A strong north wind carried in a sub-zero temperature the following morning. Not that DS Fletcher cared. He’d been in this small room with Maurice Temple for over an hour and, as yet, had been able to elicit nothing more from him than ‘No comment’ and ‘Mistaken identity’.
Fletch’s stomach grumbled loudly reminding him it was lunchtime. He terminated the interview and arranged for a sandwich to be taken to Temple.
Pie and chips would have been welcome, but Fletch didn’t have time for more than a sandwich and a bar of chocolate. This job played havoc with his health. Everyone said his diet was appalling, but what choice did he have? There was never time for a decent meal. At home, he ate healthily, too healthily for his liking, his wife made sure of that, but he spent more hours at work than at home.
With a bacon roll in his hand and two Mars bars in his pocket, he set off to find Max. His boss wasn’t going to be pleased.
Max was in the car park, pacing as he smoked a cigarette. At least Fletch didn’t smoke. He never had been and never would be the kind of idiot who forked out a small fortune to kill himself. Not that Max was an idiot, but he was someone who could kick the habit for months, even years at a time, and then, within a week, be back up to thirty a day.
‘Well?’ Max asked him.
‘Nothing,’ Fletch admitted. ‘I can’t get a squeak out of him. He does look nervous, though.’
‘Isn’t he saying anything?’
‘Zilch.’ That wind was whipping round the side of the building, chilling Fletch. ‘What worries me is that we only have Atwood’s word that he’s the bloke who tried to sell him some stuff. Atwood’s old, he could easily be wrong. I know Mrs Hollingsworth says he’s the one she saw with Lauren Cole, but so what?’
‘I know. It’s not what you’d call conclusive, is it?’
‘And now, with Steve Carlisle at death’s door—’
‘It makes you wonder if we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Max finished for him. ‘We were assuming this all centred around the Coles. The attempt on Carlisle’s life has put us right back to square one.’
Max ground out his cigarette but made no attempt to return to the windproof, warm building.
‘How is Carlisle anyway?’ Fletch asked.
‘Still critical. I gather the last rites have been delivered.’ Max spun round on his heel. ‘We’ll see what Jill thinks. The fact that Temple’s photo was shown to anyone in the first place is all down to her.’
Which is exactly what Fletch had been thinking. Jill had dreamt up a profile, they’d gathered together a few mug-shots, and two elderly witnesses, one of whom wore bulletproof spectacles, had picked out Temple. It was far from convincing.
‘Not,’ Max added, ‘that I’d dare to question her judgement right now.’
Jill was in her office and Fletch envied her. It was the warmest room in the building by far. These days, when aesthetics was all, the workplace looked more like a flashy hotel than a police station. It was all open plan, a gleaming mass of glass and chrome. In the summer months, despite the air conditioning, it was a hothouse. In winter, the heating system was worse than useless.
‘We’re drawing a blank with Temple,’ Max told Jill, getting straight to the point. ‘What’s more, we’re not even sure we’re on the right track.’
Jill didn’t look very confident either.
‘Perhaps he’s not our man after all,’ she said. ‘But he must be, mustn’t he? The jeweller swears he’s the bloke who tried to offload that silver. And Mrs Hollingsworth saw him with Lauren.’ She chewed on her bottom lip. ‘All the same, I was expecting our man to be called Josh. I was confident that he’d been putting Lauren under pressure.’ She tapped her pen between her fingers. ‘We still haven’t found anyone called Josh?’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘What exactly happened to Steve Carlisle? How much do you know?’
‘There was no sign of a break-in,’ Fletch began.
‘So it was someone he knew?’
‘Not necessarily,’ he pointed out. ‘He probably didn’t know people in the other flats. Anyone posing as a neighbour could have been invited inside.’
She nodded acceptance of that.
‘What time was the attack?’ she asked.
‘Around eight that morning. No later.’
‘Early for a neighbourly call,’ she pointed out. ‘Are there no security cameras?’
Fletch saw Max roll his eyes at such a stupid question before snapping out, ‘If there had been, we’d have seen any callers, wouldn’t we? No, there are no cameras at the property and none anywhere on the estate.’
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Go on, Fletch.’
‘The flat’s furnished, and whoever attacked him used one of the knives from a set of six in the kitchen. An eight-inch blade. No prints on it.’
‘So it wasn’t premeditated,’ she murmured. ‘Someone called on him and an argument followed.’
‘We’re assuming that, yes,’ Max said, ‘but we have to accept the facts. One, Carlisle gets himself involved in Lauren Cole’s murder.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘He did,’ Max argued, ‘which is why he spent hours in this building. He may or may not be guilty of her murder, but he was involved in some way. Two, he then leaves his wife of twenty years and moves to Harrington.’
‘According to his father, he went because his marriage had never been happy. That and the fact that his wife was having an affair.’ She ran her hands through her hair, a sure sign she was confused. ‘Alison Carlisle could be your chief suspect.’
‘For the attempted murder of her husband? I know that.’ Max’s voice was clipped. ‘Not for the murder of Lauren Cole, though. Alison Carlisle was in Leeds when she was killed.’
‘Have you checked that?’
‘Of course we have.’
Fletch felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He wasn’t sure that they had. Her colleague, Mark Radley, had said he and Alison travelled over the Pennines together. If he was the bloke she was supposedly having an affair with…
‘Perhaps we should double-check that, Max,’ he said. ‘From what I recall, Mark Radley confirmed that he and Alison travelled together and arrived in Leeds shortly before nine o’clock that morning. He could be lying for her. If they’re having an affair—’
‘Then bloody well check it, Fletch!’
All Fletch wanted to know was what he was supposed to do with Maurice Temple. He might as well watch the grass grow as sit in that interview room with him.
He wasn’t going to argue though. He’d make sure they really had checked Alison Carlisle and Mark Radley’s alibi. If they hadn’t, they were going to look pretty stupid.
On the way back to his office, Max stopped to see how Mel was getting on hacking her way through all the so-called deleted files on Yasmin Smith’s friend’s computer.
‘I was coming to see you, guv,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ Hope sparked.
Judging by the office grapevine, Mel had no social life at all. Rumours were rife that she was a lesbian, but no one could either confirm or deny that, mainly because she was attractive in a geek sort of way and none of the male officers had, as yet, managed to get a date with her. She lived in a large house on the outskirts of town with mortgage payments that should have been far beyond her reach.
But her personal life was her own affair. Max was more interested in her IT skills.
‘The photo of Yasmin Smith was put on SeeYouThere just three weeks before she disappeared,’ Mel said. ‘Despite Mr and Mrs Smith claiming that Yasmin insisted on having the picture removed, she exchanged a lot of messages with users of the site about it. She even gave one person a phone number, and it wasn’t the same one the Smiths had. I’d guess she had another phone, one she didn’t want her parents knowing about.’
‘Can we trace it?’
‘It hasn’t been used since she disappeared,’ Mel said, ‘but we’re waiting for the records to come through.’
‘This person she gave the number to,’ Max asked, ‘who’s that?’
‘Someone who goes by the name of DaddyO.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m hoping SeeYouThere will give me details for him. And for everyone else she had contact with.’
‘That’s great,’ Max said, encouraged.
‘It will be if they’ll give us the info,’ she agreed. ‘This Data Protection Act has a lot to answer for.’
‘Let me know how you get on.’
‘Will do.’ She spun round on her chair and was totally engrossed in the screen before her.
Max carried on his way, did a detour through the main reception and realized that the woman standing at the desk with her voice raised in anger was none other than Alison Carlisle.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, and she swung round to face him.
‘Too right there’s a problem.’ She stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why I’m not allowed inside my husband’s home.’
Several people were waiting to have problems solved, or, more likely, complaints heard, but they all seemed to be enjoying the spectacle Alison was providing.
‘Shall we step into my office?’ Max suggested.
Most women whose husbands were in intensive care would lose interest in their appearance. They wouldn’t care if their hair needed brushing or if they were seen with no make-up on. Alison Carlisle didn’t have an eyelash out of place. She was wearing a long, red woollen coat with black knee-length boots.
‘This is farcical,’ she said, following him. ‘That I can’t collect his belongings is just plain ridiculous.’
Max pushed open the door to his office.
‘Do you have a key to the property?’ As far as he was aware, the two keys that Steve Carlisle possessed were being held by the force.
‘Of course I don’t. That’s why I’m here. I need to get his things. To take them home.’ She spoke slowly and carefully, as if trying to get through to a dementia patient.
‘Sit down,’ he suggested, and she threw herself down in the chair opposite his desk.
‘Look,’ she said, striving for calm, ‘as you know, Steve and I had a bit of a tiff and he moved out. But everything’s changed now. I need to take his things home.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that.’
‘Why not, for God’s sake?’
‘The main reason is that your husband’s flat is currently a crime scene. I can’t allow anything to be removed.’
‘Ridiculous!’
‘Mrs Carlisle, have you any idea who might have attacked your husband?’
‘Bloody hell!’ She looked as if she wanted to scream. ‘You’ve already asked me that fifty times. I’ll tell you again, I have no idea at all. Let’s face it, he didn’t move to the best neighbourhood in the country, did he? It could be anyone.’
‘You believe it was a stranger?’
‘Of course. No one who knew Steve would do that to him.’
‘We’d like to think not,’ Max agreed pleasantly.
‘Of course it was a stranger.’
‘Rumour has it you’ve been having an affair, Mrs Carlisle.’
Her eyes, glittering with anger, bored into his.
‘That’s come from Steve’s father, and he’s nothing but a gossip-monger. Holier than bloody thou. I’ve had a bit of a fling, yes, but who hasn’t? It means nothing.’
‘A bit of a fling with Mark Radley?’
‘So what? What does that have to do with you or anyone else?’
‘Quite a lot. It suggests that Mr Radley might be willing to lie for you by providing you with an alibi.’
She got to her feet, then leaned across his desk.
‘Are you arresting me, Chief Inspector?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be with my husband.’ She strode to the door and turned. ‘And for your information, I didn’t attack my husband. Nor do I have any idea who did. If you concentrated on your job instead of harassing innocent people, perhaps you’d be able to find out!’
She yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind her.
As soon as Jill heard that DS Fletcher was paying Maurice Temple’s father a visit, she glued herself to his side.
‘Temple left home four years ago,’ Fletch warned as he drove them through Harrington, ‘so don’t expect too much.’
‘I won’t.’
‘So …’ Fletch grinned at her while they queued at the traffic lights. ‘How’s the Thai boxing coming along?’
She knew he thought it ridiculous. In Fletch’s view, women should be at home taking care of the children, the house and their husband’s needs. And not necessarily in that order.
‘It’s good,’ she replied. ‘My instructor is one of the best in the country. And it’s not just the self-defence aspect, it’s an excellent way of keeping fit and fending off the effects of the Mars bars,’ she added with a wry smile.
‘Perhaps I’ll look into it,’ Fletch said. ‘Then again, perhaps not, eh? I can’t see much point to all this keep fit malarkey.’
He stopped the car outside the Temples’ home. It was on a local authority housing estate, surrounded by a hundred identical properties.
‘We don’t usually get a warm welcome round here,’ Fletch warned her as they walked up the icy path to the front door.
While Fletch showed ID to the woman who opened the door, Jill repressed a shudder. The new Mrs Temple must weigh in at more than twenty stone. A cigarette was gripped in her fingers. Hair was dyed blonde. Black leggings were straining at the seams as they fought to cover enormous thighs. Her feet were encased in mauve slippers.
‘What do you want with Sid?’ she asked, resting her weight against what Jill hoped was a sturdy door frame.
‘Just a word about his son,’ Fletch said. ‘May we come in, please?’
She shrugged, then waddled up the hallway, leaving them to close the front door and follow.
Sid was in the sitting room, stuffed into an armchair. The TV’s remote control was on his lap. He was the same size as his wife.
‘Which son?’ he demanded, lowering the TV’s volume.
‘Maurice,’ Jill said.
‘Why? What’s the little shit done now?’ Before anyone could answer, he added, ‘And what’s it got to do with me? I haven’t laid eyes on him for years.’
Christmas decorations were bright and gaudy. All colours of the spectrum were there. The tree, however, was black and decorated with white baubles. If Mrs Temple had been aiming for taste and elegance with that, she’d missed in spectacular style.
A huge pub-type ashtray on the coffee table was overflowing.
‘Maurice is being questioned in connection with the murder of a Lauren Cole,’ Fletch explained.
‘Murder? Bloody hell!’
‘Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘Of course it doesn’t. Why the hell should I know her?’
‘We believe she was a friend of Maurice’s,’ Jill said.
‘So? I don’t know his friends. Why the hell should I?’
People who claimed that blood was thicker than water ought to pay the Temple family a visit, Jill thought with despair.
‘Was Maurice close to his mother?’ she asked. ‘How did her death affect him?’
‘You just get on with life, don’t you?’ Mr Temple replied.
His new wife had stubbed out her cigarette and was in the process of lighting another.
‘Get me a beer, Tash,’ Temple said.
She waddled off and returned with a can that she handed to her husband.
‘Murder?’ Temple said again. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘To get back to Maurice’s friends,’ Fletch said as Sid tugged on the ring pull, then licked the froth that had sprayed out of the can and landed on his arm. ‘Don’t you know any of them? The people he’s been living with, for example?’
‘Of course not. Why the hell should I?’
It was clear that they might as well have stopped a stranger in the street and asked him about Maurice Temple. Jill wasn’t sorry when they were leaving.
‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘Does the name Josh mean anything to you?’
‘Eh? Well, of course it does. That’s him, innit.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Maurice. A few folk call him Josh. Or used to.’
Jill couldn’t believe this.
‘Your son, Maurice, is nicknamed Josh? But why?’
‘When Barry was born,’ Temple explained, ‘he couldn’t talk properly. There was Maurice and John and the daft little bugger called ’em Mosh and Josh. Then the lazy sod just called ’em both Josh. It stuck, that’s all.’
‘Well I never,’ she murmured in amazement.
They’d found Josh after all. She could hardly believe their good fortune.
As Fletch drove them back to headquarters, Jill was aware of the sideways glances he kept giving her, looks that said he considered her some sort of witch.
She might have been tempted to gloat, after all she’d bet them their man was called Josh, but she wasn’t confident enough for that.
She ignored Fletch, and kept her gaze on the town’s streets. The imagination that inspired some of the snowmen amazed her. As kids, she and her sister would have rolled two huge snowballs, put one of top of the other and fashioned a face from a carrot and two lumps of coal. Today, they passed a long-legged snowman sitting on a bench and, even better, a snow-horse.
They were soon in the car park at headquarters.
‘You got lucky back there,’ Fletch said at last.
‘Let’s hope so, Fletch.’