The police knocked that one on the head straightaway. They arrived, unannounced, just as I’d got the kids into the car. It was the man with the suntan, moustache and glasses who’d sat in the background while I was questioned at JB’s. With him a young sandy-haired bloke with sticky-out ears, reminiscent of Tintin. I asked them to wait a moment and fled inside to rouse Ray so he could do the school run.
The two men followed me into the kitchen. We all sat down round the oval table.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Miller and this is Sergeant Boyston. You are Sal Kilkenny?’
‘Yes, We met last week, actually.’
‘Busy, aren’t we?’ Said without a trace of humour. ‘Now, you contacted us regarding the murder of Miss Janice Brookes.’ Tintin made notes, while Miller did the talking.
‘Yes, well, if it is her.’ I had an unnerving flash of déjà-vu. The last time the police had sat in my kitchen I’d just had a brick through the window, a prelude to a knife through the shoulder.
Miller looked puzzled. I dragged my brain back to the present.
‘I thought it might be her sister. You see, I knew her as Mrs Hobbs. The woman I met, she looks like this one,’ I pointed to the paper, ‘but the wrong name. I thought if they were alike, her and her sister, then…’
The Sergeant sniggered.
‘I can assure you,’ said Miller, ‘that they do not look alike. Perhaps if we start at the beginning.’ He smiled, but his flecked brown eyes held no warmth.
I told them about Mrs Hobbs and the job she’d asked me to do. I related that I’d found Martin and that he’d wanted no contact with his family. I left out the details of his abuse; after all, that had nothing to do with Janice Brookes. I described how upset she’d been when I told her Martin didn’t want to see her.
‘She rang me again on Sunday.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About two-thirty. She wanted to go and see Martin. talk to him. I persuaded her not to. Well, I thought I had. She was going to write instead, send the letter to me to deliver.’
‘Have you received it?’
‘No.’
‘I think she went after him,’ I said, ‘where she was found, the M63, it’s not far from Cheadle. You should check out the house. She could have been killed there, then moved. Was she killed where they found her?’
Miller didn’t acknowledge questions.
‘I’d be careful about making wild accusations like that,’ he said. ‘After all, as I understand it you don’t know that Martin Hobbs lived there.’
‘No. but…’
‘Or who else lived there.’
‘I know, but you must at least…’
‘I’m aware of how to conduct a murder enquiry, Miss Kilkenny.’ He spoke sharply. ‘You have a note of the street name, Sergeant?’
‘Old Hall Lane, Sir, Aston Martin, red.’
‘Where were you on Sunday night?’
‘Me?’ My face burned with indignation. ‘I was here.’
‘All evening?’
‘Yes.’ I sounded defensive, Guilty for no good cause. ‘There are children in the house.’
‘And you had no further contact with Janice Brookes after that phone call?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I think that will do for now. We’ll get in touch if we need to talk to you again.’
‘Did anyone else know her as Mrs Hobbs? Was she leading a double life?’
‘I can’t say, Miss. We do know she had a history of mental instability.’
I wondered what you had to do to qualify for that label. Go to a therapist, as I had? Take tranquillisers? Be hospitalised? I could think of precious few people who didn’t have some history of mental instability. Sergeant Boyston closed his notebook.
‘I’d like to speak to her family,’ I said.
‘I think they’ve got quite enough on their plate at the moment.’
‘But they might know why she was pretending to be…’
‘Frankly, that’s no longer any of your concern. Your client is dead. I’ve a murder to solve and I don’t want any interference. In fact, I’d regard any further activity by you as obstruction. Is that clear?’
I sent laser death rays with my glare. The two of them got to their feet.
‘There’s something else,’ I said. ‘About JB, I mean, Philip Hargreaves.’ Miller waited for me to continue. ‘Someone was seen leaving his place the day he was killed.’
‘Philip Hargreaves died of a self-induced drug over dose.’ He was impatient, spoke with contempt.
‘Well, that’s what everyone thought. But this man, he’s a known criminal, he was seen leaving on the Thursday afternoon. The person who saw him found JB’s body. He was already dead then. Twenty-four hours before I got there. But they were too scared to say anything.’
Miller stared at me until I felt uncomfortable. When he spoke it was to ridicule me. ‘Philip Hargreaves was a junkie. The doctor and the coroner were both satisfied as to cause of death. There was no evidence of foul play. If this anonymous witness had seen a handful of serial killers in the vicinity, it wouldn’t alter…’
‘In the building. He’s known as Smiley. He’s got a scar…’
Miller held up his hand. ‘This isn’t a bloody gangster movie.’ He leant towards me. ‘No crime has been committed.’
‘It has,’ I insisted. ‘Murder.’
‘Wrong.’ He stabbed his finger at me. ‘The facts speak for themselves. There’s only one murder, that of Janice Brookes.’
‘But Martin’s the link. They must be connected.’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned. You’ve been under too much pressure, Miss Kilkenny.’ He shook his head to and fro. ‘Dealing with an accidental death and now this. Way out of your league. Can’t be an easy job for a woman, anyway. We know what we’re doing. We take it from here. You need a break; take the kiddies away for a few days. Help you to get things in the right perspective. This sort of hysterical reaction doesn’t help anybody.’ He moved towards the door. Tintin followed. ‘We’ll be doing our level best with the Brookes case, I can assure you of that.’
I was glad I hadn’t offered the bastard a cup of tea.
Well, I’d done my duty. I’d passed on Leanne’s story. If DI Miller thought I was going to sit back and twiddle my thumbs, he’d another think coming. Oh, they could solve the murder, I wouldn’t tread on any toes there, but I would solve the mystery. I had to know why Janice Brookes was willing to spend a grand tracing a runaway schoolboy. And if I hadn’t easy access to the Brookes family, then I’d start with the other side of the family. With the real Mrs Hobbs.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The rain came down like stair rods as I drove over to Bolton. Traffic was bad, with road-works along the M61. I made it to St. Matthew’s just before the end of lunch break.
After a few enquiries, I found Max Ainsworth in the Chemistry Lab. The smell of sulphur took me straight back to interminable Friday afternoons, perched on a high wooden stool, listening to Miss Jackson drone on. We’d given her hell. Turning on unlit Bunsen burners in attempts to gas the class out of existence, competing with each other to see how many test-tubes could be broken during one experiment. At fourteen, we dropped chemistry like a shot.
‘Max, can I have a quick word?’ He followed me out into the corridor.
“S it about Martin?’ He looked concerned.
‘Yeah. He’s okay. I managed to find him. He’s living in Manchester. The thing is, I never got his parents’ address, only the phone number, and the damn thing’s out of order.’