Someone Else's Conflict (24 page)

And he was gone. She wished he'd said more, hoped she hadn't sounded too distant. As the warmth kindled by his voice faded, she found herself wondering, if it was so important for him to help his friend's son, whether that ‘friend' was a woman. She told herself firmly that even if it was, it was in the past. But why so evasive? She tried to convince herself that if he were being evasive he wouldn't have phoned at all.

She spent the evening distracting herself by phoning her mother, father, brother. Each time, she played down the storm damage so that she didn't have to mention the help she'd had in overcoming it. If she'd felt apprehensive about the right way to present Jay to them before, anticipating the disapproval-laden questioning and inevitable need to justify herself, his absence and inadequate explanation made it ten times worse. She came to feel that perhaps the disapproval wasn't only from outside, and it was herself she was justifying things to. It made her frustration all the more intense.

Yet as she went upstairs for an early night, she found the rucksack in the corner of her bedroom oddly reassuring.

Chapter 20

Two days later Marilyn was trying to rescue her kitchen garden. The sound of tyres approaching over the rough surface of the lane gave her a good excuse to pause in the Sisyphean task. It didn't sound like either the post van or the Harringtons' four-wheel drive, and Jay had phoned that morning to say he'd call when he got to Skipton; she'd promised to collect him. She wiped her hands on her jeans and walked down to the yard to see who it was. There were two strangers in the car and she felt slightly embarrassed to be staring as they pulled up. The passenger door opened and a middle-aged, friendly-looking man in a waxed jacket got out, followed by a smart younger woman in a green suede winter coat who'd been driving.

‘Marilyn Dexter?' the man asked.

She nodded.

‘That's quite a lane you've got there. You get stuck much in winter?'

He had a homely local accent and manner that put her at her ease.

‘Not as much as you'd think.' She gave him a reserved smile. ‘What can I do for you?'

He produced a card from his jacket pocket. ‘Detective Sergeant Chris Terry. I wonder if we could ask you a few questions, in connection with a murder case over in Keighley.'

‘Murder?' Marilyn felt a deep fear creep through her, though she had no idea what he was talking about.

‘We're following a few leads, that's all. It's a small detail but at the moment we've got very little to go on, and any information helps.'

She examined the ID he proffered and handed it back to him. Like when a patrol car came up behind her on the road, their mere presence was making her feel irrationally guilty.

‘This is DC Kate Taylor.' He nodded to his colleague who flashed her ID dutifully. In an attempt to steady herself, Marilyn reached out for it to take a closer look, earning herself a flash of irritation from the woman.

‘You'd better come in,' she said. The kitchen table was cluttered with her breakfast things so she showed them through to the living room.

‘Coffee or tea?' she asked despite herself.

‘We'll be fine, thanks,' DS Terry said. ‘I hope we won't keep you long.'

He sat in the chair that had become Jay's.

‘So,' he said, ‘an elderly couple, Boris and Anja Pranjić, were murdered on Monday night, at their home in the Oakthwaite area of Keighley. Have you heard anything about it?'

She shook her head, wishing she'd taken more of an interest in the news.

‘It was a break-in. They were shot.' Marilyn shuddered, and thought of the number of times she'd forgotten to lock her door. ‘At the moment the most likely scenario is an interrupted burglary, but we have reasons to believe there may be more to it than that.'

‘Sounds horrid. But what has it got to do with me?'

‘You had your purse stolen recently, didn't you?'

‘Yes.' She frowned. ‘It was nothing serious. They took the cash and dumped the purse. I got it back, minus the money of course.'

‘I believe you suspected someone? Got a description?'

‘I can't be sure the lad I noticed, the description I gave, was actually the thief.' She remembered the guilt she'd felt at suspecting him. She hated the thought that she might have literally rubbed shoulders with a murderer, but there was a huge difference between stealing a purse and murder, and if he was nothing to do with it she didn't want to say anything that might get him into more serious trouble.

‘Could you confirm your description? Do you have anything to add?'

‘It was nearly two weeks ago. I'm not sure. What's he got to do with your investigation?'

‘We got fingerprints off your purse and credit card. They match a set of prints found on furniture in the Pranjićs' living room. There's no indication that Monday night's intruders went in there, but obviously we want to know who he is, what he knows. Especially since there's another lead – Mr and Mrs Pranjić moved house a few months ago. The woman who lives at their old address tells us a young man, whom she describes as “suspicious-looking”, turned up at the house a week last Sunday looking for them. When she asked him – purely making conversation, she says – he said he lived in Holdwick. Nicola Radcliffe's description matches yours quite well.'

Marilyn reluctantly repeated the vague recollection she had, answering the detective's prompting – white, late teens, medium height and build, worn leather jacket, dark hair, an ear stud. Nothing particularly useful. After she'd remembered all she could there was a pause as the detective jotted it all down.

‘Can you remember anything else about him?'

She thought for a moment.

‘He had a foreign accent.'

‘He spoke to you?' The detective glanced at his colleague. ‘What did he say?'

‘Nothing, really. We got jostled; he apologised. “Excuse me,” I think were the exact words. He had a friendly smile. That struck me because he seemed a bit… serious, edgy somehow, the rest of the time. But of course I could be imagining that. You know, because I got my purse stolen. And now this.'

‘Any idea what kind of foreign accent?'

‘From two words?' She shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.'

‘Could it have been Eastern European? Balkan?'

‘It could have been anything; sorry.'

He made some more notes, which she found increasingly unnerving.

‘What were you doing when the theft occurred?'

She felt slightly relieved at a question she could answer. ‘Watching a busker. He was telling stories and playing music.'

‘A teenager watching a storyteller? Do you think there was any chance they knew one another? Working together, perhaps?'

‘No, he had nothing to do with it.'

‘You sound certain.'

‘Oh, I…I know Jay. The busker.' She laughed nervously. ‘Can you believe the same thing crossed my mind and I actually accused him of it? I could tell he didn't know what I was talking about.'

The detective nodded. ‘Did you see where either of them went afterwards?'

‘The young lad went off into the market as far as I remember. Jay stopped to chat with a nearby stallholder. After that I was too busy fretting about my purse to notice, I'm afraid.'

‘You say you know the busker – Jay, did you say? How well?'

‘We've become friends.'

‘How long have you known him?'

This new line of questioning got her back up. ‘A few weeks. Is this relevant? Is he involved with the case?'

As she spoke, she remembered what Matt had said about seeing Jay with someone last Saturday. She pushed the thought back down.

‘Everything's relevant at this stage. But for now…' The detective smiled and seemed to back off a little. ‘Can I just ask if he's ever mentioned anything else about the incident?'

‘Not really, no. When I got the purse back he was pleased for me. That's all.'

‘Has he ever mentioned anyone called Vinko? Have you heard the name, from him or anyone else?'

She shook her head, wondering what the friend's son was called. But she could honestly say she'd never heard the name.

The detective seemed satisfied for the time being. He asked Jay's full name and contact details, with a raised eyebrow she thought was quite unnecessary when she said she didn't know his address or phone number. She agreed to ask him to talk to them, next time she saw him.

‘I don't think that lad's got anything to do with any murder,' she said as they were leaving. ‘He didn't seem the type.'

‘I've seen a fair few criminals with friendly smiles,' the policeman answered with a wry grin.

Marilyn felt lightheaded with relief as she watched the car bump down the lane. Her feelings veered wildly. One minute she wondered if she'd said too much, and the next she wondered why she'd been so evasive. Common sense told her if Jay had nothing to hide it didn't matter what the police knew, but her instincts had told her to be cautious. She knew so little, and the last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently cause trouble by saying the wrong thing. She'd gone far enough and she hadn't lied. Let him do the rest. She hadn't done anything wrong. As she waited for his call and the relief that would come from seeing him again, she told herself that once he'd had the chance to explain, everything would be all right and she'd wonder what on earth she'd been worrying about.

Chapter 21

It was dark by the time the bus pulled up and Marilyn felt a moment of doubt, remembering the previous Saturday when she'd waited and he wasn't there. But the sight of a familiar figure stepping down from the bus lifted her spirits. Jay looked round hesitantly and broke into a broad smile as he saw her and hurried over. Any intentions she'd been nurturing of keeping a sensible distance vanished as he hugged her. Even the faint dusty smell of his jacket was familiar and comforting. The warmth of his embrace and kiss suggested he felt the same way.

‘I'm so glad to see you, Polly,' he said quietly as he stood back. ‘I kept having daft moments of worrying you wouldn't be here.'

She laughed, trying not to smile inanely.

‘Come on, let's get home. I'm parked over there.' She glanced round. ‘You're on your own?'

‘Of course.'

‘That friend of yours?'

‘I'd like you to meet before long, sure I would, but he could only manage a few days off work.'

She thought that sounded promising. It was going to be all right.

‘In any case, I wouldn't just turn up on your doorstep with a stranger – I'd have asked you before bringing him.' He laughed. ‘I'm learning, see?'

As they drove home, and she gave him an account of what she'd been doing, she sensed they were both holding any serious conversation back until later. She managed to keep her reproach about the lack of building progress lighthearted, but he was full of apology and regret all the same.

‘I'll explain,' he said, echoing the previous day's phone call. ‘It's a bit complicated, you know?'

‘Sure. Let's eat first, then you can tell me all about… What did you say he was called?'

‘Sorry, thought you knew. Vinko. He's Croatian.'

Alarm bells rang and Marilyn fell silent, concentrating on the road ahead. She'd spent the afternoon trawling the local news sites online for anything she could find. The murdered couple were described as ‘from former Yugoslavia'. Other than that, there was little more than she already knew. In a clip, Nicola Radcliffe appeared to be enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame, and her exaggerated performance together with a glimpse of her uncouth husband had been almost enough in itself to convince Marilyn of the young foreigner Vinko's lily-white innocence. She reminded herself again that none of it meant he necessarily had anything to do with any crime. And of course it could be a common name where Jay's friend came from. For all she knew, even in Holdwick there might be one or two other Vinkos going about perfectly ordinary lives.

Back at the house, Jay walked in as if he'd never been away, hung his coat and hat on the row of pegs by the door and paused to savour the homely smell that filled the kitchen.

‘I made us a winter stew. Even managed to salvage one or two bits from the veggie garden.'

‘Well done.' He grinned and busied himself setting the table, then went through to the living room to light the fire. She followed him a few moments later and saw him kneeling in front of the hearth, looking up at the photos as he waited for the flames to catch.

‘You framed them.'

He smiled as he looked round at her, but she paused before returning the favour.

‘There were one or two moments when I nearly unframed them again. Especially before you rang, when I hadn't a clue where the hell you'd got to. Whether you were coming back.'