Take Two (A psychological thriller) (32 page)

‘It is four in the morning, boss.’

‘Oh bloody hell,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ve got to be up at half six.’

‘You might as well stay up,’ said Richards. ‘That’s what Seb usually does.’

‘I suppose they can cover the dark patches with make-up,’ said Jenny. She opened the door. ‘Come on, then.’

She walked unsteadily down the path to the front door.

‘Are you sure about this, boss?’ whispered Anita.

‘Sure about what?’

‘I don’t want to queer your pitch,’ said Anita. ‘Don’t want to be a third wheel.’

‘I’m not going to hit on the girl when she’s in that condition,’ said Richards. ‘She’s as high as a kite. And, anyway, I don’t think there’s any pitch to be queered. I think coffee is all she has in mind.’

They got out of the car and followed Jenny along the path. It took her several attempts to get her key in the lock and then she had trouble working out which way to turn it.

‘Let me,’ said Richards. She stepped to the side and he opened the door. He gave her a mock bow and grinned. ‘After you, my lady.’

They followed Jenny down the hallway to the kitchen. Anita closed the front door behind them.  ‘I can offer you espresso, cappuccino, or latte,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m impressed,’ said Richards.

‘No need to be,’ laughed Jenny. ‘Carolyn has one of those hi-tech gizmos that uses capsules. You just pop in the right capsule and press a button.’

‘Espresso for me,’ said Richards. ‘Is there a loo I can use?’

‘Down the hall on the left,’ said Jenny, opening a cupboard.

Richards left Jenny and Anita in the kitchen and headed down the hallway. Jenny had left her bag on a table under a large mirror. He stopped and turned. He heard voices in the kitchen but couldn’t tell who was talking. He unzipped the bag and looked inside. He saw a blue passport and pulled it out. He opened it and turned to the page with the photograph. It was Jenny, all right. Jenny Hall. He put the passport on the table, took out his phone and tapped in her date of birth so  he wouldn’t forget it. He put the passport back in the bag and took out a Louis Vitton purse. He rifled through it. There were three credit cards, one was American Express and the other two were from Australian banks.  There was an Australian driving licence. It had the same date of birth as the driving licence and an address in Brisbane. He tapped the address into his phone then put the driving licence into the purse and the purse into the bag.

‘Are you okay, Warwick?’

Richards jumped and his hands jerked away from the bag as if he’d been stung. He looked around and then relaxed as he saw it was Anita.

‘Just making sure I look good,’ said Richards, tidying his hair in the mirror.

‘Always,’ said Anita. She walked up to him and lowered her voice. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to push off?’ she whispered. ‘She definitely likes you.’

‘You think?’

‘I can see it in the way she looks at you. I could say there’s a problem back at the club and leave you here.’

Richards chuckled. ‘I’m not a teenager, I don’t need to run scams like that,’ he said. ‘We’re here for coffee, and when we’ve had that you can drive me home. But this time I’ll put myself to bed.’

Anita grinned. ‘Yeah, you were well gone that night,’ she said. ‘We’d never seen you so drunk.’

‘Happens to the best of us. Come on, let’s go get our coffees.’

‘I thought you were using the loo?’

‘The moment passed,’ he said.

‘Well, I need to use it,’ said Anita, and she headed for the toilet as Richards went back to the kitchen.

Jenny had already made three coffees and was sitting at the kitchen table. Richards sat down opposite her, wondering if what Anita had said was true and that Jenny really was attracted to him. ‘You’re serious about working tomorrow?’ he said.

‘Yeah, I have to be in make-up first thing.’ She laughed. ‘I should have followed Terry’s advice and left when he did.’

‘He’s a lightweight,’ laughed Richards.

‘And I’m what? A professional alcoholic?’

‘An enthusiastic amateur,’ joked Richards. ‘I can’t get over your accent.’

‘I’m not the one who talks funny,’ said Jenny.  She sipped her coffee. ‘I might just stay awake,’ she said.

‘A cat nap wouldn’t hurt,’ he said. ‘Just make sure you set your alarm. But, seriously, I’m glad you came to the club tonight.’

‘Yeah, me, too.’

‘You should come one weekend, then you’ll be less worried about an early start the next day.’

‘What time do you normally get up?’

‘Me? I’m a real night owl. Usually mid-day.’

‘I’m the opposite. I love the mornings. I love to watch the sun coming up, if I can.’

‘Yeah, well, you don’t have long to wait,’ he said and laughed. ‘How are you enjoying filling in for Carolyn?’

‘It’s easier than I thought,’ she said. ‘The British accent catches me out sometimes.’

‘But you were born here, right?’

‘Sure. But I’ve lived most of my life in Australia and, trust me, you don’t want to have a British accent in Oz.’

‘The whinging Pom thing?’

Jenny laughed. ‘It’s more than a thing, Warwick, it’s a way of life.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘Brisbane. On the east coast. By the ocean. Two million people, just about. I love it.’

‘And what took you to Australia?’

‘Carolyn didn’t tell you about our childhood?’

Richards shook his head.

‘Yeah, well, there’s a reason neither of us hung around,’ she said. ‘It’s just she ran to London and I kept on running. Ended up in Brisbane and married a guy I thought was the one. Turns out that was a mistake, too.’

Anita returned from the bathroom. ‘I know I’m a pain, but my husband always give me an earful when I get home after the sun rises.’ She grinned. ‘I’d like to say it’s a vampire thing but, really, it’s because he doesn’t trust me.’

‘No problem,’ said Richards. He drained his cup. ‘We’d better let Jenny get ready for her close-ups.’ He stood up. ‘It’s been a great evening, we should do it again.’

‘Definitely’. She stood up and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I had a great time.’

Richards wrinkled his nose. ‘You and Carolyn wear the same perfume,’ he said.

Jenny laughed. ‘I stole it from her dressing table,’ she said.

‘Coco Mademoiselle,’ said Richards.

‘You know your perfumes.’

Richards grinned and shook his head. ‘Just that one,’ he said. ‘Okay, we’ll be off.’ He noticed a red light flashing on the answer machine next to the fridge. ‘You know you’ve got a message.’

Jenny frowned. ‘Message?’

Richards pointed at the flashing light. ‘It’ll be for Carolyn, no one knows I’m here,’ she said.  Then she gasped. ‘Oh my God, maybe it’s her.’  She walked over to it and pressed the play button.

‘Hello, I’m trying to get hold of Jenny Castle,’ said a man’s voice. ‘This is Peter Sessions, I’m Carolyn’s agent.  I gather you’ve stepped in for her and I really think we should talk. Please call me back when you get the chance.’ The agent gave his phone number, twice, then ended the call.

‘He smells a commission,’ said Richards.

‘Do you think so?’ asked Jenny.

‘He’s circling like a vulture.’

‘That would make me, what, a dead antelope?’

Richards laughed. ‘He wants his fifteen percent, that’s all.  But you should give him a call. You do need somebody representing you. Show business is just that, a business.’

‘I will,’ promised Jenny. She took him and Anita down the hallway and showed them out. ‘Drive carefully,’ she said as she closed the door.

Richards and Anita walked over to the Porsche and climbed in. ‘She’s nice,’ said Anita as she started the engine.

‘Yeah, she is that.’

‘Not like you’d think a TV star would be. Really down to earth.’

‘She not really the star,’ said Richards. ‘She’s the star’s sister. But Carolyn was the same.’

‘She definitely likes you.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘She’s at the window, boss,’ said Anita.

Richards looked across at the house. A light had gone on in one of the upstairs windows and Jenny was standing there, watching him.  As Anita started the engine, Richards waved.

Jenny waved back.

Richards blew her a kiss and she did the same back.

As the Porsche pulled away from the kerb, Richards saw a small red dot move across the window and he frowned. Was that a cigarette? Was Jenny smoking?  His frown deepened. Jenny didn’t smoke. Carolyn was the smoker.

‘You okay, boss?’ asked Anita.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Richards quietly. He forced himself to smile. ‘Of course I am,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.’

CHAPTER 85

The house was in the middle of a long terrace with white-painted brick walls, the window frames painted black and a black front door with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.  A graffiti artist with delusions of grandeur had sprayed something across the wall under the main window but it had been painted over and was now barely visible. ‘I hope she’s okay,’ said Sergeant Marriott.

‘Her husband was murdered two days ago,’ said Inspector Biddulph. ‘I doubt she’s in any way okay.’

‘I meant I hope she’s not too emotional,’ said Marriott. ‘It upsets me when they cry.’

‘She’s probably still in shock,’ said Biddulph. They were sitting in their car outside the house. It was in Queen’s Park, a run-down area that had once been middle-class but was now occupied mainly by families on benefits and drug dealers. A group of young hoodies stood watching them on the other side of the road, making no effort to conceal the hand-rolled cigarette they were passing around. The sweet smell of marijuana wafted across the street. Biddulph gave them a long stare with the unspoken message that they should move on. They stared back with blank looks that said they didn’t care and would move on when they felt like it.  ‘How old is she?’ asked Biddulph.

Marriott flicked through her notebook. ‘Sixty three,’ she said. ‘Four years older than her husband.’

‘Probably not a suspect,’ said Biddulph. ‘Which is a pity.’

‘A pity?’

‘It’s always so much easier when the spouse does it.  Or a neighbour.’

‘He was shot three hundred miles away, so doubtful that it was a neighbour.’

‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’ said Biddulph. ‘That far away, has to be random, right? Wrong time, wrong place.’

‘The Scottish cops say his wallet and his watch were taken,’ said Marriott. ‘But what sort of mugger shoots a guy for a wallet and a watch? That’s the sort of thing that happens in the States, not here.  I don’t know, maybe he had something on him we don’t know about? Drugs? Or a lot of cash?’

Biddulph nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. He nodded at the house. ‘But it doesn’t look as if he was living beyond his means, does it?’

‘We could check his bank accounts?’

‘If it’s drugs money, it’ll likely be cash. What do you think, Kim? Think he was moving drugs around the country?’

‘It’d be a good cover.’

‘Except he works for a company that decides where he goes, usually at short notice.  I don’t see how that would help with drug distribution.’

‘Unless the trucking company is behind it.’

Biddulph laughed. ‘You’re working up a whole conspiracy here, aren’t you?’

‘What’s the alternative?’ she asked. ‘A totally random killing? Because if it was, without any forensic evidence we’ll never solve it.’

‘We don’t have to solve it,’ said Biddulph. ‘It’s not our case. We’re just doing a favour for the Jocks, save them the hassle of coming down here themselves. All we need to do is ask her the usual questions and send the notes up to Glasgow.’

They got out of the car. ‘We’re not going to play good cop, bad cop, are we?’ asked Marriott.

‘Best not,’ said Biddulph.  ‘Let’s go for good cop, stupid cop.’

‘Which one am I?’

Biddulph grinned. ‘If you have to ask, sergeant,..’ He locked the car and headed towards the house. ‘I want you to do the talking,’ said Biddulph.

‘Because I’m a woman?’

‘Because you’re better at empathising with people than I am and because she’s a sixty-three-year old woman who’s just lost her husband.’

Marriott pressed the doorbell and stood back. They heard shuffling steps coming down the hallway, then the front door opened on a security chain. Marriott already had her warrant card out and she held it up so the woman could see it. ‘I’m Sergeant Kimberley Marriott,’ she said. ‘This is my colleague Inspector Biddulph. We’re so sorry about your loss, Mrs McKenzie. Could we have a wee chat with you about your husband.’ 

Mrs McKenzie was grey haired and overweight with flabby forearms and rolls of fat around her waist that strained at a flowered dress that ended above a pair of chunky knees. Her eyes were red and bleary and there were dark patches under them. She had no make-up on and her face had a washed-out look as if all the life had been drained from it. She frowned as if she’d been asked to solve a complicated equation. ‘My husband?’ she said.

‘Just a wee chat,’ said Marriott. ‘We won’t take up too much of your time.’

Mrs McKenzie nodded and walked back down the hall.

The two detectives looked at each other. ‘A wee chat?’ mouthed Biddulph.

Marriott shrugged. ‘I was empathizing.’

‘You’re not Scottish,’ whispered Biddulph. ‘And by the sound of it, she isn’t either.’

‘Next time I’ll tell her we want a quick word, would that be better?’

Biddulph waved for Marriott to follow Mrs McKenzie, then closed the door behind them.  They found her sitting on a sofa, another flower pattern but this one made up of roses,  pink and red.  Mrs McKenzie was staring into the middle distance, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

Marriott realised that Mrs McKenzie was playing with her wedding ring, twisting it around and around.

‘Mrs McKenzie, we are so very sorry about what happened to your husband. Do you mind if I sit down?’

Mrs McKenzie looked up in surprise as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘We’re the police, Mrs McKenzie. ‘I’m Sergeant Kimberley Marriott and this is my colleague Inspector Biddulph. Can we sit down?’