Stop Dead (13 page)

Geraldine nodded. Despite Guy’s relationship with Amy, they had a lot of work to do if they were going to achieve a conviction. And she wasn’t convinced that Guy had murdered Patrick.

‘I’m sure he would’ve wanted Henshaw dead. He had powerful motives. And I can believe he was physically capable of overpowering a man in his sixties. But –’

‘But?’ Sam prompted her.

‘We don’t know he’s guilty.’

‘What makes you think he isn’t?’

Geraldine shrugged.

‘For a start, he’s a hopeless liar.’

‘He had a motive.’

Geraldine pointed out that Henshaw’s business partner also had a pressing reason for wanting him out of the way, and asked Sam to take a careful look into George Corless’s finances.

‘Do you really think Henshaw’s killer was motivated by money?’

‘It’s possible. We know George had money troubles and whatever his situation, that restaurant is a gold mine. This could’ve been, as you put it, a crime of passion, but greed could also be a motive with so much money at stake.’

‘Yes, anything’s possible. But is it likely? What about the nature of his injuries? What’s that all about if he was killed for his money?’

‘Then the quicker we can eliminate George Corless from our enquiries the better. Now, enough speculation for one day. Let’s get to work.’

W
ound up by uncertainty over the case, Geraldine wanted to take some time to cool off and refocus. She found Sam in the canteen where they sat in companionable silence for a while.

‘Come on then, let’s get back to work,’ Geraldine said when she had finished her coffee.

‘Time for another piece of cake?’

‘No, come on, we need to crack on.’

Geraldine stood up.

‘I still don’t know how anyone can eat like you do without putting on weight.’

Sam patted her stomach and grinned.

‘I’m not exactly size zero,’ she replied.

Before her break, Sam had been looking into George’s financial circumstances. Back in the office, she told Geraldine what she had discovered.

‘So one way and another, he blew a heck of a lot of money,’ she concluded.

‘A heck of a lot,’ Geraldine echoed.

‘Imagine having that much money in the first place.’

‘And then throwing it all away like that.’

‘Why would anyone spend so much? For no reason.’

‘He spent hundreds of thousands on his girl friend, Desiree. He bought her a club at one time. That lasted all of six months, and nearly wiped him out.’

‘What a waste!’

They sat in silence for a moment, musing about the obscene amount of money one man had squandered. It could have bailed out a hospital ward, or paid for a raft of police officers for a year, enough to clear up many cases. With a sigh, Geraldine stood up. It was time to pay George Corless another visit.

On finding the restaurant closed, they drove to his flat in West Hampstead. It was unassuming for the owner of a fashionable upmarket restaurant, and very different to the Henshaws’ imposing property. A young woman with voluptuous curves came to the door, a pink silk dressing gown draped around her hourglass figure. Her peroxide blonde hair darkened at the roots, and her nails and eyelashes were obviously false, but her smile conveyed a warmth that was entirely natural.

‘What’s the stupid bastard gone and done now?’ were her first words on seeing Geraldine’s warrant card.

A door slammed somewhere in the house behind her.

‘We’d like to speak to George Corless.’

The young woman clutched her dressing gown more tightly around her waist as Sam stepped briskly forward and gave the door a vigorous push.

‘Tell them to fuck off,’ a man’s voice called out suddenly. ‘Any more of this bloody harassment and I’m calling the police –’

The blonde woman half turned and yelled over her shoulder.

‘It
is
the police.’

She turned back to Geraldine with an apologetic shrug.

‘He thought you were the bailiffs.’

George led them into an untidy kitchen. It stank of stale cigarette smoke. A few magazines lay strewn around the chairs. He swept them up and chucked them on the floor before waving a hand, inviting Geraldine and Sam to sit down at the table.

‘Patrick Henshaw’s death came at a very convenient time for you,’ Geraldine commented.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You were facing financial difficulties.’

‘That was nothing new. It’s not a crime to owe money, is it?’

‘What did Patrick Henshaw say about your gambling debts?’

‘Nothing. It was none of his business any more than it’s any of yours.’

He pulled a cigarette out of a packet and tapped the end of it on the table before lighting it. Leaning back, he exhaled slowly, avoiding Geraldine’s eye.

‘And now you’re a very rich man,’ Geraldine continued. ‘You inherited your business partner’s share of the restaurant just when you needed it. That’s going to sort out the bailiffs for you.’

George rose to his feet in a sudden swift movement, his face flushing darkly.

‘What the hell are you saying?’

‘I’m just stating the facts, Mr Corless. You were in trouble. Couldn’t pay your bills. Now you’re home and dry – until you gamble it all away again, that is. It’s very convenient for you, Henshaw dying just now, isn’t it?’

She sat back and watched him smoking and scowling.

‘Is that all?’ he responded at last. ‘Only I’ve got a business to run. How long is this going to take?’

Geraldine ignored his question.

‘Did you get on well with Patrick?’

‘What do you think?

‘Answer the question.’

‘We were partners.’

‘Yes. And did you get on well?

‘I’d say so, yes. We were mates. We go back a long way.’

‘Tell me about how you met.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake! It was years ago. We were working for the same construction company. The company went down the pan but we kept in touch. A few years later he invited me to join him in a small business venture – I was flush at the time so we put up the money together and one thing led to another. Then Mireille came up. It was a good deal, and we knew we could work together, so we went ahead. That’s all there is to it.’

Geraldine quizzed him about the finances for the restaurant.

‘We both put money in. It was a joint venture. Equal partners.’

‘Tell me about your disagreements.’

‘What disagreements? We never had any disagreements. If you’re going to put words in my mouth, I want my lawyer present.’

He glanced nervously at Sam, notebook open in her lap, pen poised.

‘You told me you had different ideas,’ Geraldine insisted.

But however much she pressed him, he revealed nothing that might implicate him in Henshaw’s murder.

‘I already told you, he was the business brains behind the restaurant. I’m in the shit without him. Why would I want to kill him? Now, can we hurry this along if you’ve got any more questions, and let’s get this over with. I need to get off to the restaurant soon.’

He glanced at his watch, his face twisted in anger. His hands shook as he lit another cigarette.

Geraldine tried a different tack.

‘Mr Corless, where were you on Sunday evening?’

‘Sunday evening?’

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, thinking. She wondered if he was really trying to remember, or if he was taking his time, concocting a convincing alibi.

‘What time are we talking about?’

‘Some time around midnight, say between ten and one in the morning.’

‘I’d have been here. We close early on a Sunday, and it wasn’t too busy so I left around ten. Patrick said he’d lock up.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

‘Ask Desiree. She’ll vouch for me.’

Geraldine wondered if Desiree’s word was as false as her nails.

S
he hated having to stand on a crowded underground train, even for a short journey. The heat from other people’s closeness made her cringe; their smells suffocated her: body odours, the stench of stale cigarettes mingled with cloying perfumes and hair gels; strangers coughing and sneezing beside her, breathing on her. She made a point of walking right to the far end of the platform, where she was more likely to get a seat. At least sitting down she had some space of her own.

Her attention was arrested by a face staring blankly at her. There was no mistaking the glaring angular features; his face haunted her dreams. Squinting, she tried to make out the words below the photograph but it was impossible to read the text across the carriage as the page trembled with the bumping of the train. All she could distinguish was the headline: ‘Police Hunt Killer.’ Passengers shuffled along the packed carriage obstructing her view of the newspaper. She shifted sideways in her seat but by the time the paper reappeared in her line of vision the commuter had turned the page.

Gripped by a sense of urgency she scanned the carriage but there weren’t any other papers in sight so she stayed where she was, fretting with impatience. Reaching her station she hurried out onto the street, bought a paper at the nearest newsagent and stood on the street reading, oblivious of the light rain that began to fall, spattering the newspaper in her hands while she skimmed through the report. A smile spread slowly across her thin lips as she read how he had been found, dead, in his car. Justice had been done. She hoped he had suffered.

She reread the article, wondering how much the police knew. They weren’t to be trusted. They were asking if anyone had seen the victim on the night he was killed, but they knew a lot more than they let on. Reading the report once more, she tried to work out what it meant. The police were making out they didn’t know who the killer was. That might be true, but they could be lying. Either way, she had no intention of admitting anything. She had more than seen him, she had felt his sweaty hands on her face and the weight of his body on hers, smelt his foul breath. For a second she was back in his car, struggling helplessly. And now he was dead. It served him right. Death was too good for him.

Someone bumped into her, startling her from her reverie. A middle-aged woman was peering at her and she realised she was standing in the middle of the pavement in the rain. Without answering she turned on her heel and walked off. Passing a litter bin she tossed the paper away, barely pausing in her stride. She wouldn’t help the police hunt down whoever had killed that monster. It was raining more heavily now and she pulled up her collar, cursing herself for coming out without an umbrella.

Hurrying home, she had a hot shower before switching on the television. His face was there on the news, while a round-faced policeman appealed for witnesses to come forward. Like the newspaper reporter, he said a woman had been with the victim on the evening he died. The police were asking her to come forward to help them with their enquiries. She smiled. If the police had any idea who they were looking for, they would have been dragging her down to the cells, not issuing vague appeals for information. They didn’t have a clue.

He had got what he deserved, that night in the car. One thing was for sure, the woman who had been with Patrick Henshaw on the night he died was never going to share what she knew with the police. If they wanted to expose his killer, they would have to do it without her help. She was free of him now, and she intended to stay that way.

R
eg Milton was up to speed with all the reports entered on the system and he was now ready to pump Geraldine and her sergeant who had been out asking questions of anyone involved in the case. The public, interested only in results, had no idea of the hours of work that underpinned a murder enquiry, or that the occasional unsuccessful investigation represented months and sometimes years of painstaking and dedicated police work. Even though they usually got a result in the end, everyone on the team lived in fear of being responsible for allowing a killer to walk free, possibly endangering more lives. None more so than Reg who was in charge of the investigation.

It was time to share ideas and impressions. They were all aware that they could throw ideas around endlessly, but in the absence of proof it was ultimately pointless. He sighed as he opened the door to the Incident Room. At least they had several lines of enquiry going. So often in a murder case they struggled to point the finger at anyone, but in this instance there was more than one suspect and Reg listened intently to the members of his team as they endeavoured to fit all the pieces together.

Geraldine had been questioning Henshaw’s business partner. It was understood that George Corless had a lot to gain from Henshaw’s death.

‘He certainly needed the money,’ Geraldine said. ‘His finances were in a hell of a mess, gambling debts up to his ears and a high-maintenance girlfriend. He had a pressing motive, and could easily have found the opportunity. They saw each other every day. It might explain what Henshaw was doing on the Caledonian Road, which was off his route home from the restaurant. George might have arranged to meet him there where no one would see them, and they wouldn’t be recognised even if they were seen.’

It sounded plausible. They were all familiar with George’s bank statements, enough to give anyone nightmares.

‘But he’s got an alibi, hasn’t he?’ Sam pointed out.

‘Or we’d have brought him in by now, put some pressure on him,’ Reg agreed.

‘He’s got an alibi of sorts.’

Briefly Geraldine described George’s companion: young, blonde and empty-headed. His motive was compelling, he had the opportunity, and his alibi was dubious; yet Geraldine was convinced George Corless had nothing to do with his business partner’s death.

‘What makes you so sure he had nothing to do with it?’

‘He said the success of the restaurant depended on Henshaw’s involvement and – I just don’t think he did it. I can’t explain why. It’s just a feeling.’

Sam gave her a quizzical look.

Reg looked at the next name on the list.

‘So you think it was Amy Henshaw? Or is it Guy Barrett we should be pursuing?’

‘Or the two of them together,’ Sam added.