Theresa, the friend, had not fared any better that day. After punishing Bradley, Wendy had grabbed her by the hair and thrust her face down into the cowpat. No one would have known but Theresa, humiliated and upset, had told her mother – leaving out some of the sordid details – who had then complained to Wendy’s father and the headmaster at school. Not that either of them had been under any illusion. Her father was a man of the soil, a farmer. He knew the truth, so did the headmaster.
In the end, lacking resolution and an apology, Theresa had blabbed to her other best friend in the strictest confidence. But it was a school playground confidence, and one hour later the whole school knew. Wendy was the heroine, Theresa, the tart, and Bradley Lawson was a weakling to some due to a woman besting him, a source of admiration to others in that he had made love to the two of them; not that love was the word used, not in a school, not amongst young men.
‘That’s the problem,’ Christine said. ‘I knew it was wrong, but every time Colin phoned, I couldn’t say no.’
‘How much money?’
‘Two thousand pounds. Not a lot in itself, but my husband, he’s the jealous type.’
‘And he would know? Couldn’t you tell him that you had to buy some clothes, some furniture for the house, a surprise for him?’
‘You don’t know him, or you wouldn’t even think it, let alone suggest it.’
‘Violent?’
‘Never, not with me.’
‘Capable of murder?’
‘You think he might have found out?’
‘It’s a possibility. It’s normally the nearest and dearest who commit the murders.’
‘He’s the nearest, I’m not so sure about the dearest.’
Wendy ordered another latte and a slice of cheesecake. Christine ordered the same. Wendy liked the woman, although she couldn’t understand why she had been so foolish. It was increasingly looking as though the woman had been the target of a skilled seduction, and if Colin Young could seduce one, then he could seduce two, possibly more.
Regardless of who the dead man really was, Wendy’s conversation with Christine Mason revealed one thing: the woman’s husband was a possessive man, a man who probably regarded his wife as one of his possessions. The sort of man that profiling would consider to be a prime candidate to commit murder if he knew. And that was the question that needed to be answered. Wendy looked across at the woman who was starting to drift away, a glazed look in her eyes.
‘What is it?’ Wendy asked.
‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’
‘Your problems seem more serious than mine.’
‘Tony will find out eventually, won’t he?’
‘He will. Have you told me the whole truth?’
‘I think so. Can I see Colin?’
Christine Mason excused herself for a couple of minutes. Wendy could see that she wanted to cry.
‘Stay with her,’ Isaac said when Wendy phoned him.
‘She might remember something else, or she might be holding back. Ask DI Hill to check out her husband. He could be dangerous, and when he finds out, he could attack his wife.’
‘Are you suggesting she gets away from him?’
‘It’s not for me to suggest. We need to document what she’s told me, what I’ve said to her, just in case.’
‘Make sure it’s in your report when you type it up, or should I say when Bridget does. Just get the facts straight, that’s all.’
‘We’re going to look at the body.’
‘Have they been told?’
‘I phoned Pathology. They’ll attempt to make him look presentable.’
***
Neither Roy Eardley nor Adrian Clark was as whippet-thin as Dean Cousins, the jogging police officer. Larry thought Cousins looked anorexic, but he knew that wasn’t the case, having seen him on a couple of occasions eating with gusto.
‘Burns the calories, jogging,’ Cousins had said that day in Hyde Park. Which to Larry sounded great in principle, not so much in reality.
‘Dean’s a legend,’ Eardley said. A thick-set man, he looked to be of average build to Larry, not the archetypal jogger, but then he wasn’t sure what the archetypal jogger was. Around where Larry lived, there they were every day running up and down the street: some with dogs on leashes, even a woman pushing a pram, the baby inside gaining the benefit of bouncing up and down, whether it liked it or not. There was one hardy individual who’d been out there, rain or sun, snow even. The man had lived two doors down from Larry, a friendly enough person in his sixties, always ready for a chat when he wasn’t jogging or using the side of his house for stretching exercises. In the end, he had suffered a heart attack; too much exertion was the reason given.
‘Legend’s not an accolade I would have ascribed to Dean Cousins,’ Larry said.
‘London Marathon, two fifty-three. That’s a great time.’
‘What have you run it in?’
‘Three times, I’ve started, not finished one yet. I got close, real close the last time. This is my year, I’m determined to get to the end.’
‘And you, Adrian?’
‘Three twenty-six, not as good as Dean, but he’s determined, never misses a day, and that run once a week from his home. Not sure I could do it.’
Larry thought back to the man two doors down from him, six feet under, imagined the epitaph: Herein lies a fool. Thought he was fit, but found out the truth – the hard way.
Cynical, Larry realised, but he had had
