Unsafe Convictions (40 page)

‘
So likely as not, we’ll never get to the bottom of it, will we?’ Rene remarked. ‘And we’ll have to draw our own conclusions, won’t we?’

‘
I’m afraid so,’ said McKenna.

‘
Well, personally, I think what she did is somehow tied up with what happened at the Willows, though I can’t for the life of me see how.’ Rene waited for a response, again in vain. ‘And what leads me to think that is what you might call a gut instinct, and it’s the same with that Julie Broadbent. Some folk reckon she’s gone into a convent and taken holy orders, but I don’t.’

‘
Don’t you?’ Jack asked. ‘Where do you think she is, then?’

‘
I think she’s gone to South America with Father Barclay, and the best of luck to her if she has. She might make something of herself away from this place. There’s nothing but bad memories here for her to dwell on.’ She rose, rather suddenly, and picked up the teapot. ‘I’ll make a fresh brew. You’re not in a rush, are you?’

‘
We’re not in a rush,’ McKenna agreed, gathering up an armful of used plates and following her inside. After the brilliant sunshine, the house seemed night-dark. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded, while Rene stood by the gas cooker, waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘
It’s still a rum do,’ she said, ‘but I suppose it couldn’t be anything else. You went through this town like a dose of salts.’ She paused. ‘And not just the town. The police didn’t come out of it too well, and for all you cleared Barry of wrongdoing his future doesn’t look too bright.’ The kettle began to rumble and she rinsed out the teapot. ‘Did you know Colin Bowden ditched his fiancée? He’s joined up with Warwick police again, and I’m not surprised, really. He never fitted in here. That silly Wendy Lewis didn’t, either. She’s retired sick, so I’m told.’ Dropping fresh tea bags in the pot, she asked: ‘Is it true her solicitor’s being taken to court? I saw something a couple of months ago in the
Manchester
Evening
News
about her getting committed for trial, but they couldn’t say why. Reporting restrictions, or something.’

‘
The case has been dropped,’ McKenna said.

‘
Why’s that?’

‘
It wouldn’t be worth the cost.’

‘
And is that why Linda didn’t get done for keeping quiet about the men who replied to the lonely hearts ads?’ She ignored the steaming kettle. ‘She nearly had a nervous breakdown waiting to hear, then all she got was a curt little letter off the police.’

‘
In the end, the information she suppressed wasn’t relevant.’

She
switched off the gas and filled the teapot. ‘Relevant to what? Who sat on Father Barclay’s letter, or who killed Trisha?’ There was no response. ‘Or are they one and the same?’ she asked, dropping a cosy on the pot. She stared at him. ‘You know who killed Trisha, don’t you?’

‘
We only have a suspicion.’

‘
That’s usually enough. Why can’t you take them to court?’ Again, he remained silent. ‘Why can’t you
tell
me?’ she demanded, tears springing to her eyes.

‘
You know why, Rene.’

‘
All I
know
,’ she said bitterly, ‘is that some of us have to struggle on as best we can without her, while whoever killed her is getting away with murder.’

‘
Not any longer.’

Both
sides of her mouth clamped between her teeth, she frowned up at him. ‘ “Not any longer”?’ she repeated. ‘Is Trisha’s killer dead? Is
that
what you mean?’ She picked up the pot and cradled it to her chest. ‘So which one was it? Ryman or that damned priest?’

McKenna
took the teapot from her and put it on a tray. ‘You’ll burn your hands.’

She
began setting out clean cups and saucers on the tray. ‘Julie Broadbent stayed away from the funeral, and now she’s disappeared off the face of the earth.
She
knows, doesn’t she?’

Almost
imperceptibly, McKenna nodded.

‘
Then maybe you should do Wendy Lewis a favour, and set
her
straight. Every Sunday and Wednesday, regular as clockwork, she puts fresh white lilies on Fauvel’s grave.’ Rene picked up the tray and made decisively for the back door. ‘God
rot
his wicked soul!’

If you enjoyed reading
Unsafe Convictions
you might be interested in
The House of Women
by Alison Taylor, also published by Endeavour Press.

Extract from
The House of Women
by Alison Taylor

FRIDAY, 17 AUGUST

1

HER IRRITATION INCREASING by the mile, Janet Evans drove back and forth three times between the roundabout by Safeway’s in Upper Bangor and the Antelope Inn by Menai Bridge before she found the name plate, all but hidden beneath a riotous growth of privet tumbling over a high brick wall beside the main road.

Glamorgan Place was a short, hilly cul-de-sac, well-tended and suburban, quiet in the torpor of an August afternoon. She parked by the kerb half-way up the right-hand side, feeling heat sear her face and bare arms as soon as she stepped from the car, and looked up at the large, attic-windowed Victorian villa which was home to a Mrs Edith Harris. Overhanging beech and horse chestnut trees secluded the house from its neighbours, dropped leafy shadows on shrubs and wilting perennials and parched lawns, and darkened the short gravelled drive to the front door, where an overweight girl of uncertain years suddenly appeared, beads of sweat hanging like dewdrops from her hairline and a fat tabby cat clinging to her shoulder.

‘I’m Detective Constable Evans,’ Janet said, holding out her warrant card. ‘From Bangor police. The doctor called us.’

The girl retreated into the hallway, treading in pools of coloured light which poured down the staircase from a stained glass window on the landing.

Stepping in the same pools, Janet asked: ‘Are your parents in?’

‘Mama’s upstairs with the doctor.’ The girl’s eyes clouded and she hefted the cat to her other shoulder. ‘He came to see Uncle Ned, but he was too late. He’s dead,’ she added mournfully.

Bathed in streams of the wonderful light on the elaborately carved staircase, Janet turned. ‘How d’you know?’

‘I saw him.’ The girl trudged off down the hall, the cat’s bright eyes looking over her shoulder.

A faded, once pretty woman in a shapely dress hovered at the turn of the stairs, her skin and clothing vibrant with the same rich colours. ‘Did Phoebe tell you?’ she whispered, wringing her hands. ‘You can always tell, can’t you? Phoebe’s never seen a dead person before, but she knew, didn’t she?’ Her whole body shivered gently and Janet thought she must be of the same age as her own mother, marooned in that sterile time between biological redundancy and death. ‘I called the doctor right away, but he said the police would have to be told, and I can’t think why! Ned’s been ill for
years
, but the doctor won’t sign the death certificate.’ Her fingers snapped around Janet’s arm, cold and claw-like. ‘Can’t
you
tell him?’ she whispered urgently. ‘Can’t you
make
him sign it?’

Pulling herself away, Janet went up the remaining stairs and along a wide landing towards the room at the end, where a thin, grey man, clad despite the heat of the day in a high, stiff collar, a faded silk tie and a suit, slouched in a dark plush chair ornate with curlicues and carvings. A pair of wire spectacles hung awry from the end of his nose, his mouth was clamped shut and his wide-open eyes stared blankly into hers.

The doctor was ready to leave. ‘I can’t stay, and there’s nothing I can do, anyway, and although Mrs Harris would like nothing better, I can’t certify cause of death because I don’t know anything about the deceased.’ He shrugged on a pale linen jacket. ‘Edward Jones was one of Dr Ansoni’s patients and he’s on holiday until Monday.’

The air was sweet with flower scents, and dusty with the odour of old books and papers stacked in piles everywhere about the room. Beneath the open window stood a huge desk, littered with more books and documents, an ancient typewriter, and a scattering of pens and pencils and paperclips. Stepping around teetering columns of books, Janet placed her fingers on the dead man’s neck, eyes averted from his watery stare, and wondered fleetingly if the image of God were imprinted on his retina, as her father would claim. Striated with weals and marks, the cooling flesh was still beneath her own, undisturbed by any pulse of blood or twitch of life. He smelt of fresh air and ivory soap and death, and she felt suddenly nauseous.

‘You don’t need to check,’ the doctor said gently. ‘He’s definitely dead, even if I can’t say why, although it’s more than likely to be natural causes of some kind. Anyway, the autopsy will tell us.’

‘When did he die?’ Janet asked.

The doctor glanced at his watch. ‘A couple of hours ago at most, say between two and two thirty. Now I really must be off, so I’ll leave you to it.’

She heard his feet pound down the staircase, crunch over the gravel and away, then close behind her, felt Edith’s short panting breaths lift the hairs on her neck.

‘Did he sign it?’ Edith demanded. ‘Shall I call the undertaker?’

Edging her out of the room, the cloying smells sickening, Janet said: ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Harris, but we’ll have to inform the coroner. The doctor can’t determine the cause of death.’ Closing the door on the dead man’s eyes, she added: ‘Is he your brother? Only your daughter called him “Uncle Ned”.’

‘Of course he isn’t! And why do you have to involve the coroner?’

‘It’s standard procedure in cases of unexplained death,’ Janet said, wearily. ‘And the forensic team will have to examine the room. Nothing’s been disturbed, has it? They’ll need to know.’

‘Disturbed?’ Edith’s voice rose. ‘Of course it hasn’t!’ She paced the landing, then back, and stood close beside Janet, breath rasping, eyes hectic. ‘And don’t take any notice of Phoebe! She’ll make a mountain out of a grain of dirt!’

‘She hasn’t said anything, except that he’s dead.’

‘She will!’ Edith insisted. ‘Believe me, she will!’ She laughed, a sound like a horse in pain. ‘She’s already said somebody must have killed him. Isn’t that completely
ridiculous
?’

2

‘The ground’s sweating,’ Dewi Prys observed, elbows on the window sill of the CID office. ‘It smells like that tramp we had in the cells a few years back.’

‘So?’ Janet asked.

Watching a clutch of women fighting to board a bus, laden with plastic carrier bags from the new German supermarket, he added: ‘So, arguably, the earth’s a big body crawling with people the way we’re crawling with microbes.’

‘That’s hardly an original thought.’

‘It is for me.’ He swiped at a dead wasp, curled elliptically on the white paint, then unfastened another shirt button. ‘There’s not a breath of wind, everything’s covered in dust, and if the weather doesn’t break soon, we’ll run out of water.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ Janet snapped. ‘God, I wish you’d stop moaning. You get on my nerves! You’ll be complaining about the cold in a couple of months.’

‘Probably,’ Dewi agreed. ‘Christmas isn’t far away, is it? Has your pa written his Yuletide sermon yet?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him since I came back from holiday.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I haven’t.’

‘Seen your mother?’

‘She gets on my nerves almost as much as you. Nothing but questions, one after another! “Been anywhere nice, dear?”, “Met any nice people, dear?”, “Got anything planned, dear?”’

‘Your pa probably puts her up to it.’ Dewi smiled. ‘You should give her something worth reporting.’

‘Such as?’

He grinned. ‘A red-hot intrigue with Mr McKenna?’

‘That’s not funny!’ She flushed.

‘You fancy him, though. Don’t you?’

‘You’re unbelievably adolescent!’

‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ Dewi taunted. ‘Or whatever the saying is.’ Drifting away from the window to straddle a chair, he gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘Mind you, that bitch Denise probably put him off women for life. Why doesn’t he get a divorce and get shut of her properly?’

‘You’re needlessly nasty about her. She could be well rid of
him
, for all we know.’ She pushed aside her report on the demise of the old man in Glamorgan Place, and stretched. ‘Is he expected in today?’

‘Don’t think so. He’s just back for Griffiths’s retirement do.’

‘I hope he gets the promotion.’

‘It’s supposed to be a foregone conclusion.’ He admired the arch of her body as she stretched again. ‘And as soon as he moves up the ladder from Chief Inspector to Superintendent, there’s room for an enterprising detective constable like me who’s passed his sergeant’s exam.’

‘The questions must have been particularly easy that day.’

‘You’re bitchier than usual at the moment,’ Dewi said, rising from his seat, ‘so I presume it’s that time of the month. Anyway, I’m off to see a man about a car. Ring me if you want anything.’

‘You’re buying a new car?’ she asked, trying to ignore the jibe. ‘What sort?’

‘One that doesn’t blow its guts apart every time I try to start the engine.’ Lingering by her desk, he scanned the half-written report, then asked: ‘How was Edward Jones related to Edith Harris?’

‘Third cousin twice removed, or somesuch. He was a sort of lodger.’ She brushed away a tiny withered leaf which had drifted through the window and settled on the desk. ‘It’s a shame his own GP’s on holiday, because the locum obviously couldn’t certify cause of death. Mrs Harris was really upset when I said we’d have to notify the coroner, and I thought she was going to throw a fit when uniform arrived with forensics.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ Dewi said. ‘D’you think they’ll find anything?’

‘It’s probably natural causes. Heart attack, or something. He wasn’t young.’

‘No signs of violence? Nothing suspicious?’

‘According to Mrs Harris, he didn’t have an enemy in the world.’

‘People say things like that when they’re trying to pull the wool over your eyes.’

‘That’s almost exactly what her daughter said.’

Retrieving her pen, Janet added: ‘She’s called Phoebe.’

‘And why should Phoebe say that?’

‘Because she likes drama, apparently, and a natural death is far too prosaic.’ She shuddered gently. ‘She gave me the shivers. She’s fat and sort of lumpy, and she dresses like a bag lady, and she’s got these really strange eyes which look right through you, so if the old man
was
murdered, she probably did it.’