Authors: Elizabeth Corley
He was dropped at the hospital with a curt reminder to be back at the station by four o’clock.
The county hospital was a long, four-storey, concrete and glass building, flanked on two sides by car parks, with access for visitors and emergency vehicles at the front, facing the road.
Cooper disliked the building intensely, partly for what it stood for, as both his mother and father had died in there, but mainly because a negative, deadening power seemed to emanate from the place, such that any individual, however healthy and positive, was reduced as they came within its shadow. They were forced to conform to fit a mould of anxiety, obedience and eventual selfishness as they drew near to its doors.
Cooper begrudged the hospital its power. As he entered the main reception area, Cooper felt his face set. His step became a purposeful march.
‘Police. Detective Sergeant Cooper,’ he announced to the receptionist. ‘I need to see the doctor in charge of one of your patients; a recent emergency admission. I expect she’s in intensive care.’ His tone was brusque, authoritative because of his own inner tension. Too late, he realised that his customary courtesy would have served him better.
The receptionist was slow and unhelpful. She told him to take a seat whilst she told the duty sister there was a constable there to see her. She turned away before he could correct the rank.
He was left to cool off for ten minutes before the sister arrived.
‘Detective Constable Cooper? You’re enquiring after Mrs Carla Evans?’
‘Detective Sergeant, and yes I am, Sister.’
‘Would you come with me?’ She walked over to a quiet corner of the waiting room, tucked to the side of an ancient tea and coffee dispenser.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs Evans died an hour ago. She had another major heart attack and there was nothing we could do.’ The sister’s pinched monkey face stared at him dispassionately.
‘I see. Thank you, Sister …?’
‘Barker.’
‘Right. I need to ask some more questions about her medical history and condition on arrival.’
‘Well, she was a very sick lady and her condition deteriorated
rapidly. As far as her history goes, you’ll need to speak to her GP.’
‘Her GP? She has one? I would have thought she travelled around too much.’
‘Dr Rogers, in Woodside Surgery. And you’re wrong about the travelling. Until five weeks ago Mrs Evans was comfortably settled in an official council-run site. It was only because her son-in-law, Degs I think they call him, insisted that she go and join them that she moved. Very much against her will, if you ask me.’
‘How do you know all this, Sister Barker?’
‘I was on shift in the IC ward when she was admitted. I heard her daughter talking about it. She blames herself for her mother’s attack, because it was she who finally persuaded the old lady to move to the Dell to please that husband of hers. Typical.’ Her face reflected a view that any woman who so compromised her good sense for the sake of a man deserved whatever she got in return.
‘I thought they were throwing blame in other directions, not at each other.’
‘At the police, you mean?’ Sister Barker smiled ruefully. ‘Oh, the men will do, of course.’
‘But not her daughter?’
‘No, Sergeant. You’ll find that women are usually more honest with themselves, even to the point of accepting blame, whereas, it is my experience that men are more interested in finding a scapegoat.’ There was no reply to that.
‘Thank you, Sister. If I need to talk to you again I’ll be able to find you here for the next few days?’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Sergeant.’
Cooper set off to find Dr Rogers with a hopeful heart. Inevitably, Degs and his acquaintances would pursue their accusations vehemently – and inevitably Counsellor Ward would be roped in and be tempted to give his support. But with the possibility that Mrs Evans had been too ill to move in the first place – and the prosecution of Ward’s driver by the RSPCA looming as extra leverage – Cooper felt that they might have
the start of an agreement to keep everything under control after all.
Fenwick’s plan to cram in a couple of interviews on the Fearnside case before returning to HQ failed. Derek Fearnside had already left for work and was not due home until the evening. Leslie Smith was out and, according to a curious neighbour, was unlikely to return before teatime. Her son’s headmaster was tied up in a meeting with the Governors and wouldn’t be free until well after lunch. Fenwick accepted that luck was not to be with him that morning and turned the car round.
The interviews with Peters and Taylor were arranged for neutral territory at HQ. They went predictably. The former was cocky, sure of police support, and not prepared to say much at all. The latter was nervous, defensive and resented Fenwick’s intrusion. His interview with Blite was difficult and one that neither of them enjoyed. The ACC, returning at last from his protracted Police Authority meeting, joined them but left quickly. Fenwick met him in his office half an hour later.
‘So you think there might be some substance to the travellers’ allegations? I thought as much but I’d hoped for a different opinion.’
‘Possibly, sir, but Cooper’s called in with some hopeful news. I’ve got him to work with me on this one.’ He ran through it quickly.
‘It’s important that you confirm the facts as quickly as possible. Go ahead and dig. Make it your top priority. I don’t want the bleeding hearts forcing us into a corner, and I don’t want any secrets left to bite us later.’
Fenwick was surprised. ‘You think there’s a real risk of that?’
‘You’ve been out of it too long, Andrew. Have you forgotten? It’s local elections in May. Ward would love this to run until then.’
‘Yes, but travellers; siding with them is hardly a vote-winning platform around here.’
‘You’ve overlooked the ward he’s in. Hockley North. I can
see him making a frail, grey-haired old lady a symbol for all the malcontents around, that’s the
majority
vote where he comes from. Do what you must, Chief Inspector. I just want it sorted.’
The ACC was blessed with a vivid imagination when it came to politics. Fenwick was struck again by the man’s mastery of probable moves in the local game. He could see why he’d made Assistant Chief Constable despite a curious lack of similar sparkle in his police work.
‘Right.’
The ACC was already turning to the next pressing matter but Fenwick had other business. It had to be handled delicately if he was to keep the Fearnside case open. He turned back as he reached the door. ‘Oh, the other complaint, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘I mentioned earlier that one needs some more looking into.’
‘Really? I’m surprised.’
‘Well, as you said, sir, we don’t want any loose ends tripping us up, do we?’
‘Quite, quite. Well, get on with it. It’s your judgement, I’ll leave it to you. Just don’t disappoint me on this Dell business. It’s your top priority, get that clear in your head.’
Fenwick had time for one more interview before he met Cooper at four o’clock back at Division. He looked down his list. It was still too early for Fearnside, the headmaster or Leslie Smith so that left him the other two aspiring models that had gone to the interview with Deborah Fearnside in London.
There was no answer at the first house he visited so when he rang the doorbell of Deirdre Holt, the would-be model who had been eliminated at the final stage, he had little expectation of finding her at home. To his surprise, the door was opened immediately.
‘Come in, come in. Thank goodness you’ve arrived. It’s in here.’
He was shown into a elegant cream sitting room by an even more elegant brunette wearing faded 501s, a tight white body-hugging T-shirt and embroidered ethnic waistcoat.
‘Over there.’ She pointed imperiously towards a large, flat-screen
television set, tucked discreetly in one corner.
Fenwick looked down at himself to check that he was wearing his customary suit and realised that the woman had not even looked at him. His satisfaction at finding her at home was immediately undermined by her apparent lack of any observation skills.
‘Mrs Holt? It is Mrs Holt, isn’t it? I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick, Harlden CID.’ He showed his warrant card in confirmation.
‘Yes, I’m Deirdre Holt. Who are you then, if you’re not here to repair the video?’
Fenwick’s spirits sank even further. Not only could he not rely on her powers of observation, the woman obviously didn’t even listen.
‘Do I look like a TV repair man, Mrs Holt?’ He reintroduced himself and the woman ran an appraising eye over him. She made it obvious that she liked what she saw: a tall, slim man, probably in his mid-forties. Were it not for the lines of worry around his eyes and etched from his nose to the outside of a wide, generous mouth, he could have passed for at least five years younger.
There was a latent power about the man that was compelling. She liked strong, physical men, such a contrast to her rather effete solicitor husband. But he was not a happy man, despite the carefully neutral countenance, and he looked at her in a quiet, penetrating way that told of past confrontations taken without compromise.
‘No, you don’t look like a repair man. Sorry.’ She tried a coquettish smile.
‘I’m here regarding the disappearance of Deborah Fearnside. I believe you’re a friend of hers.’
Her smile faded and a small frown line appeared to mar the smoothness of her forehead.
‘Oh, I … well, yes I was,
am
a friend of Debbie’s. Why? What’s happened? Have you found her? Why are you here now?’
She was lying. They hadn’t been friends and there was no masking her disquiet at his announcement.
‘No, there’s no more news, good or bad, but there are some loose ends we’re keen to clear up. So I have some questions for you, if you have a few minutes.’
‘Yes, of course. Sit down. Would you like a drink, a cup of coffee or something?’
He thought of the untouched mug that would be sitting on his desk. ‘A cup of coffee would be lovely, thank you. Black, one sugar.’ For the first time he rewarded her with a smile. Fleeting, it didn’t reach his eyes, but it warmed his face and made him seem younger.
‘I’ll only be a few minutes; make yourself comfortable.’ She paused at the door. ‘But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Derek, that is Mr Fearnside, told me you don’t follow up missing persons cases, not routinely, unless there’s something suspicious.’
‘That’s right, but these questions aren’t yet part of any full inquiry. They won’t take long.’
Deirdre Holt looked sceptical but said no more.
Over coffee, which was surprisingly good, Fenwick ran through routine questions.
‘When was the last time you saw Deborah Fearnside; can you remember?’
‘It would have been on the Friday before she disappeared. It was a Monday, wasn’t it, that she went off to London? I saw her on the Friday afternoon when she dropped off my two children – we shared the school run, you see.’
‘Was there anything unusual about her, would you say?’
‘No, not really. Well, she was a bit excited, I suppose.’
‘But she didn’t say anything to you at all?’
‘No. Well, she wouldn’t have, would she – not to
me
. Not in the circumstances.’
Mrs Holt met his eyes for the first time since the questioning began. Behind her slightly faded blue gaze there lurked a touch of self-pity and a demand for sympathy.
‘What circumstances, Mrs Holt?’ Fenwick instinctively softened his voice and his gentle Scots tone became stronger. Mrs Holt knew more than she was admitting to. He wanted to
know what and why she was so reticent.
‘Well, you see,’ she hesitated. ‘I went with them – Leslie and Debbie – to the photographers, only I didn’t get through.’
‘I must say, I’m surprised at that, Mrs Holt, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But, Mrs Holt, there’s more you want to tell me, isn’t there? You see, I know that’s not the only reason Debbie didn’t confide in you on that Friday.’
‘You know? But how could you? I thought no one did but I suppose … oh God, does it all have to come out?’ Her eyes filled and she blinked rapidly to preserve her mascara.
‘Yes, at least to me, to the police. It may not need to go further, that would depend on how the case evolves, but you must tell me.’
What followed was a sorry little tale of suburban infidelity. Apparently, she and Derek Fearnside had been conducting an on-off affair for about seven years. It had started during Deborah Fearnside’s first pregnancy and had then resurfaced on odd occasions ever since. She would make a trip to London and they would meet at Fearnside’s company flat.
‘Why did the affair start in the first place, Mrs Holt – and why has it continued for so long?’
‘Why did it start? Oh the usual reasons. He was frustrated, I was bored silly, we bumped into each other in London one day, went for a drink – which became several – and ended up like a couple of sex-starved teenagers in a hotel near Victoria. Not the most romantic start to an affair!’ She had warmed to her tale. It was a relief to talk about it at last and she handled each twist in the story with a raconteur’s flair.
‘And why did it continue?’
‘I’m not sure, really. I think initially because Debbie went right off sex the first time she became pregnant. She wasn’t very well and he doesn’t like pregnant women anyway. And on my side, well, I enjoy sex, Chief Inspector,’ she met his eyes frankly, ‘and my husband isn’t overly keen. Once a week and he’s happy – whereas I’m decidedly not.’
She looked at him sideways from under heavy lashes lowered over her light eyes. Her lips were parted and she licked the tip of her tongue along even white teeth. Despite the obviousness of the practised gesture, Fenwick found it surprisingly alluring. He was conscious of the well-filled, tight white T-shirt and the flesh it hugged snugly. He realised, with a sudden shock, that it had been a long time since he had made love. The agony of Monique’s illness and the stress of holding the family together had driven all thoughts of pleasure of any kind from his mind.