Death and Deception (6 page)

Chas opened the control room door, waited until the young singer finished his song and took in the coffee.

Dan watched Abrams turn around and stare as Chas gave him the message that a police officer was here to speak to him. He pressed his warrant card against the glass and smiled. He couldn’t work out whether Abrams’ expression was hostile or fearful, but he was undeniably a Bono fan. From the front his hair was scraped straight back into the ponytail, and was an unlikely shade of dark brown. Some help from the dye bottle there, I reckon, thought Dan. Here is a man fighting the inevitable onset of middle-age battle.

When Abrams stood and came towards the door, his belly stretched the waistband of his jeans around the tight ball of his stomach. Fighting but losing that battle too, thought Dan. There was something pathetic about a middle-aged man wearing a ponytail and skinny jeans to disguise a lifetime of no exercise and a rubbish diet. He was pasty from working underground all the time and had the clammy handshake and puffy eyes of the habitual drinker.

Abrams withdrew his hand from Dan’s and indicating one of the leather sofas in the reception area, said,
‘Shall we go over here? Chas will replay the song for the punter, which should give us a few minutes uninterrupted. Can I ask what this is about?’

Dan decided on the direct approach, ‘Mr Abrams, I’m investigating the unexplained death, in fact the murder of a young girl called Carly Braithwaite. Did you see her on Sunday?’ He scrutinised the music producer’s face. He'd missed all his ex-girlfriend’s non-verbal clues and look where that had got him.

Abrams, however, wasn’t giving much away. His eyes widened and he swallowed noisily, ‘Murder? Carly? I don’t understand.’ He took a long drink of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘What’s this got to do with me?’ he asked, a Bristol burr betraying his origins.

Not much of a show of spontaneous feeling for a fellow human being, thought Dan. He could really have done with Sally Ellis here to build the guy’s trust and get him to spill all.

‘Carly was supposed to come here on Sunday for a recording session, wasn’t she? Did she arrive?’

Abrams stared. ‘Err, no, she didn’t come. I was sat around like
an idiot
until 8.00-ish and then I left and went for a drink. I was well mad, I can tell you, wasting my time like that. I could have had a paying customer in for that slot.’

Hellier felt himself take offence at the man’s tone. ‘A young girl is dead, Mr Abrams. I’m not really interested in what
you
could have had.’

Abrams looked down at the table. A finger crept to his mouth and he chewed the hangnail, but he asked no questions about the death of the girl at all. Dan couldn’t work out why the guy made him feel so uneasy, apart from his lack of reaction to the news that the girl he should have been recording was dead. He pushed on.

‘Did anyone see you leave at eight o’clock?’

Abrams’ eyes slid sideways to where Chas was chatting to the guitar player.

‘No point looking at Ms Lloyd for an alibi, she’s already told me she had yesterday off. What pub did you go to?’

It was the word alibi that seemed to galvanise him. He sat upright.
      
‘Look, am I a suspect in this murder, or what? I’ve told you what I know. Why should I have to have an alibi? Jesus!’ He stood and put his hands in his pockets. ‘Excuse me. I have to get back to work now. See yourself out.’

‘Just one more question, sir,’ said Dan. ‘I just need to know where you went for a drink last night and then I’ll leave you alone. I appreciate your co-operation and I’m sure you want to help our enquiry into this dreadful crime.’

Dan relaxed back into the sofa and dunked a biscuit into his coffee, throwing the soggy mass into his mouth before it fell. Abrams sank back down onto the sofa. Dan watched emotions flicker across Abrams’ face as he tried to decide what to say.

‘I didn’t say I went to a pub, I went home and had a drink there,’ Abrams offered.

Dan nodded. ‘Right, I see. Anyone see you coming home? Talk to anyone on the way? Anyone at home I could check with?’ Dan waited, but got the same nail-chewing lack of response.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just tell me where you were?’ He could see the muscles twitch in Abrams’ face as his brain churned, trawling for a suitable answer. He felt a small lurch in his stomach that this might be the murderer sitting right in front of him.

‘Don’t worry sir,’ he said finally, fed up of waiting for Abrams to spit out an alibi, ‘we all forget things in the heat of the moment. Just jot down your contact details on my pad for me and I’ll be on my way. Here’s my card so you can ring me if you remember anything useful.’

Abrams took the pen and wrote down the details. His hand shook, but Dan couldn’t work out if that was because he had something to hide or because he needed a drink.

Abrams avoided shaking Dan’s hand and scuttled back into the studio.

Chas Lloyd came out. She raised an eyebrow at Dan. ‘Do you want to tell me what that was all about?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen him looking that worried since his ex-wife’s lawyer came round.’

Dan took a few moments to explain about the girl’s death and where she had been found. Chas was both shocked and sympathetic and wanted to talk more, but Dan needed to get her back to talking about her boss. There had been something there when she said he was ‘OK’ to work for.

‘Would you say that Mr Abrams was capable of hurting a young girl, Chas?’

‘What? And killing her and dumping her body?’ She laughed a quick, chopped off snort. ‘I don’t think so, Inspector. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not above trying to get his end away with any female who enters his pathetic little world, but you can sort him out with a sharp tongue and swift left hook. All these ex-rock stars are the same, huge egos. Hit 'em where it hurts, criticise 'em, they crumple. To be honest, though, I don’t
really
know. How can you be sure of what anyone would do if the circumstances were right?’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t think Jed’s capable of actually killing someone. He’s a bit of a plonker, really.’ She peered up at him and twinkled a smile.

Dan smiled back. ‘Thanks, Chas, you’ve been really helpful.’ He pulled a card from his wallet and gave it to her. ‘Call me if you think of anything else that may be relevant.’

‘I will. Bye, then. Oh…’

Dan turned back.

‘Are your eyes grey or purple?’ she grinned at him.

Dan gave her a level look and headed for the stairs.

‘Just asking,’ she called after him.

Date: Monday
24
^th
April
Time:13:27
Claire Quick, Miles Westlake’s home

Although the students had been sent home, the Head had negotiated that staff could work in the main building for the rest of that day, as long as they didn’t go near the field. After lunch, Claire Quick checked on the last of the tutor group waiting to be interviewed and realised that Jamie wasn’t coming back to school that day. When she checked the signing-out book she saw that Miles Westlake had signed out sick at 1.13 p.m., and that Jamie had indeed just disappeared. His name was not in the book.

Claire asked Marcia Penrose to contact Jamie’s mum to explain what had happened and arrange for him to give his interview.

Then she tried to raise Miles on her mobile. She was worried about him. He’d looked terrible in the staff briefing that morning, and he was never the most robust of people. It was one of the reasons they had split up, that he was too soft, with all his emotions on the outside. She’d been delighted when he fell for her old friend Sophie, and they seemed happy together.

There was no answer on his mobile. She considered ringing Sophie, Miles’s wife, but thought better of it. Miles would need to tell Sophie what had happened to Carly in his own way. She had to think hard to remember that last time they’d all been out together as friends. Claire had been seeing the trainee doctor - a relationship doomed to failure under the weight of his working hours - and they’d all gone for a curry and a drink in Exeter. She realised it had been back before Emily was born. Months ago. Some friend she was.

She slung her laptop bag over her shoulder and headed for the staffroom. She would call round to see Miles after school.

Claire parked outside the Victorian terrace. Although it was gone five o’clock, and time for people to be arriving home, it was quiet at this end of the street. Miles’s car was parked outside, but the curtains were pulled roughly across, and she was surprised to see how dilapidated the place looked. She supposed having a baby changed your priorities. She banged on the door but no one answered.

Claire bent down and put her mouth to the letterbox. ‘Miles,’ she yelled. ‘It’s Claire. Can I come in? I just want to see how you are. I won’t stay long, promise.’ She could hear music coming from the living room, like heavy metal played low, and what sounded like an argument, again low but furious in tone. Both noises stopped abruptly. She tried again:

‘Miles, please, I just want to make sure you’re OK. Is Sophie there? Can I speak to her?’ A germ of unease ate at her stomach.

She stood back as she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Miles opened the door but leant against the door-frame, blocking her path into the house. Claire’s uneasy feeling grew.

‘Aren’t you going to let me in, Miles? I only want to talk to you.’

With reluctance he backed off and opened the door wide enough for Claire to follow him down the hall and into the kitchen. Soft music was playing in the sitting room again, but the door was closed.

‘Claire,’ Miles began, but he stopped when he saw the expression on her face.

‘Look at the state of this place!’ she cried, horrified at the mess in the kitchen. It looked like he had spent weeks living on takeaways, and she was amazed at the quantity of bottles and cans left on every surface, and the sink piled high with dirty dishes.

‘Where’s Sophie, Miles? Where’s Emily?’

Westlake didn’t answer. He collapsed against the sink and sobbed, shoulders heaving. Claire let him carry on for a few minutes, trying to take in the chaos in the once pristine kitchen. Then she opened every drawer until she found a clean tea towel and passed it to him.

‘You’d better dry your eyes and tell me what’s happening
. Shall we go and sit down in the other room?’

The look of alarm on his face alerted her that there was something wrong. She turned, strode down to the sitting room and pushed open the door. Jamie May was sitting there, smoking what looked like a joint and drinking beer from a can.

Jamie shot to his feet when he saw his English teacher. He dropped the joint into the can and sputtered, ‘Miss, what are you doing here?’

Claire stared at him. Things were not making sense. She struggled to keep her shock under control. If pushed, she would have agreed that she screeched her next point.

‘What am I doing here?
I don’t have to answer to you, Jamie May! But I definitely want to know what
you’re
doing in a teacher’s house, drinking beer and smoking weed. I’ve been worried sick about you all day. Your mum’s probably been on to the Police saying you haven’t gone home by now. Everyone will be looking for you. Carly’s dead, for Christ’s sake. Anything could have happened to you.’

Her voice cracked as she released some of the distress she had been holding onto since early that morning.

Jamie shifted on his feet and thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, threatening to bring them down. She could see tears forming at the sides of his eyes, but he rubbed them away on his sleeve.

‘I just came to see Sir, to see how he is,’ he tried, but the look on Claire’s face stopped him.

‘And he just happened to have drugs and beer in the house so you could have a little party? How convenient.’ Sarcasm was probably not going to get her very far but she was so angry, and it was easier to be angry with a kid she taught, than to confront the colleague who was now pushing at the door behind her and trying to get into the room. She couldn’t begin to understand what had been going on here, but it felt bad, very bad.

‘Claire,’ Miles shouted through the door, ‘let me in. I can explain.’

Jamie backed away to the chair by the window and turned off the music. He sat hunching his shoulders in a parody of a naughty child expecting a slap round the head. Claire moved over to stand with her back to the fireplace. She could not have explained why, but it felt better to be facing out into the room from a position where nobody else could spring any more surprises on her. Miles came in. He slumped onto the sofa looking up at her with what she could only describe as the expression of a beaten dog, ever hopeful of mercy but ever anticipating further pain.

‘Sophie has left me,’ Miles said.

‘What? What do you mean, left you? When did she leave? Why? And why didn’t you tell anyone?’

‘Six weeks ago.’ He shrugged scrawny shoulders. ‘We haven’t been getting along too well since the baby came, and she just wanted time to herself, so she’s at her mum’s with Emily.’

Claire stared at him, eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘And it’s only taken you six weeks on your own to totally destroy the house? I don’t think so.’ Claire could feel her hands forming into fists. What had he done to make Sophie leave, and how did it tie in with Carly and Jamie? She suddenly felt scared. Scared for her friend and scared about what Miles might have done.

‘I don’t know what’s going on here, but you better tell me the truth, Miles, or I’m going to the Police.’

Jamie launched himself off the chair towards Claire. ‘No Police! No Police!’

Frightened, she put her hands up to protect her face, but he stopped moving as quickly as he had started, dropped his arms and ran from the room. Seconds later she heard the front door bang. She turned in confusion to Miles.