Road Closed (25 page)

The DCI looked worn out. Geraldine felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. Not for the first time, she wondered if he had anyone waiting at home for him at the end of the day. There never seemed to be any talk about him, unlike some of the other officers. Peterson’s name had already been linked with at least two of the young constables. Only the day before, Geraldine had come across one of them crying in the toilets. She had darted into a cubicle when Geraldine walked in.

Geraldine had waited for her to come out. ‘Everything all right, Polly?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Geraldine had recognised the blonde DC she had seen hanging around Peterson. At the morning briefings, the constable’s eyes kept wandering over to him. Geraldine had seen her in the pub, laughing too loudly at his jokes. Geraldine wasn’t surprised. Peterson was cheerful and friendly, and certainly attractive, but Polly was a fool if she allowed herself to become emotionally involved with a colleague.

Geraldine reminded herself of that when the DCI entered her room. Nevertheless, the informality of his visits suggested a certain familiarity that she found exciting. The world seemed suddenly full of possibilities. In the shadow of James Ryder, Craig seemed pleasant but dull.

‘What’s your gut feeling?’ James Ryder asked her. ‘Is Martin our man?’ Geraldine waited. She understood he had a theory he wanted to talk through. ‘We can discount the alibi from Bronxy,’ he went on, ‘even though we can’t disprove it. But what about the pub landlord? Why would he lie to protect Martin?’ Geraldine
shook her head and shrugged. There could be reasons. ‘And wouldn’t Martin have known Brenda was upstairs? But if it wasn’t Martin, who else has got it in for Barker?’

‘Sophie Cliff?’ Geraldine suggested. ‘Grief can do strange things to people, sir, and she believes Raymond Barker’s responsible for her husband’s death, and –’ She paused.

‘Go on.’

‘It makes sense of the match, sir. Whoever attacked Barker on the street dropped a lighted match on his back.’

‘And now someone’s set fire to his house.’

‘Thomas Cliff died in a fire.’

‘It’s a crazy idea,’ Ryder said, his eyes alight with interest.

‘But it makes sense, in a crazy kind of way.’

‘Like you said, grief can make people do crazy things. Find her, Geraldine. Talk to her. See what she’s got to say for herself. Let’s see if she’s got an alibi. Of course it doesn’t prove anything if she hasn’t, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Go and find Sophie Cliff when you’re done with Martin and the girlfriend.’ He turned and left the room as abruptly as he had entered it. Geraldine wished he had stayed longer.

‘Would Martin have set fire to the house with Brenda upstairs?’ Geraldine wondered as she and Peterson set off for the Blue Lagoon where Brenda and Callum Martin were staying.

The doorman gave them an ironic salute as he stood aside to admit them. ‘Getting to be a bit of a habit, sarge. You won’t be the only police officer who’s a regular of ours.’ He gave Peterson a crude wink. Geraldine saw the sergeant’s shoulders tense as he clenched his fists.

They made their way through the deserted club to Bronxy’s office. She didn’t look surprised to see them.

‘We want to speak to Brenda.’

‘Of course you do, Inspector.’ On Bronxy’s lips the quietly spoken title sounded like a taunt.

Brenda entered the room hesitantly and stared anxiously at Bronxy.

‘You’re all right, Brenda. Just answer the policewoman’s questions and then you can go back upstairs.’

‘Brenda, can you tell us exactly what happened last night?’ Geraldine asked.

‘Last night,’ Brenda repeated flatly. She shrugged. Geraldine waited. ‘Cal wouldn’t take me,’ Brenda mumbled at last. She was high as a kite. Her speech was slurred. She could barely manage to string two words together coherently.

‘Last night, Brenda. What happened?’ Geraldine persisted.

‘Hot. It was hot,’ she said, flapping her hands. Her eyes grew wide as she struggled to explain. ‘Too hot. Roofs – in the rain!’ She giggled unexpectedly. ‘Rain in the moonlight.’ She leaned forward and gazed intensely at Geraldine. Her pupils were unnaturally dilated. ‘The roof is so pretty.’

‘Brenda, there was a fire in your house. What happened? Who was there?’

Brenda was agitated now. ‘Where’s Cal?’ She was crying. ‘Where’s Cal?’

Geraldine pressed on but it was a waste of time trying to get a sensible answer out of Brenda in her present state.

‘She’s in shock,’ Bronxy explained.

‘She’s drugged up to her eyeballs,’ Geraldine replied crossly. Bronxy’s face twisted but she didn’t bother to deny it.

Callum Martin must have been waiting outside because he walked in as soon as Peterson opened the door for Brenda to leave.

‘Someone’s made a nasty mess of your face,’ Peterson said. Martin’s left cheek was scored with four deep scratches.

‘A cat,’ Martin lied. ‘I drowned it.’ He trotted out his story before they had a chance to question him. ‘I was in the pub last night. You can ask the landlord.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Martin, we will.’

‘My word not good enough for you?’

Geraldine was inclined to believe him. ‘If he was lying, he’d have said he was at the Lagoon with Madam Bronxy,’ she said to Peterson as they made their way back to the car.

‘Should we check out the pub anyway?’

Geraldine nodded. ‘No stone unturned,’ she said. ‘One way or another we’re going to nail the bastard.’

‘Are you as confident as you sound, gov?’ Geraldine didn’t answer. Peterson was growing to know her too well.

The pub was empty. Geraldine glanced around. ‘Where’s Bert?’

‘He’s not been in today.’

‘I thought you said he’s always here.’

‘He’s not here now.’

‘Where can we find him?’

The landlord shrugged. ‘He lives round here somewhere.’

Geraldine and Peterson had a coffee in the pub while they waited. At last a constable phoned back with Bert Cartwright’s address.

‘There’s something else, gov,’ the constable said. ‘Bert Cartwright was a cop.’

‘Run that by me again.’

‘He was a detective sergeant when he left the force.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘There was an incident involving alcohol and he was forced to resign. He was a good DS, according to the records. Until he had to quit, that is. It was a long time ago.’

Before they left, Geraldine asked the pub landlord to let them know if the old man turned up. Bert lived in a rundown block of flats about five minutes’ walk from the pub. There was no answer when they rang the bell. A neighbour let them into the building. They knocked on Bert’s door. No answer. The lock was easy to open. Inside they found stacks of old newspapers, a cupboard stuffed with moth eaten jumpers and
stained underwear, and a stinking pair of boots with no laces. There was a small bottle of whiskey under the unmade bed and another one on a table in the filthy kitchen. Geraldine wrinkled her nose at the smell of damp. Bert wasn’t there. They asked his neighbour to inform them when he returned. There was nothing else they could do.

Barker had been the subject of two sadistic attacks. He might not survive a third. ‘Tell me, gov,’ Peterson said, ‘would you honestly care if Barker gets it? It’s no worse than he deserves, and it’ll be one less villain screwing things up for everyone.’

‘The law’s there to protect everyone. There can’t be any exceptions.’

‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘But even so –’

‘We have a job to do, upholding the law. Once we lose our grip on that, everything slides into chaos.’

‘I know that, but –’

‘You can’t choose who deserves the protection of the law. It’s there for everyone.’

‘I know. I just wondered.’

‘Well don’t.’

‘You’re that sure?’

‘Have to be in this job. Otherwise –’

‘I know, chaos. Do you ever get the feeling it’s not far off, gov?’

‘Don’t go there, Ian. We’ve got to keep the devils at bay.’

‘Is that the devils out there, or the devils within, gov?’

Geraldine didn’t answer.

45

Hotel

Mrs Pettifer opened the door.

‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. I’m sorry, this isn’t a very good time. We’re expecting visitors this evening so I’m afraid I’m rather busy. Can’t this wait?’

‘It’s Mrs Cliff we want to speak to.’

‘She moved out on Thursday.’ Mrs Pettifer was unable to tell them where Sophie had gone. ‘I think she was going to her parents. I think they live up North somewhere,’ she added vaguely. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot on. I’d help you if I could.’

Geraldine hid her surprise on hearing that Sophie Cliff had left her neighbours’ house. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pettifer. Can you please contact me if you hear from Sophie. We need to speak to her urgently.’

It took the local police nearly an hour to confirm that Sophie Cliff hadn’t returned to her parents’ house. They had no idea where she was and hadn’t heard from her since news of the fire had reached them. As Geraldine received the update, Ryder wandered into her office.

He studied Geraldine’s expression as she put the phone down. She felt herself blushing under his scrutiny. ‘Where the hell is she?’ he growled when she told him they had lost track of Sophie Cliff. ‘Find her, Geraldine.’ He stalked out again.

‘I’m doing my best, sir,’ Geraldine muttered crossly to the empty room. The DCI’s dismay only increased her frustration. She passed a further anxious half hour before a constable
came to tell her that Sophie Cliff had been traced. She was staying at a local motel.

Geraldine smiled in relief. ‘How did you find her?’

‘She finally answered her mobile phone, ma’am. We kept trying it, like you said.’

They found the rundown motel on the main bypass out of town. A man was lounging behind the counter watching a daytime chat show and stuffing a sugary doughnut into his mouth. He didn’t look up when Geraldine and Peterson entered the grubby reception area.

Geraldine held out her identity card. ‘We’re looking for a Mrs Cliff.’

The man behind the desk shoved the end of his doughnut into his mouth and brushed his sticky hands together. He looked up at Geraldine, his cheeks swollen with the pastry, and clambered to his feet. ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ he said, his eyes flicking to her card. Crumbs shot from his wet lips. ‘She in some sort of trouble? We don’t accommodate criminals. It’s not that sort of establishment.’

‘No. I’m sure it’s not. And she’s not a criminal, she’s a victim.’ The man tapped at his keyboard. ‘Room 17. You’re lucky. She only came back today.’ He slumped in his chair and turned his attention back to the television. ‘17,’ he repeated, flapping his hand towards a door at the far end of the reception room.

Geraldine led the way past a series of doors, to number 17. There was no response to her knock. She knocked again before trying the door. The handle turned and the door swung open. Sophie Cliff was sitting on the bed. She stared at the floor as Geraldine perched on a cheap plastic chair. Peterson slouched against the door. He gazed around the dirty room and straightened up suddenly.

‘Mrs Cliff,’ Geraldine began. Sophie didn’t respond. ‘Last night there was a second attack on Raymond Barker – the
man you say you saw in your headlights on the night of the fire at your house. That’s two attacks on Barker in three days. Mrs Cliff, we believe these incidents are linked. So, for the purpose of elimination, we need to know your whereabouts on both these occasions. Let’s start with the first assault. Where were you on Saturday night?’ No answer. ‘Mrs Cliff, please answer the question.’

Sophie Cliff raised her head. ‘Is he dead?’

‘We need to know where you were on Saturday night.’

Sophie dropped her eyes. ‘I went away.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘I went to the coast.’

‘Where on the coast?’

Sophie looked up again. She spoke slowly, as though speaking in a foreign language. ‘I went away. I had to get away from all this. You know, they won’t allow me back in my own home. Not that I want to go back there. Not now. That’s not what I meant. They’re crawling all over the place. They’ve taken over my home. Firemen.’ She let out a long shuddering sigh. ‘My doctor told me I should go away. He suggested I went to my parents. I couldn’t face their fussing, but I did go away. The doctor told me to.’

Geraldine glanced at a patch of damp on the wall. ‘Where did you go?’

Sophie rummaged inside her handbag and handed Geraldine a receipt. ‘Excelsior Hotel, Sandmouth,’ Geraldine read aloud. The receipt showed a credit card payment dated that morning. ‘May I keep this?’ Geraldine asked. Sandmouth was about seventy miles away. The receipt indicated that Sophie Cliff had left the hotel that morning. ‘When did you go to Sandmouth?’

There was a pause. Sophie seemed to be calculating. ‘I went there on Saturday morning and came back this morning.’

‘You stayed there for three nights?’

Sophie nodded. ‘And then I came back here.’

Geraldine looked around the dismal room. ‘Mrs Cliff, how long are you planning to stay here?’ Sophie didn’t answer. She sat staring at the floor. ‘If you leave here, will you go to your parents? Or is there somewhere else you might go?’

‘There’s nowhere.’ Her voice was flat.

Geraldine stood up. ‘Mrs Cliff, please don’t go away again without letting us know where you are, in case we need to speak to you again. Do you understand? Please keep us informed of your whereabouts.’

Sophie looked up. ‘Is he dead?’ she asked again. ‘The man that was attacked. The man I saw. Is he dead?’

‘No, Mrs Cliff, he survived. He’s in hospital, badly injured, but he’s not dead. He’s going to be all right.’ Sophie Cliff’s head fell forward, masking her expression.

As soon as they were back at the station, Geraldine contacted the police station in Sandmouth. ‘I’d like this treated as a priority,’ she said, ‘and get back to me straight away. I need to know when she arrived and when she left. Dates and times please, as accurately as possible.’ The credit card provider confirmed the transaction in Sandmouth on Sophie Cliff’s credit card at nine thirty that morning. There was nothing else to do but wait to receive confirmation that Sophie Cliff had been in Sandmouth all weekend.