Sam pulled up to the kerb outside a detached house in the south of the city, close to a boutique-filled crossroads just a short drive from the motorway. A brand-new Mini stood on the curved tarmac driveway, underneath the kinks and curls of a twisted hazel tree that cast a shadow over a half-circle lawn. The roar of a plane broke the peace and calm as it passed close overhead, on its way to the nearby airport.
The front of the house was clad in roof tiles, so it looked as if there’d been a surplus when it was being built, but the size of the plot shouted wealth. If Henry Mason’s lifestyle had been aspirational, his sister-in-law had reached her goal.
‘Nice,’ Charlotte said, peering through the side window. ‘I bet she’ll make us take off our shoes.’
‘Somewhere like this?’ Sam said. ‘Too well mannered.’ He climbed out. Charlotte followed.
The driveway crunched under their feet, announcing their arrival, but no one appeared. They weren’t just checking out the movements of Claire Mason. They wanted dirt on Mason, to work out why he hung around in parks with flowers, and his wife’s relatives may be more amenable to slating him than his wife.
The doorbell was a loud chime, and there was a long pause before the door opened. The chain stayed on and wary eyes appeared in the crack.
‘Mrs Hadfield?’ Sam said, raising his identification. ‘DC Parker, Greater Manchester Police. This is DC Turner.’
The door was closed, to allow the chain to be taken off, and then it swung open to reveal a woman who was doing her best not to be in her forties. As she smiled, her teeth shone back too brightly, and her jumper revealed a cleavage that was too sprightly to be natural. Sam didn’t feel bad about noticing; it was meant to be that way. Her eyes were red.
‘I’m sorry, come on in,’ she said, and set off walking down the hallway. She was in jodhpurs and pumps, and as they followed her into the kitchen Sam glanced into one of the rooms. There were exercise machines and mirrors. The kitchen was large, with a central plinth containing a hob and a large silver duct hanging over it. The black granite twinkled and matched the shiny floor tiles that glinted in the spotlights in the pristine white ceiling.
‘You’re here about Henry, I presume,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ Sam said, confused about how she knew.
‘I’ve just seen it on the news,’ she said. ‘And call me Penny. I can’t believe it. How’s Claire?’
‘The news?’ Sam said.
‘Yes, didn’t you know?’ A flat screen TV attached to a wall was playing. Penny picked up a remote control and rewound the footage. After a few seconds, Brabham appeared, giving an impromptu press briefing outside the station.
Sam sighed. Brabham just couldn’t help himself. Sam hoped Claire Mason had been able to collect the children from school.
‘It’s simply awful, isn’t it?’ Penny said. Her accent sounded affected, as though she was trying too hard to enunciate. ‘Sit down please.’ She gestured to a gleaming white table in front of a large window before she walked over to a glass-fronted cupboard and took out two thin white cups. There was a pot of coffee bubbling in the corner. She looked down as she filled both cups. When she brought them over to the table her smile was fixed back on. As Sam and Charlotte settled down, Penny fetched a small jug of milk. She was the perfect host.
‘Is this where Claire has been staying?’ Sam said.
‘What do you mean?’ Penny said, looking surprised.
‘We know there’ve been marital problems and Claire has been staying away from home,’ Sam said. ‘And there’s a bag with clothes in over there.’ He pointed to a holdall in the corner of the kitchen.
Penny sagged in front of them. ‘Yes, she has, just for a few days.’ Her voice lost some of its confidence. ‘The boys, too.’
‘What’s behind it?’ Sam said.
Penny scowled. ‘He’s a man, what do you think?’ she said, and glanced at Charlotte.
‘If you mean Henry, we need more than that,’ Sam said. ‘If we don’t expose Henry’s life, we might not find out who killed him. Or why.’
‘It doesn’t seem fair to Claire.’
‘Neither is letting Henry’s killer stay free. This is no time for secrets.’
‘Claire was here all night,’ Penny said. ‘You can scrub her from your list of suspects. She came home with the children and stayed in. We drank wine and talked. Paul, my husband, will confirm it, if you want. Call his office. We annoyed him because the boys were running around and when he gets back from work he likes to relax.’
That was when Sam realised what was missing from the house: a heart. It was all appearance over warmth. No children. Just a large empty box filled with things to make it resemble a magazine article.
‘What did you talk about?’ Charlotte said. ‘And how did Claire seem?’
‘She was angry,’ Penny said. ‘She’s always been there for him and then he does – well, did – what he did.’
‘Which was what?’
‘It’s such a cliché, you know, but Henry had always been like that. He was jealous of us, but Paul has worked hard for everything. It didn’t bother us that they didn’t have as much money. I just wanted to spend time with my sister and my nephews, but I couldn’t because they argued whenever I went round. He thought I was judging them, but I wasn’t, and he tried too hard to match us. He took out loans and mortgages they couldn’t afford, so Claire had to go out to work too and all their money went on childcare. They just about got straight, but as soon as we moved here Henry decided he needed a bigger house.’ Penny shook her head. ‘It’s no one’s fault that we’ve got more money than them and he shouldn’t have felt bad about it, but he did, and it ate away at their marriage. He accused Claire of not loving him enough, of not respecting him. He said that she should look up to him because he was the man of the house but all she saw was failure.’
‘Would you describe him as a bully?’ Charlotte said.
‘No, just weak, but Claire loved him. At least she did, until he ground her down, and then
it
happened.’ Penny pulled a face when she said it.
‘It?’ Sam said.
‘Like I said, Henry was a cliché. Hair dye, jewellery that had more show than value. It was no surprise when something went on with the babysitter.’
‘When was this?’
‘A couple of months ago, but Claire only found out a fortnight ago, when she tried to get her to come round and she wouldn’t.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I don’t know, Claire wouldn’t go into details, but I know that she’d been trying really hard with Henry. They’d been doing that date-night fad, you know, where you set aside a night to pretend that you’re young lovers again. Henry had never really been interested but he went along with them, but Claire said he’d been getting a bit weird.’
‘What do you mean, weird?’ Sam said.
‘Look, it’s not my place to say. Things that go on between a husband and wife should stay private.’
‘She told you.’
‘I’m family.’
‘And Claire’s husband has been killed.’
Penny let out a long sigh. ‘I suppose you could say kinky. Claire said he’d become more forceful.’ She shook her head. ‘No, that’s not right. That isn’t how she described it. It was more about hurting her. It wasn’t about her enjoyment any more, it was just about his, and he liked hurting her, almost as if he resented her, and he talked about how he’d preferred her when she was younger. Can you imagine how that made her feel? So they have this date night but it doesn’t go well. He drove Molly home, the babysitter, and something happened. I don’t know what exactly, but that’s why Claire walked out.’
‘What else had Henry been getting up to?’ Charlotte said.
‘That’s all she told me. He was always in his study, looking at his computer. I don’t know what things he’d been getting into, but my sister loved him, and that was all that counted.’
And betrayal is a powerful emotion, Sam thought. Was it strong enough to provoke murder?
Joe quickened his pace as he walked through Piccadilly Gardens. It had once been a sunken patch of green used by the homeless and the junkies, a place to walk around, not through. It had been smartened up now, with shiny paving slabs and manicured grass, but still the menace lurked on the pavements. Youths patrolled their small patches outside the shops, mainly newsagents and convenience stores, to catch the commuters rushing to the nearby railway station, looking to barge and intimidate.
Where Joe was headed wasn’t much better. In an alleyway not far from the Gardens was Mother Mac’s, what purists would call a real pub, what others would call an example of why everywhere else had moved on. He’d never been there before, but he knew of it, a haunt for City fans and Irish Loyalists.
Joe was looking for Proctor’s sister. He’d mentioned where she worked, and she was a link to Proctor’s past. If he was going to carry through with his promise, he needed to be sure he was right. He was starting to doubt himself. He’d dealt with so many trials where identification had become confused. He knew too well the mantra about how a mistaken witness can be a convincing witness. Joe was sure he’d got it right, but his legal instincts told him he needed more than that. He’d lived for so long with just a flash of memory, the glance backwards. He needed to know about Mark Proctor, his history, his background, so that when he took his vengeance for Ellie, he wasn’t making a mistake.
As Joe turned into the narrow street that led to Mother Mac’s, litter flapped around his ankles. The walls on either side were smeared with graffiti and sealed off by metal grilles, or else hummed with air-conditioning units that cooled the chain-pub on the other side of the block. Mother Mac’s was on a corner, with green railings over the windows. As dreary as it was outside, it didn’t improve much when he went inside.
The bar was old wood, with four alcoves of worn-out seating that seemed to merge with the carpet. Tankards hung from the ceiling and a quiz machine flashed and beeped in one corner. The tables were scuffed, the chairs old and uncomfortable. Joe knew he stood out in his suit, most of the clientele were old men in worn-out shirts, seeing the world through rheumy eyes and murky pint glasses. There was no free Wi-Fi in this place. One red-faced man held the floor with his beer-soaked opinions, drawing bored nods from anyone pretending to listen.
There were two women behind the bar. One stood with her arms folded, challenging, trying to keep charge of her customers. She was younger, with a pierced nose and a dark tattoo curling up the back of her hand. The other woman was nearer forty, her ginger hair pulled back tightly, high pale cheekbones and pretty, but she looked weary as she changed a bottle on the optics.
‘Bitter please,’ Joe said, when the younger woman approached him. She was suspicious of him as she poured, no word spoken yet. He knew she wasn’t the right woman.
When she put the glass on the bar, he said, ‘I’m looking for Melissa.’
The woman by the optics looked round but the woman serving said, ‘Who’s asking?’
‘I am,’ Joe said. ‘You heard me.’
A man further along the bar put his glass down and looked across. He planted his feet further apart, staking out his territory. He was wiry-thin, his knuckles prominent like his cheekbones, his face hollowed out with the look of a man who kept fit in a boxing gym.
‘I’m a solicitor,’ Joe said. ‘I’m looking for Melissa Proctor.’
‘There’s no Melissa Proctor here,’ the woman said.
‘I was told there was.’
The man further along said, ‘I think you got your answer, pal.’ There was menace in every syllable. ‘Have your drink and go.’
Joe was in the mood for him, tension still wound up tightly inside him, but he wouldn’t get what he wanted by brawling. ‘I’m not here to cause any trouble,’ he said.
The man smirked and looked round to a group of men sitting by the quiz machine. ‘That was never my concern.’
The woman by the optics put the empty bottle on the bar and said to the man, ‘It’s all right, I’ve got this.’ She turned to Joe. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’
‘Melissa?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’d rather do this somewhere more private,’ Joe said, and he gestured towards an empty alcove surrounded by pictures of old Manchester and a flag exhorting people to
SUPPORT
OUR
TROOPS
.
She shrugged and came round to join Joe.
Away from the harsh lights of the bar, Melissa seemed more relaxed. She was slim and tall, elegant in her own way, at least as much as you can be in tight jeans and pumps. Blue eyes that glinted when she smiled, her teeth even and white.
She sat down opposite Joe and said, ‘Don’t pay any attention to the customers. They look after each other, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, it has that feel.’
‘Never any fights,’ she said. ‘They just get suspicious of outsiders. Worried they might be police or something. Maybe even United fans on a wrecking mission.’
Joe looked down at his suit. ‘Do I look like a football hooligan?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ she said, smiling now. ‘So what can I do for you?’
He handed her his business card. ‘My name’s Joe Parker.’ As she scrutinised it, he said, ‘I need to speak to you.’
She tapped it on her knuckles. ‘Is this from Peter? We’ve agreed everything, the flat has been transferred, there’s nothing he can do.’
‘Peter?’
‘My ex-husband. Has he changed solicitors to you?’
‘No, I’m sorry, it’s nothing to do with him.’
She looked confused. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘It’s about your brother, Mark.’
As soon as he said it, her jaw set and the warm gleam in her eyes turned cold. She started to stand when Joe reached across the table and held out his hand. ‘No, please don’t. I need to talk about him.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
‘You might be able to help.’
Her eyebrows shot upwards and her head tilted. ‘Help? You’re kidding me. He’ll get no help from me. Ever.’
She stormed back behind the bar, suddenly finding plenty to do.
Joe watched her go. He hadn’t achieved much, except he knew now that Mark Proctor wasn’t attracting much family loyalty.
He left his beer and didn’t look behind as he left the pub, the creak of the door and clink of glasses replaced by the deep rumble and fumes of a passing bus. But he knew he’d be back. Whatever family secret engendered such hostility, it was one worth knowing.