pulled Laura in when she walked past? Or had he confronted her in the street? Perhaps as they began to argue, he had pushed her against the door, and it had swung open, and a terrible opportunity had presented itself.
Kincaid thought of Jason’s designer clothes, no doubt bought with money earned from others’ misery, and he remembered the way Beverly Brown had flinched away from him when he passed. Kincaid had assumed it was dislike, but perhaps it had been fear. Poor little Mouse, up that night with a fretfully ill child – what else had she seen from her window? And how had Jason lured her to a rendezvous in a deserted graveyard?
He thought of Jason’s easy tears when they’d told him of Beverly’s death, of his casting suspicion on Beverly’s husband by his willing assumption of guilt, and fury coursed through him.
Jason had choked Beverly Brown, as he’d choked Laura, but in Laura’s case he must have hoped he could prevent any connection being made between the shelter and the victim. Why he had set the fire after taking so much trouble to disguise Laura’s identity, Kincaid still hadn’t worked out, but he knew enough.
“We’re going to need Jason’s address, Kath, then we’ll take you straight to the station so that you can make your statement. After all” – his smile held no humor- “we wouldn’t want you making any urgent phone calls.”
Gemma and Fanny listened intently as Winnie spoke to Roberta from her mobile phone. Winnie had given a brief synopsis of what had happened and then had described Elaine. “Yes,” she said now. “Elaine Holland, that’s right.”
Winnie’s body slumped as she listened to the reply, her face growing glummer by the minute. “Right, Roberta, thanks. I’ll ring you la-” she’d begun when Gemma grabbed her arm.
“Winnie, wait. Tell her to hold on. Look, there’s no point in giving her Elaine’s name. I doubt that’s any more real than anything else she’s said about herself. Does Roberta have a fax?”
“There’s one in the vicarage office.”
“I’ve a copy of Elaine’s photo. Tell Roberta to expect a fax. We can go to the police station-”
“No. I’ve a fax in the church office. We can send it from there,” offered Winnie, her eyes beginning to sparkle again. She passed this on to Roberta, adding that they would soon call her back.
As they walked from the pub back to the church, their progress slowed by Fanny’s chair, Gemma’s impatience was tempered by dread. She feared they were wrong, and she feared that if they were right, they were too late.
When they reached the church office, Fanny suddenly put a hand on the chair’s wheel and brought it to a jerking halt. She twisted around so that she could look at Winnie.
“Winnie.” Her face had lost its animation, and she looked small and frightened. “I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe it would be better if I could just go on thinking of her as she was. As Elaine.”
Winnie seemed to consider this. “Do you think so?” she asked. “I can take you home, if you want.” She held Fanny’s gaze, her face gentle with understanding, and after a moment, Fanny sighed.
“I can’t, can I? I know too much to go back, and it was never real. None of it was real.” She wheeled the chair forward of her own accord, and Winnie and Gemma followed.
The tiny office was cramped with Fanny’s chair and warm from the heat that had built up during the afternoon. As Winnie fed the photo into the fax machine, Fanny looked away until Gemma had tucked it back into her bag.
“There’s a speakerphone,” said Winnie. “Shall I-”
Gemma nodded. Winnie dialed, and after a moment Roberta’s voice filled the room, rich and warm, with the huskiness of the chronic asthmatic.
“It’s just coming through now, Winnie. Let me-” Roberta fell silent.
“Roberta,” said Winnie, “are you still on the line?”
“Dear God,” whispered Roberta.
“What-”
“I’m sorry, love.” Her voice came through more strongly. “It’s just – I’d never have thought.”
“Do you know her?”
Gemma could hardly breathe.
“It’s Elizabeth Castleman,” said Roberta. “Her parents were parishioners of mine. They were elderly – Elizabeth was a child of their dotage, I suppose. They died, both of them, several years ago, after extended illnesses. Elizabeth looked after them.”
“Roberta, what is it?” prompted Winnie, hearing the hesitation in her friend’s voice.
“They were churchgoing people. You know it’s not our place to judge, Winnie, but their ideas were… harsh. And their house, it was a terrible place. Old, dirty, and neglected. I paid pastoral visits the last year or two, and I always dreaded them. I remember Mrs. Castleman telling me they cared nothing for material things, that it was the spirit that mattered, but there was no love in that house.”
“And Elizabeth?” Winnie asked quietly.
“She must have been past her midtwenties by the time they died. Like a moth trapped under glass, I always thought her. Pale and futile. Then Mr. Castleman died in his sleep, and a few weeks later Mrs. Castleman fell down the stairs. It often happens that way with elderly couples, even those bound more by habit than fondness. But… I don’t know. I don’t feel comfortable speculating even now.”
Gemma leaned nearer the speaker. “Roberta, this is Winnie’s friend, Gemma. I know Winnie’s explained that this is a police inquiry and a little girl’s life may be at stake. Please tell us if there’s anything you remember that might help.”
After a moment, Roberta’s gusty sigh came over the line. “It’s just that I’d visited the day before Mr. Castleman died, and he seemed very strong. I know that doesn’t mean anything, heart failure can happen at any time. But… I remember Elizabeth, standing in the corner, watching with such intensity, as if she were waiting for him to die. Then Mrs. Castleman, only a few weeks later, such a dreadful accident. And then, at her mother’s funeral, just for an instant, I’d swear I saw a look of triumph on Elizabeth’s face.”
Fanny clasped a hand to her mouth, and Winnie sank onto the corner of her desk, her eyes wide with horror.
“You think she killed them,” said Gemma.
“I – I suspected it. But I told myself it was purely fancy, and the coroner ruled death from natural causes, in both cases. I wanted to be charitable. I let it go.”
“Roberta, what happened to the house?”
“I don’t know. I never heard it had sold. And Elizabeth just disappeared not long after her mother’s funeral. I always assumed she’d moved away from the area, found somewhere free of old memories.”
“Where is it?”
“Why, it’s just off Copperfield Street, near All Hallows Churchyard. Not far from you at all.”
Jason Nesbitt lived on a council estate, near the junction of The Cut and Waterloo Road, not far from Ufford Street. The estate was early-sixties purpose-built, with all the concrete-block charm that implied. Some of the small balconies had been cleaned and decked out with late-season flowers; most held a jumble of rusted household items, the overflowing detritus of crowded low-income living. All the walls were liberally decorated with graffiti.
They had dropped a shaken but still protesting Kath Warren at the station to give her statement, and Kincaid had called for uniformed backup to meet them at the council estate. If Kincaid was right and Jason Nesbitt had killed at least two people, he wasn’t going to take his team in unprotected.
They found the flat on the back side of the estate. The paint on the door was bubbled and flaking, and half the number hung askew. There was no bell.
“Definitely no urban regeneration going on here,” muttered Cullen, a sure sign that he was nervous.
Kincaid pounded on the door. He’d expected reluctance or refusal to answer at all, since Nesbitt had vanished from the shelter like a man with flight on his mind. He’d sent one of the uniformed officers round the back to cover the balcony and windows, and fully intended to wait at the front until they could get a warrant, if there was no response to his knocking, but the door swung open almost immediately.
