Crying Out Loud (22 page)

‘You investigating him?'

‘No.' I swore as somebody cut in front of me and I waited until we had got round the island and left it in one piece before explaining. ‘No, but there was bad blood between him and someone else: a guy who was killed last year.'

‘Murdered!' she said, surprised.

‘Yes. They got someone for it but he retracted his confession. That's what I'm looking into. Anyway, the conman's name came up, I tried to trace him and he ambushed me outside my office.'

‘Jeez, when?'

‘Before you showed up yesterday,' I said.

‘The bruises are still coming out,' she said. ‘They'll get even worse.'

‘Thanks for that,' I said.

‘You OK, though?'

‘Still a bit shaken up, really,' I admitted.

‘You should be more careful,' she said solicitously.

I tried not to smile. ‘I do self-defence,' I said. ‘But he trapped me in the car. I couldn't get at him.'

‘Tosser.' She shook her head.

Once we were in the car park at the electrical retailers I reminded her again that the television didn't need to be any bigger than the last one and if we saw a small model we would get it for her room; otherwise we could try Aldi, who often had cheap electronic deals. ‘We're after a bargain,' I said.

We were in luck. They were clearing out display items. I found a flat screen for downstairs and a smaller one for Leanne. ‘You can always trade up, once you're working,' I said.

It would be a big bite into my meagre savings but I wasn't going to let that ruin my day.

I was anticipating a full-on row with Ray once he saw what I'd done. Was I angling for it, perhaps? Something to get us exchanging words, even if they were heated, hostile ones.

If so my hopes were thwarted because as soon as we got in the house, he muttered that he was going out. He didn't say where and didn't give me chance to ask.

After tea, Leanne helped me set up the television. She was a lot more techno-savvy than I was: while I was still peering at the manual, she had installed the channels and the kids were jostling for positions next to her on the sofa.

‘Remember,' I told them, ‘any arguments about the telly and you come and get me. And any arguments about anything else, take them out of this room.'

By the time I'd done my promised triple stint of bedtime reading I was worn out but in a much healthier way than the day before. Doing something normal and domestic with Leanne had strengthened our relationship and redoubled my belief that offering her shelter was a good move. I'd proven to myself that life went on, normal humdrum life, and that Nick Dryden's assault had not taken that away from me. Spending some money was a bit of a boost as well, if I'm honest.

It's true that when I thought of returning to work the next day, I still felt burdened by it. The case was getting harder, not easier: the options seemed to be narrowing, funnelling me into a dead end. For the first time, I accepted that maybe I'd fail. That perhaps I was never going to find out who killed Charlie. That I'd end up letting down Libby, and Chloe and Damien – not able to get the conviction quashed or the investigation reopened. That would be awful but I had to be realistic. The police and the courts believed Damien Beswick was guilty. I didn't. But without proof my conviction wouldn't change anything.

EIGHTEEN

T
he weather moved in during the night. Winds bringing thunderous clouds and heavy downpours. In the early hours, I woke to the sound of rain scattering like shot on the window. Later, I heard Lola's muffled cries, from the floor above.

It was still teeming down when I got up, before daylight. I let Digger out and watched him from the kitchen window. When I went out to clear up his mess, I could see the light on in Leanne's bedroom, a rectangle of yellow glowing in the pitch of the roof.

‘You were up early,' I said later. ‘Lola have an early start?'

‘She slept till eight.' Leanne frowned.

‘I saw the light on.'

She flushed and gave a little shrug. ‘I keep the light on,' she said.

I understood. Like Maddie, she was scared of the dark. For all of her street smarts, her prickly edge, Leanne was just a teenager, and one who'd survived nightmares. I didn't like to think what she had faced in the dark, the demons, the shadows that had tried to break her. She was still vulnerable.

I was ensconced in my office by nine. Stewing on the case. Picturing Libby finding Charlie, working backwards to Damien discovering the body, to Damien arriving in the village, to Charlie driving up, locking his car, opening the cottage. Was there someone there? Someone waiting in the dark shadows of the building with a knife. Or someone hot on his heels? Driving up the hill after him?

Something sparked in my head. And my pulse jumped in response. Valerie had no trouble keeping up with Charlie, but he was a fast driver – a reckless one, even. Libby had described how Charlie would overtake in the most dangerous of circumstances.
The traffic was slow moving
, Valerie said. But an impatient driver like that will speed up even if the rest of us are diligently keeping pace. They're the sort of people who cut in and out of queues, rev the engine and streak off as the lights change. I find them deeply irritating. There was no way Charlie Carter would have meekly sat in line in weekend traffic. My mind was racing; a tingle spread through my veins.

I checked something on the computer, looking up the model of Charlie's car, then took a deep breath and dialled Val's number, praying she'd be at home. I was lucky.

‘I'm so sorry to bother you again,' I said, playing nice, ‘but I wanted to double-check something that you said yesterday.'

She sighed noisily. ‘What?'

‘You said the traffic was moving slowly when you followed Charlie. Was there any reason: a traffic jam or an accident?'

‘It was just busy,' she said shortly. ‘It always is.'

‘Could you see Charlie driving?'

‘Yes,' she said firmly.

‘You couldn't see his face – you were behind him. It was dark by that time. And his car, that model, had those darkened windows. It was his car,' I said with emphasis, ‘but was
he
driving?'

My heart was thudding in my chest and I'd a thirst in my mouth.

‘Of course,' she said with annoyance.

‘Could someone else have been driving the car?'

Who? I'd already run out of suspects: not Nick Dryden, no hint of a road rage stranger, not Damien, not Libby. And Heather, the person with the strongest motive, had an unbreakable alibi. But I hadn't considered the other person who would be hurt by the break-up of Charlie's marriage: the other person who had cause to resent Libby and to stop Charlie abandoning his family. Alex Carter.

Had Alex killed Charlie? Had he discovered his father was going to leave, or that he was still seeing the ‘other woman'? The possibility fizzed inside me like the fuse to a firework. How did it fit with the anomalies at the cottage? With the new things Damien had told me about?

The picture was garbled, a half-finished jigsaw, but I sensed a pattern there if I could only grasp it.

‘Could it have been Alex?' I said to Valerie Mayhew.

It made sense, it would explain the driving: the boy hadn't even passed his test. Charlie was incapable of keeping to the speed limit. There was a moment's pause. Then she exploded. ‘Don't be ridiculous! Alex was there when we left. I saw him with my own eyes
and
,' she emphasized the word, ‘he was there when we returned. Which would be physically impossible if he'd been in the car. Why on earth would Alex be driving Charlie's car? These are people's lives you're messing with. If you bother me again, or contact Heather or Alex I will report you.' She cut the connection.

I swallowed, feeling as though I'd had my wrists well and truly slapped. I muttered various dark things about her. Could I have got it so wrong? If not Alex driving then who on earth could it have been?

My mind continued darting about trying to stitch bits of the story together. It was hard to make it mesh. A step at a time, I muttered to myself. Was there any way to prove that someone else had driven Charlie's car? The keys, I thought. Charlie's car keys had been inside the cottage when Damien got there.

Geoff Sinclair did not sound pleased to hear from me, either.

‘I won't keep you,' I assured him. ‘Charlie's car keys. Were they fingerprinted?'

‘Yes. Nothing on them.'

‘Isn't that odd?' I persisted, hope rising that I was on to something now. ‘Wouldn't you expect Charlie's prints to be on them?'

‘He might have worn driving gloves.'

‘Did he?'

Silence. I tried to collate what I knew about Charlie and driving: he enjoyed watching car racing; he was an impatient driver, drove too fast, fast enough to get speeding tickets quite frequently. None of it helped me second-guess whether he wore gloves to drive. I couldn't think of anyone who did. Only when it was cold, or if the car heater was on the blink as mine used to be.

‘What's the interest in his keys?' Sinclair asked.

‘Just an idea.' I considered saying more, telling Sinclair my latest ‘wild theory' but hung back. It all felt raw and fragile, like the bones of a structure still knitting together. I was loath to say it aloud and have Sinclair shoot it down in flames.

‘Anything else,' he said wearily, ‘and the officer you want to talk to is DS Dave Pirelli – like the tyres.' There was no way of knowing whether Dave Pirelli would have an open mind but at least he hadn't already labelled me as someone with an overactive imagination.

‘Thanks.'

My next call was to Libby.

‘I've got a question about Charlie. It might sound a bit odd but did he wear driving gloves?'

She gave a little laugh. ‘No. Half the time he wouldn't even wear gloves at work. His hands were a mass of cuts and calluses. Why?'

‘There weren't any fingerprints on his car keys; it seems a bit odd.'

‘Well, he never wore gloves,' she repeated. ‘Hats, sometimes. He looked good in a hat.' Her voice was warm with affection.

‘What sort of hats?'

‘Not baseball caps, proper hats. He'd one like a yachtsman's, and a Panama for the hot weather, and one of those Australian bush hats.' I'd a vision of Rolf Harris with corks hanging off his brim. ‘Quite a collection,' she said.

‘Libby, I'm sorry to go over this again, but when you got to the cottage, Charlie  . . . Did he have his coat on?' I could recall Damien's account: the plaid shirt, the blood.

‘No, it was hanging up.'

‘And did it look like he'd just arrived?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Was there any sign that he'd been there for more than a couple of minutes. Anything?'

There was quiet as she thought about my question. Then she spoke slowly. ‘His toolkit was there. And the heating was on,' she added. ‘It was quite warm in there.'

My ears pricked up. It was cold when Damien was in there, so the heating must have come on in between his leaving and Libby arriving. ‘The heating,' I said, ‘was it on a timer?'

‘Yes, like the one I've got at home? Why?'

‘I'm just trying to get the sequence exactly right,' I explained. ‘You texted Charlie to say you might be late. When was that?'

‘About three,' she said.

‘Did he reply?'

‘No.'

My heart skipped a beat. ‘Would he usually?' I asked.

Her voice changed: a thread of foreboding in it. ‘Yes, mostly. Why?'

‘I don't have all the answers yet, Libby.' There were still gaps, contradictions, puzzles.

‘But you have some? I need to know.' She sounded intent.

‘As soon as it's clearer, I'll ring you back. I promise.'

Everything Libby had told me supported the emerging theory I had. Charlie got to the cottage much earlier that November afternoon. In daylight. Much earlier than everyone had been led to believe. He had time to hang up his coat, bring in his toolkit, set the central heating to come on so the place would be warming up when Libby arrived. Then he was killed. Someone took his car and hours later, masquerading as Charlie, drove back to the cottage to make it look like Charlie was still alive. Creating an alibi for his wife Heather. Heather Carter must have known the car that they were following was not being driven by Charlie. Then who? Whichever way I threw the dice I got the same answer staring at me. Who else could that be but Alex? Something I'd already been told was impossible. Unless  . . .

There was one final word of confirmation I needed but it meant speaking to Valerie Mayhew again.

‘Just one more question, please,' I spoke in a rush, pleaded with her, gripping the phone, ‘then I won't bother you again.'

‘No. Enough's enough. And I've told Heather to have nothing more to do with you. I'm not prepared to countenance—'

I hurried on, ignoring the acid in her tone. ‘Did you see Alex as soon as you got back to the house? Did you actually see him then or only later?'

The pause stretched out. I swallowed, the muscles in my back were stiff, my belly clenched with tension.

‘Mrs Mayhew?'

‘I could hear him. Heather went up to see him. He was still on his games.'

‘And he came down later for tea?'

‘Yes,' she agreed.

‘What about Charlie? Did you see Charlie at the house when you first called for Heather?'

She didn't say anything. I felt a jolt of excitement, a flip in my stomach. I was right. ‘Did you see Charlie?'

‘What are you getting at?' Again she could not confirm it. I wasn't losing my marbles, I was on the right track.

I thought of Heather, the grieving widow. Her plausible performance when I'd first seen her after she'd had the letter from Chloe. And Alex, a typical shy teenager. One who'd had to bear the trauma of his dad's death.