‘SORRY TO MESS up your Sunday, Mr Baxter.’
The man gave Wells a cautious look. ‘Why have you brought me in, Chief Inspector?’
‘We just need to ask you a few questions, sir. Some new information has come to light.’
They were seated in interview room number one. Baxter was watching Mia as she slotted a new tape into the machine, giving details of date, time, and all persons present.
He swallowed hard. ‘Hold on a minute, why are you doing that?’
‘It’s just procedure,’ she said, with a friendly smile. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir.’
‘But you didn’t record me last time.’
Wells grinned. ‘This has got nothing to do with Rebecca Crawford’s disappearance, sir. This is something altogether separate.’
‘Oh?’
Baxter felt wretched. His mouth was dry and his bowels were as loose as a gangster’s morals. Indeed, as he stared into their expectant faces, he was fearful he might shit his pants there and then.
Two uniformed officers had turned up in the middle of lunch, had practically hauled him into their car. In front of Claire and the family. In front of her neighbours, for Christ’s sake. Oh yes, they’d all stopped cleaning their cars and mowing their bloody lawns to watch. Nosy bastards. He’d never live it down. And what if Gerhard got to find out? He’d tried his solicitor in the car. Again. Was put through to the answer-phone message. Again.
Baxter squared his shoulders, fixed them with a defiant glare. ‘I’m saying nothing till I get my solicitor here.’
‘Any idea when he’s likely to arrive?’ asked Wells.
‘Tomorrow at the earliest. He’s not picking up his phone.’
‘Oh dear.’
Baxter lurched forward. ‘That’s not a problem, surely. I can come back in the morning and you people can enjoy your day of rest. What do you say?’
‘That does make sense,’ said Wells, seeming to ponder.
‘Good.’ Baxter got to his feet.
‘Did I say you could go?’
‘But, I thought …’
‘Sit down, please, sir.’
Baxter resumed his seat with all the grace of a petulant child. ‘You’re wasting your time, you know. I’m saying nothing till I get my solicitor. I’ve already told you.’
Wells leant back and regarded him coolly. He loved making wrongdoers squirm. Especially those who murdered heavily pregnant women.
He said, ‘We’ve been on the old Internet, sir, looking into your many business interests….’
Baxter paled considerably. ‘Are you allowed? There is such a thing as data protection, you know.’
As Wells knew very little about the Web and all it entailed, he said, ‘DS Harvey, put the man’s mind at rest, will you?’
Mia made a meal of looking through her note pad. Stopping at a supposedly relevant page she held it up, saying, ‘We came upon the information quite legally, sir. You must know yourself that even one small tweet can lead to all sorts of interesting facts about a user.’
‘No, I don’t know,’ said Baxter, craning his neck to glimpse her jottings. His heart was racing wildly as he mentally listed the many interesting facts they could have discovered about him. ‘All right, you’d better tell me what you’ve found out.’
Wells raised his brows. ‘Is there any point, sir?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll only be wasting my breath if you’re gonna stay shtum without your brief.’
‘Stop playing with me, Chief Inspector.’ He pointed to the recording machine. ‘That can go against you as well as me.’
Wells seemed to consider those words for a long moment. Then he straightened up as though he’d come to a decision. ‘Tell you what, sir, we’ll forget our questions for now. We’ll wait till your brief arrives.’
Baxter breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘But, as we’re here …’ Wells gave the man an amiable glance. ‘That flamin’ Internet’s OK, sir, but it couldn’t tell us anything about Miss Crawford so we’re still in the dark about her disappearance. Truth is, the investigation’s going nowhere. Are you up to helping us?’
‘I’ve already told your colleague everything I know,’ he said, nodding towards Mia.
‘And very helpful you were too.’ Wells fell silent, seemed to be wrestling with an idea. Finally, he sat back and gave Baxter a hopeful look. ‘Listen, sir, if you could help us, if you could give us anything new, then we might be able to forget the little … contretemps … that brought you here today.’
Surprise was clear on Baxter’s face. ‘What about…?’ He pointed to the recording machine.
‘Oh, we can chuck that, don’t worry. What do you say, DS Harvey?’
‘It’s a good idea, sir. Think of all the paperwork we’ll be avoiding.’
‘All right,’ said Baxter, actually grinning now. ‘What can I tell you?’
‘Let’s go back to when Rebecca disappeared,’ said Wells. ‘Everything in your garden was rosy, so to speak. You were planning to propose to the love of your life. You had a great job in Switzerland—’
‘Still have,’ Baxter interjected.
Wells nodded. ‘In fact, everything was tickety-boo until Rebecca failed to keep your dinner date—’
Baxter held up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he said to Mia. ‘We established that Becky was on her way to London to see a client. That’s how she came to be here in Larchborough.’
‘He’s right, sir, we did,’ Mia was quick to reply.
‘OK. So when was the last time you saw Rebecca, Mr Baxter?’
‘The previous day.’
‘You saw Rebecca Crawford the day before she disappeared. Is that what you’re saying, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did she seem? Happy? Sad? Preoccupied? None of the above?’
Baxter shrugged. ‘She was … normal. The same old Becky.’
‘She didn’t give you any inkling that she might have to dash off to London at a moment’s notice?’
‘No, but she’d done it before. Some of her clients were very self-obsessed, thought she should be at their beck and call. Celebrities are like that.’
‘And she didn’t think to phone?’
‘Perhaps …’ Baxter began, putting on a tragic look. ‘Perhaps she was planning to, only she was … taken before she could.’
‘You think she was taken?’
‘What else could have happened to her?’
‘I wish I knew, sir.’
Mia cut in then. ‘Mr Baxter, did Rebecca actually train with her clients?’
‘Yes, indeed, she was very hands-on.’
‘So, not only was she beautiful, she must have had the perfect body as well.’
‘Absolutely,’ Baxter agreed.
At eight months pregnant? Mia glanced down at her own stomach. ‘There but for years of Indian takeaways go I,’ she said, grinning.
Baxter’s laugh was half-hearted. ‘I was a very lucky man.’
‘You must have been a very worried man at the time,’ Wells commented.
‘I was frantic,’ said Baxter, eyes closed.
‘And yet you went ahead with the sale of your gym.’
‘I had to, Chief Inspector. Buyers don’t grow on trees.’
Wells nodded and sat back. He was doodling a tiny headstone in the margin of his note pad while he considered his next question. Bryan Baxter had to be their killer. The man could only have risked selling the gym if he knew for certain that Rebecca Crawford was never coming back. And to be that certain then Baxter must have known she was safely buried miles away in St Matthew’s cemetery. The big question now was: How the bloody hell did he manage the sale?
Wells regarded Baxter for a moment, was tapping his pen on the table top, and then he said, ‘Who bought the gym, sir?’
Baxter puffed out his cheeks. ‘Now, let me think.’
‘You can’t remember?’ said Wells. ‘I’m surprised.’
‘I own lots of properties. I buy and sell all the time.’ The man skimmed them a chiding glance. ‘But you already know that, don’t you? You’ve done all that sneaking about on the Internet.’
Wells shrugged off the remark. ‘Why do you feel the need to buy and sell anyway? You’ve got that high-powered job abroad. You can’t be hard-up.’
‘I like to keep busy. I’m easily bored.’
‘Oh right.’
Baxter watched worriedly as the DCI scribbled a few words. The atmosphere in that squalid room had changed; the pauses between their questions were suddenly loaded with foreboding. He felt hounded again, and in order to appear cooperative, Baxter said, ‘Why don’t I get my solicitor to bring the paperwork in the morning….’
Wells’s jowls stretched into a grin. ‘That’d be very good of you, sir. Thank you.’
In your dreams, old man.
He’d decided days ago that the minute he got that waste-of-space solicitor on the phone he would instruct him to destroy everything to do with the sale – they’d had a fire at the office, or a burglary perhaps – in return for a sizeable financial gift. They’d done much the same thing before. Some people would consider anything for money. And, luckily, his solicitor was one of those people.
‘Is that it for today then?’ Baxter asked brightly.
Wells turned to Mia. ‘Anything you want to ask?’
‘Actually, I was wondering if Rebecca trained any really famous people, anybody I might have heard of.’
Typical airhead female. Still, at least they were on a less touchy subject. Baxter smiled and said, ‘Yes, there were a few Hollywood leading men. Some footballers. A young man from one of the soaps … I couldn’t possibly give their names though; client confidentiality is very important in that business.’
‘Like data protection is on the Web?’ said Wells.
‘Exactly, Chief Inspector.’
‘So Rebecca only trained men,’ Mia said.
Baxter looked into the middle distance, as though contemplating her words. ‘Do you know, I hadn’t realized till now … Yes, Rebecca did only train men.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mia, ‘that the likes of Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow wouldn’t want to be trained by somebody better looking than they are.’
‘Probably not,’ Baxter muttered. He’d had enough now. He wanted to get away from that stifling room, from those dim people and their inane comments.
But Mia wasn’t finished yet. ‘Did Rebecca work for herself, Mr Baxter?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘So she had it all – her own successful business; a man who adored her; fantastic looks …’ She sighed loudly. ‘I reckon we’d have had much more interest from the public if we’d put Rebecca’s picture in the paper. People have more sympathy if the victim’s beautiful. Still, we didn’t have the case notes when the story went to press, so—’
‘Is this going anywhere?’ Baxter asked, arrogance loud in his tone.
‘I told DCI Wells that we should have waited till we had a picture.’ Mia gave a shrug. ‘Anyway, is that why you wanted Rebecca to run your gym, sir? Because she was so beautiful and she’d be a good advert for the place?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘I thought as much.’
Baxter’s impatience was rapidly reaching crisis point. Why was he having to listen to that woman’s ridiculously absurd drivel? He shot Wells a beseeching look. ‘Chief Inspector, could I please go now?’
Wells was sucking on his biro and watching the man through narrowed lids. Slowly placing the pen on the table, he said, ‘No, Mr Baxter, we can’t let you go.’
‘But, why?’ the man almost wailed. ‘I’ll be back first thing in the morning with my solicitor. I promise.’
‘And all the paperwork for the gym?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Wells snorted. ‘Pull the other one, mate.’
‘What?’ Baxter’s horrified glance bounced between the detectives. ‘But I’ve got to go. My family will be worried.’
‘Tough,’ Wells spat.
‘How much longer?’ he said, fumbling for his watch. ‘An hour? Two?’
Wells frowned. ‘Remind me, DS Harvey … what’s the maximum sentence Mr Baxter could get under the Proceeds of Crime Act 2002?’
‘Fourteen years, sir.’
‘As much as that?’
‘Of course, he’ll get a lot more if we can prove he murdered Rebecca.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said, colour seeping from his face.
‘No?’ Wells growled. ‘You sold her bloody gym though, didn’t you?’
One small sentence dominated Baxter’s thoughts as he struggled once more to control those incredibly irritable bowels.
They’ve got me.
‘But the gym was mine to sell.’
‘Not according to the current owners. Give me a minute and I’ll tell you who they are.’ Wells reached for the briefcase at his feet. He extracted a paper copy of that all-important email on which Rebecca’s details were highlighted in pink, all the while outlining his actions for the benefit of the recorder. ‘Here it is … Hoffman Beck Incorporated,’ he said, placing the copy in front of the man.
A defeated Baxter fell back in the chair and gave a humourless laugh. ‘Not as stupid as you look, are you, Chief Inspector?’
‘No, mate, I’m not.’
‘All right, what happens now?’
‘This happens now.’
Wells leant forward and with immense pleasure he read the man his rights.
‘How’d it go, sir?’
‘Like a dream, Jack. George Slater’s finding him a nice cosy cell.’
Mia perched on the edge of her desk and squirmed with delight. ‘His stuck-up face was a picture when we showed him your email, sweetie.’
‘Glad I’ve been some help,’ said Jack, his own face glum.
‘What’s up?’ said Wells.
The young detective lifted a disgruntled shoulder. ‘Nothing, sir, I’ve just enjoyed the weekend, that’s all.’
Wells was packing his briefcase. He paused momentarily, a smile on his lips. ‘Let’s hope you enjoy tomorrow an’ all then. Eight o’clock start. Both of you.’
‘But I can’t….’
‘I’m saying you can,’ said Wells, settling into his chair. ‘We’ve got our killer downstairs and just twenty-four short hours to find enough to charge him. We need you, mate.’
‘What about the super?’
‘Leave him to me.’
‘Have we got time for a celebratory coffee?’ asked Mia.
‘No, I want my dinner. You can come an’ all, if you like. The missus won’t mind.’
‘That’s really kind of you, sir, but I’ve got things to do.’ It was a lie, of course. But she had visions of Wells and his wife standing either side of her, shovelling wholesome food into her mouth as though she were a ten-stone toddler. Even mind-numbing loneliness was preferable to that.
‘If you say so.’ Wells gave her the email. ‘Put that with the rest of the papers, will you?’
As she started searching her desk and began to panic, Jack said, ‘I’ve got them, Mia. I’ve been having a quick look. And guess what I found. Turns out my sexy psychologist has had her teeth done.’
‘You haven’t got a psychologist.’
‘I know, but she did try to chat me up in the hospital.’
‘With you looking like that? The woman needs glasses, not fake teeth.’ She took the papers from him, followed his pointing finger. ‘Bloody hell … Doctor Alison Parker?’
‘Do you know her?’
‘She’s our leading lady.’
Jack snorted. ‘Your what?’
‘Our leading lady at St Matthew’s.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘God, Jack, we really need to bring you back in the loop.’ Mia made a face. ‘She lives in Stratton Heights … very nice too.’
‘You didn’t find Rebecca Crawford’s name, I suppose,’ said Wells.
‘No, sir.’
Mia transferred the pile of papers to her desk. ‘I’ll take everything home with me, sir. I can make the file up there.’
While Jack switched off his computer equipment, his back towards Wells, he said, ‘I had a bloke on the phone while you were downstairs, sir, with information about Jason Perry. He wouldn’t leave his name.’
‘Oh yes? What did he have to say?’
‘Apparently, Perry’s going to be supplying a large amount of drugs to persons unknown on Wednesday night in Stratton Common.’
Wells’s grin was tentative. ‘And did this bloke sound kosher?’
Jack was still busying himself at his desk, unwilling to meet his boss’s gaze. He couldn’t let on that Nick had made the call. Nick’s tactics were dubious, to say the least, and any court proceedings resulting from them would be quashed immediately if they came to light, leaving Nick in big trouble. Jack would just have to stay as near to the facts as was possible; he hated lying to Wells. And anyway Nick had sounded positively euphoric during the call – made from a public payphone so that it couldn’t be traced back to him – therefore, in a way Jack was talking to a stranger. The acerbic Nick never sounded euphoric.
‘I’d say so,’ said Jack, well aware that he was blushing as he straightened up. ‘The bloke said Perry had done the dirty on his mate and now it was his turn to suffer.’
‘Thank God for gang rivalries,’ said Wells. ‘Did you tell uniformed?’
‘Yes, sir, and they’re taking it seriously. There’ll be officers in place at the given time.’
Wells grinned. ‘This is really good news. For you an’ all,’ he said, turning to Mia. ‘You might not have to buy one of Valerie Clarke’s puppies.’
Or give her that colour and cut.
Thirty minutes later Mia entered her flat and was met by a yawning silence. She’d been almost drunk with joy when, two years previously, her offer for the property had been accepted. One of fifteen flats in a converted shoe factory, it boasted a sitting-room, separate kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom. The rooms weren’t huge, but she had the use of two parking spaces and the neighbours were quiet so, all in all, it was perfect.
And, yet, it wasn’t. She felt isolated. Her neighbours were too quiet; all of them guarding their privacy with an almost hostile determination. There was no communal garden. No communal anything. The only time she saw another face was in the lift or on the stairs where a quick hello was exchanged – if she was lucky.
Mia tossed her keys on to the hall table, shrugged off her shoulder bag and jacket, and went into the kitchen to fill the kettle. It was a little after seven o’clock and an evening of enforced solitude lay ahead.
How had she come to this? And how could she change things?
Mia loved her job, but the long hours put paid to any social life she might have had years ago. She’d made friends in the force, obviously, but they were either married or courting strongly, and Mia only met up with them socially at someone’s leaving do or the Christmas party.
As the kettle boiled Mia decided to change into her pyjamas; she might as well be comfortable. On the way to her bedroom she paused at the open door to the spare room where the boxes of her mother’s things were still waiting to be emptied. She couldn’t face them. Not tonight. Closing the door firmly, Mia crossed to the living room where she put on the television set, selecting the Film Four channel. The Day after Tomorrow was on. That would do. She quite fancied Dennis Quaid. He could keep her company while she sorted out the murder file for Wells.
With pyjamas on and a mug of coffee at her side Mia sat crosslegged on the floor in front of the TV where she proceeded to sort the papers into various piles.
She looked again at Alison Parker’s details on the list of cosmetic dentists. Was that just an innocent coincidence or a clue to something more? Lots of people had their teeth done nowadays. And not just singers or actors either. Professional people like Alison needed to look good for their clients. Why shouldn’t she get herself a Hollywood smile if she could afford one? It had to be a coincidence. And anyway they’d got Baxter in the frame.
But DCI Wells didn’t believe in coincidences. He always said that they were put there to focus the mind and encourage a more creative approach to tracking down the criminal scumbags of this world. Maybe he was right.
That particular dental practice had a Warwick address. And Warwick was midway between Larchborough and Nuneaton. More or less. Did that mean anything? Could Alison and Rebecca Crawford have become friends whilst comparing their treatment in the dentist’s reception? Once again Mia scanned the list of names. Rebecca’s definitely wasn’t there. She looked for any Nuneaton addresses but, again, drew a blank.
There was one other patient from Larchborough however. The details read: A Molina, Hawk’s Nest, Stratton Lea, Larchborough. Mia grinned. She was imagining Alfred Molina, the film star, living amongst them incognito. Stratton Lea was a small housing estate close to Stratton Manor, its semi-detached houses with their quarter-acre gardens quite sought after due to the spectacular views on offer in that part of town. It wasn’t the first place one might look for a Hollywood A-lister, but perhaps Mr Molina was down to earth and hadn’t let fame change him.
Mia was debating whether to drive up there with a pair of binoculars in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alfred when the doorbell rang. She froze, a hand holding the pyjamas together at her neck.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Hugging the wall for some obscure reason Mia made her way to the front door and peered through the peephole. Nick’s distorted features peered back.
She opened the door a notch. ‘What do you want?’
‘Gonna let me in?’
‘I’m undressed.’
‘I’ll try and control myself.’
Mia pulled the door wide and stepped back, cringing as he gazed longer than was necessary at her pyjamas.
‘What do you want, Nick?’
He tutted. ‘Your hospitality’s rubbish, if you don’t mind my saying.’
Mia threw him a contemptuous look and flounced off into the living room, leaving him to follow. ‘OK, now you’re in, what do you want?’
‘Have you got any wallpaper paste?’ he asked, reclining on her sofa.
‘You’ve come all this way, at this time of night, to ask for wallpaper paste?’
‘B and Q was shut,’ he said, shrugging. ‘And it’s only nine o’clock.’ He looked at the papers littering the carpet. ‘What you doing?’
‘Want any help?’
‘No.’
Nick motioned towards her empty mug. ‘Making any more coffee?’
‘The kettle’s in the kitchen,’ she said, strutting towards the hall. ‘Help yourself while I get dressed.’
When Mia got back Nick was kneeling on the floor, sorting through the murder stuff. ‘You haven’t got very far,’ he said, accusingly.
‘Where’s the coffee?’
‘I couldn’t be bothered. Got any wine?’
Mia glared at his back, was on the verge of throwing him out. Then she realized just how much she craved a bit of company.
‘OK, one drink. But the minute you start all that “why are we here?” crap, you’re out.’ She went to fetch the wine. ‘It’s only cheap white,’ she said, setting the glasses on her coffee table and filling them.
He looked up then, gazed at her clothes. She’d slipped into navy jogging bottoms and a pale-blue T-shirt; nothing special, but they were new and therefore hadn’t yet stretched from too many washes. Mia thought they made her look slimmer.
‘You’re wearing blue,’ he said.
‘So?’
‘I was reading about blue this morning.’
Mia handed him the wine. ‘And what did you find out, that it’s the colour fat losers wear?’
‘Stop being so fucking aggressive – you look nice.’
‘Has the boss put you up to this? Does he think I fall to pieces every time I cross the threshold?’
Nick gave her a frown. ‘Do you treat all your guests like this?’
‘You’re not a guest,’ Mia replied as she settled into an armchair well away from him. ‘You’re a what-do-you-call-it … an interloper.’
‘And you’re paranoid.’
‘I’ve good reason to be,’ she said, sipping her wine. ‘You don’t do friendly, Nick. You’re better at cruel and nasty.’
Mia curled her legs up on the chair, made herself more comfortable. She was enjoying their verbal jousting.
‘So, if you have come to check up on me, it’s been a wasted journey. I’m fine, as you can see.’
‘I came for some wallpaper paste, I told you.’ He saluted her with his glass and then took a long sip, grimacing at the taste. ‘Christ, this is sweet.’
‘I like it sweet. And, anyway, I don’t believe you’ve been decorating. You look too tidy.’
‘Call me a liar then.’
She was right, though. The dry paste was still in the bucket; that single strip was still rolled up on his bedroom floor. Since his successful encounter with Jason Perry, Nick had been too wired up to settle at anything. So, after wasting the rest of his day he’d found himself driving towards Mia’s flat. And, in a way, he’d been more surprised than she was to find himself at her door.
‘Got anything to eat?’ he asked.
She heaved a sigh, made it plain that he was pushing her ‘rubbish hospitality’ to its limits. In truth though Mia was only too happy to feed him; it beat watching old films on the telly. She disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with crisps, wholegrain biscuits, a tub of pâté … and a bowl of raisins to show Nick that she was a healthy eater.
‘How was Jack?’ he asked, spreading pâté on a few biscuits.
‘Brilliant. He really saved the day.’ She told him about the email from Germany and Bryan Baxter’s subsequent interrogation – facts that Nick already knew because Jack had filled him in on the phone.
‘Sounds like Baxter killed her, then.’
Mia nodded. ‘We’ve got him in the cells. Jack’s coming in tomorrow to help us nail him.’
‘Shakespeare won’t like that.’
‘You haven’t heard the best,’ said Mia, forgetting to be aloof as she reached for a couple of crisps. ‘Somebody snitched on Perry. Uniformed are going to catch him with a load of drugs on Wednesday.’
‘That should help Jack’s case.’
‘’Course it will. After Wednesday’s collar the CPS’ll have to take all of Perry’s previous into account and they’ll see he’s not the innocent victim they think he is.’
Nick was giving her one of his amused glances that made him look exceptionally dishy and made Mia feel decidedly hot. ‘Anyway,’ she said, trying to remain poised, ‘you might as well help with the file while you’re stuffing your face.’
They halved the papers and worked in silence, Nick now and then sipping his wine and picking at the food.
‘Christ, look at this,’ he said, handing her a white form.
It was from the Crime Laboratory, and it told Mia that the DNA retrieved from Bryan Baxter’s handkerchief – and sent in under the name of Billy Briers by Nick – didn’t match the sample taken from the skeleton of their foetus.
‘So Baxter wasn’t the father of Rebecca’s baby,’ said Mia. ‘I bloody knew it.’
‘And the boss is just as fallible as the rest of us,’ said Nick, smirking. ‘That could have been on his desk for days.’
Mia was staring into the middle distance, pondering. ‘Baxter reckons he saw Rebecca the day before she disappeared. But he couldn’t have done. She was as big as a house and he was going on to me about her perfect figure.’
‘He’s been lying through his teeth all along, if you ask me.’
She rapped the form with her knuckles. ‘This changes everything, Nick. With another man involved, it could mean Baxter isn’t our killer.’
‘Not necessarily. Rebecca was two-timing him, so Baxter could have killed her out of jealousy.’
Mia acknowledged the point with a nod. ‘We’d better be vigilant. There might be something else we’ve missed.’ She topped up their glasses. ‘Oh, by the way, I haven’t got any wallpaper paste.’
He gave her a quick glance. ‘No problem. I’ll get some tomorrow.’