. It was a bright Sunday morning, so he decided to stroll down the road to the newsagents for some milk. He would have to stock up on food soon, but he hadn’t gone shopping by himself for a long time. Martha had always accompanied him, ticking items methodically off her list as he pushed a trolley round the store. It would be strange to go shopping without her. Strange, and oddly liberating. He would be free to fill his trolley with cans of beer, frozen chips, pizza, and anything else he fancied. He could imagine her voice, whining at him about fatty foods and looking after his health, and all that claptrap. Martha had watched her diet obsessively, but her preoccupation with health hadn’t saved her. Right now he didn’t feel like making a special trip to the supermarket. He could go on his way home from work one evening. He virtually drove past the door. Meanwhile, he had run out of milk.

Whistling, he closed his gate and almost bumped into the woman from next door who happened to be passing. Catching sight of her expression, he remembered he had just lost his wife in tragic circumstances. Abruptly he stopped whistling and tried to look sad. His neighbour hurried away, but not before he had seen the disgust on her face. He could imagine her describing the encounter to her cronies.

‘There he was, whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world, and his poor murdered wife not yet cold in her grave. It’s not natural. If you ask me, he did her in himself. Why else would he be looking so cheerful about it? That poor woman.’

Henry felt sick, his enjoyment of the morning ruined. As though responding to his mood, a dark cloud drifted in front of the sun and the air grew chilly. He walked faster, thinking. First his son, now his neighbour. Mark had been openly hostile to his father on hearing the news of his mother’s death, as good as accusing Henry of stabbing Martha himself.

‘We both know how you felt. You couldn’t stand the sight of her.’ He had pointedly refused to provide Henry with an alibi. ‘You want me to lie to the police?’

If his son and his next-door neighbour both believed he had killed Martha, what chance did he have of convincing the police he was innocent?

His mood didn’t improve when he reached the corner shop and met an acquaintance he played darts with from time to time.

‘Morning, Bert,’ he called out.

He was careful not to appear too cheerful. He didn’t know who might be watching and judging him. The police might come snooping round the area, questioning the shopkeeper.

‘Mr Martin? Yes, he was here, shopping, as though nothing had happened. I would never have guessed poor Mrs Martin had just been murdered. If anything, he looked happier than usual.’

The shop had CCTV, which the police might watch. If they saw Henry out shopping in good spirits, so soon after his wife had been brutally murdered, they were bound to think the worst of him.

Bert scowled and turned away. Henry shivered, although it wasn’t cold in the shop. He wondered what Bert had heard, but didn’t know him well enough to ask. In any case, he had probably misinterpreted Bert’s apparent hostility. He couldn’t have heard about the stabbing. Henry made an effort to stay calm, reasoning that if Bert had heard about the murder, he would have offered his condolences, not turned his back so rudely – unless he too believed that Henry was guilty. Bert went up to the counter and began talking very rapidly in an undertone to the Asian guy behind the counter. Sanjay kept his eyes fixed on Bert’s face, listening intently. Henry couldn’t hear what Bert was saying. He edged closer to try and listen, but Sanjay gave a warning frown. Bert fell silent, and twisted his head round to look at Henry over his shoulder. For an instant Henry stood perfectly still, while the other two men stared coldly at him.

‘Hello, Bert,’ he repeated loudly.

This time he elicited a curt response before Bert turned back to Sanjay and made his purchase.

Henry wanted to ask Bert what he had been saying, but it would sound odd. He watched Bert leave without speaking to him again.

‘Here all by yourself today,’ Sanjay said pointedly as Henry held up a litre of milk.

The shopkeeper peered over the till, glaring at Henry. He might just as well have come out with it and accused him of having killed his wife. The whole world seemed to be turning against him. Even a relative stranger serving in the corner shop was behaving like some jumped-up self-appointed judge and jury. Sanjay had no idea what had happened to Martha, yet he was ready with his barbed comments. First the police, then Mark, the woman next door, and Bert, whom he hardly knew. Now even the bloody shopkeeper on the corner was at it, needling him with uncalled-for jibes. Henry felt his patience snap. He heard himself shouting, his temper out of control.