“Right, Graham. Tell Mark to contact that pal of his in the Football Intelligence Unit, set up a meeting.”
Millington was scarcely out of the door when Lynn Kellogg came in. Resignedly, Resnick pushed the sandwich back in its paper bag and shut the bag in his desk drawer.
“I’ve been going over that breakdown I did,” Lynn said. “Aston’s last twenty-four hours. And there’s one period I’m not clear about. He met you in the Partridge on the Friday evening to talk about Nicky Snape and didn’t get back to the house until pretty late, between eleven thirty and midnight Mrs. Aston said.”
“And I left him at around half nine, sitting with half an inch of mild.”
Lynn nodded. “According to Mrs. Aston, he said he was there talking to you the whole time. Made a point of it.”
Resnick shrugged. “She could have been getting confused.”
“She might. Or Aston might have lied.”
Resnick looked at her seriously. “In which case he’d likely have had good reason.”
“I thought,” Lynn said, “before taking it any farther, I’d pop out there and talk to Mrs. Aston again, see if she’s still saying the same. If that’s okay with you.”
Resnick was already reaching for the phone. “I’ll call her first, then ride out with you. We can ask her together.”
Thirty-one
Stella Aston met them at the door, wearing jeans and an oversized sweater; her hair hung slightly damp against her shoulders, washed and imperfectly dried. She smiled a greeting and stood back to let Resnick and Lynn enter, but there was a tiredness behind the smile that she couldn’t disguise.
“Mum’s been lying down,” she said. “Why don’t you come through to the kitchen? She’s just getting dressed. I don’t suppose she’ll be very long.”
Stella made instant coffee, chatting with just a slight awkwardness to Lynn, Resnick off to one side, staring out at the garden. Although he imagined it had not long since been done, the grass would soon be in need of cutting again.
When Stella carried over Resnick’s cup, Lynn watched her, without knowing exactly what she was looking for, a change of expression on her face, the way she smiled. You think she could have had a crush on him: Petra Carey’s words. Well, why not? Others had, Lynn was certain. Fleetingly, Stella’s fingers, surely by accident, brushed against the back of Resnick’s hand. Little girls love their fathers. Usually they replace them with other men. But if that other man’s too much like her father, what she ends up feeling is guilt. More of Petra Carey’s words.
Petra bloody Carey! What I might do, Lynn thought, is cancel my next appointment, not go back at all.
By the time they had finished their coffee, Margaret Aston had come downstairs and was waiting for them in the living room, the curtains pulled mostly across. No matter how much powder and foundation she had used, she had not been able to hide the extent to which she had, in these last days, yielded herself up to tears.
“Margaret,” Resnick said gently, “are you sure you’re up to this?”
“Yes, thank you, Charlie. I shall be fine.”
Seated on the carpet close by her chair, Stella reached up and patted her mother’s hand.
“Mrs. Aston,” Lynn began, “you remember there was a phone call your husband made, late on the Saturday afternoon?”
“Yes, of course. Someone rang him and he called them back from the hall.”
“Why did he do that?”
Margaret Aston shook her head. “They hadn’t finished their conversation, I suppose.”
“Yes, but, why go out into the hall? Why not ring them back from where he was? The same phone the person had called in on.”
Margaret Aston looked bemused; she transferred her gaze from Lynn to Resnick and slowly back again.
“I mean,” Lynn persevered, “wouldn’t that have been the simplest thing to do?”
“I really haven’t given it any thought, but Bill had his reasons, I’m sure.”
“What were you doing, Mum, at the time?” Stella asked, looking round.
“Oh, I don’t know, dear. Reading, I suppose. Yes, I was, a book from the library, I can’t remember …”
“There you are, there’s your answer,” Stella said. “Dad didn’t want to disturb Mum’s reading, that’s what it was. Nothing sinister at all.”
Resnick and Lynn exchanged glances.
“I don’t suppose you’ve been able to remember, Mrs. Aston,” Lynn said, “who it was your husband spoke to? You couldn’t when we talked before.”
She shook her head. “As I told you then, Bill never mentioned who it was. But it’ll have been someone from the Church, I’m sure. For years he’s been a lay-preacher. Quite famous, isn’t he, Charlie, you would know. Famous for it.”
Nodding agreement, Resnick leaned forward lightly in his chair. “I wonder, Margaret, does the name Elizabeth Peck mean anything to you?”
She gave it several moments’ thought. “No. No, I can’t say that it does. But I expect you’re about to tell me that’s who Bill was speaking to, is that it?”
Resnick nodded. “It was her number that he called.”
“So who is she?” Stella asked, the beginnings of agitation in her young voice.
“A social worker. She’s employed at the place where Nicky Snape died.”
“Well then, of course,” Margaret Aston said, seizing on it quickly, “that’s why she would have wanted to talk to Bill. The inquiry. And why he would have been careful to have spoken to her in private. Confidentially. He was very scrupulous about things like that, Bill, even from me. Charlie, you should know that yourself.”
“The trouble is, Margaret, that only makes it more difficult to understand why he would agree to a long, private conversation with one of his principal witnesses. Especially when it was so clearly off the record.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure he will have made a note at least.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been through all of his papers, notebooks, everything. There’s nothing about any such conversation having taken place.”
Margaret Aston sighed; she seemed to have shrunk even deeper into her chair. “Stella, dear.” Touching her daughter’s shoulder. “I’m feeling very tired. I wonder, would you help me back up to bed. Charlie, you’ll excuse me, I know.”
Resnick and Lynn stood as Stella assisted her mother to her feet. Resnick opened the door and as Margaret, leaning on her daughter’s arm, passed by him, he asked a further question. “One thing, Margaret. What time was it Bill got back here on the Friday night?”
She stopped. “Almost midnight. A quarter, ten to. You should know, Charlie, it was you he was with. I remember him coming in and coming up to my room, I was in bed by then of course. Knocking gently on the door to make sure I was still awake. He sat on the bed for a moment and held my hand, told me what a nice evening he’d had. Charlie, he’d enjoyed talking to you. You could see it, see in his face, some of that old life again. Long time since I’ve done that, love, he said. Me and Charlie Resnick, closed the bar together. I shall sleep well tonight, he said, and kissed me here, on the top of the head, before saying good-night.”
Unusually, Resnick took the keys and slid behind the wheel. Less than half a mile down the road he signaled right and pulled in outside a small parade of shops. Lynn imagined that he intended to get out, buy a newspaper, or go to the off-license for beer. But engine idling, he sat there, forearms resting on the wheel.
“You think she’s lying?” he said finally. “Holding something back?”
“No.”
“Telling the truth, then?”
“Yes. As she sees it. All she knows, yes.”
Resnick released a slow breath. “It would be easier perhaps if she were lying, if she knew there was something going on.”