Hannah balanced cautiously on her chair. One of its legs seemed shorter than the others. ‘We’ve been talking to Karen Erskine.’
The smile tightened. ‘And?’
‘I’m wondering why you forgot to mention that you and she were once an item.’
Tony Di Venuto was incapable, she thought, of embarrassment. No beetroot flush, no averting of the eyes. Hides didn’t come any thicker. Pursing his lips, he said, ‘Because it was irrelevant.’
‘You knew the dead woman’s sister and you say it was irrelevant?’
‘Certainly.’ He’d anticipated the question and the words tripped from his tongue, as perfectly choreographed as a West End chorus line. ‘I never met Emma. She was living in Merseyside during the brief time that Karen and I were together. So how could our long-ago relationship have any bearing on the matter of Emma’s disappearance?’
‘She says that you hit her.’
‘That’s despicable.’
He meant the accusation, rather than the violence. Hannah snapped, ‘According to Karen, that’s why she dumped you.’
He winced, but his powers of recovery were worthy of a winded boxer. Within moments of taking the blow, he had fixed on a beam and was saying in a hushed voice, ‘It was my decision that we split up. Karen wanted to settle down and I wasn’t ready for it. I prefer to be footloose and fancy free, Chief Inspector. But she took it badly. No doubt that’s why she’s telling you these terrible things about me. A woman scorned.’
‘She says she finished the relationship after you hit her a second time and then that you stalked her until some other woman caught your eye. By the time that was over, Karen was married, but you threatened that she’d never escape from you.’
‘I need hardly tell you, this is slander. Actionable. If she repeats it …’
‘The way she explained it, your behaviour sounded like a power thing,’ Hannah interrupted. ‘You prefer your lovers to swoon at your feet, but you want more. You insist on being in complete control. When they show signs of having a mind of their own, the sparks fly.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Fantasy, sheer fantasy.’
‘Is this why you hinted that Jeremy Erskine might know something about Emma Bestwick’s fate? As a way of getting back at a woman who had wounded your pride all those years ago?’
‘My story was a legitimate piece of investigative journalism. A damned good example of it, even if I do say so myself. And may I remind you, Chief Inspector, it got results. Your picture wouldn’t be splashed all over the Press if I hadn’t tipped you off about where the bodies were buried.’
‘Strange as it may seem, I didn’t take this job to boost my public profile.’
When she saw his smirk of triumph, she realised she’d walked into a trap. It wouldn’t do to write this man off as stupid, as well as unpleasant.
‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘A hiding place after the fiasco of the Rao trial might be closer to the mark. If you don’t mind my saying so.’
Ouch. He was a good enough journalist to have done his homework. And there was a steel fist beneath that velvet glove. Before she could dig herself a deeper hole, Les Bryant cleared his throat and asked a question, broadening his vowels as if in provocation.
‘So you had nowt to do with Emma’s death?’
Di Venuto stared at Les. ‘Don’t be absurd. Why on earth would I kill a woman who meant nothing to me?’
‘To hurt her sister?’
‘You can’t be serious.’
Les sneezed, a minor explosion. ‘Maybe there was no intention to kill. Perhaps you simply cocked up.’
‘You can’t be serious. What about the telephone calls? That’s the man you need to find, instead of wasting your time harassing me.’
‘The calls, yes. Trouble is, we don’t have much detail about them. They weren’t recorded. As it happens, we only have your word that this mystery caller told you where to find Emma Bestwick.’
‘I made contemporaneous notes.’
‘Hang on, we all know about notes made by police officers and journalists, don’t we? Sometimes there’s a temptation to improve upon reality. Poetic licence.’
Di Venuto’s voice rose. ‘You’re casting aspersions on my integrity as a journalist.’
‘Simply testing the information you’ve supplied to us.’
‘Are you seriously accusing me …?’
‘We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr Di Venuto,’ Hannah said. She wondered what Lauren Self would have to say about this conversation if — or when — she ever found out about it. ‘But you must realise, these are questions that need to be asked, given that you haven’t been entirely frank with us.’
Tony Di Venuto brushed a lock of hair out of his eye. A consciously handsome gesture, which also bought a couple more seconds to decide what to say. When he did speak, his tone was magnanimous.
‘Look here, my fling with Karen was a long time ago. Passions ran high. There were faults on both sides. You’re a woman of the world, you know what I’m saying? But I’ve always had her interests at heart. When Emma disappeared, I felt so sorry for Karen. She still meant a lot to me, even though she’d settled down with Erskine. I’ve never cared for the sound of the man.’
‘Why?’
‘A man like that isn’t to be trusted.’ The Diva leaned back on his chair, gaze travelling along the ceiling, relishing the chance to play moral censor. ‘He began an affair with Karen while he was still married to a plain little librarian. The minute his glamorous blonde girlfriend got pregnant, he left his wife for her. Not exactly honourable. If my kid was a pupil at Grizedale, I’d be asking questions. Who’s to say that he didn’t take a shine to Emma and then cut up rough when he found she wasn’t interested? I was worried for Karen.’
‘For Karen?’
‘Certainly. Who knew what he might be capable of? I couldn’t live with myself if anything ever happened to her, because I’d not bothered to probe. When the ten-year anniversary came along, the story was a natural for the Post. I couldn’t turn a blind eye, even if I wanted to. I wanted to do her a service, even though so much water had flowed under the bridge. I hoped our campaign would bring out the truth about what happened to Emma. Of course I was careful what I said about her husband. My editor’s brother is a shit-hot London libel lawyer and I sought his advice. But I never dreamed of spiking the story. If the finger of guilt pointed at Jeremy, wasn’t it about time he paid the price for his crime?’
‘You were doing a public service?’ Les suggested, his face stripped of expression.
If he caught the sarcasm, Tony Di Venuto gave no hint of it. ‘Absolutely. That’s what local journalism is all about.’
‘So what did you make of that?’ Hannah asked, buttoning her jacket as they walked out of the stale air into the flesh-nipping cold.
‘Lying toad,’ Les muttered.
‘No, don’t sit on the fence. Tell me what you really think.’
A shadow of a smile. ‘Never liked journalists, never will. And he thinks the sun shines out of his arse. But does that make him a murderer?’
‘He might be crediting Jeremy with his own motive, his own crime.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re not convinced?’
‘Just because you’re a creep, doesn’t mean you’re a murderer.’
This was unarguable. Hannah unlocked the car with a click of her remote key. She was about to climb in when she caught a glimpse of Les in profile. Head bowed, wrinkles like ravines around his eyes and mouth.
‘You OK?’
‘Do I sound like it?’
‘I don’t mean your cold. I mean …’
He glared at her and pulled open the car door. ‘Listen, if you fancy yourself as a trick cyclist, leave me out of it, all right?’
‘I was only …’ Her voice trailed away. Dourness was par for the course, but she’d never seen Les look as woebegone as he did right now.
He glanced up at the heavens, then closed his eyes. ‘If you must know, the wife’s left me.’
‘Les, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’ve had a while to get used to the idea. A month since, she packed her bags and went off with someone else. It’s not the first time and I thought she’d come running back, like she’s done before. My mistake. I’ve had a letter from her solicitor, telling me she wants a divorce. So she can marry the stupid bastard. Happy bloody Valentine’s Day, eh?’