He smiled. ‘You don’t think Ferdie’s our man?’
‘Keeping all my options open.’
‘Bloody mess at the moment,’ The Lemon pronounced, ‘two suspects got you running in every direction.’
She wouldn’t have put it quite like that.
‘I’m hoping forensics will narrow it down. And we’ve the Press Conference and line-up tomorrow, if we can get Ferdie Gibson in.’
‘Who’s top of your list, Janine?’ He managed to make her name sound like an insult. She hesitated. Was he expecting her to back up her hunch with reasoned arguments or was he just after her gut feeling? She thought of Ferdie, broadcasting his hatred for Tulley, handy with a knife. Then Lesley Tulley, to all intents and purposes the grieving widow.
‘I know we’ve motive and a possible sighting for Gibson but I’m not convinced, sir.’
‘Women’s intuition?’
Janine rated the skills she had in reading people: the ability to decode the patterns of words and silences, interpret body language, pick up on the tiny shifts in atmosphere that women were more attuned to because they’d been schooled to be from an early age. ‘We’ve gaps in Lesley Tulley’s account,’ she pointed out. ‘Not cut and dried.’
‘Think she nipped home and committed murder and then popped back in to finish her shopping.’
‘Not impossible, sir.’
‘By all accounts the injuries were quite horrific. Is a woman really capable of that sort of thing?’
‘You’d be surprised, sir,’ she said dangerously.
When he released her she returned to the murder room to collect Richard. He was busy on the computer. She waited, fiddling with her phone trying to change the ringtone. Why did they make them so complicated. God, she was no Luddite, quite happy on the computer or setting the VCR but she’d barely mastered the basics on her phone. Never enough time. Better things to do. More important things. She pressed select and ended up with a diabolical marching tune.
‘Boss.’ Richard called her over. ‘Dean Hendrix.’
She crossed to him, she recognised the name.
‘He’s one of the residents, yes?’
The screen was loading, criminal records.
‘Denholme Avenue. Unaccounted for. Neighbours haven’t seen him. There’s a girlfriend, Paula, ex-pupil of Matthew Tulley’s.’
‘And Dean’s got form?’ She nodded to the monitor.
‘You could say that.’
The page displayed.
Janine scanned the information. ‘He’s done time. Good God, three years in Young Offender’s. GBH, weapon was a knife. Slit the victim’s belly open. A Mr Williams, practically disembowelled him.’
She looked at Richard in horror, something twisting inside her, her throat suddenly dry. ‘Oh, my god, he’s done it before! Where the hell is he?’
CHAPTER TEN
‘I want Dean Hendrix found. Top priority. Circulate a. description. And get forensics to put him into the mix – tell them it’s urgent.’ She issued orders, her mind already running ahead. What should change, what not. Flexible but firm: adapt to new circumstances but don’t let it throw you off course. Don’t over-react she told herself. It’s a lead, that’s all, not a result.
‘Shap’s found the girlfriend,’ Richard told her. ‘He’s seeing her now.’
Janine printed off a mugshot of Dean Hendrix and stuck it up on the board next to those of Lesley Tulley and Ferdie Gibson.
‘The Lemon’s gonna love this,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘He thought two suspects was excessive.’ She thought hard and fast, they would expect her to give the lead.
‘OK,’ she called the room to attention. ‘This could be a fluke – the lad’s off having a holiday somewhere, not done a runner. Until we’ve something concrete we keep all the balls in the air. We keep after Mrs Tulley and Ferdie Gibson and we find Dean Hendrix.’
Richard had a smile hovering on the edge of his lips. Something amuse him?
‘Look sharp, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Time we had a bit of a closer look round at the Tulleys’.’
Dean had shown Paula his photos. They hadn’t been going together all that long, still working out the rules and getting the measure of each other. She had been asking about his family. He’d clammed up.
‘I’m sorry, Dean,’ she had said. They sat awkwardly on his sofa. He wanted to run. They both spoke together then. Mangled words. More embarrassment.
‘I’ve got pictures,’ he offered. He didn’t want her to think he was a wimp, that he couldn’t deal with it. Already he knew she was worth more effort than any of the others. She nodded and smiled at him. He brought them down. He never usually looked at them. He remembered Jean, his foster mum, showing him the album. Her rough smoker’s voice, almost whispering, telling him who was who, reading the notes on the back.
Paula sat close. Dean cracked open a couple of cans. Gave her one. Took a swig. The album lay across their knees, half on his lap, half on hers. The first pages were his mum and her friends. Dean stared at the captured smiles, pointed out the skinny, dark-haired woman.
‘I can see the resemblance,’ Paula said. ‘You’re very like her.’ Dean chewed his lip. He turned the page. Baby photos. A studio pose. Himself in white baby clothes against a shiny white curtain. Big, dark eyes and a bald head.
‘Aw, Dean.’ She nudged him gently in the ribs, ‘you’ve not changed at all. Look at that.’ Dean, a toddler, with bow and arrow. Dean with a dog in a back yard. Dean and friends round a birthday cake. Dean and his mum sitting on a swing.
‘How old was she when she had you?’
‘Dunno.’ He had another drink. He didn’t know how old she was when she died either. What did it matter?
‘What about your dad?’
He shrugged. ‘She never married.’
‘Do you ever wonder?’ She looked at him.
‘Maybe when you’re older.’
‘Maybe.’ He couldn’t imagine it. Trying to find a non-existent father. A faceless, nameless ghost. It was all he could manage to consider someday finding out more about his mother. ‘
‘What was she called?’
‘Shirley he said.
‘She looks nice,’ said Paula. ‘You look happy, don’t you?’
He couldn’t speak. Choked up. He turned the page. The last pictures. Dean with bucket and spade. With his mum and some other people at Christmas time. Tinsel on the table.
Paula realised. ‘I’m sorry.’
He shook his head. Tried to shake the tears away. He lowered his head. Eyes stinging.
Paula slid the book away. ‘I’m sorry, Dean. Too bloody nosy.’
‘No,’ he sounded strangled.
She put her arms around him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly.
That did it, stupid bloody… he couldn’t stop it. Her with her understanding. Had him scriking like a little kid. And it wasn’t all right, was it? Not really. Later, she said sometimes it was good to let it out. Dean wasn’t so sure. In fact he’d rather have left it where it was, ta very much.
Later still they drank some rum and smoked some grass and went upstairs. He had sex with her. He did it hard and fast. Not wanting to please her. Just wanting to take himself to a different place. She didn’t complain. She let him drift asleep afterwards. She woke him in the night. Rubbing against him, coaxing him with her dirty sweet words, and he made amends.
‘With your permission, Mrs Tulley, we’d like to look round the house?’ Janine said.
‘Why? Why do you want to look here?’ Emma was suspicious of them.
‘It’s all right, Emma,’ Lesley said.
‘We might find useful leads among Mr Tulley’s personal effects,’ Janine explained. ‘It’s more than likely that Matthew knew his attacker.’
‘What about Ferdie Gibson, has he been questioned? Have you searched his house?’ Emma asked.