Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle (25 page)

‘On the other hand,’ Kate went on briskly, ‘we have to accept what life throws at us, don’t we? At least I know that Harry and Ben are happy and healthy. That’s all Linda would have cared about.’

What about Max? Jill wanted to ask. Wouldn’t she have cared about his happiness, too?

Kate filled a bowl with hot soapy water.

‘And I won’t get maudlin at Christmas,’ she went on, plunging crystal glasses into the suds. ‘We’re all happy. We’re together.’

‘Yes.’

‘And,’ Kate added with a half-smile, ‘I’m bright enough to realize that Max is far happier with you than ever he was with Linda.’

Jill cringed inwardly at that. Kate
was
a good friend, but it must be so hard for her to see Jill doing the things that Linda should be doing.

‘He’s not exactly with me, Kate.’

‘As good as. And it makes me happy. You’re good for Max, Jill, and, therefore, good for the boys.’

But they weren’t an item. They worked together, they even slept together on occasions, but they couldn’t manage the whole ‘couple’ thing. Perhaps they were incapable of making a relationship work.

‘So tell me the latest on your mum’s plans for the wedding anniversary party,’ Kate suggested.

Jill was relieved to be on easier ground.

‘Don’t ask. I think there will be a couple of hundred of us at the Royal Hotel. No, make that a hundred and ninety-nine because Dad’s refusing to go.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Kate laughed at that.

‘I foresee disaster.’

‘I can see your mum’s point, though,’ Kate said seriously. ‘It’s a long time. An achievement. It should be celebrated in style.’

Jill agreed, up to a point.

‘Even Dad agrees with that. But he wants to celebrate in style with his mates at the working men’s club. As Mum said,’ she added, grinning, ‘it could all end in divorce yet.’

By the time the kitchen was tidy, the dishwasher switched on and the coffee made, Max and the boys were outside kicking a football around.

‘It looks like the dogs are winning,’ Jill remarked.

‘I don’t care who wins. It’s just good to see Max spending time with them.’

‘He’s busy right now,’ Jill replied, ‘but you know what it’s like. Things will soon quieten down. Once this case—cases—are sorted, life will return to normal.’

‘I hope so.’

So did Jill.

It was almost four o’clock when Max got the call.

Jill saw his expression change as he listened. She saw a fury in his eyes and a familiar setting to his stubborn jaw-line.

‘Who was the first officer at the scene?’ he demanded of the caller.

Jill’s heart sank. Now what had happened?

He finally slammed his phone shut.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, adding more gently for Harry and Ben’s benefit, ‘but I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Knowing he wouldn’t say too much in front of the boys, Jill followed him outside to his car.

‘Tessa Bailey,’ he said, fury in every breath, ‘has been found at the back of Burnley Road. A stabbing.’

‘Is she alive?’

‘Just.’

‘God, Max.’

‘Yeah. I’ll see you later, OK?’

‘Yes.’ She knew she would stay until he got back, no matter how late that was.

The rest of the day dragged. Jill and Kate had fun amusing the boys, but Jill’s mind was wandering.

What
was
the answer to all this?

First, McQueen’s double-crossing tenant, Muhammed Khalil, is murdered, then Bradley Johnson, then McQueen himself. And now Khalil’s girlfriend had been attacked. What the hell was going on?

Max was home just after nine o’clock and his first job was to pour himself a large drink. Jill had been knocking back wine so she didn’t have anything else. She needed a clear head.

He didn’t say much and Jill could understand that. Stabbings weren’t the most popular of subjects for Christmas Day conversation with his mother-in-law and his sons.

But Kate soon returned to her flat and then, very reluctantly, Harry and Ben, who were almost asleep on their feet, went to bed.

Max poured himself another generous drink.

‘How’s Tessa?’ Jill asked him.

‘She’s in intensive care. Apparently, the next twenty-four hours are crucial.’ She could tell he was still furiously angry. ‘What do you think, Jill? Who’s responsible?’

Jill stared at him in amazement. That was the thing about criminal profiling, she thought grimly. People either thought it was mumbo-jumbo or they assumed that all they had to do was give you the victim’s name and you could pluck the killer from the air.

‘Max, I know nothing about it,’ she pointed out, appalled that he, of all people, should expect so much. ‘How the hell would I know? Someone who doesn’t celebrate Christmas, I imagine.’

His glass stilled halfway to his mouth.

‘Like a Muslim,’ he said softly.

‘Well, yes, could be,’ she agreed. ‘Then again, it could be anyone. Tell me what happened.’

Jill sat in the armchair next to the beautifully decorated tree. All Kate’s work, of course.

Max stood with his back to the fireplace.

‘Tessa and a girl called Mags share a flat in Burnley Road,’ he explained, ‘and they had a few friends round for the day. They’d been doing what everyone does today—eating, drinking, watching TV. They were smoking some dope, I gather, but nothing worse than that. There were nine of them there.’

He took a slug of whisky.

‘They ran out of cigarettes,’ he continued, ‘and Tessa said she’d run down to see if the corner shop was open. It wasn’t,’ he added as an aside. ‘Closed at four, apparently. Anyway, when Tessa hadn’t returned after an hour, they set off to look for her.’

‘And it was these friends who found her?’ Jill asked.

‘Yes. She’d been stabbed several times and left for dead.’

Max reached into his pocket for his own cigarettes. Once he had one lit, he said, ‘Why try and kill her? What did she know that she didn’t tell me?’

Jill had no idea.

‘McQueen’s murder has thrown me,’ she admitted. ‘If he was still alive, I’d assume he’d had Khalil killed because the lad double-crossed him, and then had Tessa killed, or almost killed, in case she knew something.’

Max paced around taking long pulls on his cigarette.

‘We’re right back at square bloody one,’ he said grimly.

Chapter Twenty-Six

On 27th December, Jill was in her office at headquarters going through every piece of paper this inquiry had generated. A lot.

So much for Christmas, she thought with a sigh. Christmas Day and Boxing day had passed in a blur, no snow had fallen so she’d lost her bet, and now it was back to normal.

The building was quiet for a change. Almost every officer was on the streets, asking questions and handing out photographs of both Muhammed Khalil and Tessa Bailey.

Jill was concentrating on anything relating to Bradley Johnson because, try as she might, she couldn’t find the link between him and Tom McQueen. Admittedly, they had met socially a couple of times, but that was weak to say the least. There seemed to be no connection at all between Bradley and either Khalil or poor Tessa.

When Max sought her out later, she was sitting back in her chair, hands linked behind her head, eyes closed.

‘Busy?’ he asked drily.

She smiled. ‘Just thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘Claire Lawrence.’ She rubbed her hands over her face and tried to gather her jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order. ‘She once said something like “he won’t touch her again”, meaning Daisy. I assumed she was talking about her husband, Peter. Maybe she wasn’t.’

‘I’m with you so far,’ Max said as she paused.

‘She’s also very uneasy about Tom McQueen. She can’t, or won’t, believe he’s dead.’

‘And?’

‘Tessa, when you spoke to her, said there were rumours about McQueen liking young kids.’

Max perched himself on the edge of her desk.

‘What if McQueen
was
abusing children?’ she went on. ‘What if he abused Daisy? Claire might pull a stunt like this to protect her daughter.’

‘Tessa’s the only one to have mentioned anything of the sort,’ Max said doubtfully. ‘There’s been nothing else to suggest a hint of it. Still,’ he added, ‘it’s a theory and we’ve precious few of those. We need to talk to Claire Lawrence. I’ll organize it.’

He was on his way out of her office.

‘Any news on Tessa?’ she called after him.

‘She’s still holding her own.’

That was something, Jill supposed.

Max stopped the car outside HMP Styal the following morning and Jill’s spirits took their usual plummet.

Max killed the engine. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Let’s go and bash our heads against a wall for a while.’

This morning, because Max’s presence demanded it, Jill supposed, they were shown to a different room, one that was smaller but light and airy.

‘DCI Trentham, Harrington CID,’ Max introduced himself to Claire.

He was in one of his moods when he’d stand for no nonsense whatsoever and Jill guessed that Claire would enjoy every second of this. She loved to pit her wits against authority.

‘I am honoured,’ she said, voice dripping with scorn.

‘You are,’ Max agreed, ‘and I haven’t come here to be pissed about. I want some answers from you. You can start by telling me everything, and I mean everything, you know about Thomas McQueen.’

Claire looked to Jill and grinned. ‘Is this the good cop, bad cop routine?’

‘I’m not a cop,’ Jill pointed out.

‘OK. Good shrink, bad cop,’ she corrected herself sarcastically.

‘You once said you wouldn’t let McQueen touch Daisy again,’ Jill lied.

‘I said no such thing!’ Claire cried.

‘Did he touch her?’ Jill asked.

‘She’s just a kid. Why would he touch her?’

Once again, Claire used the present tense when talking of her daughter. There was no doubt, well, very little doubt in Jill’s mind that Daisy was still alive.

But where could she be?

‘We’ve heard,’ Max said, ‘that McQueen liked young children.’

‘You’re right there,’ she said immediately.

‘Did he touch Daisy?’ Jill asked again.

Claire shrugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

‘But I do,’ Max told her, ‘so you have no choice in the matter. How do you know McQueen liked young children?’

‘I don’t.’

‘You just said he did.’ Already Max was losing patience.

‘McQueen is dead,’ Jill reminded Claire. ‘You can say what you like about him. He’s dead, Claire.’

‘So you say,’ Claire retorted.

‘Six bullets in him,’ Max told her. ‘Two in his chest, one that narrowly missed his heart, one in his neck, two in his head—one of which was at point blank range. I was there when his wife found him. I saw him.’

Claire hung on Max’s every word, fascinated. But still a part of her refused to believe it.

‘He’s dead, Claire,’ Jill insisted. ‘He can’t hurt you, Daisy or anyone else now.’

Claire began rubbing at the almost healed patch on her arm. Jill had seen her do that so many times before that she longed to cuff her hands behind her back.

‘Did McQueen touch Daisy?’ Max asked again.

‘He wasn’t into sex with kids if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Claire scoffed.

‘But you said he liked young children,’ Max reminded her on a frustrated sigh.

‘He did, but he didn’t want sex with them.’

Then what the—

‘Crack,’ Max said, realization dawning.

‘Who killed him?’ Claire asked.

‘I’ve no idea—yet,’ Max said. ‘Was he giving crack to children?’

Claire nodded, lips clenched tightly shut, gaze resting on the spot of blood oozing from her arm.

Not for the first time, Jill wondered how lowlife like McQueen got away with such acts for so long. How did they keep their victims quiet? The answer, she supposed, was sitting opposite her. Fear. McQueen terrified people into silence.

But outwardly, McQueen had been a pillar of respectability. He had even made friends with the Chief Constable no less.

‘What did you do,’ she asked Claire, ‘when you realized he was getting to Daisy?’

‘I didn’t say he was,’ Claire pointed out.

‘OK, so what would you have done if he had?’

Claire smiled at that, but didn’t answer.

‘I’m tired now,’ she said instead.

‘Tough!’ Max snapped back at her.

‘You wanted to protect Daisy, didn’t you?’ Jill pressed on. ‘You wanted to shield her from heroin—or crack. You were determined that Daisy wouldn’t end up an addict, selling her body to feed a habit, like her mother. You wanted a better life for her, didn’t you?’

Claire didn’t answer.

‘But how can you fight a man like McQueen?’ Jill went on. ‘You can’t, can you? Men like him, men with all that wealth, power and influence, consider themselves above the law, don’t they? They trample over everyone who gets in their way. They make threats, don’t they, Claire? And they don’t hesitate to carry out those threats, do they?’

Claire, hands trembling violently, nodded.

‘How did he threaten you, Claire?’ Max demanded. ‘And don’t say he didn’t because we know damn well he did.’

‘How do I know he’s dead?’ she asked, her voice thin and rasping.

‘You can take my word for it,’ Max told her.

‘Mine too,’ Jill added.

Jill could see that, finally, Claire was allowing herself to believe that McQueen could be dead.

‘He threatened to kill Daisy.’

Max was about to speak, but Jill nudged his thigh to silence him.

‘He started paying me for sex,’ Claire said, her eyes dull. ‘He was just another punter, you see. Then he gave Daisy crack. How could he, eh? How could he do that? He came to the flat one day and I pulled a knife on him. I warned him that, if he went near Daisy again, I’d kill him. Fucking hell, me threatening McQueen. Later that night, someone—someone he’d sent—came to beat me up. He wanted Daisy, but she wasn’t there. He said he’d be back for her.’

Claire, having given what was possibly the longest speech of her life, fell silent. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, hugging her fear to her.

‘So you walked into the nick clutching a pillow and an empty medicine bottle,’ Jill guessed.