In Chalmpton Peverill that morning, Constance could not concentrate on everyday farm routine, however hard she tried. She went through the motions, of course, but her mind kept wandering. She had so much to think about.
Midway through the morning she gave in to temptation, poured herself a whisky and sat down at the kitchen table with the telephone. Her call was not successful and was in any case interrupted by Freddie in search of coffee.
‘Who was that?’ he asked in an automatic sort of way as she replaced the receiver in its cradle.
‘Nobody,’ she said.
Freddie glanced at her inquiringly.
She realised she had sounded short.
‘I was trying to phone William,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t there.’
Freddie’s glance switched to the large whisky before her. It was unlike Constance to drink so early in the day. She realised another explanation was called for.
‘My tummy’s a bit dicky again and I thought a drop of Scotch might settle it,’ she said, and, seeing the instant panic this simple remark aroused in Freddie, immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked anxiously. ‘You’re not still being sick, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, honestly.’
‘I wish you’d go to the doctor, you look so tired.’ He took her chin in one hand, raising her face slightly towards him.
‘I’m all right, really,’ she protested.
‘Have a lie down anyway, I do wish you would.’
‘This afternoon,’ she promised, and made herself flash him a cheery smile.
Jonathon Lee, Marty Morris’s lover, was every bit as smooth as Sergeant Mellor had promised. He was a white man in his late thirties, of average height, slimly built, beautifully dressed, meticulously courteous and, on first acquaintance, appeared deceptively pleasant in manner. His pupils were dilated, Rose noticed, a sure sign of drug abuse, but she could appreciate what young Marty Morris had seen in the older man. Jonathon Lee possessed considerable charm, and it was only as the interview progressed and he became slightly agitated that he displayed the other side to his nature. His mouth tightened and turned downwards, his voice dropped almost to a hoarse whisper, and everything about him led Rose to suspect that he was capable of great cruelty. He was wearing a heavy gold ring on the little finger of his right hand which he twirled continually with the thin bony fingers of the left.
Rose found the mannerism inexplicably disconcerting. It was definitely easy for her to believe that Lee had beaten up young Marty whenever he felt like it, and Marty could well have been afraid to leave him even if he had wanted to. But if their information so far was correct he may not have wanted to. Because if the lad had been hooked on crack cocaine and Lee was a dealer with almost unlimited access to supplies of the drug, that would have made Lee the most attractive man in the world to Marty Morris, regardless of his tendencies towards violence.
Lee was an obvious suspect. Not only did he have a history of mental instability and drug abuse, neither could he account satisfactorily for his movements on the evening of Marty’s death.
‘I’d been on the crack, you know how it is,’ he muttered.
‘No,’ Rose retorted sharply. ‘I don’t. Tell me.’
‘Well, when I’ve scored I don’t know where I am or what’s going on, sometimes, you see...’ Lee paused, as if realising what he had said. ‘No, no, I’d never hurt Marty. It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t do anything like that...’
‘Mr Lee, Marty Morris had a rather nasty bruise, just beginning to fade, on his right temple. Were you responsible for that, by any chance?’
‘’Course not.’
‘We know you can be violent, Mr Lee. Particularly when you are under the influence of drugs. You had a lover whom you knew was a male prostitute and you hated that. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you never hit Marty during your relationship?’
‘Well, I may have given him a slap once or twice, but that’s all, honest.’
Lee tried one of his most charming smiles, a little late in the day, but Rose could not get any further.
‘Bound to be him, guv,’ said Peter Mellor over a lunch-time drink in the Compton Arms. ‘Motive, opportunity, everything. And out of his mind.’
‘What about Mrs Pattinson then?’ asked Rose. ‘If Lee is our killer, where does she fit in?’
‘We’ve only got Paolo’s evidence that she called at all.’
‘OK. But he is so sure of himself and has no reason that I can think of to lie. Let’s assume for the moment that Mrs Pattinson did call.’
‘Well, maybe she waited for Marty, then saw Lee attack him and did a runner.’
‘Peter, we believe that she pays young men to have sex with her in a hotel room. This time it seems that she phoned Avon Escorts yet she hadn’t even checked in to the Crescent,’ said Rose. ‘It just doesn’t add up.’
‘At least Lee’s got more or less the right-sized feet,’ said Mellor. ‘We’ve now checked that those were Timberland bootprints, and they’ve been measured. Size ten. Lee says he takes a nine. All that calls for is a thick pair of socks.’
Rose sighed. ‘I know what you’re getting at, Peter. You wouldn’t expect a woman to be wearing a pair of boots that big. But you see, I actually reckon that smoothie Lee would be no more likely to be wearing a bloody great pair of Timberland boots than a woman.’
Mellor was making an effort to concentrate on analysing the facts, Rose knew that, but he still looked grim. She suspected that he was thinking about the effect this latest bit of juicy news about Marty Morris’s sexuality would have on the victim’s father, the man Mellor seemed to have such regard for. The Reverend Morris’s little boy was about to be revealed to be not only a male prostitute but also gay, and possibly a junkie. She could understand why Peter Mellor would like the case buttoned up fast, even more than she would. At least the Reverend Morris’s agony would not then be prolonged.
Rose watched her sergeant take a swig of his pint, his face screwed up almost as if the drink were poisoning him. He certainly wasn’t enjoying it, but then he didn’t seem likely to be able to enjoy anything much at the moment.
‘Why don’t you tell me about it, Peter?’ she invited.
The sergeant put down his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. ‘Don’t know what you mean, boss.’
‘Peter, this case is really getting to you. It’s unlike you, that’s all.’
Mellor managed a wry smile and took another drink of his beer, this time without quite as much apparent distaste. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, his manner pensive.
‘I grew up in St Paul’s, you know that. In one of those tower blocks down the Stapleton Road — and you don’t get much rougher than that. I had no father — well, none that I ever knew. My mother was too busy trying to scrape a living to take much notice of me. She wasn’t too fussy how, either...’
Mellor paused. Rose studied him enquiringly. Was he suggesting that his mother had been on the game? If he was, it seemed he did not intend to spell it out.
‘When she wasn’t working all she wanted to do was party,’ he went on. ‘She was pissed or stoned half the time, and I ran wild as a kid. One way and another it’s a miracle I’m sitting here with you, boss. I was destined to end up in and out of prison myself rather than putting villains behind bars, no doubt about it.
‘The Reverend ran a youth club. He saw it as a kind of mission in life to try and give a chance to youngsters who didn’t have any. He always had time. For a bit he was like a kind of father to me. Nearest I ever had. More than anything else he taught me that I had a brain, and how to use it.’