Oh, for—This was to be a game. Claire wanted to pit her wits against her, to bring her down a peg or two.
‘I’m no celebrity,’ Jill responded.
‘Saw you on the telly. They reckon you can get inside a killer’s mind.’
‘Then they’re wrong.’
Claire stared at her for long, unnerving moments. ‘You’re younger than I reckoned,’ she said finally. ‘Are you married?’
‘Widowed.’
That took her by surprise. It took most people by surprise. Something else it did was alter people’s perception of her. If she’d been divorced, they would have seen her as a pushy, ambitious, career-driven bitch who was impossible to live with. If she’d been single, they would have labelled her sexually dysfunctional, someone who gained cheap thrills from delving into other people’s minds. Knowing she was widowed threw them.
‘Kill him, did you?’ she asked with a thin smile.
‘No. Someone else did.’ Jill decided it was time she asked the questions. ‘Why would I kill him? Were you ever tempted to kill your husband?’
Peter Lawrence hadn’t been the catch of the century, but he was probably the best thing that had ever happened to Claire. Not that that was saying a lot.
‘Many times.’ Claire found the idea amusing. ‘Every Friday night for starters. He were a right bastard when he got the drink in him.’
‘Did you love him?’
‘Love?’ Claire repeated the word as if she’d never spoken it aloud before. Jill doubted if she’d ever considered the question. ‘Love?’ she said again, and then her frown vanished and she laughed as if love was for idiots.
But what would Claire know of love? She had been born here at Styal Prison. Her mother, a prostitute with a drug problem, had spent so much time at Styal she probably gave it as her permanent address. Claire had been in and out of care until she was sixteen and old enough to sell her body to feed a drug habit. Like mother, like daughter—a full circle.
Claire was pregnant and homeless at seventeen and, when the child’s father, if indeed he was the father, suggested they married and found themselves a council flat, she agreed. They lived there until Daisy, their daughter, was six years old. Then, when both Peter and Claire were drunk or high on drugs, they wrecked the place and were evicted.
Claire had a violent temper, and Peter was a drunk. It was an uneasy combination.
Peter was besotted with his daughter, however, as was Claire, and, for her sake, he took a variety of jobs. He worked as a taxi driver for three months, until he was sacked for being drunk. Next he was employed, for almost a year, as a builder’s labourer but, again, he was dismissed, this time for absenteeism. Then he worked on a farm and, not only did he stick at it, he almost seemed to enjoy it. He still drank, but they had an income of sorts and they rented a flat in Harrington. Apart from the frequent squabbles, and the fights when they were under the influence of one drug or another, life seemed fairly settled.
When Daisy was ten years old, something, and no one knew what, went dreadfully wrong. The rows became more violent. Peter’s drinking worsened. One day, he walked out on his wife and, more surprisingly, his daughter.
Claire and Daisy moved around after that, staying with whoever had a spare bed or, sometimes, even sleeping on the streets.
The council found her another flat, but she hadn’t wanted to know. She’d simply kept on moving.
Then, almost a year to the day after Peter’s departure, Claire killed their daughter.
‘Did you love Daisy?’ Jill asked.
There was no answer.
‘I suppose you did,’ Jill mused. ‘Isn’t that why you killed her? To save her from a life of poverty, drug addiction and prison?’
No answer.
‘She was a pretty little girl, wasn’t she?’ Jill went on. ‘I’ve seen photos that were taken at her school. She looks like you. The same nose and the same eyes.’
Still Claire didn’t answer. She was curling a strand of her dull hair around the index finger of her left hand. And she was humming softly, almost inaudibly.
‘You’ve been here eighteen months now, haven’t you?’ Jill murmured. ‘Daisy would have been coming up to her thirteenth birthday. A teenager. What do you think she would have been like, Claire? Would she have done well at school? Do you think she’d have been into clothes and make-up?’
Even in this small room, there was no escape from the noise. Women outside were talking, laughing, shouting or screaming. Only Claire was silent.
‘At thirteen,’ Jill went on, ‘I couldn’t wait to grow up. I was desperate to be a teenager but then, the minute I was thirteen, I longed to be sixteen. Then I longed to be seventeen and learning to drive. Then eighteen so that people could no longer treat me like a kid.’
So much for Claire wanting to talk to her.
‘Who was Daisy close to, Claire? You? Her dad? Who were her friends?’
There was no response from Claire. No comment, no change of expression, nothing.
Jill took a notepad from her briefcase and began writing. She was making a Christmas list, but Claire wasn’t to know that.
‘Do you like coming here?’ she asked eventually, taking Jill by surprise.
‘To Styal? No.’
‘It’s a shit hole, isn’t it.’ Claire smiled at that.
‘So why don’t you do something about getting out?’ Jill put down her notebook. ‘If you cooperated, if you talked to us and told us what you did with Daisy’s body, you might get a reduced sentence.’
Claire shrugged as if escape from Styal was of no importance whatsoever. Perhaps it wasn’t. After all, Styal was home to her. Where would she go? What would she do?
‘No one’s angry with you, Claire,’ Jill lied.
Peter, when he heard what Claire had done, had vowed to kill her. He’d tried to visit her in Styal, but Claire had refused to see him. His anger had soon had him reaching for the bottle.
‘All anyone wants is to be able to bury Daisy. People want to put flowers on her grave for her birthday and at Christmas. Is that really too much to ask?’
‘People’ was an exaggeration. Peter wanted that, or he had. He’d left Lancashire six months ago and Jill, who had wanted to speak to him prior to coming to Styal, had no idea where he was now.
‘Her father wants to bury his little girl. Won’t you let him do that?’
‘No.’
‘What has he done wrong?’
Again, Claire preferred to wind a strand of hair around her finger than answer Jill’s question.
‘D’you know how many killers get put away when no body’s been found?’ she asked instead.
‘Very few,’ Jill replied. ‘Which makes you quite special, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
So Claire liked being in the minority. If she told them where Daisy’s body was, she would be exactly like all the other killers out there.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked Jill.
‘In a small village in Lancashire. Kelton Bridge. Do you know it?’
‘Yeah, I know it.’
‘I grew up in Liverpool, but I love Kelton. It’s peaceful and everyone is very friendly.’
‘I don’t want to talk no more,’ Claire said. ‘I might talk to you next time.’
‘Next time isn’t good enough, Claire. I’m not—’
The sudden and almost deafening clamouring of an alarm drowned her voice.
Claire grinned smugly, as if she alone was responsible.
Either Styal was in danger of being razed to the ground or someone had decided it was the ideal time for a drill.
Jill hadn’t learnt much, other than the fact that Claire was lonely, disliked being ignored and longed to be the centre of attention, but she wasn’t sorry to end the interview.
Max arrived at Manchester airport, went straight to the arrivals area, checked the screen and saw that Flight KL1073 from Amsterdam was delayed. Typical. Planes from all over the world were on schedule yet the short flight from Amsterdam was going to be an hour late.
He bought a newspaper, then went to the coffee bar to read it. All the while, he kept checking for updates on the ETA of Flight KL1073.
He didn’t really have time for this. On the drive here, he’d had a call to say that Bradley Johnson, the lord of the manor, or Kelton Bridge manor at least, had been reported missing by his wife. Apparently, he’d left the manor on foot late yesterday afternoon and hadn’t returned. As he’d been planning an early drive to London today for an important meeting, his wife was extremely concerned for his safety.
Max should really be looking into that. On the other hand, Bradley Johnson was a grown man and, although they might be short of coppers at the moment, there were more than enough to deal with a missing person inquiry. In any case, Max was always getting reprimanded about his lack of delegation skills.
He was reading about the government’s latest harebrained scheme for reducing congestion on the country’s motorways when an announcement was made. Flight KL1073 had landed.
Max nipped outside to smoke a cigarette and then stood to wait for the passengers to appear.
Beside him, an attractive girl, probably early twenties, paced impatiently. Max guessed that, any minute now, a handsome young bloke would appear to sweep her off her feet.
She checked her watch. Max checked his.
Finally, the double doors swung open and passengers, mostly businessmen and -women, walked towards them.
Max was wrong. His companion suddenly raced forward and launched herself at a young, blonde-haired girl. Max watched them leave, arm in arm, talking excitedly and giggling.
Thomas McQueen was one of the last passengers to appear. Fifty-two years old, he wore his hair—long, lank and fair—in a ponytail.
Recognition and a brief flash of anger crossed his face as he spotted Max.
‘Been taking a holiday, Tom?’ Max greeted him genially.
‘As a matter of fact I have.’ McQueen didn’t slow his pace.
‘Christmas shopping?’ Max suggested.
‘Expecting a present, Chief Inspector?’
‘I am.’ Max dodged a couple of people to keep pace with McQueen. ‘You behind bars.’
‘Behind bars for what?’ McQueen asked, a half-smile curving his thin lips.
His lips were the only thin thing about him. His penchant for fine wines and top-class restaurants was piling on the weight and, as he was only around the five feet five mark, every pound added to the roly-poly image. Even his face was fat and bloated.
‘Anything. I’m not fussy,’ Max answered his question.
The murder of a certain Muhammed Khalil would do for starters. Once they had him for that, they could worry about the rest.
‘You can’t pin anything on me, as well you know.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not ever.’ McQueen stopped walking to look up at Max. ‘You’ve had it in for me ever since that Khalil lad was killed. He happened to rent one of my properties, that’s all. Thankfully, a lot of people do. If they didn’t, I’d be out of business. I’ve committed no crime, Chief Inspector. None at all. In fact, the only lawbreaker around here is you. If I’m not mistaken, this is harassment.’
‘Eh? Just because I happen to bump into you at the airport?’
‘There’s that. There’s sitting outside my house for hours on end. There’s following me into certain bars. It’s harassment, plain and simple.’
Put like that, Max supposed he had a point.
‘Do you know Bradley Johnson?’ Max asked, changing the subject. ‘Lives in—’
‘Kelton Bridge. Yes, I know him. Why do you ask?’
‘Seems he’s been reported missing.’
‘Oh?’ McQueen’s surprise seemed genuine.
‘Yes, his wife phoned us early this morning.’
‘He’s a big boy.’
They reached fresh air and Max spotted McQueen’s driver, minder more like, jumping out of a black BMW to open the passenger door for his boss.
‘My car,’ McQueen said unnecessarily. ‘Be seeing you, Chief Inspector. But not quite so often in future, I trust.’
McQueen handed his two bags and a black briefcase to his minder, John Barry, and, leaving him to stow them in the boot, jumped in the car.
Unlike McQueen, Barry was in the peak of condition. An ex-boxer, he must still keep in training as his arms and shoulders were massive. His head, shaved and bullish, sat no more than an inch above those shoulders. He wasn’t the sort of bloke you argued with unless you had plenty of back-up.
By the time Max got back to his own car, McQueen would have been halfway to Harrington. There was no point even thinking of trying to catch up with him. In any case, Max had work to do. Until he could find some hard evidence linking him to Muhammed Khalil’s murder, McQueen, sadly, was nothing more than a little extracurricular activity.
Bad news was waiting for him at headquarters.
‘The boss wants to see you, Max,’ DS Fletcher announced.
Fletch was sitting at his desk, pen in one hand and a bacon sandwich in the other. In fact, now Max came to think about it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Fletch without food in his hand.
‘OK, Fletch, thanks.’
‘The second you arrive,’ he added.
‘So if he asks, I haven’t arrived yet. OK?’
‘OK,’ Fletch agreed amiably. ‘He doesn’t sound terribly happy,’ he added, ‘so you might want a brew first.’
Max groaned. ‘What’s rattled his cage now?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Fletch said, licking melting butter from his fingers.
‘Doesn’t that lovely wife of yours feed you?’
‘Not often enough. By the time the kids have been fed, the day’s gone.’ His eyes took on the usual dreamy expression at mention of his daughters. ‘It’s OK, though. I won’t starve.’
‘I can see that.’
Fletch looked down at the amount of stomach that was hanging over his belt and sucked in a huge breath. ‘It’s all muscle.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Max went to his office, but decided to save the brew till later. He was curious, but not particularly worried. His boss was rarely ‘terribly happy’. No capacity for happiness, Max supposed. No sense of humour.
His phone rang and he was pleased to see it was Ben calling from France.
‘Hi, son. How’s it going?’
‘It’s dead boring,’ Ben complained.
‘You only arrived yesterday,’ Max pointed out. ‘Give it a chance.’
‘But we’ve got to go and look round a boring old museum this morning. I hate museums.’