Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (18 page)

“What do you mean?”

She downed the last of her wine and glared at him. “Two’s
company, Al,” she snapped. “Three’s a bloody crowd!”

“Anna, please sit down. I’m sorry. Please...”

She shot him a contemptuous glance, seized her handbag, and
stalked off. Chase leapt to his feet, only to be confronted by the waiter, a
plate clutched in each hand.

“Your steaks, sir,” he said.

“Excuse me, please,” begged Chase. Over the waiter’s
shoulder he saw her recover her coat and open the restaurant door. “Anna,
wait!” he called, despairingly.

Everyone in the restaurant turned and stared at him.
Everyone, that is, except one.

The restaurant door slammed shut. Chase hurried down the
aisle, stumbling over handbags and umbrellas. As he flung open the door, he saw
her climbing into a taxi.

“Anna! Please wait!” he called.

The taxi door slammed shut. The taxi pulled away from the
kerb, only to stop at a red light fifty yards further on. Chase sprinted
towards it, but just as he reached it the lights turned green and the cab rattled
off into the night. He began to run after it, but soon realised it was futile.
Slowly and dejectedly he returned to the restaurant, switching his mobile back
on as he walked. A message was waiting for him.

Am at hospital. Can u get here right away?

Don’t tell me it’s Ken, Chase begged silently. Please God,
don’t let it be Ken.

Halshaw was waiting for him in A&E Reception, still
wearing her white fur-trimmed anorak despite the oppressive heat of the
hospital.

“What’s happened?” he demanded, striding down the corridor
towards Intensive Care.

“It’s Darren Hitchins,” she replied, hurrying after him.

Chase stopped dead in his tracks. “You mean it’s not Ken?”
he asked.

Halshaw’s momentum had carried her on several paces. She
turned. “No. Why?”

“Thank Christ for that!” he sighed. He took a deep breath
and let it out slowly. “So what’s happened to Darren?” he asked, in a more
normal tone.

“Remember those two boys who looked after your car the other
day? Ahmed and Jake?”

“Outside The Green Parrot?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“They found Darren in that burnt-out van. You know, the one
in the pub car park.”

“What’s happened to him?”

“I think he’d been tortured, Sir. His jaw and cheekbone was
smashed, and...” she steadied herself against the wall as a wave of nausea
engulfed her “...every single bone in his fingers had been crushed.
Individually.”

Chase sighed. “When did this happen?”

“Last night, we think. Darren left the pub at about ten. The
boys found him at about seven thirty this evening.”

Just when I arrived at the restaurant, Chase realised. “Any
idea who did it?” he asked.

“No. The only thing is this. Dmitri was in the pub earlier
that evening. The boys said there was another man with him. A big man. He
carried a golf club.”

“Coincidence?”

She shrugged. “God knows.”

“Any family?”

“Yeah. His Mum, Jackie. She’s with him now. Here we are.”

She opened the door and ushered him into the room. A
mummified figure lay in the bed, wires connecting him to a battery of
electronic equipment. A tube from a drip disappeared into one arm, and an air
pipe into his throat. Chase felt his stomach churn and looked away quickly.

The other occupants of the room were a slight, oriental
nurse, a stern-looking uniformed policewoman, and a plump woman with peroxide
blonde hair sitting in a chair by the bed, staring forlornly at the place where
the figure’s face should be.

“You must be Ms Hitchins,” said Chase, gently. “I’m so sorry
about this.”

The blonde woman turned and glared at him. “Who the hell are
you?” she demanded.

“Detective Inspector Chase. I...”

“So you’re one of the bastards who arrested him...”

“Yes, but...”

“And let him go?”

“Yes.”

“So this is all your fault.”

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

Jackie Hitchins stood and squared up to him. She was several
inches shorter than him, with blotchy skin, and heavy gold rings on most of her
fingers. Chase began to realise that her tattooed arms were more muscle than
fat.

“I said, this is all your fault!” she shouted, her breath
reeking of tobacco and alcohol.

“I didn’t do this, I can assure you.”

“Yes you did, you bastard. You made my Darren talk. And when
you got what you wanted you threw him out on the streets, without protection.”

“There was no need for us to detain him further, madam,”
protested Chase.

She pushed him in the chest once, then again, harder.

“If he dies, you die, you bastard. This is all your fault.”

Chase shook his head slowly, not trusting himself to speak.

“Look at my lovely boy, Inspector. Look at him. Look what
you’ve fucking done to him!”

Chase glanced across at the figure in the bed, then back at
the woman facing him.

“I’m so sorry, Ms Hitchins...” he began, before noticing the
change in her expression.

Her punch was poorly directed, but powerful enough to send
him staggering against the end of the bed. He touched the side of his face and
felt moisture. He glanced at his hand and saw blood.

Halshaw and the uniformed officer both hurried forward and
seized her arms. Jackie Hitchins struggled, but the two policewomen held her
firmly.

“It’s OK, madam, it’s OK,” soothed the constable.

Chase stood slowly and faced Darren’s mother, ignoring the
pounding sensation from below one eye and the blood trickling down the side of
his face.

“You want to blame someone for this?” he said, icily. “Blame
the psychotic bastards who actually did it!”

She glared back at him, her eyes full of fury.

“But if you don’t want to do that, shall I tell you who to
blame?”

She struggled, and bared her teeth.

“You don’t need to look far, Ms Hitchins. Just look in the
mirror.”

She shot him a glance of pure hatred.

“That’s right, madam. Blame yourself.”

Halshaw’s jaw dropped. Jackie Hitchins almost managed to
wrest an arm free before Halshaw was able to restrain her.

“Who created Darren’s home environment?” he asked evenly.
“Who provided the role models, the examples? Who set the standards of
discipline?”

Jackie Hitchins spat in his face.

Chase pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away the bloody
spittle, his eyes never leaving hers. “Who let Darren bunk off school?” he
continued. “Who let him leave school with no knowledge, no qualifications? The
boy can barely speak, for God’s sake, far less construct a coherent sentence.”

“His teachers were all crap!”

“Now that I don’t believe, Ms Hitchins. One of them,
perhaps, possibly two. But every single one? No chance. They can only work with
the raw material they’re given, you know. And the raw material you provided
was...”

With a roar, Jackie Hitchins shook off her captors and
hurled herself at Chase. But before she could do much damage two uniformed
policemen burst in and pulled her away. “I’ll kill you, you fucker!” she
screamed.

Halshaw laid a comforting arm across Chase’s shoulders.
“Come on, Sir,” she whispered. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Chase let himself be led out of the room, into the cool of
the corridor, conscious of Jackie Hitchins’ eyes drilling into his back.

“Are you all right, Sir,” she whispered.

“I think so,” he replied.

She looked intently into his face. “What was all that about,
anyway?”

He looked down. “Sorry,” he sighed.

She held him tightly for a few moments. “Why don’t you head
off home?” she said. “You look all in.”

“Thanks.” He forced a smile. “I’ll go in a minute. I just
want to look in on Ken first.”

*

Ken Thomas’ room was laid out in the same way as Darren
Hitchins’: the same metal-framed bed, the same plastic stacking chair beside
it, the same wheeled rack of glowing electronics. But Ken’s face was free of
bandages, and the ventilator was stowed tidily in the far corner. The lights
were turned down low.

Chase pulled the one chair close to his friend’s bed and
listened to his regular breathing.

“Hello Ken,” he whispered. “It’s me. Al, that is.”

No reply.

“I know you can’t hear me, Ken, but I need to talk to you.
You see, I’ve got myself into a mess again.”

No reply.

“Royce has talked me into taking on too much again. Three
separate cases. I think they’re all linked but I can’t solve any of them.
There’s an answer out there somewhere, I know, but I can’t quite see it.”

No reply.

“And if that wasn’t enough, Royce has given me Lauren
Halshaw, to help while you’re out of action. Remember her? She’s a detective
now, well, a trainee detective, but she still drives me mad.”

Thomas snorted and snuffled, but his regular breathing soon
re-established itself.

“On top of all that, I’ve managed to screw up my personal
life again. I’ve finally met someone. You’ve met her too, of course. Anna
Birkdale, remember? Well, Anna and I went out for dinner this evening. We were
having a great time, I had a really good feeling about it, but then I must have
said the wrong thing because she suddenly stood up and stormed out of the
restaurant.”

Thomas’ mouth fell open and he began to snore.

“I don’t know what I said, Ken. I’ve no idea what I did
wrong. It’s as if someone changed the rules but forgot to tell me.”

Thomas’ snoring stopped abruptly, and a series of gentle
convulsions shook his body.

“My God, Ken!” exclaimed Chase, leaping to his feet and
thumping the emergency call button. “What’s wrong?”

Ken Thomas opened one eye. “You,” he murmured, the
convulsions continuing. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you
cocking everything up.”

The door burst open and a nurse ran in, followed by a young,
fresh-faced doctor in a white coat with a stethoscope slung around his neck.
The nurse turned up the lights at the door and hurried over to the bed.

“It’s all right, nurse,” said Thomas quietly, opening his
other eye. “I was laughing, that’s all.”

The nurse glared at Chase, who looked downcast. As she
turned on her heel she caught sight of the blood on his face.

“What happened to you, sir?” she asked.

“It’s nothing, really,” replied Chase, vaguely.

“Let’s have a look at you, then.”

Reluctantly, he submitted to her examination.

“You’ll live,” the nurse smiled, a few moments later. “What
happened?”

“Somebody hit me.”

She wagged her finger at him. “You’re too old to be
fighting, you know.”

“I know,” sighed Chase.

*

“So who was it that hit you, Al?” asked Ken Thomas.

“Remember Darren Hitchins?” replied Chase. The nurse and
doctor had departed, turning the lights down as they left.

“The scrote I nicked the other day for breaking into the
garden flat, you mean?”

“That’s him. Well, he’s in the next room but one. In a
pretty bad way, too. His mum was there, and she hit me.”

“Why?”

“She blamed me for putting her son in the hospital. And then
I had a bit of a go at her, and...”

“And did you? Put her son in the hospital?”

“Of course not. He was badly beaten last night sometime and
left for dead in an abandoned van. Nobody found him until this evening.”

“So why did you have a go at her?”

“I don’t know,” Chase sighed. “It’s just that people like
that really wind me up. Whatever happens to them has to be someone else’s fault.
Someone in authority, preferably.”

“Like a policeman, you mean?”

“Yes. Or a teacher. They don’t understand that they have to
take some responsibility for themselves.”

“Or that bad things just happen sometimes?”

“That too.”

“Like Royce piling the pressure on again?”

Chase chuckled. “You heard that part too, did you?”

“Of course! It’s not like Royce to pile all the crap on you,
is it? Not while he’s got Hopkins working full time on that smuggling case?”

“That’s true.”

“And he’s got everyone else working on the case too. Anyone
would think there was a chance of glory at the end of it – press, telly, all
the attention Royce absolutely hates.”

Chase smiled.

“You were bloody lucky to get Halshaw, if you ask me. How is
the lovely Lauren, anyway?”

“You were awake for that part as well?”

Ken smiled. “Yeah. And the part about Anna Birkdale, too.”

“Oh!” sighed Chase.

“I heard all of it, Al. I wouldn’t have missed your moaning
for the world.”

“What do you mean, moaning?”

“When I got into trouble at school, Dad would always quote
Rudyard Kipling at me. You’re only a man when you can face disaster or triumph
just the same. Something like that, anyway.”

“So you’re saying I’m not a man yet?”

“If the cap fits, Al,” chuckled Ken. “If the cap fits.”

Chase grinned. “Why wouldn’t you want to miss my moaning,
anyway?”

“Because nobody moans at you if they think you’re on the way
out.”

“I don’t...”

“Nicky was in earlier, complaining about something or other.
Now you. So if people are moaning at me, it means I’m on the mend, thank God!”

Verily I say unto you,
if ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed…
nothing shall be impossible unto you.

Matthew 17:20

“How are you feeling this morning?” asked Halshaw, a look of
deep concern on her face.

“Fine,” replied Chase, uncertainly. “Another two coffees and
I’ll be right as rain.”

She smiled gently. “Your cheek looks pretty spectacular,”
she said. “Did you need stitches?”

“No. A nurse looked at it for me, but it had pretty much
stopped bleeding by that point. It was just a scratch, really. From a sharp
edge on her ring, most likely.”

She nodded. “Are we still going to visit Lucy Faith’s other
vassals today?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Want me to drive?”

Chase hesitated.

“If you don’t mind, that is,” she added quickly.

“No thanks,” he replied. “I’ll be OK for the moment. But
there is something you can do on the way.”

“What’s that?”

Chase opened his notebook, tore out a page, and handed it to
her. “Make some calls,” he said. “I didn’t have much luck at the weekend.”

Halshaw looked at the six names on the scrap of paper. Bryn
Lewis was crossed out. Edward Sinton had 1000 written next to his name, and
Pascal Bertrand 1500. No times were written against the other three names.

“Which one do you want me to start with?” she asked.

“I don’t mind.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on,” he said,
grabbing his keys. “You can call from the car.”

*

Halshaw looked around as Chase cautiously negotiated the
speed bumps in the broad, leaf-strewn private road. The houses were large,
evenly spaced, and set well back from the road amidst mature, well maintained
gardens. The cars in the drives were new and prestigious. There was no pavement
on either side.

Edward Sinton’s mock-Georgian house was one of the smaller
ones, but Halshaw counted five upstairs windows and two dormers as Chase rang
the doorbell.

The door was answered by a stooped, balding man, wearing
baggy beige chinos and a navy Oxford University sweatshirt. His limbs were
spindly and his torso skeletal, which only seemed to accentuate his pot belly.
He raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

“Mr Edward George Sinton?” asked Chase.

“That’s right,” replied the man. “You must be Inspector
Chase, I presume.”

“Yes. And this is DC Lauren Halshaw.”

Sinton treated Halshaw to a long, appraising scan, before
nodding approvingly. “Come in, please,” he said, in a voice as weary as it was
cultured.

He ushered them into a large, tastefully furnished drawing
room and gestured them to sit on one of the chintz sofas that stood either side
of the fireplace, an oval Hepplewhite coffee table between them.

“Have a seat, both of you,” he said. “Coffee?”

“Oh, yes please,” sighed Chase.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Sinton replied. “I’ll be back
in a moment.”

Halshaw watched as he tottered across the room. At the
doorway he turned.

“I meant to ask you, Inspector,” he said. “Are you any
relation?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“To the artist.”

“Which artist?”

“Either of them.”

“I’m sorry...”

“John Chase or William Merritt Chase, of course.”

“Never heard of either of them, I’m afraid,” Chase replied.
Or perhaps I wasn’t paying attention when Miriam tried to lecture me, he added
silently.

Sinton smiled apologetically. “Never mind,” he said, and went
on his way, closing the door behind him.

“How old do you think he is?” Halshaw asked, in a soft
voice.

“Late fifties.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. According to his file, anyway.”

“Why has he got a file, Sir?”

“Sinton used to be a commodity trader. One of his deals
entailed shipping a large consignment of gold to Russia. Or from. I forget
which. Either way, some local characters decided to help themselves to the gold
from a warehouse near Heathrow. The investigating team were sure he was
involved, and he spent several uncomfortable nights in Hounslow Police Station
before he managed to convince them otherwise.”

“An inside job, you mean?”

“Just so, Constable. Just so.”

“Poor guy. Is that why he looks so old?

“No. I think he’s just burnt out, that’s all.”

She nodded.

“And I don’t know about ‘poor guy’,” smiled Chase, looking
around at the antiques and oil paintings. “He’s done all right for himself,
don’t you think?”

Halshaw ambled around the room, admiring the paintings on
the wall. She stopped in front of a family group in a pastoral setting, the
handsome, dark-haired husband in frock coat and breeches, the buxom,
fair-haired wife and the darker, sulky-looking daughter in brightly coloured
dresses. “This one looks familiar,” she said. “It’s not a Gainsborough, is it?”

“School of Gainsborough, I reckon.”

“How do you mean?”

“Look at the modelling here,” said Chase, peering intently
at the hand the father had lain proprietarily on his daughter’s muslin-covered
shoulder. “Very crude. Even I could do better than that. And the signature
looks wrong, too.”

A smile slowly spread across her face. “I didn’t realise you
were an art connoisseur, Sir.”

“School of,” grinned Chase, remembering tedious hours spent
with Miriam at the Tate and the Royal Academy. “School of.”

Sinton reappeared holding a tray containing a cafetière,
cups and saucers, cubes of raw sugar and a delicate china jug of cream, which
he laid on the mahogany coffee table before sitting opposite Chase.

“When we spoke on the phone you said you wanted to ask me about
something delicate,” he prompted, handing Chase a bone china demitasse
half-full of strong coffee.

Chase accepted the cup, added cream and two cubes of sugar,
stirred it vigorously, and tasted it before responding. “That’s correct, Mr
Sinton,” he replied. “Are you on your own this morning?”

Sinton sighed. “I’m always on my own, Inspector,” he
answered. “My dear wife passed away last year, and my children live far away
and seldom come to visit.”

“I’m sorry, sir...”

“Thank you, Inspector. But it’s not so bad, in truth. I
enjoy my own company, my books, my things...” He forced a smile. “So you can
ask me all about my deepest, darkest secrets, Inspector. There’s no-one to
overhear.” He fixed Halshaw with his dark, beady eyes. “And no-one to get
embarrassed, either.”

Halshaw looked back at him coolly for a second or two,
before reaching for her coffee cup.

“We’d like to talk to you about a woman by the name of Lucy
Faith,” said Chase.

Sinton smiled. “Ah yes. Lovely Lucy. My former employers,
Delaney Associates, made use of her services from time to time, when staff
members needed her special brand of treatment. Senior staff members, in
particular.”

Halshaw and Chase exchanged glances. “What kind of treatment
do you mean?” she asked.

“She’s a Life Coach, of course,” Sinton continued. “But
that’s only half the story. She’s also an exceptionally talented occupational
psychologist. So she’s uniquely placed to help individuals who are going
through changes in their work life, shall we say.”

“You mean like redundancy?” asked Halshaw

“That’s one example of change, certainly. But we used her to
help people changing roles, relocating, and so on. And people taking early
retirement, too.” A rueful smile. “Such as myself.”

“How long had you known her?”

“Oh, five years at least. Possibly a little longer.”

Chase nodded thoughtfully and said nothing. Halshaw was
about to open her mouth when she spotted the expression on Edward Sinton’s face
change.

“You used the past tense, Inspector,” he said. “Has something
happened to Lucy?”

“She was murdered the other evening,” said Chase, in little
more than a whisper.

“Oh God!” sighed Sinton, sinking back in the sofa. He rubbed
his face, stretching the loose skin still further. “Oh God! Did she, er,
suffer?”

“No,” replied Halshaw, gently. “She wouldn’t have known
anything about it.”

Sinton sighed. “At least she didn’t have any family.”

Chase caught Halshaw’s eye again. “Where were you on
Wednesday evening?” he asked.

“At home, Inspector. Alone. I suppose that makes me a
suspect?”

“Not necessarily,” said Chase, pleasantly. “But I gather you
also knew Ms Faith in another capacity.”

“Another capacity?” asked Sinton, innocently.

“A more, shall we say, physical capacity?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Inspector.”

Chase replaced his cup and saucer on the table and leant
forward. “Oh, you follow me perfectly well, Mr Sinton,” he said, his voice
suddenly cold.

“Do I?”

“We know you were one of My Lady Perdita’s vassals, sir.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.”

Halshaw saw the flash of irritation in Chase’s eyes.

“Look, Mr Sinton, Detective Constable Halshaw and I are very
busy. So why don’t you stop insulting our intelligence? You were one of My
Lady’s vassals. That’s a fact. So the sooner you answer our questions, the
sooner we’ll be out of your hair, and the sooner you can go back to enjoying
your own company, your books, your things. All right?”

Sinton looked back at Chase, poker faced. Halshaw looked in
vain for any evidence of conflicting emotions within.

“We have her client file, sir,” Chase continued. “We have a
legal disclaimer signed by your good self, along with medical details and a
photo. A rather flattering one, if I may say so.”

“Suppose for a moment I was one of her, er, vassals,
Inspector,” replied Sinton. “Purely for the sake of argument. What would you
want to ask me?”

“To begin with, when did you last see her?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Did she always visit you here?”

“Now that I’m on my own, yes.
Were
I to meet a woman like that, of course.”

“How do you mean, a woman like that?”

“Proud, cruel, unattainable. You know the type, Inspector.”

Chase ignored the implications of Sinton’s last remark. “How
often did you meet?” he asked.

“I imagine she’d grant an audience once a month at most.”

“Would there have been a sexual dimension to your, er,
audience?”

“I very much doubt it, Inspector.”

“And how much would you have paid My Lady for her time and
trouble? Purely hypothetically, of course.”

“It wouldn’t have worked that way, Inspector. That would
have been far too crude for My Lady.”

“Then how...?”

Sinton was shaking his head. “You haven’t a clue, have you,
Inspector? You’re just fishing for some salacious gossip to help while away the
hours at the cop shop, aren’t you?”

Chase looked back at him, lost for words.

Sinton was gathering up their cups and saucers. “I think the
two of you should leave my home,” he said, firmly. “At once.”

*

“What an arrogant bastard!” exclaimed Halshaw.

Chase nodded grimly. “I know,” he sighed. “I used to be able
to handle supercilious sods like him. I think I’m losing my touch.”

“And it’s not as though he told us anything, either.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Halshaw was silent for a moment as she piloted the Mondeo
confidently around an awkward mini-roundabout. “So what happened about Chris
Birkdale, Sir?” she asked, glancing across at him.

Chase twisted round in the passenger seat and looked back at
her. “I spoke to him on Saturday morning.”

Halshaw shot him another glance.

“I was looking through My Lady’s client file on Saturday
morning and noticed there was a mobile number on Birkdale’s page. So I tried
it, just on the off-chance, and managed to catch him.”

“Where was he?”

“On a golf course. In Spain somewhere, I presume.”

“Did you get much out of him?”

“Not really. He denied being one of My Lady’s vassals,
though he wasn’t at all convincing. He did admit knowing Lucy Faith, though.”

“You said he was clean?”

“Yes. He claimed not to have been in the UK for months. And he
was out with his wife and friends on Wednesday night, which should be easy
enough to check if we need to.”

“His wife? Doesn’t Amy’s mum live round here somewhere?
What’s her name? Andrea, is it?”

“Anna. Yes, she does live round here, but she and Birkdale
divorced some time ago. He’s remarried now.”

“Could she have had anything to do with Lucy’s death?”

Chase’s jaw dropped. “Anna? A murderer? Where on earth did
you get that idea from, Halshaw?” he demanded.

“Why not, Sir? I mean, what if her husband’s relationship
with Lucy Faith was the reason the marriage broke up? And if so, that’s a
motive for murder, surely.”

Chase looked out of the side window thoughtfully. “Nice
idea,” he said. “But I don’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve met Anna Birkdale,” he replied. “I can’t imagine her
smashing anyone in the face. She only met Lucy Faith after her marriage broke
up. And she managed to get a decent settlement out of her husband, eventually.”

“What about Amy, then? She’s definitely strong enough to
inflict that kind of damage. Maybe she blames Lucy for destroying her parents’
marriage?”

“That’s more plausible, I grant you,” said Chase, turning
back to her. “I haven’t been able to get hold of her since Lucy Faith was
murdered. And her alibi for Wednesday night isn’t great, either.”

“What is it?”

“She spent the evening at her Mum’s. Now Anna’s not going to
implicate her daughter, is she?”

“That goes for her Mum’s alibi, too.”

“True, I suppose. No, Amy’s a possibility, but there’s
someone else I can’t help wondering about.”

“Who’s that?”

“Dave Kelmarsh.”

Halshaw turned and gaped at him.

“Watch the road please, Constable,” Chase rebuked her,
gently.

“Sorry,” she replied, facing straight ahead again. Then she
glanced back at him. “You can’t be serious,” she insisted. “I mean, she was his
wife. He was obviously devoted to her.”