Jacqueline Bevan lived in a dull looking house identical to the dull looking house next to it. Everything was bland and plastic, including the window-frames and door, the latter the colour of an inflamed gum. Brilliant sunshine highlighted its drab appearance.
Hovering outside, I spotted a notice that displayed ‘No Cold Callers.’ It wasn’t a great start. What would I say? Would she talk to me, a stranger? Before I had time to get my story straight, a morbidly obese woman filled the entire doorway. I should have come bearing cakes. Strangely, her face didn’t match her physique. It was as if someone had stuck her head on the wrong body. She had short, cropped grey hair, kind brown eyes and remarkably unlined skin. Her mouth was a small perfect rosebud. It was hard to imagine her putting anything into it.
Before she had time to tell me to clear off, I launched in with a whopping lie. “Hello, I’m a friend of Richard Bowen. I wondered if we could have a chat?”
Her face clouded and she went very pale. Her lips turned down, the rosebud mouth blooming, overblown and then dying. This was it. She was going to slam the door in my face.
“Any friend of my nephew is welcome here,” she said, inviting me in.
We drank milky coffee.
“Have a flapjack. They’re homemade.” Jacqueline Bevan pushed a plate towards me. I wasn’t hungry but took one. We’d done the pleasantries and I’d told the lies. As far as she was concerned, I was Amy Pearson, (a bully I’d loathed at school) worked in the wine trade, travelled far and wide, and lived in Cirencester.
“I didn’t see you at the funeral.” It didn’t feel like a statement designed to catch me out.
“I was abroad unfortunately, on business. That’s why I’m here now.”
She nodded and sipped her drink tentatively. “So very sad. And to die like that,” she said with a shudder that made the tops of her arms wobble. “He was a lovely man. Oh, I know what people said about him having an eye for the ladies,” she said, heading off any possible criticism, “what with his mistress and child, but I speak as I find. He was an attentive and loyal son. Came every week to visit until Barry passed on.” She lapsed into a respectful silence.
“Richard loved to see your brother.” True, according to Heather.
A big girlish smile illuminated Jacqueline’s smooth face. She leant forward. The chair creaked in protest. “We don’t get many visitors and he was so made up when Richard made contact. Such a wonderful surprise. And him a police officer, too.” Her eyes widened with awe and delight. “Barry was really proud of that. ‘Who’d have thought it?’ He kept saying. Restored his faith a little bit.”
“Oh?” I said in a tell me more tone.
“It’s nothing really.” She lowered her gaze, removed an oat flake from the corner of her mouth. “These are rather good, aren’t they? The last lot were a little chewy. Do you cook?”
I shook my head, desperately thought how I could shift the conversation back to Barry’s distrust of the police. Had he somehow come up against Clive Mallis, the man everyone loathed? Apart from my dad, that is, I thought grimly.
“No time, what with your busy job, I expect.” She gave a sad sigh, giving the impression that she’d missed out on work, relationships too, on life in general.
I looked around the room. Uncluttered. Sterile. Photographs on a sideboard displayed a younger Jacqueline standing beside a man half her size. I could tell at once they were brother and sister.
I tilted my head. “Is that Barry?”
“It is. Taken a long time ago on holiday in Brighton.”
“You were close?”
“Like peas in a pod.”
“You must miss him.”
“I do.” Crestfallen, her small white teeth rested on her bottom lip. A tear welled at the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. I touched her arm in sympathy. I was in her living room under a false pretext, but my reaction was true and honest. She patted my hand. I fished out a clean tissue, gave it to her and waited for her to recover. “We became especially close after Bethany left him.”
“Bethany?”
“Richard’s mother. She and Barry were never married. Far too flighty, that one,” she said, shaking her head in disapproval. “She wasn’t nearly good enough for my brother.”
“What became of her?”
“No idea.”
And didn’t much care, judging by the terseness in her voice. “Richard mentioned that Barry drove taxis for a living.”
“He worked for a cab company here in Cheltenham.”
I sparked with interest. “When was this?”
“Worked for Randalls for almost twenty years. Mind, he left a decade ago, had enough by then. More coffee?”
I declined. My brain hissed and fizzed. It came back to the same window of time: ten years ago. Happenstance or connection? I’d never find out unless I took a gamble.
“You mentioned Barry’s distrust of the police.”
“Did I? Would you like another flapjack?”
“No, thank you.”
“Think I’ll have one,” she said with glee. “They’re so moreish and irresistible, aren’t they?”
“What made Barry lose faith with the police, Jacqueline?” No way was I going to be fobbed off with a pastry diversion.
Jacqueline’s eyes swivelled from me to the walls to the door. She lowered her voice. “I can’t really say. Barry made me promise.” She took a bite. Chewed mechanically. Like it was something to do in a crisis. If you eat, you can’t speak.
“My father’s a police officer. He’d hate it if someone brought the force into disrepute.” Although Clive Mallis was the glaring exception to my father’s rule. By contrast, Jacqueline Bevan was a nice woman, a loyal sister, trusting and without a friend. Wasn’t I exploiting her in the same way Rocco had exploited me? I might have been working with what I had but it didn’t feel good.
She swallowed, almost choked, took a big glug of coffee. “I suppose now he’s gone, there’s no harm, although I’d rather you kept this to yourself.”
I smiled, did my best to look confidential instead of eager.
“Bank Holiday, Christmas, New Year, Barry worked every one of them. The pay wasn’t better, but he’d get decent tips. He wasn’t a wealthy man. Between you and I,” she said, dropping her voice a tone, “he liked a flutter on the horses.”
“He was in the right place,” I said with a jolly smile.
She looked perplexed for a second and then broke into a laugh. “Cheltenham. The Races. Oh yes.”
“You were saying,” I said, fearing I’d destroyed her train of thought.
“The last New Year’s Eve he worked, he picked up a fare from Cheltenham to Winchcombe. A young man. Bit scruffy. Long hair, all braided. You know the type?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Barry was very particular about his vehicle. Didn’t like taking youngsters he thought might pass out or be sick over the upholstery.”
“What was the man like?”
“Well spoken, but I don’t know, Barry said he thought he might be on drugs, or something. He was very chatty, talkative, nervous with it. Kept scratching at his arms.” She leant forward theatrically. “It’s the drugs, poor things.”
Blood swelled in my head and I had that curdled feeling that warns of impending disaster. I stared blindly.
“Twenty-four hours later, Barry gets a knock at his door.”
“New Year’s Day?”
“That’s right?”
“Where was this?”
“Barry lived in Swindon Road.” I knew it. Zach’s old stamping ground in St. Paul’s, grotty back then. He’d always favoured the seamy, uncut side.
“Anyway, it’s the police. Well, I say the police. It was one officer. He put pressure on Barry.”
“How? Why?” My voice was hoarse, rasping, and then, with relief, I remembered. Dad returned to work on 3 January. He knew nothing about Drea Temple. The timing was off. It had to be Mallis.
“He told Barry that he was to forget ever picking up the young man with the long hair. You won’t remember it, but there was a lass reported missing a few days later. Barry always wondered if there was a connection.”
My mind spun out at the implication. I described Mallis.
“I wouldn’t know. Barry didn’t say what he looked like.”
“Did Barry ask to see the officer’s warrant card?”
Jacqueline wrinkled up her nose. “Don’t think so.”
“He asked his name?” Must have done.
“If he did, Barry never told me.”
“He was afraid?”
“Very.”
I suppressed a shiver. “How old was the officer?”
“Hard to say. Middle-aged, maybe?”
My throat dried. I took a drink and wound up with milk skin on my teeth and lips. “Where did Barry drop off his fare?” I thought back to the newspaper cuttings. Odds on The White Hart, or Drea’s rental.
“Dropped him outside Winchcombe, about a mile away.”
I racked my brains. Why outside? Nothing there apart from fields of sheep. Didn’t make sense.
“Did the officer say anything else?”
Jacqueline’s expression stiffened. “He threatened Barry. Said that, if he opened his mouth, there would be consequences.” She glanced from me to the door and back again. “Promised to fit him up for something he didn’t do.”
I rocked back in my chair so hard I was in danger of doing a back flip. Jacqueline’s smooth features creased with concern. “I expect your dear dad would be appalled.”
I snatched a smile in agreement. Confused and churned up, I had one last question. “Did he talk to Richard about it?” I held my breath. Everything depended on the answer.
Her eyes widened. She nodded slowly, then murmured, “I think he did.”