‘NICK, I THINK Reverend Fisher’s beating his wife.’
He said nothing, simply laughed in Mia’s face.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You are,’ he said. ‘You think he’s too much of a saint to be shagging the sister-in-law, and then you tell me he’s knocking his wife about.’
They were going down the stairs to police reception (the lift was still broken) where Bryan Baxter was waiting. DCI Wells had decided to accompany Jack to his interview at the Discipline and Complaints department, so they were to question Mr Baxter without him.
‘But I’ve seen the evidence, Nick – bloody great bruises all over her arms. We can’t pin this one on Joey and Syed.’
‘Is she willing to testify?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Then there’s nothing we can do.’
‘I know, but … Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
They found Bryan Baxter sitting on the wooden bench opposite the desk. He was chatting easily with the duty sergeant, but his body language was tight and cautious. Not that that meant anything; most people were apprehensive in a police station.
‘Mr Baxter,’ said Nick, holding out a hand. ‘Good of you to come.’
‘What’s this about? The chap on the phone wouldn’t tell me.’
Neither of the detectives responded; they wanted him sitting down first before divulging any details.
‘Would you come this way, sir?’ said Mia.
They were using interview room number one because it had a window that actually opened. The air was very close that morning. Baxter settled into a chair opposite them, his wary gaze taking in the sleaziness of the cramped space.
‘Will you be recording me?’ he asked with a nervous grin.
‘No need,’ said Mia. ‘We just want some information.’
‘About what?’
The man was formally dressed in a suit and tie. While Nick found a fresh page in his note pad Baxter loosened the tie, undid the top button of his shirt. He was sweating. Quite a lot, Mia noticed.
Nick sat back heavily. ‘How long have you been in England, sir?’
‘I got in yesterday morning. Why?’
‘So you won’t know we’ve found a body in a local cemetery….’
‘Whatever next?’ said Baxter, grinning.
Nick shifted his weight in the chair. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, sir… We identified the body last night. It’s your missing girlfriend, Rebecca Crawford.’
That disclosure had an unusual effect on the man. For a count of about five seconds he remained still, looked totally relaxed. Then he bent forward as though he’d been winded, was staring at the table top with wide eyes.
‘We’re really sorry you had to find out like this,’ said Mia.
Baxter’s eyes flooded and tears coursed down his cheeks. He fished a linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at the tears. ‘I suppose a part of me always knew she couldn’t still be alive,’ he said. ‘When did you find her?’
‘Last Monday, sir. The church was having a plot prepared for a burial. Rebecca was discovered as it was being dug.’
‘But she didn’t know anybody in Larchborough. What was she doing here?’
‘We were hoping you’d throw some light on that,’ said Nick. ‘That’s why we asked you to come in. We’ve got the case notes from when Rebecca went missing, but they’re not telling us much.’
‘There’s not much to tell. I know it’s a cliché but Becky simply disappeared into thin air.’ Baxter sat back, shrugged helplessly and blew his nose.
Nick said, ‘Could you give us some background, starting from just before Rebecca went missing?’
‘It was years ago.’
‘Just try,’ said Mia.
Baxter licked his lips, gazed narrow-eyed into a corner of the room as he mentally revisited the past. ‘Becky went missing on a Friday. We were going out for a meal that evening to celebrate the fact she’d got a buyer for the gymnasium she’d been setting up. I was going to propose over dessert—’
He stopped abruptly, seemingly overcome with emotion. The detectives shared a telling glance.
‘She was selling the gym?’ said Mia. ‘There was no mention in the notes.’
‘Perhaps the police thought it had no bearing on the case.’
Nick was watching the man closely. ‘We thought you were in Switzerland when Rebecca went missing.’
‘I was. I mean, I was due to make my flight after the meal. When Becky stood me up I went anyway.’ He made a choking sound, put the handkerchief to his eyes. ‘I kept calling her but she never picked up. I called our friends but nobody had seen her….’
‘How long were you away?’
‘I came back the following weekend, after our main business was completed. I’d started to panic by then.’
‘You said Rebecca stood you up on the Friday,’ said Mia. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your relationship had reached the point where you were planning to propose. You’d actually bought a ring. You were going to give it to her over dinner. Why think she’d just stood you up? Why didn’t you start to panic then instead of a week later?’
‘We were busy people,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘We had a lot going on. It didn’t cross my mind that anything might be wrong.’
‘You were living separately at the time?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes, we’d always planned to move in together but it never happened. We were in a bit of a rut, to be honest.’
‘How long had you been together?’
‘About two years.’
‘Were you excited about the baby?’ Mia asked.
Baxter shot her a puzzled look. ‘What baby?’
‘The baby Rebecca was expecting.’
‘There wasn’t a baby,’ said Baxter. ‘Becky miscarried at eight weeks.’
Mia stared at him, taken aback. ‘I’m so sorry – those misleading notes again. When did she lose it?’
Baxter puffed out his cheeks. ‘It happened just before Christmas so … about five months before she disappeared.’
‘She must have been very upset.’
‘She was philosophical about it. The pregnancy was a shock more than anything. A baby would’ve interfered with her plans for the gym.’
‘And yet a few months later she put the gym up for sale.’
‘Things happen, plans change,’ Baxter said, shrugging. ‘I think she was more relieved than upset when she lost it. There was plenty of time for us to start a family … or so we thought.’
‘We know you had to travel a lot with your job,’ said Nick, ‘but did Rebecca ever leave Nuneaton?’
‘Yes, quite often in fact. She still had clients in London—’
‘In her capacity as a personal trainer?’
‘That’s right. Becky had many high-profile clients. It’s a very lucrative business.’
‘How would she get to London?’ asked Nick. ‘By car? Train?’
‘She used to drive. Why?’
‘I was just thinking – the M1 would take her past Larchborough. The junction’s not far from town, so that’s one way to place her in the vicinity.’
‘You’re right,’ said Baxter, almost clapping his hands in glee. ‘She was due to travel down.’
‘There you go,’ said Nick, keeping his tone light and his dislike for Baxter concealed. He didn’t believe a word. The man was thinking on his feet.
‘So Rebecca was quite stable financially,’ said Mia.
‘Yes, things were good. Couldn’t have been better, until …’
‘You’re staying in Milton Keynes at the moment,’ said Nick.
‘Yes. My sister’s in the middle of a crisis. I’m helping her sort it out.’
‘How long will you be staying?’
‘Till it’s sorted. I’m officially on two weeks’ leave, but if I need longer there won’t be a problem. My bosses are very flexible.’
‘Will you be visiting Nuneaton?’
‘Why should I?’
‘It’s where you come from. I just thought …’
‘I was born in Milton Keynes. My relatives – what’s left of them – are still there. I only moved to Nuneaton because of work.’
‘Is that where you met Rebecca?’ asked Mia.
‘Yes.’
‘And you were together for two years,’ she said, consulting her notes.
‘About that, yes.’
She gave him a puzzled glance. ‘The case notes state that you were the sole recipient in Rebecca’s will. Why was that?’
Baxter shrugged. ‘Why not? We were totally committed to each other. She was to have everything of mine if I went first.’
‘What about her family?’
‘There was no family. I was all she had.’
‘What happened to the gym?’ asked Nick.
‘I told you. We’d found a buyer.’
‘But a missing person’s assets are frozen for a good seven years.’
‘True, but my name was on the deeds so the sale went through.’
Nick’s eyes widened. ‘Your name was on the deeds?’
‘Yes, didn’t I say?’
‘How come?’
‘It was a joint venture. I put up the money and Becky was going to run it. I can show you the paperwork, if you like.’
‘What about the equipment?’
‘It was sold as a going concern. Everything was in the price.’
‘Did you make a profit?’
‘A small one. Nothing to write home about.’
There was silence for a few moments while they got those points down on paper, Baxter squinting to read the upside-down writing.
Mia turned to Nick. ‘D’you reckon we’ve got enough?’
‘I should think so … for now.’ He gave Baxter a broad smile. ‘Thanks for coming in, sir. We appreciate it.’
‘I can go?’ Relief passed briefly across Baxter’s eyes, but then his face showed irritation. ‘Why couldn’t we have done this over the phone? It was hardly worth coming in.’
Nick said, ‘We did offer to come to you but you didn’t want your sister upset. Remember?’
‘True,’ said Baxter, pushing back his chair.
Nick passed across a page from his note pad. ‘Could you give us your mobile number, please? We’ll need to keep you informed.’
Out in the car park Baxter approached his sister’s blue Nissan with sluggish steps, sat in the driver’s seat for many moments, quietly contemplating. And behind reception’s double doors the detectives watched him avidly.
‘Who was it said good liars need good memories?’ Mia asked Nick.
‘Dunno, but one thing’s for sure … they didn’t tell that bastard out there.’
‘He was in Nuneaton when she disappeared?’ Wells said into his mobile.
‘So he’s saying now,’ Nick replied.
Wells let out a brittle laugh. ‘What a twat.’
‘That’s what we thought, sir.’
‘OK, mate, this is good. Get it all on the whiteboard. We’ll start on Mr Baxter as soon as I get back.’
‘Give Jack our best, sir.’
Wells pocketed his phone. ‘It was Nick,’ he said, in answer to Jack’s querying glance. ‘We’ve got some movement on the murder case. We’re gonna need you sooner rather than later.’
Jack straightened his tie for the umpteenth time. ‘What if the charge goes ahead?’
‘It won’t, mate.’
‘But—’
‘It won’t,’ Wells insisted. ‘Christ, Jack, ever heard of positive thinking?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
The waiting-room at Discipline and Complaints was sparse but sleek, its decor a calming mix of cream and green. They sat in tubular steel framed chairs upholstered in green leather. A water cooler stood in one corner, and potted plants sat on most of the beech wood surfaces.
‘Posh here,’ said Jack.
Wells bristled beside him. He was thinking of Silver Street’s broken lift, the antiquated heating system, their toilet block that had been state-of-the-art in the dark ages. ‘Don’t get me started, mate.’
The words had hardly left his lips when a door was pulled open to their right and Inspector May ushered Jack into an adjacent office.
As Wells followed, May said to Jack, ‘You’ve brought your solicitor. Very wise.’
Wells introduced himself, his face puce with the effort of holding his temper. ‘No need for a solicitor,’ he said.
The office held six desks, at which officers worked in silence. The atmosphere was hostile, claustrophobic, and Jack’s already taut nerves jangled. They were led to a corner desk and told to sit.
Inspector May fixed Jack with a steely glance. ‘You’re here, as you’re aware, DC Turnbull, because Jason Perry has alleged that on Monday the twenty-second of June you assaulted him in such a way as to occasion actual bodily harm. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Wells reared up in his seat. ‘What the…?’
May ignored him, turned instead to Jack. ‘Do you have anything to say?’
Jack nodded, but was unable to speak immediately. He’d been cautioned. Bloody hell. The noose was tightening around his neck, and it took all of his inner strength to resist turning to Wells and pleading with him to do something. Those officers supposedly working so hard at their desks would love that.
‘Perry’s lying, sir. I didn’t touch him. He was the one using his fists. I was trying to cuff him, that’s all.’
‘Our witness says otherwise,’ May countered.
‘Our witness?’ said Wells. ‘What do you mean our witness? We’re supposed to be on the same bloody side.’
Inspector May gave Wells a fleeting glance. ‘The witness states that DC Turnbull started the fight,’ he said, sorting through papers on his desk. ‘It’s our job to weed out troublemakers, those officers who give the force a bad name.’
Jack’s stomach gave a sickening roll. ‘But I’m not a troublemaker, sir. Perry’s lying.’
‘And the witness is lying too?’
‘She must be.’
‘Jack was beaten unconscious,’ said Wells. ‘Look at his face. He’s not long left the hospital.’
Inspector May studied Wells. ‘And Mr Perry is still in hospital. In a very bad way, we’ve been told.’
‘So you’d rather believe a lying scumbag with a list of offences as long as your arm. So much for solidarity in the ranks.’
‘It’s not my job to believe anybody, Chief Inspector. I leave that to the courts.’
Wells let out a staccato laugh. ‘You’re not letting this go any further, surely.’
‘We’ll be sending all paperwork to the Crown Prosecution Service, yes.’
Wells was speechless; incredulity lengthened his jowls as he stared at the inspector. He rose from the chair, looked down on May from his imposing height. ‘You’re a tosser – do you know that? You’re all tossers.’
‘Sit down, Chief Inspector.’
‘Perry’s solicitor’s going for compensation,’ he said. ‘That lying toe rag’s gonna be quids in.’
‘Sit down, Chief Inspector.’
‘Not Jack though. No, Jack’ll be forced to claim benefits … benefits that arseholes like Jason fucking Perry haven’t contributed one penny towards.’
‘Sit down,’ May bawled. ‘This is my jurisdiction and I will have you forcibly removed if you do not sit down right now.’
They locked eyes, their battle of wills enduring until Jack gave his boss a solicitous look. ‘Do it, sir … please.’
Wells sat down. ‘You haven’t heard the last of me,’ he told May. ‘I’ll be fighting this.’
‘I dare say you will.’ The Inspector had been holding a sheet of paper. He passed it now to Jack, along with a silver Parker pen. ‘Read that carefully, please. Sign at the bottom.’
It was a Regulation 7 notice; it told police and court officials that the defendant had been made aware of the alleged crime brought against him. Jack scanned the brief details and signed on the dotted line, his hand shaking terribly.
‘That’s perfect,’ said May, retrieving the form. ‘Now, DC Turnbull, you need to contact the Federation. They’ll see you’re allocated a good solicitor.’
Parliament Street was busy with traffic and exhaust fumes hung in the air while passersby babbled loudly. DCI Wells, however, was uncharacteristically quiet. He felt impotent; worried, too, that he might have been more of a hindrance than a help.
‘Thanks for trying, sir,’ said Jack, as though reading his thoughts.
‘I haven’t even started yet.’
‘What do we do now?’
Wells sighed heavily. ‘We get you that solicitor.’
By midday Mia was desperate to leave the office. Wells had phoned in with the news about Jack. They were taking a long lunch, he’d said; the entire force could go fuck itself. There was no mention of his earlier threat to pack it all in whilst hoping fervently that the big bosses might choke on his pension. It had been an idle threat, of course. No one in CID had for one moment imagined that Jack would actually be charged. But now the case was being handed to the Crown Prosecution Service, with no guarantees that they’d see sense and throw it out.
Everything was changing too quickly. Mia’s cosy routine was being blasted to hell in a handcart. No more weekly trips to see her mother (who’d have thought she’d miss those so much?). No more happy bantering with Jack. Even Nick was changing. It was as though he’d been taken over by an entity from Planet Nice. Mia wanted the old version back. She knew where she stood with that one.
So at one o’clock, when Nick had asked yet again if she was OK – that weirdly concerned look on his face – Mia had grabbed her bag, muttered something about going to Boots, and then lurched out of the office.
She was standing outside Boots now, but she didn’t go inside. Instead she crossed the road to Pencil Case, the discount stationery shop where Perry’s witness, Valerie Clarke, worked as a customer service assistant.
She was perusing the correction fluids – not that she ever used them – whilst surreptitiously studying the staff. There were three women on duty – lunchtime being their busiest period – and none of them wore a name badge. Mia was wondering how she could identify Mrs Clarke when another of the assistants did it for her.
‘Here, Val,’ the girl called from the back of the shop, ‘do you reckon I’ve got enough meerkats on this display?’
‘More than enough,’ said the woman behind the till.
So that was Valerie Clarke. She was plump; late thirties, perhaps; with blonde hair that showed dark at the roots.
As Mia stood in the cramped aisle, being jostled by other customers, she wondered what to do next. Why had she come here? She couldn’t interrogate the woman, couldn’t beg her to withdraw her statement. She’d just have to improvize.
Remembering that Mrs Clarke reared Yorkshire terriers, she picked up an address book with two cute examples of the breed on its hard-backed cover – really cheap at one pound fifty – and approached the till. The woman in front was purchasing three paperback novels for a fiver, and chatting with Valerie about last night’s episode of Eastenders. Apparently Phil Mitchell was about to get his comeuppance. And not before time too.
When it was Mia’s turn to be served, Valerie Clarke oohed and aahed over the two puppies as she rang up the one fifty.
‘They’re gorgeous, aren’t they?’ said Mia, handing over the cash. ‘I’ve always had Yorkies.’
‘Oh right,’ said Valerie. ‘You got one now?’
Mia assumed a pained expression. ‘My little Pixie passed away in January. I’ve been looking for her replacement ever since, but I can’t find a reputable breeder.’
Valerie’s face broke into a smile. ‘I breed Yorkies. I’ll have a litter ready in a couple of weeks. You can see the mum and dad and everything.’
‘No,’ said Mia, in wide-eyed wonder. ‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’
‘I can give you my number, if you like. Come along one evening. Give ’em the once over. I’ve got two girls and a boy. Sweet as sugar, they are.’
While Mrs Clarke searched for a pen and jotted her name and number on the bag holding the address book, Mia said, ‘I wish I’d come in earlier now. Actually, I was going to on Monday only I was watching a fight outside HMV and by the time it was over I had to get back to work.’
Valerie leant across the counter, sucked air through her teeth. ‘I saw that. Nasty, wasn’t it?’
‘Any idea what it was about?’ asked Mia, lowering her voice to match Valerie’s.
‘The usual … shoplifting. We get a lot of that in here as well. Only we let them get on with it. Stupid risking a battering for the stuff we sell.’
Mia shuddered. ‘Did you see all the blood on the pavement?’
‘Yeah, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.’
‘Somebody told me it was a policeman who got beaten up.’
Valerie nodded. ‘He ended up in hospital. Bloody shame, if you ask me. Things carry on like this there’ll be nobody joining up, and then we’ll be in a mess.’
‘The other bloke should be a boxer,’ said Mia, nodding approval. ‘He was amazing.’
Valerie gave her a stern frown. ‘Don’t go idolizing buggers like him, love. It’s the drugs that make ’em hard. Nothing else. Anybody with teenagers nowadays has a lot of sleepless nights. I should know. I’ve got one. He’ll be the death of me.’
Mia felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to face an indignant old lady with a blue rinse. ‘Have you finished?’ she asked. ‘Only some of us have got things to do.’
Mia gave the woman a lavish apology and picked up her purchase from the counter. Nodding towards Valerie’s details on the bag, she said, ‘I’d like to see those puppies, Mrs Clarke. Think you’ll be in this weekend?’
‘You just give me a call, love. I’ll make sure I’m in.’
Mia was gazing at the window display of Help the Aged, next door to Pencil Case, pretending interest in the trinkets on view. She felt excited, optimistic; on top of things for the first time in days as she relived her conversation with Valerie Clarke.
The woman had sided with Jack. She’d admonished Mia for admiring the fighting skills of that no-good Jason Perry. She’d actually shown sympathy for the police. Why?
Mia decided she’d ring Mrs Clarke and call round at the weekend. If they could bond over the Yorkies the woman might open up, might confide the reason for her hostile statement in Perry’s favour.
Mia stared at her reflection in the glass. You must not buy a puppy.
She was about to move off, grinning to herself, when the shop door tinkled and a hunched elderly woman accosted her on the pavement.
‘Thought it was you,’ she said, her tone accusing. ‘Did you tell him?’
Mia thought the woman was familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to the face. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I’m from the church.’
‘Oh yes, we spoke in the car park. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Edna Templeton. Did you tell Charlie?’
‘Tell him what?’
Mrs Templeton must have been all of four-foot-ten, and yet she had an extremely powerful presence. She fixed Mia was a wintry look, waggled an arthritic finger. ‘He that covers his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesses and forsakes them shall have mercy. Proverbs, chapter twenty-eight, verse thirteen.’
Mia was expecting more, but the old woman had finished. She stood on the pavement in a rigid pose, her hooded blue eyes burning with a reproachful light.
‘That’s what you want me to tell him?’
The old woman put her hands together, steepled them as in prayer. ‘Be his shepherd,’ she said. ‘Bring him back before it’s too late.’
‘I will,’ said Mia, backing away. ‘I’ll go and do it now.’
Nick had typed up an abridged version of his notes from the Bryan Baxter interview. And it was those notes that were dominating the conversation when Mia returned to CID to find a calmer Wells at his desk.
‘I want a full examination of Baxter’s business dealings around the time of Rebecca’s disappearance,’ he was telling Nick. ‘And I want to know everything about that gym – when it was bought; when it was sold; for how much, and so on.’
‘I could do that,’ said Mia, dumping her bag beside her desk. ‘I don’t mind working late.’
‘No rehearsals tonight?’ asked Nick.
‘Not till Monday.’
‘You’ll get withdrawal symptoms.’
Mia gave him a tetchy glance. ‘Actually, I’m going to the Sunday morning service.’
‘And I thought you were just joking about that nunnery.’
Mia – refusing to be riled – told Wells about Kate Fisher’s bruises. ‘That’s why I’m going to the service,’ she said, glaring directly at Nick. ‘So I can keep an eye on them.’
Wells seemed genuinely staggered by Mia’s revelations. Hardly a church-goer himself, and realizing that vicars and the like faced the same struggles as the rest of society, Wells did, however, believe that they should set an example and should at least keep their fists to themselves.
‘Sir, we met an old lady at the church,’ Mia said. ‘She seems to think Reverend Fisher needs saving. She caught me in town just now and was spouting from the Bible. I reckon she knows what he’s up to.’
‘Keep me informed,’ said Wells.
‘OK. So do you want me to start on the Baxter stuff?’
‘No, I’ve got Jack coming in for a few hours tomorrow. He can do it.’
Mia stared at him. ‘What if the super finds out?’
‘When was the last time Shakespeare graced us with his presence on a Saturday?’ Wells huffed.
‘Will you want me tomorrow?’ asked Nick.
‘I can’t guarantee overtime.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not doing anything.’
On the walk back from town Mia had pondered whether she should tell the DCI about her meeting with Valerie Clarke. Now she decided that disclosure was the best policy and went on to tell them everything Mrs Clarke had said. ‘So I was planning to go and look at the puppies, see if she lets anything slip. Do you think it’s a good idea?’
Wells didn’t reply immediately. He sat fingering the stubble on his upper lip, his gaze fluttering over the chaos on his desk. ‘You’ll need to be careful,’ he said. ‘If she works out you’re a copper we’ll all be in the shit.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m with a theatre group now,’ she said, grinning. ‘I’ll use my newfound acting skills.’