‘Carry on,’ Max prompted.
‘The next thing I know, she’s killed Mr McQueen,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to know. Hell’s teeth, I hadn’t expected her to use the bloody thing—and especially not on her own husband.’
‘She phoned you in Scotland to tell you?’ Max asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did she say why she’d killed him?’
‘Oh, yes. She’d found out, you see, that Tom had been screwing around with Khalil’s old lady. She’s a whore.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Jill smiled at that. ‘I bet that didn’t please her.’
‘She can talk. She’s nothing more than a slag. She’ll have sex with anyone.’
‘Ah, yes. We heard something to that effect. Something about you forcing yourself on her. Is that right, John? Did you have sex with her?’
Max had no idea what Jill was playing at, but John Barry was on the point of a coronary.
‘Me? Force myself on her? The fucking lying bitch! We had sex, but it was her who gave me the come-on.’
‘Was that before or after Mr McQueen was murdered?’ Max asked.
‘Before. I haven’t seen her since.’ He shook off his lawyer’s restraining arm again.
‘So you had a—relationship?’ Jill pushed on. ‘How long for?’
‘Four months. Maybe five.’
‘Carry on,’ Max urged him.
‘Well, when I was in Scotland, she kept on and on about this bird of Khalil’s. She wanted to know everything—what she looked like, where she lived, everything. It was me who told her to forget it, but she couldn’t. She kept saying no one two-timed her and got away with it. She began threatening me. That’s when I was in Scotland. She said if I didn’t tell her where she could find Khalil’s bird, I’d end up like Tom.’
‘She’d put six bullets in you?’ Max asked.
‘Yes. She’s one crazy bitch. And you can tell her I said so.’
‘So you’re claiming that Thomas McQueen killed Muhammed Khalil?’ Max asked, hardly daring to breathe.
‘Yes. It’s the truth, I swear it.’
‘And you also claim that Mrs Barbara McQueen murdered her husband?’
‘I do.’
‘And you also maintain that Mrs Barbara McQueen then attacked Muhammed Khalil’s girlfriend, Tessa Bailey?’
‘Too right I do. And if she says anything different, she’s lying.’
‘I see,’ Max said. ‘And she was acting on your information? You were the one who gave her Tessa Bailey’s address? Is that right?’
Barry’s face was scarlet with rage. ‘I didn’t want to, but I had to, didn’t I? Besides, I thought she was just planning on having a slanging match with her.’
‘Really?’ Jill mused. ‘But she’d killed her husband, hadn’t she? She doesn’t appear to be the type of woman who wastes time on conversation.’
‘That’s what I thought, I swear. A slanging match.’
‘How often did you have sex with Mrs McQueen?’ Jill asked.
‘Too often. Lying, two-faced bitch. She’s like a bloody dead thing in the sack, too. And you can tell her that from me!’
That vein was still throbbing in Barry’s neck.
‘Are you sure there’s no evidence she can give us that will put you in the frame for murder, John?’ Jill asked him, and Barry slammed his huge fist down on the table with so much force, Max was surprised not to see splinters everywhere.
‘There is no fucking evidence. She’ll give you nothing. She can’t!’
Max suspended the interview and he and Jill stepped outside.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Jill.
‘I think he assumed he’d be stepping into Tom McQueen’s shoes. Bed, bank account, the lot. I bet they planned Tom’s demise together, and then he was expecting to move right in.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yes, and now he’s feeling aggrieved. Cheated. He’s not pining for Barbara’s company. He wanted, and expected, a share in Tom’s fortune.’
‘Do you believe his story?’
‘Bits of it,’ Jill replied. ‘I don’t believe for a minute that Tom McQueen shot Khalil.’
‘No?’
‘Never in a million years. He wouldn’t do his own dirty work.’
‘Hm. That’s what I thought.’
Max was famished. He was convinced, though, that they were finally getting there. Barbara McQueen’s lawyer hadn’t arrived yet, so food would have to wait.
He had a quick word with Fletch to make sure her lawyer was stalled and then they went to talk to her.
‘Oh, isn’t your lawyer here yet?’ Max said, acting surprised.
She sat there tight-lipped.
‘He’ll be here in a minute.’ Max switched on the tapes and introduced those present.
‘I’ve left instructions for someone to tell him that we’ll be charging you with murder and attempted murder. That’ll have him racing to your side.’
‘You what?’ She couldn’t decide if he was joking or not.
‘The game’s over, Mrs McQueen. John Barry is just along the corridor,’ Max said, ‘and he’s told us everything.’
‘John? Here? But I thought—’ She broke off.
‘You thought he was in Ireland?’ Max guessed. ‘Sadly not. He missed his plane.’
‘Oh, and he asked us to relay a message to you,’ Jill said. ‘He said you were—what was it? Oh, yes, like a dead thing in the sack. He’s told us all about it. About your husband killing Muhammed Khalil, about you finding out that he had been screwing Khalil’s girlfriend, about how you killed your husband and then went after Tessa Bailey.’
‘You’re a liar!’ She went for Jill with lightning speed, her long fingernails missing Jill’s face by a fraction.
‘Calm down!’ Max shouted.
He found it almost impossible to believe that Barbara McQueen was the same laughing, fun-loving woman with whom he’d shared that train journey all those years ago. He’d thought her an airhead, but what the hell had she done? Sat in the hairdresser’s, reading the latest copy of
Hello!
while plotting to kill her husband? What had happened to her?
Tom McQueen had happened, he supposed. Perhaps anyone married to a man like that would be dragged down to that level.
‘We’ve got it all on tape,’ Max told her. ‘Now, perhaps—’
‘I couldn’t give a damn what you’ve got on tape. You’re lying.’
‘No, Barbara,’ Jill told her.
‘The bastard!’ she whispered. ‘The lying, two-faced bastard!’
She took several deep breaths and she was calm. Dangerously, icy calm.
‘On my mobile phone,’ she told Max, ‘you’ll find recordings I made of those lying bastards—Tom and that bastard, John Barry. I knew they were up to no good so I started leaving my phone lying around when they were together.
You want Muhammed Khalil’s killer? Get my phone.’
‘John Barry?’ Max guessed, and she nodded.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yes. All the proof you need is on my phone. A hundred grand Tom paid him for that little job.’
‘I see.’ Max had been right about one thing. She was an airhead. ‘We were beginning to think you’d killed your husband and Muhammed Khalil,’ he said.
‘Of course I didn’t kill Khalil,’ she scoffed. ‘I didn’t know him. Never heard of him until I heard those bastards talking about him and that slut he lived with.’
She really was a total airhead.
The same thought must have occurred to her. Belatedly.
‘I’ll get a deal, won’t I?’ she said. ‘Now I’ve told you who killed Khalil, they’ll be lenient, won’t they?’
‘I wouldn’t count on it, Mrs McQueen.’
Just then, when it was far too late, her lawyer arrived.
Jill’s glass was empty, so she went to the kitchen for the bottle of wine. Her boiler had been fixed that morning and so far, she thought, bending to touch the wooden coffee table, it was behaving perfectly. It was snowing heavily outside, but her cottage was a haven of comfort and warmth.
Max had called in on his way home and everything felt—civilized.
She knew, though, just how much work would be involved in getting this case to court.
‘Fancy having hard evidence to send John Barry down,’ she mused.
‘Brilliant,’ Max agreed. ‘Fancy recording their conversations. What a star!’ The idea amused him. ‘That’s what Harry does. Unbeknown to me, he’ll record us having a conversation about going to watch the Clarets and then, when I deny all knowledge of any promises made, he’ll play back the recording.’
Jill smiled at that. It was typical of Max’s son to know that evidence was vital.
She topped up her glass.
‘It’s good news all round,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘The best news, though, is finding Daisy. God, I really feel for that kid.’
Daisy Lawrence had been found in a rundown flat in Worcester. Claire had left her in the hands of her best friend, Natalie Drinkwater. Natalie still worked as a prostitute, but, like Claire, she was off drugs. She took her responsibilities seriously and looking after Daisy had been her top priority. She shared a flat with two other girls, girls who were more than able to avoid suspicion and, more importantly, the police. They’d kept Daisy safe, if nothing else. The narrowboat had gone a year ago, reclaimed by its owner, one of Natalie’s customers, and since then, the girls had shared a tiny, two-bedroomed flat in Worcester.
‘All that education she’s missed,’ Jill said. ‘It’s criminal. She’ll never catch up now. She was a bright kid, too. Still, she’s happy and healthy enough, I suppose.’
‘What’s going to happen to her?’
‘What do you think? Red tape, more red tape, and yet more red tape. Enough red tape to keep her bound up until she’s an adult probably. Claire’s clean though, and she’s no longer living in fear of McQueen so—well, we’ll have to see. I’ve promised her that, so long as she stays clean, I’ll help fight her corner.’
‘Do you think she will? Or do you think she’ll be straight back on heroin?’
The truth was, Jill didn’t know.
‘We’ll just hope for the best,’ she said.
‘I still can’t believe anyone would do that,’ Max said, shaking his head. ‘Why the hell would someone deliberately get themselves locked up at Styal? Why would someone hand over their daughter? It’s insane.’
‘She was scared of McQueen,’ Jill said simply. ‘She thought her own life and, more important, Daisy’s life were in danger.’ She looked at him. ‘So what would you do if you believed Harry or Ben’s life to be in danger?’
‘Bloody sort it,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘In Claire’s position, I would have contacted the police.’
‘But she had no faith in the police.’
He merely grunted at the truth of that.
Jill tucked her feet beneath her and thought again how warm and cosy her cottage was. The wind was howling and, although she didn’t look out, she assumed it was still snowing.
‘How was Meredith’s health and temper?’ she asked him. ‘You were in his office for ages.’
‘Tell me about it. He’s far from happy.’
‘Isn’t that typical? Honestly, there’s no pleasing the bloke. Muhammed Khalil’s killer is accounted for, as is Tom McQueen’s. Tessa’s stabbing—that’s solved.’
‘You’re forgetting something,’ Max reminded her.
Jill wasn’t. She knew full well that they were no closer to catching Bradley Johnson’s killer.
‘At least we know Bradley Johnson’s murder wasn’t connected to McQueen,’ she pointed out.
‘We know we’ve found no proof of it being connected to McQueen,’ he corrected her.
‘No. I never thought it was. Johnson’s killer is much closer to home.’
Jill had always believed that. Yet, despite the hours spent on the case, they were no nearer naming a suspect.
‘Perhaps it will always be a mystery,’ she said.
‘No.’ Max would hate that thought as much as she did. ‘We’ll get our man eventually. We always do. Well, nearly always.’
‘Phoebe’s selling up,’ she told him. ‘The For Sale board went up this morning.’
‘Is she your number one suspect?’ he asked curiously.
‘No. I’d stake my life on it being tied up with Hannah Brooks. Jack Taylor—is it definitely him on the CCTV? It couldn’t be someone who just looks like him?’
‘We’re sure it’s him. Why do you ask?’
‘Because he’s the only one who fits my profile.’
‘But you said he wasn’t a killer.’
‘That was before I knew all the facts, before I knew that his granddaughter was on the verge of losing everything.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘One, he knows every inch of that wood. Two, he viewed Bradley Johnson with contempt. Three, he would do anything to protect Hannah. Four, he has nothing to lose. After all, he’s seventy-eight, and his best friend is dying.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘He even has a dog.’
But cameras don’t lie.
‘Still, if he’s on CCTV, that’s my theory shot to pieces,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Hm.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, it does. Out with it, Trentham. You’ve had a thought.’
‘Not really.’ He emptied his glass and stood up. ‘Time I was off, kiddo. Now then, what about tomorrow? Shall we go in my car or yours? It’s stupid to take two.’
Jill’s brain was ticking over and getting nowhere. What did he mean? What had she forgotten? Whatever it was, she couldn’t go anywhere with him. Tomorrow, she would be celebrating her parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary.
‘Remind me. What’s happening—’ An awful thought struck her. ‘Where are you going tomorrow?’
‘Liverpool. You?’
‘She invited you?’ Jill groaned. Her mother had spent hours on the phone reciting the menu and talking about her outfit, but she hadn’t said a word about inviting Max.
‘She did, bless her. The boys, too.’
Jill groaned again. ‘That’s even worse. She’ll have a couple of G&Ts, and then make a drunken speech about wanting to see her poor daughter married off and those two unfortunate boys with a mother.’
‘Probably,’ Max agreed, looking highly amused at the prospect.
‘You don’t have to go, Max.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, she’s expecting us. I couldn’t let her down, could I?’
‘You could. Easily.’
Jill’s stomach turned over. She’d thought it bad enough that her mother had bought an outfit in shocking pink, that her father was still vowing to walk down to the working men’s club and that karaoke was booked.
‘It won’t be as bad as you think,’ Max told her.
‘Ha!’
‘So shall we all go in my car?’
‘Why not?’ They may as well arrive together and really give her mother something to talk about. ‘Did she warn you about the karaoke?’