Jigsaw (30 page)

‘Yet she knew who they were, so she must have got a fairly good look at them.'

Nuala shrugged. ‘She kept going on about the danger of breaking up two families. Said she was always coming across young couples in compromising conditions, but these two were middle-aged, with family commitments.'

‘And were they, too? In compromising conditions?'

Nuala flushed again. ‘One time, I think.'

Rona thought for a minute. ‘When was the first mention of them?'

‘I thought you'd ask that. I marked the place.' Nuala picked up a diary and opened it. ‘It was two weeks after Lottie was killed. That's what Auntie couldn't forgive – that he wasn't at home comforting his wife, but going after someone else's.'

‘How many references in all?'

‘About half a dozen, spread over a year or so. The last was a couple of months before Pollard was murdered; that's why, when Mr Spencer was arrested and the police appealed for information, she wondered if she should report it.'

‘I think I'll probably have to,' Rona said thoughtfully. ‘If that's all right with you?'

Nuala nodded, collected the diaries and got to her feet. ‘If you think it's for the best, and provided you make it clear Auntie wasn't snooping.'

As she left the room, Rona extracted her mobile from her handbag, dialled the prison, and asked to speak to Spencer. She hadn't betrayed his trust; Nuala had arrived at his name unprompted, and though she herself had suggested Helena, it was breaking no confidences since Alan hadn't mentioned her. Now, however, it was imperative to speak of the affair.

His voice was guarded as he answered. ‘Spencer here.'

‘It's Rona Parish. Mr Spencer, I need a favour.'

‘Go on.'

‘I promised I wouldn't mention your affair to anyone.'

Silence.

‘I've kept my word, but I now want you to release me from it. I want – need – to tell the police.'

‘No way!' he said harshly.

‘Listen, I know who it was you were meeting.'

‘You can't possibly.'

‘Initials HM?'

She heard his intake of breath. ‘I'm not having her dragged into this.'

‘I know you said it was impossible,' she pressed, ‘but suppose her husband had found out?'

‘He couldn't have.'

‘You were equally certain no one knew.'

There was a long silence. Then he said, ‘As I told you before, if he
had
rumbled us and was homicidally inclined – neither of which I believe – he'd have gone for me, not Pollard.'

‘All the same, I think we should know where he was at the crucial time, and only the police can find out.'

‘I've just said – under no circumstances are you to go to the police with this.'

‘Mr Spencer – Alan – I'm trying to help you, and they're the only ones with the authority to question Richard Maddox. Look, I've a feeling we're really getting somewhere. Please don't put a spoke in the wheel.'

Silence.

‘I need your permission,' Rona persisted.

She heard him sigh. ‘Well, you're playing fair, at any rate. Not every journalist would worry about keeping a promise in these circumstances.'

‘Then I can tell them?'

‘If you're convinced it's necessary. God knows if you can trust a cop, but try to impress on them not to shout it from the rooftops.'

‘I'll do my best,' she said. ‘Oh, and one more thing before you go.'

‘Shoot.'

‘That letter you received asking you to meet Pollard: was it written in red ink?'

‘Red ink?' he repeated. ‘No, why do you ask?'

‘I'll explain later. Thanks again for your help.'

‘Good luck,' he replied, and rang off.

Next, Rona phoned Barnie Trent at home.

‘I was wondering if there's any news from America?' she asked.

He sighed heavily. ‘They're talking of inducing the baby. It's due anyway in just over three weeks.'

‘And Dinah's still there?'

‘Yep; she'll stay on now till after the birth. We were planning to go over then, so I'll fly out as soon as I hear. It's all covered at this end.'

‘Have you run out of freezer meals yet?'

He gave a short laugh. ‘Almost. I've had enough of being on my own, I can tell you.'

‘You must come over to us when I get back.'

‘Back? You're not still in Buckford?'

‘Yes, but this is the last trip for the moment.'

‘How's the jigsaw coming along?'

‘Jigsaw?' Rona echoed blankly.

‘This overall picture you're hoping to fit together.'

‘Oh.' She remembered the metaphor she'd given him. ‘There are still a lot of pieces missing,' she said.

‘I've been waiting for you to commandeer Andy and his camera.'

‘I know; I was over-optimistic there, I'm afraid; it'll be a while before I'm ready for him, but I'm making mental notes as I go along of things I'd like photographed.' She paused. ‘When you speak to Dinah, tell her I was at Buckford College Sports Day.'

‘I will.'

‘And send my love, of course, and to Melissa and Sam.'

‘I will,' he said again.

‘See you soon, Barnie.'

She'd been right to think of the project as a jigsaw, she reflected; sometimes she'd tried to fit a piece into the wrong place, distorting the picture, as in the case of Edna's death. And sometimes there was a piece – Pollard's killer – which, no matter which way she angled it, wouldn't fit anywhere. And until that piece was slotted into place, she hadn't a hope of getting the whole picture.

Dave was waiting for her on the corner of the road.

‘I didn't see you inside the school grounds,' she greeted him.

‘No, I'd have been too conspicuous, rolling up by myself and with no offspring to support. How did it go?'

‘I've spent more stimulating afternoons.'

He laughed. ‘I'll bet.'

‘The only exciting bit was when Beth Spencer told the headmaster and his wife I had a new theory that would exonerate Alan.'

‘Jeeze!'

‘My own reaction precisely. There's been an interesting development, though.'

As they walked to that evening's choice of pub, she told him about the revelations in the diaries. ‘So I'll have to go and see old Frosty Face tomorrow,' she finished. ‘We need to know where the estimable headmaster was while murder most foul was being committed. What's more, I'm spending tomorrow afternoon with his wife, the femme fatale herself. She's driving me out to the birthplace of the local highwayman. It's a heritage site, apparently.'

‘I must say, you get around.'

‘Thanks for being here, Dave,' she said seriously, as he held the pub door open for her. ‘It's a load off my mind, knowing you're to hand.'

‘Glad to be of service, ma'am,' he replied.

R
ona woke the next morning with a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach, presage of her visit to DI Barrett. She'd decided against phoning for an appointment, in the hope that if she presented herself in person, it would be more difficult for him to refuse to see her.

‘You won't need to take the diaries, will you?' Nuala asked over breakfast. ‘I'd hate to think of the police pawing them and poking fun.'

‘Not in the first instance, anyway,' Rona said. ‘They don't contain any positive ID; my main task will be convincing them they could be important.'

The foyer of the police station seemed as large and forbidding as before, and the walk to the desk immeasurably longer. This time, it wasn't a question of handing across a packet and making her escape; this time, she had to beard the lion in his den.

‘Yes, ma'am?' the desk sergeant said pleasantly. ‘How can I help?'

‘I was wondering if Detective Inspector Barrett is free?' she began.

‘Is he expecting you?'

‘No, but I've something important to tell him.'

‘Concerning?'

Rona's mouth was dry. ‘Concerning the murder of Barry Pollard.'

There was a brief silence. Then the sergeant said, ‘I believe I'm right in thinking that case was closed some time ago?'

‘I have new information,' Rona insisted. ‘Please, it's really important that I see him.'

‘Your name, ma'am?'

‘Rona Parish.'

‘One minute, please.' The sergeant turned away and picked up a phone. A child, being dragged across the foyer by its mother, had started to scream, and Rona missed what was being said. Once, the sergeant looked back at her over his shoulder, as though checking something.

‘Unfortunately Mr Barrett's tied up at the moment,' he told her, returning to the desk. ‘Perhaps you could phone and make an appointment?'

Rona's temper snapped. ‘No, I couldn't. I'm only here till tomorrow, and I need to see him.
Now
– if he's available.' She held the man's eyes, leaving him in no doubt that she knew he was.

He lifted the phone again, and only then did she realize the line was still open and Barrett must have heard her. No doubt it would have endeared her to him still further.

The sergeant finished speaking into the phone, and behind her, the child lapsed into sobbing hiccups.

‘Very well, ma'am; the DI can spare you ten minutes, if you'll wait in Interview Room One.' He nodded to a door across the hallway.

Rona drew a deep breath. The first hurdle was behind her. ‘Thank you,' she said.

Barrett, who arrived with his sergeant in tow, nodded at her unsmilingly. ‘Ms Parish.'

Rona said evenly, ‘It's good of you to see me, Inspector. I'll keep this as brief as possible.'

He indicated a chair and she sat down, the two men seating themselves across the table from her.

‘So –' Barrett clasped his hands on the table – ‘who do you think has been murdered this time?'

She ignored the jibe. ‘Have you finished with my transcript?'

‘Yes, thank you, I've given orders for it to be left at the desk; you can collect it on your way out.'

‘Was it of any use?'

He shook his head. ‘Shadows in the dark. Quite literally. As I suspected, you read too much into the ramblings of an old lady who was close to death.' He paused. ‘
Natural
death. Did you ever recover your tape?'

‘No.' She'd no intention of telling him Clive Banks had it. ‘You might reconsider its value when you hear who those shadows belonged to.'

He threw himself back in his chair, clearly exasperated. ‘Is this your “important information”? Ms Parish, we're not
Hello!
magazine—'

Rona said sharply, ‘Will you do me the courtesy of hearing me out?'

The sergeant – Tyson, wasn't it? – moved uncomfortably on his chair.

Barrett lifted a resigned hand. ‘Go ahead then.'

‘They were Alan Spencer and Helena Maddox.'

Tyson whistled softly through his teeth. Barrett remained impassive.

‘Even supposing this allegation isn't slanderous, what possible significance could it have?'

What indeed? In his presence, the fragile case she'd so painstakingly built up suddenly crumpled, and she wondered despairingly why she had come. All right, she told herself, switch from the two of them and concentrate on Spencer, the crux of the matter.

‘Well?' Barrett pressed, when she didn't reply. ‘Your time's running out, Ms Parish.'

She braced herself to meet his eyes. ‘Alan Spencer didn't murder Pollard,' she said.

The expected onslaught didn't come. Instead, Barrett pursed his lips and surveyed her, still without expression.

‘I heard you'd been spreading rumours,' he said at last. ‘Visiting the prison and generally making a nuisance of yourself. Let me tell you, Ms Parish, the job of the police is hard enough without people like you sticking your oar in. God knows there are plenty of cases we can't crack, but when we do, and it's all behind us, it's especially galling to have it raked up again.'

‘Even if you have the wrong man?' she countered.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Since we last met, I've discovered who you are: none other than the woman who turned the Harvey case on its head, got his widow killed in the process and was nearly killed herself. Well, it may come as a surprise to you, but sometimes the police
do
get it right, even without your help.'

Rona's nails dug into her palms. ‘What about the hate mail?'

Barrett shrugged, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Occupational hazard, specially where a kid's involved.'

‘At the beginning of a sentence, perhaps, but surely not all the way through? Someone using red ink wrote to him till the day he was released. Did you look into that?'

‘Of course we bloody looked into it. Since Pollard was killed within days of his release, his last weeks were gone over meticulously, though why the hell I'm telling you this, I don't know. And where did you come up with the red ink, anyway? That was restricted information.'

‘He told his friends at the Cat and Fiddle.'

Colour came into Barrett's lean cheeks. ‘You really have been ferreting around, haven't you?'

‘Did you trace the letter-writer?' she persisted.

She thought for a minute that he wasn't going to reply, but then he said flatly, ‘We'd nothing to go on; Pollard hadn't kept them, and by that time they were pretty academic anyway; Spencer himself was the most obvious candidate, and we already had him behind bars.'

Rona changed tack. ‘What about the letter asking him to go to the pub?'

‘What letter?' Barrett shot back. ‘We've only his word it ever existed. Instead of showing it to his wife, as any normal person would, he made up some cock-and-bull story about meeting friends. The whole thing was an invention, to explain his presence at the scene.'