way of word-of-mouth recommendation, but you may have seen that feature article about us in
“That’s all right, thanks,” Claire said faintly. “I’ve changed my mind.”
It occurred to her that she might yet be able to kill two birds with one stone. Suppose she told the police that Karl had threatened her with violence so that she would back up his story? She might say that her conscience would not allow her to live a lie, that she’d decided Karl must pay for his crime. True, she was going to miss out on the life insurance, but she would at least be rid of her husband. And it would serve him right.
She rang the number that the nice sergeant had left with her and was quickly put through.
“This is Claire again. You remember our conversation?” she asked. Just the faintest seductive hint at this stage. Then see how he responded.
“I certainly do,” he said. Was it her imagination or was there a faint leer in his voice? She hoped so.
“I won’t beat about the bush. I lied to you about my husband. He was out last night, but he threatened what he would do to me if I didn’t back him up.”
“Ah.”
“I hope you won’t think too badly of me,” she said in her meekest voice. “I felt as though I was under duress.”
She told him the story, making no mention of the Alibi Agency. She didn’t want to draw attention to the existence of the recently bereaved Mrs Bailey. The policeman listened intently, murmuring his agreement every now and then when she insisted that life with Karl was hellish and that her only wish now was to do the right thing. He was sympathetic, a very good listener.
“I thought,” she said tentatively, “that you might like to come back here and take a statement from me. A detailed statement.”
“Yes, I’d love to do that.”
“You would?”
“Oh yes,” he said softly. “And perhaps when we’ve finished talking about your husband…”
“Yes?” she breathed.
“… I can introduce you to a couple of colleagues of mine from Bradford CID. They’ve just finished interviewing a young man called Zack Kennedy.”
She swallowed. “Oh yes?”
“It’s in connection with a death in their patch. A Mr Eric Bailey was killed in a hit and run incident last night. The vehicle was a Fiesta that was later dumped. What’s interesting is that they found a photograph in the car. It had slipped between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. A picture of a man standing proudly next to a Slickloft van, apparently parked outside his own house. Right next to the street name, the name of the street where you live, actually. On the back of the photograph was your husband’s name and a brief description. The handwriting is distinctive. As soon as it was shown to me, I recognized it from the note you gave me of your phone number.” He paused. “All rather puzzling. Mind you, once it turned out that Mr Kennedy’s fingerprints were on the photograph, things started to become clearer. He has a criminal record. Nothing big league, just a few burglaries and car thefts. Possibly you didn’t know that?”
Claire made a noise that was half-way between a sigh and a sob.
“No? Ah, well. By the way, the Baileys’ neighbour, Mrs Prince, saw the Fiesta yesterday afternoon. The driver was behaving suspiciously, and she gave a description which bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr Kennedy. He’s been arrested. The charge will be murder, I guess, but his lack of competence is equally criminal, wouldn’t you say? We can chat about it later. I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour.”
Slowly, as if in a trance, Claire put the receiver back on the cradle. She couldn’t help glancing at the clock. She’d always been impatient, always hated having to hang around. The next fifteen minutes would, she knew, be the longest of her life as she sat helplessly on the sofa and waited for Godstow.
THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY by
The brakes hissed with relief as the coach drew up in the car park at the back of Bickby Hall, and Vicky Vine – known as “Miss” on weekdays – climbed out onto the concrete first, clutching a clipboard protectively to her ample chest. Only two girls had been sick on the coach and one boy had bumped his head on the luggage rack. Three casualties: that was good going at this stage.
Vicky did a swift head count as her class emerged from the coach under the disapproving eye of the small, balding car park attendant. All there, every one of them: chattering; pushing; slouching; strutting; blazers shiny and misshapen, ties askew. 8C… the flower of Bickby Comprehensive: Vicky looked at them and sighed. She had done the history trip to Bickby Hall so many times: year after year; class after class; the bright and the dull; those interested in history and those who found the Elizabethan mansion, perched incongruously on the edge of a run down housing estate, less appealing than a double maths lesson.
Some girls began to giggle as they spotted their guide. Most of the boys stared, open mouthed, at the apparition.
“Is that the ghost, miss?” one wit asked as the dark haired woman emerged from the Hall’s massive oak door in full Elizabethan costume; a huge-skirted creation in faded brocade with big padded sleeves, topped by a limp, yellowed ruff. The woman seemed to glide across the car park towards them, and when she reached Vicky she gave her a nervous smile.
“Hello, Muriel,” said Vicky, trying to sound cheerful. “8C today. They shouldn’t be much trouble but we’d better search them on the way out. After that unfortunate incident with the penguin on the zoo trip last year, I’m not taking any chances.” She lowered her voice. “I was thinking about your Francesca last night. How is she?”
