‘This is on condition you keep it buttoned. Clear?’ Sarah glanced in the mirror at the back-seat passenger.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Caroline gave a mock salute.
‘I’m serious. One word out of place and that’s it.’ Letting King hop in had seemed like a plan back at the hospital. The DI and Harries had already been pushing it to get to Worcester for nine-thirty. The reporter appeared to be sitting on a story that for once Sarah thought worth hearing. They’d discussed Walker’s shock retraction en route but with only the one line to go on – apart from speculating – they couldn’t really take it any further. That wasn’t the case with the yobs that had milled round outside Walker’s home. Caroline had half-decent descriptions and Harries had phoned in the details. By now they would have been circulated to door-to-door teams and patrol cars on the estate. Rightly or wrongly, Sarah had reluctantly yielded to King’s request: the reporter was being allowed to keep a watching brief on the Crawford interview.
‘Nice pad.’ King gazed up at a pristine terrace in a Worcester side street a stone’s throw from the cathedral. The black door looked as if it had just had a paint job; the brass lion knocker glinted as Harries did the needful.
‘Remember what I said,’ Sarah warned. The reporter pulled an imaginary zip across her lips.
For a man in his eighties, Ted Crawford wasn’t in bad shape. Around six-two and with a rangy frame, his slight stoop could be habitual rather than down to age. He ran a spade-like hand through a shock of white hair. ‘Police? The wife said. Come in, come in. She’s out shopping as per.’ He led them down a narrow hall to a sun room at the back of the house, lots of wicker furniture, padded floral cushions, plants on every surface. A pair of wire-framed glasses lay on an opened newspaper. ‘Doreen left a pot of coffee.’ Crawford pointed to a tray on a table with three cups and saucers. ‘I’ll go and grab anoth—’
‘Not for me, Mr Crawford,’ Caroline said. ‘I’ve already drunk my own weight in the stuff. In fact …’
He smiled. ‘Upstairs, last door on the right.’
Once she’d got the intros over, Sarah elaborated on why they were there. That a Birmingham teenager’s abduction could be linked to the babe-in-the-wood murder. A woman in Small Heath had been outed as Pauline Bolton’s killer and arsonists had fire-bombed the house. Watching Crawford carefully, she let the silence ride for a while. He flexed his jaw a couple of times before wiping his eyes with a hankie. Sarah thought the moistness was down to age rather than emotion.
‘Well, inspector, if anyone should bear a grudge, then I guess you’ve come to the right place.’ She was intrigued it was the first thought in his head, or at least the first he voiced. Her raised eyebrow asked for more. He blew ripples on the surface of his drink, all the while holding Sarah’s gaze. When King re-entered, no one reacted. Muttering an apology, she took the seat next to Harries.
‘However,’ he said, ‘I can assure you the fire’s nothing to do with me. If you really want to know, even back then I felt sort of sorry for Susan Bailey. It was clear from the start that she’d killed little Pauline. Like a cornered rat, she was desperate for a way out and thought I’d do.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I can see you’re having difficulty with that, inspector. But trust me, I was there.’
Unsmiling, Sarah nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’
He placed the cup on the tray. Apart from adding colour and a sense of place and the blazing summer heat, his account didn’t differ with anything she’d read. God knew what she’d hoped for. A mad axe murderer hiding up a tree wearing a name badge?
‘Was there never any suggestion that someone else could have carried out the killing?’
‘Apart from me?’ He stroked finger and thumb down his chin. ‘Not as far as I know.’
She asked about other people around at the time, whether he thought any of them could be seeking revenge after all these years. Chin cupped in hand, Crawford shook his head. ‘What I do know, inspector, is that Pauline’s murder damn nearly killed her parents. They had to keep going, of course, because of the other kids, but …’ His spread palms invited her to fill in the blanks.
Sarah nodded. ‘We’ve spoken to the surviving siblings.’ And eliminated them from the inquiry. ‘The eldest daughter, Grace, died twenty years ago.’
‘How?’
‘The inquest recorded an open verdict.’
‘Top herself, did she?’ He didn’t wait for an answer she wouldn’t give anyway. ‘Poor kid went off the rails after the murder. I always reckoned she blamed herself, being the big sister and that. Grace doted on Pauline.’
‘Define “off the rails”.’
‘Drinking, smoking, hanging round with lads. Left home at sixteen. Last I heard she’d got herself pregnant.’
‘You seem very well-informed, Mr Crawford.’
‘Village life, inspector. People knew their neighbours in them days. Not like now when—’
‘You lived there?’ She was surprised, assumed the workforce travelled to the site each day. The question also stemmed a lecture she could do without.
‘Eventually. I moved in to one of the new houses.’ He gave a lop-sided smile. ‘Least I knew it was well built.’
In Crawford’s shoes – given the proximity of the girls’ families – it would have been the last place Sarah would choose. ‘That couldn’t have been easy?’
‘Didn’t worry me. The Baileys did a moonlight flit before the case even got to trial. I think the Boltons saw me as a victim too.’ He eased a finger round his collar. Sarah doubted the gesture was unwitting.
‘OK, I think that’s it for now, Mr Crawford. If you could just give us your sons’ details we’ll leave you in peace.’ He baulked at first, eventually gave Dave the names then slipped the glasses on to read their numbers off his phone. Two lived in the States, a third in Manchester. As Sarah gathered her bits, Crawford half rose in his chair.
‘Why did you feel sorry for Susan?’ Caroline had other ideas. The question prompted a puzzled frown from Crawford. Sarah’s was more pissed off than nonplussed. ‘You were saying when I came in?’ Caroline helped out.
He opened his mouth twice before words emerged. ‘Do you know the expression spare the rod, spoil the child?’ She nodded. ‘Well, the Baileys never spared it. Or the belt, or the fist. Great role models, eh? With parents like that, it’s no surprise she lashed out at someone smaller.’
‘That’s not how she remembers it,’ Caroline said. ‘And besides—’
‘Thanks for your time.’ Sarah handed him a card.
‘I’ll see you out, inspector.’ As they walked down the hall he asked about the fire, whether Walker had died.
‘The place was a death trap, Mr Crawford.’ She might as well get used to bending the truth: once the news release was issued there’d be no turning back.
‘What part of “button it” don’t you understand, Caroline?’
Caroline shrugged as she slipped into the back seat. ‘Condescending git.’
Sarah’s hand stilled on the way to the ignition. ‘What did you say?’
‘Crawford, not you.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ Harries said. ‘I thought he was full of shit too.’
‘That’s another thing.’ Sarah glanced in the mirror. ‘What took you so long?’
King held up her phone. ‘I took a call.’
‘All that “right from the word go” stuff.’ Harries hadn’t finished. ‘I thought he was a builder not a bloody trick cyclist.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask who from?’ King again, another flash of the phone. Her straight face and pointed delivery were answer enough. ‘He wants an end to it. He’s set a deadline – twelve hours.’