Verdict Unsafe (37 page)

He just kept saying everything would be all right. She couldn’t imagine everything ever being all right again. And she wondered how poor Steve was getting on now that she had set the police on him again.

“Stephen Morgan?”

“Yes,” said the man who had answered the door two-thirds of the way up the Parkside high-rise. “Can I help you?”

“Oxygen would go down quite well,” puffed Lloyd. “Your lift’s out of order. DCI Lloyd, Stansfield CID.” He showed him his card while trying not to look as though he were gasping for air.

“You’d better come in.”

Lloyd gratefully sat down, and waited a moment before attempting to speak.

“It’s a bugger, isn’t it?” said Morgan. “It’ll probably be on again before you go. It’s kids—they jam it. Someone’11 find whatever it is and unjam it.”

Lloyd was very glad he hadn’t come to arrest the man. It would have been very embarrassing. “Right,” he said, when he felt that his breath had been sufficiently restored. “I believe you know a Mrs. Carole Jarvis?”

“Yes—is she all right?” he asked, alarmed.

“Oh, yes, yes. I would just like confirmation of when you saw her last, that’s all.”

“Is she missing?”

“No. She’s perfectly all right, and at home.” Lloyd frowned. “Why are you so worried that something might have happened to her?” he asked.

“Oh … no reason. A visit from the police—you know.”

“I would just like to know when you saw her last.”

“Yesterday.”

“At what time?”

“Oh, now … let me see. I know she was here at nine, when the fireworks started—see.” He pointed to the window. “We had a terrific view from the balcony here. There have to be some compensations, I suppose.”

“Nine,” said Lloyd, distrusting anyone who could produce an alibi for the very moment of death.

“Well, she came a few minutes before that. She only stayed for the first display, so she was here altogether … twenty, twenty-five minutes?”

Lloyd wandered over to the window. He doubted if a man-eating tiger would get him out on that balcony. He could see the lights of Malworth proper beyond the darkness that was the park. Closer to, he could see the orange streetlights shine down on the little cobbled streets and alleys where Ginny and Lennie lived. Down beneath him, lit by the windows of the high-rise, the huge charred circle which was all that remained of the Malworth bonfire.

The rapist hadn’t been able to dump his clothes there because of the vigilantes, so he had gone into Stansfield. Rob Jarvis had watched him dump them there, on stansfield’s bonfire. He had assumed that it was Drummond, but one man on a motorbike looked very much like another, as Lloyd had pointed out to Judy.

But did Matt Burbidge have a motorbike? Could he get away with not getting to work until after eleven? He was on his own; perhaps he could. And yet, hadn’t Finch said that there were caretakers there until ten-thirty, when the security firm took over? They would have to be spoken to, obviously.

He had thought for a few furious and bewildered moments this evening that he had let Judy’s obsession with Drummond get to him. Now, he wondered if it wasn’t Case’s obsession with Burbidge that had got to him; that they should all truly be keeping open minds.

“Chief Inspector?”

Lloyd turned. “Oh!” he said. “I do beg your pardon. It’s been a very long day. I was …” He made circular movements with his hands. “… working out the geography,” he said.

“It’s easier in daylight.”

“I imagine so. Mr. Morgan—it occurs to me that Mrs. Jarvis was unlikely to have come here purely to watch the first half of a firework display.”

Morgan sat down heavily. “No,” he said. “She came to stay. I wouldn’t let her.”

Lloyd raised his eyebrows.

“I want to be with her just as much as she wants to be with me,” he said. “More, probably. If that dreadful thing hadn’t happened, I doubt if I would have had a look-in once her husband was back. But it did happen, and it changed him, not her. I didn’t want her to be anywhere he knew to look. I think we have to plan this—move somewhere he can’t find her. I think he could be dangerous. He’s threatened to kill her now. That’s why I was worried about her.”

Lloyd nodded. Well, Mr. Jarvis might be taking care of that problem himself. He couldn’t do much to her banged up in the Scrubs, as Finch would doubtless have pointed out, had he been here.

“Anyway—I suppose Carole is bound to be a suspect,” he said. “It is Drummond’s murder that you’re investigating, isn’t it?”

Lloyd had perfected a facial expression that seemed like a response and could mean anything at all.

“But she was here. And I had some friends here who
did
come to watch the firework display. They’ll vouch for the fact that she was here from just before nine until about twenty past—and that she didn’t shin down the drainpipe and murder Drummond. I dropped her off home at nine thirty-five or so.”

“Dropped her off?” said Lloyd. “Wasn’t she in her own car?”

“No. She came by cab.” He found a sheet of paper on his comfortingly untidy desk, and scribbled on it.

That was odd, thought Lloyd, absently taking the paper.

“The addresses of the people who were here,” Morgan said.

“Oh—yes. Thank you, Mr. Morgan. You’ve been most helpful.”

The lift graciously allowed him to descend; he tried not to breathe through his nose—not to breathe at all, come to that.
He was not at all sure he wouldn’t have preferred the stair. Back at the station, he was told that the search of the Fredericks residence was complete: no cartridge had been found. He released Lennie, thus giving him back responsibility for the unwell and unhappy Ginny, and decided that Matt Burbidge could wait until tomorrow. He had fences to mend.

They had talked about themselves, mostly. And a lot about Lloyd, a little about Michael, Judy’s ex. A little about his ex, with whom he still had a friendly relationship. A little about Freddie. Now, a silence had fallen, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Judy liked Hotshot. He always seemed to be faintly amused; he didn’t take anything much very seriously, except his job. That was why he and his wife had split up, he said. He didn’t think he was cut out for a serious relationship; he liked to take things as they came, and leave them when he wanted to. There was something calming, something soothing about that; it was very undemanding, unthreatening. And it seemed to her that he was a very good man to have around when you were in trouble; he didn’t make matters worse by getting into a state about it.

“If I am charged with murder, will you defend me?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

He smiled. “I think you know why not,” he said.

Judy looked at him, and smiled back. She picked up the bottle, and held it inquiringly over his glass.

“It depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On whether or not I’m driving.”

She thought about it; thought about the sheer relief that a cheerful, uncomplicated liaison, free from emotional entanglements, would bring. She thought about it, then put the bottle down again, a little reluctantly.

“Pity,” he said. “It could be fun.”

“I’m sure it would be,” said Judy. “We could make all these jokes about sliding down barristers and watching briefs.”

He smiled. “But you think that sex should be some sort of a commitment?”

“No,” said Judy. “I don’t, really. Not even when I’m sober.” She poured the wine into her own glass. “But I know a man who does,” she said. “And that’s very important to me.”

“Then why are you ringing up near total strangers and inviting them to bed with you?” Hotshot inquired, still smiling.

“I did not invite you to bed.”

“Yes, you did.”

“All right—yes, I did,” Judy conceded. “But I canceled the invitation.”

“I didn’t get that far along the tape.”

“Yes, you did.”

He laughed. “And I thought I was on a promise,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” said Judy. “I shouldn’t have rung you—I was hurt, and angry, and—well, I shouldn’t have rung.” She looked back into the kind, amused gray eyes that looked into hers. “Look—I’ve messed everything up,” she said. “My job’s on the line. Maybe so’s my freedom, for all I know. But if it’s not there already, my relationship with Lloyd’s not joining them.”

“Even though he makes you hurt and angry?” Hotshot’s eyes were still amused.

“He only does that because I make
him
hurt and angry,” said Judy.

“Sounds like a wonderful relationship.”

“It is.”

“Good.”

Hotshot managed to get up from the carpet gracefully; Judy wasn’t even going to try without assistance.

“Why on earth don’t you marry the man?” he asked, holding out his hand and helping her to her feet.

Judy might have answered, had the door not opened, and Lloyd appeared. She and Hotshot were holding
hands
. Still, if her mental coin had landed the other way, it could have been a great deal worse.

“I’m sorry,” he said coldly. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining.”

“I’m not,” said Judy. “I’m quite drunk, but I’m not in the
least entertaining. Lloyd, this is—” She looked at him, and giggled. “I don’t know your first name,” she said.

“James,” he said.

“This is James Harper, and James, this is Lloyd. I do know his first name, but I’m not allowed to tell you it.”

“How do you do?” said Hotshot, admirably bearing up to Lloyd’s less than friendly handshake. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Don’t let me break anything up,” said Lloyd.

“I was just leaving,” said Hotshot, smiling, picking up his jacket, making for the door.

Judy went with him. “Thank you,” she said. “I think I did need a good lawyer. You cheered me up.”

“You’re welcome. And I’m sure it won’t come to it, but if you do really need a good … well, I can give you the name of a very good lawyer. It’s the same as mine—he’s my father.”

“The other Harper,” Judy said. “I’ll bear that in mind.” She closed the door.

“What was he doing here?” demanded Lloyd.

Judy smiled. “Giving me advice,” she said.

“It didn’t look like that,” said Lloyd. “And how much have you had to drink?”

Judy focused on the wine bottles. “He had about a glassful, I suppose,” she said. “I had the rest.” She squinted at them. “There’s still some in one of them if you want a glass,” she said. “And you’re right—it very nearly
wasn’t
like that.” She knew she was only saying this because she’d had far too much to drink, but she was going to tell him anyway. “I came this close,” she said, holding her finger and thumb a millimeter apart.

“I hope you didn’t deny yourself on my account,” he said, picking up a newspaper, pretending to be terribly interested in something that had just happened to catch his eye.

“No,” said Judy. “I didn’t.”

He looked up.

“There was no self-denial involved,” she said. “It wasn’t him I wanted. It was you.”

“Why?” asked Lloyd. “He’s twenty years younger than I
am, he’s handsome, got all his hair—he’s rich and successful. You seem to like him.”

Judy nodded, then giggled again. “But he was ten years old when we met,” she said.

Lloyd put down the paper, and his arms were around her, and he wasn’t walking out on her, or yelling at her, or demanding an account of the entire evening. He was saying he was sorry for what he’d said, that he had never thought for one moment that she had done any such thing, that he could have cut his tongue out—

She held a finger to his lips, and she told him
she
was sorry. About everything. Hotshot, everything. She had been wrong— Hotshot had explained about how Drummond could have given her that statement, and she had been wrong, and now they were in this awful mess, and it was all her fault. And she was sorry about everything else. She
had
been shutting him out, but she hadn’t honestly meant to, it was just that she was afraid to let go of what she had in case what she got wasn’t what she wanted, so he was in a different compartment. In a way.

Lloyd shook his head slightly. “I think I got most of that,” he said. “Are you aware that your speech is slurred and your breath smells of alcohol, madam?”

“I’m drunk,” she said.

“No!”

“Do you want to know what Hotshot’s advice was?” she asked. “He thinks I should marry you. So do I.”

“Well, you did say you probably would.”

“Definitely,” she said, definitely. “I’m sorry, Lloyd. I’m sorry I’ve messed you about for so long.”

“Are you remorseful enough—or drunk enough—to put a date on this definite marriage?” he asked.

She nodded. “When you retire,” she said.

He smiled. “Well, that’s something to look forward to when I’m drawing the old-age pension,” he said. “Just another fifteen years to go.”

“No! When you retire from the job.”

He laughed. “That could be next month,” he said. “Especially if you get done for murder.”

“Then I’ll marry you next month,” she said. “Will you marry me? If I’m being done for murder?”

“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you—and I don’t do this for all my customers—I’ll let you reconsider your proposal when you’re sober.”

“I’ll say the same when I’m sober.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to make you something to eat.”

Judy sat down on the sofa, her knees a little stiff from her evening on the floor. Lloyd always fed her when things got a bit emotional. She could hear him busying himself in her kitchen; he would find things to make into a proper meal. She never could. Funny—she would have thought he’d have been huffy for days about finding her with Hotshot, but he had taken it in his stride.

She was starving, she realized, when a mixed grill and chips made its appearance.

“Not exactly what I had in mind for the birthday meal,” he said. “But I expect you’ll like it better anyway.”

She sobered up enough as she ate for him to bring her up to date with work, at her request. His latest theory had bloomed and died before she had even had a chance to vet it.

“But it’s another little puzzle,” he said. “Isn’t it? Why would she make what was an immense effort to make herself go into the garage, and then not use her car? I mean, I know she had a thing about it as well, but the garage was the big thing. Once she’d done that—why would she stick at the car?”