Kennedy 02 - A Darker Side (12 page)
Brian Taylor stopped his car, leapt out and managed to run to the grass verge before he was sick. Groaning, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. It was the third time he’d been sick today.
His first job had been to phone his boss and tell him he was too ill to work, and then he’d cancelled his appointments for the day.
Yesterday, being questioned by that detective and the shrink, had been hell. How he hadn’t thrown up in that room, he had no idea.
But he had nothing to worry about. He reminded himself of that as he returned to his car and sat staring out of the windscreen.
Nothing to worry about.
That was the advantage of working in sales, of course. Everything he did came with a receipt. If he stopped for a coffee, he got a receipt. If he parked his car, he got a receipt. The fact that he had a fuel card and therefore a record of his mileage had worked in his favour, too. If nothing else, the fact that he could boast of having receipts made him
sound
innocent.
He’d had a lot of explaining to do to Beverley last night. On hearing that he’d had an affair no matter that it had been years ago and that he had a child, she’d stormed off to their bedroom and dragged the dressing table in front of the door to deny him entry. Sleeping in the spare room hadn’t bothered him. In fact, he’d been relieved.
Beverley was the least of his problems right now.
He turned on the ignition, hit a button and watched the window whirr down. A good stiff drink was what he needed, but he settled for a cigarette. He’d smoked too many yesterday and his throat was scratchy today, but he didn’t care. He needed something.
What a bloody nightmare!
His mind raced with worries and he didn’t know what to do. He wished he was out of the country, away from it all.
They would find out he’d seen Martin. Or would they?
Even Martin didn’t know him as Brian Taylor. If Martin had told anyone about meeting a bloke called Adam, no one would connect it with him. Martin had had no idea who he was so why the hell should anyone else make the connection?
All Brian had wanted was to talk to him. Nothing more. How the hell was he expected to know where it would end?
It had seemed simple enough.
He’d seen Martin at the school gates one afternoon and collided with him, knocking a bag off his shoulder. Brian had struck up a conversation and he’d offered Martin a lift home. Martin, his eyes on the BMW, had accepted readily enough.
The car. If anyone had noticed Martin getting into his car . . .
But they wouldn’t. The only people around had been school kids, and they’d been intent on larking around or catching their buses.
As Brian had driven, Martin had asked all sorts of questions. He’d wanted to know everything about Brian. But that didn’t matter. Even if Martin had talked, there must be dozens of blokes named Adam who owned a couple of properties that they rented out and who snorted a small amount of coke now and again. The coke had only come to light when Martin had been searching through the glovebox looking at Brian’s CDs.
It was on their third meeting, when they’d walked along Harrington High Street, that Martin had seen the guitar in the shop window.
‘I’ll buy it for you,’ Brian had offered.
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Why not? You can pay me back when you hit the big time, if you like.’
Martin had shrugged. ‘Even if I had the guitar, I couldn’t afford lessons. There’s a bloke in Church Street who gives lessons, but they don’t come cheap.’
Brian had smiled at the hint. Subtlety didn’t exist in Martin’s vocabulary.
So they struck an arrangement that suited both of them. Brian saw Martin once a week, and Martin had his guitar and lessons paid for . . .
Brian tossed his cigarette butt out of the window and leaned back in his seat. The bile rose in his throat but, just as he thought he was about to be sick again, it passed.
His son. Even now, having spent so much time with Martin and seeing his own face reflected back at him, it didn’t sink in.
He’d always believed that a father must love his son. It was a law of nature. He’d truly thought that a bond would exist between them that was greater than anything he’d ever known.
He’d been wrong.
Martin wasn’t easy to love. He loved himself, and that was all. He only thought of himself. It hadn’t taken Brian long to realize that the only reason Martin had associated with him had been the money. Martin had believed he was well off. He was out for his own gain. Nothing more.
Martin had grown too greedy. He’d wanted more and more money and then, finally, he’d threatened to tell everyone about the ‘weirdo’ who kept giving him money.
‘You’ve been trying to get me into the sack all this time, haven’t you?’ He grinned with the confidence of youth and Brian had been horrified.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘That’s what everyone would think. My parents, the police . . .’
The threat had been left unspoken.
Brian hadn’t known what to do. In the end, he’d contacted Josie. If he could see Martin, with everyone knowing he was the boy’s father, he’d thought it would make life easier. He’d thought everyone would realize why he’d tried to get close to Martin.
Josie, of course, would have none of it.
‘George would kill me,’ she said, over and over again.
‘He’d come round,’ Brian had insisted.
‘No. He would kill me.’
Brian lit another cigarette. What in hell’s name was he to do?
Had Martin blabbed to his family? His sister perhaps? That guitar teacher?
His stomach churned. He leapt out of the car and was sick again.
Jill had been dreading this. However, she rang the Murphys’ doorbell and waited.
Gerald Murphy opened the door and, from the quick flash of disappointment that registered in his eyes, Jill guessed he’d seen too many visitors.
‘Hello, Jill. Come in. Good to see you.’
Emma Murphy, a pale imitation of her usual self, gave Jill a quick hug. ‘Thanks for coming, Jill.’
‘This is an official visit,’ Jill explained. ‘I’m helping the police . . .’
Gerald and Emma were scared witless, with good reason, and they sat on the sofa together, usually holding hands and touching to reassure each other. It was warming to see them both giving so much to the other.
Their home was very different to Lower Crags Farm. This was a large house and it was a place that was loved. Emma’s sense of style was evident in every room. The furniture was modern, expensive and had been chosen with care. The carpets were thick. Fresh flowers sat on tables and in windows.
Gerald Murphy was a successful architect and had his own large practice in Manchester. He was a busy man, yet he was here with his wife and Jill knew he wouldn’t leave her alone until their boy was found safe and sound.
‘If we’ve done anything wrong, Jill,’ Emma said softly, ‘we’ve spoilt him. He’s an only child, and that makes it difficult. We waited a long time to have him, you see. It was a difficult birth with complications and we were told we couldn’t have more. Not that we minded. We had James, and he’s our life.’
‘But we’ve brought him up to be independent,’ Gerald put in, absently squeezing his wife’s hand. ‘He’s not a mummy’s boy. He’s popular, has lots of friends. His friends are always made welcome here and he’s never been afraid to bring them home.’
Jill nodded her understanding.
‘I know this is an imposition,’ she said, ‘and I know the police have already seen his room and taken away his computer, but would you mind if I had a look? There might be something.’ Jill prayed there was.
‘Of course,’ Emma said, getting to her feet. ‘We’ve not touched anything,’ she added. ‘It’s just as he left it.’
Emma walked up the stairs with her. Jill would have preferred to look alone, but Emma was talkative and she might say something useful. She wanted to help them. Both she and her husband were touchingly grateful for everything the police were trying to do.
‘For a boy, he’s quite tidy,’ Emma murmured as she pushed open the door to James’ bedroom.
It was a large room, painted in a dark orange. There was little of the walls to be seen as they were covered in huge posters, mostly of bands. On the double bed was a Manchester United FC duvet cover. There was a matching lampshade on the bedside light. A large bookcase sat against one wall, and it held a few books and hundreds of CDs.
‘That’s a good music collection,’ Jill said.
‘He loves his music. It drives you mad,’ Emma said, and there was a catch in her voice. Jill knew Emma would love to be driven mad right now. ‘He plays the same CD, sometimes the same song, over and over again at ear-splitting volume. His dad tells him it’ll send him deaf but he takes no notice. Oh, God ’ Emma covered her face with her hands.
Jill held her close for a few moments. ‘We’re doing all we can, Emma.’
‘I know.’ She took a shaky breath. ‘Everyone’s been so kind.’
Kelton Bridge was that sort of village. Kindness, however, wouldn’t bring James home.
Jill looked at each of the books in turn. They were mostly horror fiction. Several were by Stephen King.
There was a desk in the corner and she saw that he’d been doing maths homework that had to be handed in by the end of the week.
‘I don’t know how he was getting on with that,’ Emma said, spotting Jill’s interest. ‘He does it on his computer and the police have taken that. Not,’ she added, ‘that I think they’ll find anything. He’s not one for email or chat rooms. He uses his mobile phone to keep in touch with his friends.’
Jill looked through the pile of papers on his desk. It was all schoolwork.
‘Would he struggle with maths homework?’ Jill asked.
‘Not enough to worry him,’ Emma replied. ‘He likes sport, chemistry and physics best, but he gets by in the other subjects.’
Two electric guitars sat on stands near the bed.
‘Does he practise a lot?’ Jill asked.
‘Day in, day out,’ Emma told her, smiling.
‘He taught himself, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. He had a toy one for Christmas when he was oh, he must have been four or five at the time. He loved it, and managed to get a good tune from it. We bought him a real one and he’s had several since. He’s formed a band, you know.’
Jill smiled. ‘I bet he loves that.’
‘He does. Mind you, his father’s told him that it’s not to interfere with his schoolwork. If he wants to be the next U2, or whoever it is these days, he has to wait until he’s finished his education.’
‘Wise move,’ Jill agreed.
‘The trouble is,’ Emma went on, ‘people fill his head with nonsense. James, like the other band members, is a talented musician, but there are plenty of those around. You have to have luck to make it to the top. Yet people keep telling them how good they are.’
‘James sounds sensible enough not to take any risks.’
‘Yes, yes he is.’
Was James as sensible as his parents made him sound? He was loved, that much was evident. He was worshipped even. But was he under pressure to perform well and achieve great things? Did he find the constraints here too much?
‘What about family quarrels, Emma? Every family has them. What did James argue about? What turned him into the monster that teenagers are?’
Emma’s arms were wrapped tight around herself. She walked to the window and gazed out at the back garden below. That, too, was immaculate. A table and chairs on the patio had been covered for winter. The foliage in the borders provided colour in warm reds and oranges.
‘Teenagers have to rebel,’ Jill went on softly. ‘It’s nature’s way of preparing them for flying the nest.’ She smiled. ‘And the way they turn into monsters well, that’s nature’s way of making sure the parents are happy for them to fly. What did James rebel against?’
Emma turned around, her face pale as she chewed on her lower lip.
‘He got in with a bad crowd,’ she confided at last, her voice halting. ‘His father didn’t approve. I expect you know the sort. They’ve left school and just seem to hang around the streets all day causing trouble.’
‘Yes, I know the sort,’ Jill assured her. ‘I expect James finds them good company. Instead of doing boring schoolwork, they’ll be having all kinds of fun.’
Emma nodded. ‘He’s argued with his father about it lately. Well, he’s argued with me, too. He can’t seem to understand that school will soon be behind him. All he thinks about is his music. Sometimes . . .’ she paused briefly, ‘he goes to his room straight after school and we don’t see him again until the following morning.’
‘But there was no argument before he went missing?’ Jill asked.
‘Nothing. In fact, he’d been a bit better for a few days. More settled, more like his old self.’ She looked straight at Jill. ‘I would love to think he’d gone off with these so-called friends of his.’ She shook her head sadly, and Jill could understand how she felt.
‘Does the name Brian Taylor mean anything to you?’ Jill asked, changing the subject.
Tears welled up in Emma’s eyes. ‘He’s connected with Martin Hayden, the boy who was murdered, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ Jill admitted.
‘No. I’d never heard the name until Chief Inspector Trentham spoke of him.’
‘And James never mentioned being friendly with Martin Hayden?’
‘No. He knew him from school of course, but they didn’t hang around together.’
Jill was on the point of leaving the bedroom when she spotted something on the floor. Lying there, beneath the blue electric guitar, was a small business card. She picked it up.
On the back, was a scribbled note:
Keep practising. Call me
sometime
. On the front was the name:
Tobias Campbell,
Private Music Tutor
and his address in Church Street.
Bingo! They had their link.
Jill was trying to give her mind a rest by studying the
Racing Post
. She’d had a successful day on the horses with Guitar Man romping home at twelve to one and Back on the Job winning by a short head at sixteen to one.
After leaving the Murphys’ house, she’d spent her time looking through a mountain of paperwork for clues their killer had left. There were very few.
She had no doubt that their killer had chosen Martin and Josie Hayden, but there was something almost impulsive about the actual killings.
It was the rage that puzzled Jill most. Martin had been badly beaten but Josie . . . She shivered. The killer had been half out of his mind with anger when he’d cut Josie. It had been personal, too.
Jill was convinced their killer was someone close to Josie.
So how did James Murphy fit in?
She returned her attention to the
Racing Post
. . .
Ten minutes later, just as she was about to put a pizza in the oven, her doorbell rang.
She guessed it was Max as he’d taken to calling in most evenings on his way home. Except it wasn’t on his way. In fact, it was one hell of a detour. However, before she could shout to let him know it was open, he was inside.
‘Great idea that, kiddo. Keeping the door unlocked, I mean. Makes it so much easier for killers to get in. Or did you forget we’ve got a maniac on the loose?’
He was right; she should be more careful. ‘I doubt he’s interested in me.’‘
You said that about Valentine.’
She’d said exactly that, and her stomach flipped over as she remembered the way he’d had her pinned in her chair with a knife held to her throat . . .
‘I did,’ she agreed, having no witty retort for that. ‘Drink?’ she asked, ready to open a bottle of wine.
‘Better not,’ he said, taking her by surprise. ‘I’ve got an appointment this evening.’
There was something different about him this evening. He always looked smart but, unless she was mistaken, he’d made a special effort. He seemed distracted, too.
‘Oh? Business or pleasure?’
There was a slight hesitation before he said, ‘Business.’
She didn’t believe him. Why was that? Because she felt she could no longer trust him, or because he looked shifty? Did he look shifty? Yes, he did.
Not that it mattered to her what he did in his spare time, she reminded herself.
‘Anything new?’ she asked briskly.
‘Not a lot. Toby Campbell’s been in London all day. He’s due back late tonight so we’re bringing him in first thing in the morning. I’d like you there if you can make it.’
She nodded.
‘What did you reckon to him?’ he asked.
Jill thought back to their meeting.
‘He didn’t strike me as a killer if that’s what you mean,’ she answered thoughtfully. ‘I’d bet he likes the company of young people, but lots of folk do.’
‘True. It’s one hell of a coincidence though, don’t you think? Both boys having come into contact with him.’
‘It is.’ She couldn’t argue with that, which is why she’d called Max the moment she left the Murphys’ house. ‘But I don’t see him as your killer. He’s too patient and controlled a person for such a brutal attack. Your killer is angry, someone verging on the edge.’
‘He doesn’t drive, either,’ Max put in.
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘Dunno.’ Max shrugged. ‘Never bothered, I suppose. So that alone almost puts him out of the running. It’s a good walk out to where Martin Hayden was abducted. Having said that, he could have been in a taxi. We think Martin knew his killer and went off with him willingly.’
She tapped her foot on the kitchen floor.
‘Brian Taylor is still top of my list. He had a hold over Josie. Love, I suppose. She really loved that man and she never did get over the way he abandoned her. Of course, that only works if James Murphy turns up safe and sound. There’s definitely no connection between him and Brian Taylor, is there?’
‘None that we can find. I asked the Murphys if they knew the name and they both looked blank.’
‘I asked, too. And I certainly can’t see Emma going off for an afternoon of passion with Taylor,’ she said. ‘She’d far rather spend her time in the house and garden, or at an art gallery.’
‘We’ve checked everything we can no, there’s no connection there.’
‘If Josie confronted Brian Taylor, if she guessed he’d killed Martin then he might kill her too,’ Jill pointed out. ‘Or maybe he was simply angry with her.’
‘I know, but it doesn’t make sense. Unless James Murphy turns up safe and sound.’ He looked at her. ‘But he won’t, will he? You know that and I know that. He might not be dead – might not but he’s being held against his will.’
‘I imagine so, yes. Let’s think of Morrison. If Josie knew something about Geoff Morrison and confronted him, well, that makes more sense. He’s linked to both boys.’
‘Yeah, I know, and we’re watching him very, very closely.’
Max glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes.
‘You’d better not keep your hot business appointment waiting,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him.
He frowned at her tone. ‘Mm. OK, I had better go. I’ll see you tomorrow when we put Toby Campbell through the mill?’‘
OK.’ He wasn’t going to tell her who his appointment was with, she noticed.
‘By the way, how’s your friend? Ella Gardner.’
‘She’s OK.’ Finding Josie Hayden’s butchered body would be a terrible shock for anyone but Ella was a practical, no-nonsense type. ‘She told me how marvellous you were,’ she added drily.
‘Yeah?’
‘And she told me that, although she’d been offered counselling, she thought she was a bit long in the tooth for that poppycock.’
‘Poppycock?’ He grinned at that.
‘She’s fine.’
‘Good.’ He checked his watch yet again. ‘Right, must dash. I’ll let you know if anything happens.’
‘Fine. Enjoy your evening.’
‘I will. See you.’
Yes, he definitely had something important lined up. So important that reminding her to keep her bloody door locked had completely slipped his mind.