mind.
“No, I've got a day off,” she said. “Why, what's up, Charlie?”
“I can't really explain over the phone,” I hedged. “Look, are you in all morning? Can I come round?”
“Of course,” Clare said promptly. “I'll put the coffee on now. You sound very mysterious. I can't wait!”
I climbed into my gear, aware that I was still feeling stiff and inflexible as I struggled into my leather jeans. It was raining when I got outside. Miserable great grey blobs that made me blink when they splashed into my hair. By the looks of the darkened sky, this was as good as it was going to get all day. I was glad I'd put my waterproofs on.
The Suzuki, bless it, fired up first kick and it didn't take more than ten minutes before I was bumping down the drive to Jacob and Clare's place.
This time, with one eye on the downpour, the dogs made do with greeting me by way of excited barks from the shelter of the porch. Sensible animals. Clare came out, though, with Jacob's giant waxed cotton stockman's coat draped over her head.
“Come in and dry off by the Aga,” she instructed, grinning at me with button-bright eyes. “Jacob's all agog to know what you're being so secretive about!”
It didn't take long, once I'd got into my story, for the smile to leave Clare's face. We sat round the kitchen table to talk, warming our hands on mugs of hot cappuccino, sprinkled with real chocolate.
Having made sure there was no food on offer, Bonneville had retreated to her blanket pressed up against the front of the Aga. The room was soon permeated by the vague smell of hot dog. Beezer had made straight for Jacob's lap. She was now sprawled on her back there, delighting in his preoccupied scratching of her tummy.
I brought them up to speed on recent events, including the break-in at my flat, Terry's murder, and now Joy's death. They both listened in horrified fascination, and it took a while to satisfy them that I really was OK. I suppose it helped convince me at the same time.
“It sounds like this Angelo bloke is a complete psycho,” Jacob commented. “From what you've said he has a remarkable capacity for violence.”
I nodded. “And he's got a rotten temper to go with it. So, maybe if Terry had found out that Angelo was dealing drugs, and then been suddenly presented with something that he thought might give him leverage against Angelo, Terry might well have decided to indulge in a little extortion.”
“If that's the case, he certainly picked the wrong man to blackmail,” Jacob put in grimly.
“So Angelo goes round to see him. Maybe he was intending to pay him off. Maybe he was intending to do him over. Who knows?” I went on. “But that wasn't how it happened. Terry didn't have the computer to give back to Angelo, because he'd already given it to me. So Angelo pulls a knife and guts the poor bastard.”
Clare pulled a squeamish face and got up to refill our coffee mugs. Jacob just nodded at my logic.
“It would be a real
George Orwell's classic had made enough of an impression on me as a schoolkid for me to know what he was on about. “Exactly,” I said. “So, in the meantime, Len – and then Marc – find out about the drugs Angelo's been dealing in. Marc would never go to the police in a thousand years. But he'd take action of his own.”
“But you said it wasn't Angelo who beat you up, so who were those two men?” Clare queried as she sat down again.
“I've no idea,” I shrugged, frustrated, running a hand through my hair, “though there's no reason why Angelo would need to turn out in person. He must know plenty of hired muscle in his line of work. The trouble is, when I got that phone call last night I was convinced that whoever killed Joy – and Susie – was connected to whoever had come looking for that damned lap-top.”
Clare's mouth opened, and stayed that way for a while. “You mean you think Angelo killed them
“The voice changer,” Jacob said slowly, as it came to him. “They must have taken it when they ransacked your flat.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And if the same man murdered both the women – which was certainly the impression I got from MacMillan – then it can’t be Angelo. He’s got an alibi for the night of Susie’s death.”
“What did the police say about Terry?” Clare asked, but Jacob answered her before I could.
“Come on, love, Charlie’s not supposed to even know he’s dead. She couldn’t very well start giving the old Superintendent the third degree without admitting she was the one who discovered the body, now could she?”
Clare was frowning. “But, if it wasn’t Angelo, who does that leave?”
I drained the last of my coffee. “I wish I knew,” I said. “I’m going over to see Ailsa this afternoon to see if there’s anyone she can think of that they’ve had trouble with at the Lodge. A husband or boyfriend maybe. After all, it seems that our murderer was hanging round there on a couple of occasions before he got Joy.”
Besides, I’d promised Dave his first self-defence lesson, and the Lodge was as good a place as any to teach him.
They stood silent as I climbed back into my waterproofs. Clare had hung them in the inglenook near the Aga, and they were not only bone dry, but the plastic material was almost too hot to touch.
“I could be way off base about it all, in any case,” I said as I made my way, rustling, to the front door. “Just because Angelo beats up his girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. It could be someone else at the club who’s involved with the drugs, and gave the computer to Terry. I don’t have a shred of proof. I just wish I knew if there was any forensic link. That would really clinch it.”
“I’ll try my contact on the crime desk again, but she’s going to get very suspicious if I suggest something the police haven’t already come up with by themselves,” Clare said. “I’ll come round on the bike on Sunday morning and let you know what she says. We can have a blast up to Devil’s Bridge together.”
I nodded, aware that when Clare said a blast, she meant it. I usually struggled to keep up.
Now though, she was still frowning in thought as she came to the door to see me off, hugging herself against the cold. “There must be some other way to find out, isn’t there?”
“I’m sure there is,” I said. I pictured myself calling up MacMillan and asking to pick his brains. It would be a cold day in hell, I predicted, before that happened. I gave her a wry smile. “I just haven’t thought of it yet.”
Jacob came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, smiling. “What you need is a tame doctor,” he said to me. “Don’t you know anyone you could sweet-talk?”
It wasn’t until I’d said my goodbyes, coaxed the Suzuki into life, and was halfway back to Lancaster that Jacob’s words sparked a thought. A thought that was so ridiculous it made me snort with suppressed laughter inside my helmet.
Yes, I did know a doctor. Was very well-acquainted with him, as a matter of fact, but whether I could sweet- talk him into anything was another thing altogether.
My father.
***
When I got back to the flat, I went straight upstairs to the phone, without even stopping to take off my waterproofs. I knew my parents' phone number off by heart and I dialled it without having to think about it. Maybe if I had, I would have hesitated.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was my father who answered the call.
“Good evening,” he said, giving his number clearly and precisely. I knew I should tell him it was bad practice to do that, but at the same time I knew I wouldn't bother.
“Hi, it's me,” I said.
There was the fraction of a pause. This really was a very bad idea. “Charlotte,” he said neutrally. “It's nice to hear from you. Are you keeping well?”
“I'm fine. No, that's not true, I'm not
“I'm sorry to hear that,” he said. “What seems to be the matter?”
I sighed. I hoped he showed more warmth to his patients, but I wouldn't bet on it.
I swallowed. “I need your help,” I said. God, it was difficult to say.
There was a longer pause this time. “In what way?” he asked cautiously. Not, yes of course. Not, anything I can do. Not, you only have to ask, darling . . .
“There've been three murders in Lancaster over the last few weeks,” I said, forcing myself to speak quickly in
