CHAPTER EIGHT

‘Coffee, orange juice and croissant?’ Lyn offered when she opened the back door to Peter the next morning.

‘He hasn’t time, love.’ Trevor kissed her on his way out of the kitchen.

‘I was just about to say yes,’ Peter grumbled.

‘I buy fresh every day. Come tomorrow,’ Lyn offered. ‘One of the joys of having a little mite who gets you up before six every morning is an early morning stroll to the baker’s. Sometimes I arrive before he puts out his first bake of the day.’

‘I’ll be here half an hour early tomorrow,’ Peter promised.

‘Who says you’ll be picking me up tomorrow morning?’ Trevor grabbed his keys.

‘What kind of key-ring is that for a police inspector?’ Peter pulled at the two-inch silver teddy bear on the ring.

‘It was a present from my mother to Trevor when Marty was born,’ Lyn explained.

‘You two can stop grinning like Cheshire cats. The last thing I want to do is offend my mother-in-law by ignoring her gifts.’

‘Some gifts cry out to be ignored,’ Peter advised.

Trevor kissed Lyn again. ‘Take care of yourselves.’

‘We will. I may even have time to sneak in another cup of coffee before Marty wakes.’

‘Don’t work too hard and don’t pick Marty up every time he whimpers.’

‘You want me to let him scream and get a hernia?’ Lyn followed Trevor and Peter outside and stood on the patio waving as Peter drove off.

‘Ah, domestic bliss. What it is to see your boss with a soppy expression on his face first thing in the morning,’ Peter slowed at the junction at the end of the street.

‘Lonely night made you jealous?’

‘You bet.’ Peter turned the corner. ‘So, what we looking for in Kacy Howells’ family?’

‘Whatever we can find, let’s just hope …’

‘We recognise it when we see it,’ Peter recited.

Kacy Howells’ parents lived in a run-down terrace on the outskirts of town. Trevor left the car and checked the house number while Peter parked the car. The place was dilapidated and decaying and, given his background as a farmer’s son, Trevor guessed that the terrace either had been, or still was, tied agricultural workers’ housing. The wooden window frames and door weren’t just in need of a lick of paint. They were crumbling with rot. The roof was bowed; the net curtains at the windows, yellowed with age or dust and the long, thin front garden littered with rusting pieces of machinery and sun-bleached plastic toys.

‘Home sweet home,’ Peter recited.

‘Just remember …’

‘They’re in mourning,’ Peter interrupted. ‘I will. But you know me and this kind of unnecessary filth and mess.’

Trevor did. He also recalled his surprise the first time Peter had invited him back to his bachelor flat after they had begun working together. He had expected Peter to live like him, in a chaotic state of overflowing laundry baskets, discarded beer cans and take-away cartons. But Peter’s place was as clean as a monastery kitchen and as tidy and impersonal as a monk’s cell. In sharp contrast to his working space in the station which was invariably littered with sandwich, crisp and chocolate wrappers and soft-drink cans.

Side-stepping past what looked like the remains of a car engine and a couple of lawnmowers, Trevor made his way to the front door. There was no bell and no knocker so he hit the wood with his knuckles.

George Howells opened the door a minute later. His pale blue eyes were still watery, ringed by red and underscored by black shadows. His fair hair tousled, his face starkly pale.

‘Inspector, have you any news?’

‘None as yet, Mr Howells. I’m here to interview your wife’s parents and brother.’

George stepped outside. ‘I haven’t told them about that magazine or the photographs of the things you said your people found in the summer-house …’

‘The sex aids the investigative team did find in what you refer to as your summer-house,’ Trevor corrected. He spoke softly, but he didn’t leave any doubt as to who was in control of the questioning.

‘My mother-in-law is frail and elderly …’

‘We are conducting an investigation into your wife’s murder, Mr Howells. And that means questioning everyone connected to your wife, including her relatives.’

‘I’m certain they can’t help you …’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Trevor looked him in the eye. ‘May we come in?’

George showed them into a tiny, cheerless front parlour furnished with pieces that would have been considered old-fashioned forty years before. ‘I’ll get my in-laws.’

A sludge-coloured vinyl two-seat sofa faced a pink-tiled fireplace that held a gas fire. Two matching vinyl chairs were placed either side of the hearth, two upright chairs stood in front of the window. Trevor took one of the upright chairs, Peter the other. Trevor lifted his briefcase onto his lap, opened it and removed a file, before closing the case and placing it at his feet.

Kacy’s parents and brother entered. George made the introductions. Trevor heard children’s voices, shrill with temper in the other room.

‘My sister-in-law is looking after my children as well as her own. My son and daughter are very upset,’ George told Trevor.

‘They know what’s happened?’

‘We told them that their mother has gone to heaven to be with the angels.’ Kacy’s mother stifled a sob in her handkerchief.

‘Please accept our condolences, Mrs Jenkins, Mr Jenkins.’

Kacy’s mother was thin and hunched, what was left of her hair was grey, her skin yellow and creased. She looked nearer eighty than seventy. Her husband appeared years younger but he had the leathery skin and square physique of an outdoor worker that was difficult to pin a precise age to. Their son was short and square like his father. His hair was greasy, his hands dirty, scarred with half-healed cuts, scrapes and ingrained dirt. His fingernails were cracked, broken and blackened at the edges. Trevor guessed that he was either a mechanic, or judging from the abandoned scrap in the front garden, an amateur.

Trevor placed his notebook on top of the file on his lap. ‘I apologise if any of my questions upset you but the more information we have the greater the possibility of apprehending your daughter’s murderer. For elimination purposes, Mr Jenkins, Mrs Jenkins, where were you the afternoon and evening of the day before yesterday?’

Mrs Jenkins answered. ‘Mark drove me, Jen and all the children to the beach at midday. We had a barbecue there and came back late, about nine o’clock.’

‘Did you see anyone while you were there?’

‘Our neighbours,’ Mark broke in. ‘As it was half-term four families from the street went. Kacy and George’s kids can be a bit of a handful for Mum.’ Mark looked pointedly at George. ‘So when they are here, Jen and I try to help out as much as we can.’

‘You didn’t invite your sister?’ Trevor asked.

‘She wouldn’t have wanted to come, besides with three adults and four children there wouldn’t have been room for her in my people carrier.’

‘Mark bought the people carrier so he can take Dad and me on outings. Dad never learned to drive. Mark’s good at organising surprises for the children,’ Mrs Jenkins brushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘When we came back, Jen helped Mum put the children to bed, while I ordered a take-away …’

‘You went out for it?’ Trevor interrupted.

‘They do a delivery service. We ate it while watching a film.’

‘What time did you go home?’

‘Home is next door and we went about eleven o’clock.’

Trevor turned to Kacy’s father. ‘You didn’t go with them, Mr Jenkins?’

‘No, I attended a meeting of the chapel elders that afternoon.’

‘What time?’

‘They’re held from two to four o’clock.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘After the meeting finished, a few of us stayed on to paint the chapel, it needed it.’ Kacy’s father ran his finger around the inside of his shirt collar. He was red-faced and perspiring.

Trevor wondered why he was so nervous. ‘When did you finish painting the chapel?’

‘Not much before eleven o’clock. I went home with another of the elders, Matthew Clarke. His wife died a few months ago. He invited me in for tea. Knowing he was lonely I accepted.’

‘And you came home when?’ Trevor held his pen poised over his notebook.

‘Around midnight. My wife was asleep.’

‘When did you last see your daughter?’

‘A month last Sunday,’ Kacy’s brother, Mark, replied. ‘It was my son’s ninth birthday. My wife organised a family tea.’

‘Did you meet often as a family?’

‘More often than some, not as often as others,’ Kacy’s father answered. ‘Kacy and George work, they’re busy.’

‘When were you last in Kacy and George’s house?’

Kacy’s mother looked doubtfully at her husband.

‘Last Christmas.’ Mark glared at George. ‘We were allowed to drop presents off at their front door.’

‘You didn’t go in?’

‘Not in winter, we would have dirtied the place with our filthy boots and common ways. Summer’s different. If Kacy has any jobs that need doing she calls on me and Dad. We can build her fences after she’s quarrelled with her neighbours. And erect her decking and sheds as long as we stay outside. Our Kacy married up in the world, Inspector Joseph. She didn’t like us going round there and reminding her, George and their neighbours of where she’d come from.’

‘That’s unfair,’ George protested. ‘Kacy loved having you around …’

‘So much so, she never asked us. And when I drove Mum, Dad, Jen and the kids over once unexpectedly you wouldn’t let us in.’

‘We were going out …’

The last thing Trevor wanted to precipitate was a full-scale family argument. ‘So you didn’t see one another very often?’

‘Christmas, birthdays and whenever George and Kacy wanted to dump their kids on Mum or Jen and me.’

Trevor scribbled a note. ‘Could you give me the names and addresses of any of Kacy’s friends?’

‘She didn’t have any,’ Mark snapped.

‘Mark, please,’ his mother admonished. ‘Kacy was highly strung. You two never got on.’

‘Face it, Mum, she was a nasty snobbish bitch. She never kept a friend for more than a month or two when she was in school. When she joined the civil service she lived with that bloke for years but only because he put up with her bullying. When he finally broke away from her and found a woman he wanted to marry Kacy refused to move out until he paid her off, even though she hadn’t put a penny into his house …’

‘How dare you!’ George’s face glowed bright red. ‘To say such things about your sister when she’s not even buried …’

‘You think it would be better to wait until she’s under the ground?’ Mark challenged him. ‘Dear God, she picked you all right. A wet wimp, who did everything she ordered you to because it made you look respectable and hid the fact that you were gay. Not that’s there’s anything wrong with being gay. My best mate is. But coming out wouldn’t suit you, would it, you bloody hypocrite, because your minister wouldn’t like it? And you’d miss being a big man in your chapel …’

George left his chair. ‘Kacy was right to want to keep you at bay, Mark. You’re poisonous. You envied us.’

‘Envied!’ Mark sneered. ‘How long did it take her to drive a wedge between you and your brother and the rest of your family? One week after the wedding? Two? I heard the way she talked about your brother. How he refused to give her the share of the antiques he took from your parents’ house after your mother died. She even wanted your mother’s jewellery when the poor women had died before you two got together. She was a greedy grasping …’

‘How dare you …’

‘I dare because you’re a stupid bastard who can’t see what’s under his nose. Kacy was a tart who’d sleep with anyone who fancied her, not that there were many …’

Peter jumped up and caught George’s fist before it connected with Mark’s face. ‘This isn’t helping anyone, Mr Jenkins, Mr Howells.’

Trevor saw Peter steeling himself to take a blow but Mark stepped back. Peter waited a few seconds then released George’s hand.

‘You’re right, copper. This isn’t helping anyone. As I said, I live next door, house on the right as you walk up the garden. If you want me, come round. I work in the garage in the back. You going to be much longer?’ Mark went to the door.

‘Hopefully not,’ Trevor answered, ‘why?’

‘I don’t want my missus looking after his,’ Mark pointed at George, ‘brats longer than she has to.’ Mark left the room. They heard him talking to the children in the next room.

‘Mark and Kacy never got on,’ Mrs Jenkins wiped tears from her eyes. ‘But then that’s normal in families where there’s an older sister and younger brother. Kacy felt she had to look after Mark and he didn’t like her telling him what to do.’ She looked up at Trevor. ‘She was a wonderful wife and mother.’

‘Wonderful,’ her husband echoed uncon-vincingly.

Trevor glanced at George who was sitting in the chair studying his fingernails. He didn’t even nod agreement to his in-laws’ praise.

‘This is filth.’ Mrs Jenkins flung the magazine Trevor had given her on the floor. It fell open at the page featuring Kacy. She turned aside and burst into tears. ‘Our Kacy would never do anything like that,’ she choked out between sobs. ‘We brought her up to be a decent girl.’ She stared at George. ‘You …’

‘I’ve already told them that Kacy wouldn’t have had anything to do with a disgusting magazine like that, Mary.’

Mr Jenkins bent down, retrieved the magazine and stared at the page. It could only have been for a few seconds but even that was too long for his wife.

‘How dare you look at such obscenity, and with your daughter’s face plastered on it. How dare you! Isn’t it bad enough that she’s been murdered in cold blood without someone murdering her reputation as well? This is worse than having an axe in her head. It strikes at the very core of her being – the way people will remember her …’

‘God protects the innocent,’ Mr Jenkins chanted the phrase automatically and Trevor sensed that he hadn’t considered the meaning of what he’d said in relation to his daughter’s murder.

‘God didn’t protect Kacy from whoever murdered her.’ Even angry and bitter, Mrs Jenkins’s voice was soft. Trevor marked her as a mild-mannered woman who had been taught subservience at an early age and never thought to question it.

‘There’s more to heaven and earth than we know. This life is short, the after-life is for all eternity …’

‘Please,’ Mrs Jenkins begged, ‘No bible quotes. Not today. Our daughter is dead. Do you know what that means, Dad? Kacy is dead. We’ll never see her again. Never ever …’Mrs Jenkins gulped in air before succumbing to hysteria. Her husband slipped his arms around her shoulders.

‘Of course we’ll see her again, Mum. And when we do she will be cleansed of sin and cloaked in glory.’

George Howells rose to his feet. ‘Inspector, Sergeant. Please leave.’

Trevor retrieved the magazine and returned the photographs of the sex aids to his folder. He hadn’t had time to show them to Kacy’s parents.

‘I told you not to give that magazine to Kacy’s parents,’ George reproached them as he escorted Trevor and Peter to the front door.

‘Would you like us to stop investigating your wife’s murder, Mr Howells?’ Peter challenged.

George flushed. ‘No.’

‘Then, help us to do our job. Investigating a murder means investigating the victim’s life.’ Trevor stood back while George opened the front door.

‘That magazine has nothing to do with Kacy’s life,’ George insisted.

‘That advertisement has everything to do with Kacy’s life.’ Trevor followed Peter out into what passed for a garden. ‘Someone placed that advert, Mr Howells. Someone with access to a computer, Kacy’s photograph, and a current credit card in her name. Whoever it was – and we haven’t discounted the possibility that it was your wife – they had enough acumen to make it look as though the advert was e-mailed from abroad. If that someone wasn’t Kacy Howells we need to find out who they are and why they targeted her. If our methods distress you, please try to remember our priority is the apprehension of a murderer before he strikes again.’

‘If you need me or my parents-in-law, we will be here for the next week or two, Inspector.’ George closed the front door on them.

‘Even allowing for his wife’s murder, that bloke’s got an attitude problem. And that was a waste of a morning, Joseph,’ Peter complained.

‘Not entirely,’ Trevor countered. ‘We now know that Kacy Howells didn’t like her family visiting her in her leafy suburban paradise, probably because, as her brother believed, she was a snob who was ashamed of her origins. We also know her parents made excuses for her attitude towards them. And, my instinct tells me that we need to thoroughly check out her father’s alibi.’

‘Not much of a family man if he prefers chapel elders’ meetings and painting the chapel hall to an outing with his grandchildren.’

‘You noticed he didn’t comment on Kacy’s photograph in the magazine?’ Trevor questioned.

‘I did.’

‘He couldn’t take his eyes off it but he didn’t look shocked.’

‘Almost as if he had seen it before,’ Peter agreed. ‘I’ve never trusted people who call themselves “Mum” and “Dad” once they have kids. Or tell me that the next time they’re going to see their murdered loved ones they will be “cleansed of sin and covered in glory”.’

‘It was cloaked in glory and you’re suspicious of all religion.’

‘Too damned right, I am. And religious nuts of any denomination.’

‘Try and set religion and republicanism aside for the duration of this case,’ Trevor pleaded.

‘And look at what we’ve got? Family ties? Kacy’s “Mum” and “Dad” made excuses for her and wooden George’s snobbery towards them. And Mark Jenkins hated her with something more than your usual brotherly animosity.’ Peter glanced across the wasteland of scrap metal to next-door’s garden which was even more rubbish-strewn than the one they were standing in. A car was propped up on jacks and Mark Jenkins was fighting to remove the wheel-nuts.