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Authors: Clare Curzon

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BOOK: The Glass Wall
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‘She was getting frail by that time, after her first stroke. But I'm disinclined to believe that version of the story. Rachel, if anybody, was the one who resented her. This is why she must never be allowed in here again. She is the only natural descendant, and too eager to inherit. As Emily once ironically reminded me, she has bad blood in her.'
Alyson stared at him. Normally so hesitant, weighing each word, he was suddenly forthright, even risking slander. The mild, kindly face looked grimly decisive. ‘And now,' he demanded of her, ‘what are we to do about this other unwanted visitor, with his interest in Emily's art collection?'
‘Is it so valuable, then?'
He smiled wryly. ‘It is a clever mixture of the genuine and the fake. I have access to a catalogue with full provenance and valuation of each piece. When one of the two keys to the strongbox containing this went missing I took the precaution of relocating the box elsewhere. And I informed a senior policeman whose discretion I trust.'
‘So you believe that the bogus insurance man was also involved in taking the key? But if so, why would he need to come here and re-value the pictures himself? And is he planning to steal them?'
‘So many questions. I wish I had the answers. None of the
papers contained in the strongbox was missing, but they might have been copied. There is no way of knowing, but I am sure the photocopier in our office was not used for this purpose. A tally is kept of all documents put through the machine. So perhaps the window of opportunity never occurred, and whoever took the key was unable to make use of it.'
‘But some of your stationery was removed, and a specimen of your signature was obtained.'
‘Pointing to someone on my staff; which I am loath to believe. Or else our security has been breached from outside. That is why I have asked for discreet help from my police – er, contact.'
‘Do you suspect professional art thieves?'
Fitt ran a hand over his chin and hesitated; then, ‘Perhaps. Or amateurs about to become professional.' He fell silent again.
‘How did Emily come to have such a collection in the first place, Mr Fitt?'
‘Her son-in-law, Angus Howard, the father of Rachel and her half-siblings, was a dealer, with a gallery in Edinburgh. Some of his exhibits Emily bought or was given at various times. Other, contemporary pieces, she acquired direct from the artists or their agents. She had a keen eye for what was marketable, and used to attend auctions all over the country.'
‘That explains why she's so fond of some of the pictures.'
Fitt smiled. ‘Not that those she values most would necessarily be genuine or would fetch a high price. Emily admired a good imitation. She might cherish it from a mischievous pleasure in the skill of the forger. Nothing about Emily is simple, you see. She will always remain an enigma.'
Oliver Markham had found a slot to park the new 4x4 right outside his flat. It meant that the old Nissan had to be left in the yard at the stationery warehouse until the man who'd shown some interest made an offer. The police patrolman, sent for the rug which Markham had stuffed back in the boot, interrupted him frying an early supper before visiting more defaulters. While he argued on the doorstep his smoke alarm, oversensitive to bacon, went off.
‘Hadn't you better answer that?' the constable suggested as Markham faced him out, fists balled.
‘Buggrit,' Markham snarled. ‘Wait a bit.' He slammed the door in the PC's face. He was no sweeter-tempered when eventually he reappeared in his leather trench coat and with a smear of tomato ketchup on his chin. The patrolman had returned to the warmth of his car, prepared by now to be awkward.
‘My car's not here,' Markham began, not intending to lose his 4x4's kerbside parking at this time of day.
‘So?'
‘It's across town. You'll need to give me a lift.'
The policeman replied with a long, uncompromising stare.
‘Unless you're not bothered about the bloody rug anyway.' Markham bit off a further sneer, furious at the way ‘bloody' had shot out automatically.
‘Get in. Mind your head.' His partner climbed out of the front passenger seat and went round to sit beside Markham as if he was under arrest. Show business for the neighbours' benefit. A customer emerging from the nearby greengrocer's looked across incuriously as the car door slammed. Markham gave the driver directions to the warehouse yard.
‘Elston's,' the driver muttered. ‘What's your car doing there? That's not public parking.'
‘I used to work in the warehouse way back.'
‘You got a current permit?'
‘Not as such. There's an understanding.'
‘Funny, that. They've asked us to check on unauthorized use
of the yard. Getting tired of old crocks being dumped there.'
‘If they were really bothered they'd fit a gate and CCTV.' Markham sat back, surly and resentful. At the yard he unlocked the Nissan's boot and handed over the rug. ‘Much good will it do you.'
He might have guessed they'd drive off at that, leaving him stranded.
 
At the college Yeadings met the Principal who passed him over to the senior porter, Alex Crowe. Jim Anders was, understandably, resting at home and accorded leave after the shock of finding the body.
Together Yeadings and Zyczynski were given a tour of the main building with an explanation of access and prohibited areas. They reached the roof by a series of staircases, the final one lying behind a locked door on the top corridor.
‘How does this meet fire precautions requirements?' Yeadings asked.
‘The lock's electronic. All members of staff have a card-key like mine. And we've a buzzer in the porters' lodge. The Principal had to balance student safety against fire hazard. The system has been passed by the local authority.'
‘Yes, I suppose the roof would present a challenge to some of the wilder youngsters. How often do the access cards go missing?'
‘Perhaps two or three times a term somebody reports one's lost. Usually that happens during a check, after students have gained entry to the roof for smoking or some kind of minor mischief. There's not been any serious trouble until now.'
Yeadings nodded. There was never going to be a foolproof security system. He thought he'd seen all he needed here. SOCO's report would cover any fine details regarding the roof itself. It remained only to return to the Principal's office, thank him and pick up the full list of students and staff which his secretary had been printing out.
As he was leaving, the superintendent turned back. Doing a Columbo, Z noted, hiding a smile. ‘Does the name Markham mean anything to you?' he asked.
‘I'm afraid not. If he was ever here it must be before my time, Superintendent. I was appointed Principal only eighteen months ago, but I pride myself in knowing everyone here by name, if not always by facial recognition.'
‘I recall Mr Markham,' the secretary confided, showing them out. She was in her late fifties, tidily old-fashioned in her dress and with keen, black boot-button eyes. ‘I would need to look up his year of admission, but it was some considerable time ago. He took the shorter Civics course. I remember him because afterwards he was appointed as usher to our local police court, and I was pleased he'd made something of it. Rather an unprepossessing young man, he'd struck me.'
 
It all seemed to be coming together. Next morning DI Salmon was almost purring with satisfaction when told of Markham's familiarity with the college, especially since Allbright's country hideaway had yielded evidence of someone having slept there in what was a large, quite cosily insulated workshop with all mod cons. A computer with access to the web had been brought back for examination by a police IT expert.
So, Salmon considered, with two murders about to be rapidly solved in parallel, this would look good on his annual assessment.
Cars were sent to bring in both Allbright and Markham for further questioning. On arrival the former refused to speak beyond demanding a solicitor. He was tense and freely sweating, seeming almost relieved when sent to wait, alone, in a cell.
Markham's interview was also delayed, until Beaumont was free to share it with the DI. He had brought with him the eagerly awaited lab reports, one giving the blood type of the woman pushed off the college roof. This was the of the rare
AB, rhesus negative
group. The second, an analysis carried out on the rug sample, had revealed two types of blood: not only the same rare
AB negative
but also the commonest
O positive
group.
‘Two different victims,' Salmon barked. ‘We could be getting a serial killer!'
‘Unless Markham himself bled on to it,' Z warned. ‘But if so, why didn't he simply claim it all as his own blood? We know 0 wasn't Micky Kane's blood group, and his is our only other
body.'
‘What we do have,' Yeadings pointed out with ominous calm, ‘is two unsolved murders, not necessarily connected, of a male adolescent and an older female; plus a reported missing female who may, or may not, have been abducted. And hers is an unknown blood group. I suggest DS Zyczynski rings the mother again to find out if she's chased up that information yet.'
Z found the number in her notebook and the others waited while she got through. Her approach was friendly-casual as she worked towards the crucial question. ‘So you still have no news of Sheena? I'm sure you've no cause for concern, Mrs Judd. As you said yourself, daughters nowadays don't confide everything to their mums. And she is, after all, of a sensible age.
‘I've checked that Sheena's not been taken to any of the local hospitals and we're still asking around generally. Perhaps, as an added precaution, you'd give us her blood group? If it's turned up yet?
‘It has? And you're quite certain? All of you the same? Your ex-husband too? I see, thank you. I'll be keeping in touch, Mrs Judd. Try not to worry. Take care.'
She rang off and faced the others. ‘For what it's worth, Sheena's was
O, rhesus positive
, just like the second sample found on the rug. But, for all we know, it could still be Oliver Markham's.'
‘Blow that for a dandelion seed,' Beaumont put in doggedly, ‘at least we can bring him in for the college death, whoever the woman turns out to be. If he's shaken enough he may put his hand up for Sheena Judd as well. And tell us where he's disposed of the body.'
‘Meanwhile,' Yeadings reminded his DI, ‘the Micky Kane case is dragging on. You'll need to get Allbright talking as soon as his brief turns up. Since Beaumont has something else to follow up, I want Z to sit in with you on this, as the only one of us who met Micky alive.'
‘So what's your new line?' Z asked Beaumont, on her way to collect sealed tapes for the interview-room recorder.
The Pinocchio face was at its perkiest. ‘You wouldn't want to
know. There's this lowlife old queer I met half-stoned last night. He dosses down at a squalid little shack down on the vacant lot beyond the Odeon that's home-sweet-home to the local derelicts. I think that's where young Micky ran off to.'
She couldn't miss the smug tone. He couldn't bear her not to know he was way ahead of her on this one. And apparently Yeadings had been informed; had sanctioned this new angle. ‘Let's hope it works,' she said. Forewarned, she felt a niggling doubt about the approaching interview with Allbright and his brief.
As they gathered across the fixed steel table in Interview Room I Salmon nodded to her to set up the recording. She switched on, inserted the two tapes, gave date and time, introduced the suspect and his solicitor, then herself. Salmon snarled his rank and name before starting a frontal attack.
‘I want to volunteer a statement,' Allbright interrupted him. His face was white and taut. His cuboid figure seemed somehow less substantial. The solicitor gave him a reassuring nod.
So they had it set up. Z's premonition strengthened that the case against the man was going to fall apart. Allbright could slip out of the frame.
‘It's about my chatline friendship with Micky Kane. That's all it was. Nothing nasty in it. It's just terrible what happened to the poor kid. If I'd ever dreamed …it could end up like it did …' His voice was choked with emotion.
‘You'd what?' Salmon demanded. ‘Have slugged him less hard? Have packed him off home to his mother?'
‘DI Salmon,' the lawyer warned, ‘this is a voluntary statement. Let my client continue. I must ask you to refrain from questioning him at this point.'
Allbright closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. ‘I'd never have got in touch. Never said anything about the Harley. God, it makes me sick to think what …'
Z was already convinced. He's going to get away with it. We've got the wrong man.
‘It's my hobby, see? Well, more than that, I suppose. There's something very special about a Harley. You've only got to say the
name …It's sort of magic. There's other owners feel the same way. We meet up, talk bikes, go runs together. Only they're already – already
there,
if you know what I mean …I needed to tell someone else, someone new.' His voice changed, grew awed. ‘Sort of spread the gospel.'
‘Wanted to brag,' Salmon muttered under his breath, earning a hard stare from the brief.
Allbright seemed not to have heard. He continued. ‘There are these chat lines. Well, you know all about them. I got linked up with this kid. He seemed kind of lonely, bored out of his mind at home. And enthusiastic. I wanted to
show
him. He was keen to ride. We arranged to meet up. It meant he'd have to skive off school. I was to pick him up on his way there. I'd got a spare skid-lid and leathers for him. He changed in the WCs near the town hall and we did the M4, M25, M1, hit over a ton and got pretty high on it.'
He stopped, suddenly aware of his audience. ‘It was mad, I know. But it was like we had something between us. Like he was me, only younger, with it all yet to come. I wanted everything good for him and he really seemed to like me, thought I was the goods.'
He sighed, slumped over the table. ‘We came back here and I dropped him in the town, while I went home to fix us a meal. He had my debit card to get some money for the train journey home. I really meant him to be all right with his folks.
‘Only that's when it all went wrong. I waited, and waited, only he never turned up. I thought maybe he'd cleared off with my money, and I got really mad. So I went out to find him. He wasn' t at the station and I thought he'd gone. But it wasn't like that. He was really sick. I found him down by the river, lost and half out of his mind. He said he'd snorted some angel dust he bought off a man near the bank. I guess he'd been watched at the cashpoint and looked an easy target. They'd have leaned on him to try it. Maybe he thought it would round off a perfect day.' By now Allbright was close to tears.
‘Can we take a break there?' the solicitor asked. ‘My client is fatigued. Perhaps a hot drink would be in order.'
‘I'll see to it,' Z offered, noted the time and stopped the tapes. Salmon said nothing, glaring, frustrated, at the two opposite him.
When they resumed, Allbright shook his head. ‘What could I have done? He couldn't travel home in that state. I was due at work later and I didn't dare leave him alone in my house. If he got rowdy he might do anything. The neighbours could get to hear him. He could run amok and set fire to himself. Drunks I can cope with, but with someone like that …
‘So I took him by car out to my workshop. You've seen it. He was all right there, locked in. It's got heating and water. There's some food in a fridge and a divan bed with a sleeping bag, because I sometimes stay over, making adjustments to the bike or surfing the net.'
BOOK: The Glass Wall
10.17Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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