Skeleton Plot Read online

  The police now knew the identity of the skeleton they’d dug up at the weekend. The man in charge of the case would like to speak to Mr Williams. He would come here with another officer at two thirty this afternoon.

  ‘Our Customer Services Director will see you in two minutes. The cancellation of an appointment has left her with a fifteen-minute gap in her schedule. You are fortunate to be able to see her at such short notice, Detective Inspector Rushton.’

  The PA stared disapprovingly at the handsome, dark-haired policeman with the document case in his hands. Disapproval was part of her job. She built up the status of her boss by being the dragon at the desk in the ante-room outside her office, a formidable sentry guarding the entrance to that holy of holies. She was more zealous than she had ever been about this aspect of her work, because Ms Katherine Clark was a woman, the first female boss she had ever had. The sorority must stick together; men underestimated abler women like Katherine, so anything her PA could do to compensate for that must be done.

  She eyed the soberly clad policeman with an automatic disapproval. It was a good thing he had at least come here in plain clothes: it wouldn’t do to have policemen marching about the place in uniform and sparking off all sorts of speculation. He had his job to do, she supposed, but she couldn’t think what possible business he could have with a board member of Severn Trent. Meanwhile, he should be made properly aware of how privileged he was to gain such a swift audience with a senior executive of one of the great national utility firms.

  Kate Clark welcomed Rushton with a warm smile, reserving her position, ready to turn on the charm with a man perhaps ten years younger than her if that seemed the best tactic. This was probably some police inquiry into the conduct of a company employee. She would sacrifice him – or her – if they were junior and unimportant. If this was about the misdeed of a more senior employee, she might need to exercise her full diplomatic skills to plead for leniency. In the complex power games which were played out behind the doors of the boardroom, it never did you any harm to have senior colleagues owing you favours.

  Kate gave him a broad, frank smile and threw out her hand. ‘Detective Inspector Rushton, I believe. And I’m Kate Clark. No time for coffee, I’m afraid: you’ve been pushed into a very small window in my day, in the interests of urgency. Now what can I do for you? Is this the peccadillo of one of our many hundreds of employees? Not speeding, I’m sure, because that wouldn’t warrant the presence in my office of as senior an officer as yourself.’

  ‘No. It’s not speeding. Nor driving without licence and insurance. We should be taking direct action against the individual in the case of traffic offences. But I’m CID, not traffic.’

  She caught his slight wince of discomfort that she should consider it a possibility that he might be traffic and said, ‘Of course. A senior CID officer implies something much more serious, though I find it difficult to see how I might be the person to help you. But of course I shall do whatever I can. If this concerns some offence by a senior colleague, I can assure you that we speak here in strict confidence. Anything you say will not be repeated outside these four walls without your approval.’

  ‘We wish this to go no further, at this stage. That is why I have come here in person to speak to you.’ Chris Rushton had been determined not to be overawed by authority, but he found himself speaking stiffly and formally. Despite his resolve he was awed by the easy manner of this attractive, supremely confident and successful woman.

  Kate glanced at her watch. ‘We had better get on with this,’ she said briskly.

  Rushton was much more at home with briskness than with charm. ‘This concerns you, Ms Clark. And I should say at the outset that you are not accused of any crime.’

  ‘It’s Kate. And that’s a relief.’ Her smile gave him the full benefit of some very expensive dental work. It also masked her first twinge of apprehension.

  ‘This is nothing to do with the past few weeks or even the past few months. I’m here to enquire about your whereabouts in 1995.’

  She’d been preparing to sit down opposite him in the comfortable armchairs which dominated one end of the large room. Now she sat down abruptly behind her desk with the window behind her. ‘That cannot possibly be of interest to you. I was not engaged in any criminal activity.’

  Chris’s assurance increased with the decline of hers. ‘No one has so far suggested that you might have been. But we are investigating what we now know is a very serious crime. We need your cooperation.’

  ‘I’ve already offered that. What is it you want of me?’

  ‘Last Saturday, a skeleton was discovered in a shallow grave in Herefordshire. You may have read about that.’

  Kate was sure that her face had gone white. She hoped that with the light behind her he wouldn’t see that. ‘I don’t read about crime in the papers. I’m too busy, for one thing. And the details sometimes upset me. But I heard the police bulletins on the radio when I was in my car.’

  Rushton nodded. ‘We now know that this woman died about twenty years ago. It’s our job to find out exactly how she died. To do that, we need to discover as much as we can about the life she lived in the weeks immediately before her death. We think you may be able to assist us with that.’

  ‘And what makes you think so?’ She felt like an actress in a bad play, without any key lines herself, merely speaking a series of cues to prompt action from others.

  ‘Can you tell me where you were twenty years ago, Ms Clark?’

  She wasn’t calling upon him to address her as Kate any more. She was floundering, wondering if there was a way to escape from this, to handle it without compromising her present exalted position in the firm. ‘Twenty years ago isn’t easy to recall at the drop of a hat, DI Rushton.’

  ‘Allow me to help you, then. Were you at or around that time living in a squat in Gloucester?’

  A significant pause, whilst Kate thought furiously of her options and decided that there was no easy way out of this. ‘I might have been, I suppose.’

  ‘Our information is that you were in a derelict house in Fairfax Street in the city at that time.’

  She wondered furiously where their information had come from. But there was no future in that. She said quietly, ‘You agreed earlier that this would be confidential. Can I rely on that assurance?’

  Rushton allowed himself his only tiny smile of their meeting. ‘I think it was your assurance, rather than mine. But yes, all our enquiries are conducted in confidence. Unless of course you should eventually be called as a witness in a court of law, when things would obviously be outside our control.’

  He rather enjoyed that addendum, feeling himself reversing dominance with this powerful, confident woman. For her part, Kate was trying not to show the very real fear she now felt. ‘I admit that I was in the place you mentioned for a short period at around that time. So where do we go from here?’

  ‘The man in charge of what is now a murder inquiry is Chief Superintendent John Lambert. He will wish to interview you with a colleague of his within the next two days. You may wish to suggest where that interview might take place.’

  She took the card with Lambert’s number, promised to ring him during the next few hours. Whenever she could fit the call in with her busy schedule, she said.

  DI Rushton let that little piece of vanity go. Kate Clark might need all the trappings of authority she could muster, in the weeks to come.

  You didn’t let the police into your house without showing resentment. Steve Williams had spent his life fighting the filth. That wasn’t going to end now, merely because he was sixty-six and finished with most of the things which had divided them. He made his ritual protest as he led them into his large and well-fitted sitting room. ‘This feels like persecution. I had nothing to do with that skeleton. I’ve already told your wooden-tops that.’

  They were old foes, he and John Lambert, though they hadn’t crossed swords for many years now. ‘If you’d no connection with this death, then y
ou’ve nothing to fear. You’ll be treated like other, more innocent, members of the public. The law says we have to do that, whatever our private feelings might be. Unlike you and the people you employ, we have to abide by the law.’

  ‘Used to employ, John. Those times have gone. I’m retired. As you should be by now. I know you must be around ten years younger than me, but coppers retire early on fat pensions. Bastards like you should be piling shit on your roses.’

  It was the first time in his life he had used his opponent’s forename. Both of them noted it; both of them determined to show no reaction. Lambert said sourly, ‘Until the Brenton Park estate was built, you were the nearest householder to the spot where this body was found. Of course you’re going to be investigated. Even someone without your record would be asked the questions we are going to ask you.’

  Williams waved a hand at the largest of the sofas and adjusted the alignment of an armchair carefully so that it directly faced them. He had so far given no more than a single glance at Hook. He knew him too from way back; they had tangled when he had been dishing out beatings and Bert had been a raw young constable. But he was not going to acknowledge that. Bert studied him objectively and with no embarrassment. CID officers have no need for the conventions and niceties which people are accustomed to in their normal social exchanges.

  Hook saw a man who was ageing but still vigorous. Williams was almost completely bald now. He had lost the use of one eye after a brawl conducted in his twenties, but you would scarcely have known that without studying his face very closely, which not many people were bold enough to do. He was broad-shouldered and powerful, but now carried a paunch which had not troubled him in his younger days.

  At this point, there was the noise of a slight movement in the room above their heads, which all of them heard but chose to ignore, save for swift glances at the ceiling from the policemen. Steve said roughly, ‘You’d better ask your damned questions and get out of here. Leave innocent folk to get on with their quiet lives.’

  Bert Hook flicked open his notebook without taking his eyes off the big man’s face. ‘Did you know a young woman called Julie Grimshaw?’

  ‘Yes. Shapely young tart, she was, twenty years ago. Wouldn’t have minded an hour or two between the sheets with her, if I’d had the chance.’

  He was being deliberately offensive and they all knew it. This was an answer he had prepared and considered long before they came here. ‘And did you get that chance?’

  A smile which degenerated quickly into a leer. ‘No. These young girls don’t want to know the things an experienced man could teach them, do they? And you know me: I was far too much of a gentleman to force my attentions upon her, wasn’t I?’

  ‘We have reason to think Miss Grimshaw was on drugs at the time of her death. What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘Bugger all. I was never into drugs and never wanted to be. You know that.’

  It was true. Prostitution and loan-sharking had been Williams’s main sources of income, in the days when he had operated chains of pimps and lenders in three counties. Hook said, ‘You’d have had access to drugs, if you’d wanted them. You could have provided her with whatever she wanted, if you’d chosen to do that.’

  ‘That is a wicked accusation. You are fortunate that I choose not to take it up. I shall be tolerant with you, for old times’ sake.’

  He was playing games with them. Safe games. He was on firm ground here, because he hadn’t ever been accused of dealing in drugs. He’d never been convicted of anything in court, in fact, though every CID officer in Gloucestershire, Herefordshire and Somerset knew that Steve Williams was a villain. Hook watched him carefully as he said, ‘So you knew her. Did she come to this house?’

  Williams looked round the room he had used for thirty-three years as if he was seeing it for the first time. ‘Yes, she did. A few times, I think. She ceased coming here rather abruptly, as far as I can remember. I’ve no idea why. Well, I hadn’t, until you walked in here today and told me that someone had killed the poor bitch.’

  ‘And why did she come here?’

  ‘Think I had designs on her, do you? Would I have brought her into my own house if I had? Don’t shit on your own doorstep, DS Hook. That’s as true now as it was then. You should remember it, if you’re planning a crafty shag on the side.’

  Hook was annoyingly unresponsive. He made a note of Williams’s reply. His face betrayed not a flicker of emotion.

  It was Lambert who now said tersely, ‘The girl was on drugs. She was vulnerable. She was the kind of female you used to recruit to work in your brothels. You liked vulnerable girls.’

  ‘Piss off, Lambert! I had nothing to do with Julie Grimshaw. And I’ve no idea what you’re trying to pin on me when you mention brothels.’

  The barefaced lies were usually the best, he’d always found. They took people aback and most of them didn’t know how to react. But these weren’t fellow villains. These were CID, used to dealing with lies, barefaced or otherwise. Lambert regarded him steadily. ‘It’s difficult to accept the word of a man with your record. I’m sure you realize that. We may need to speak to your wife about this.’

  ‘You’re not speaking to Hazel! She’s not well. She’s not fit to be badgered by coppers.’

  Lambert continued as if the big man in the armchair had never spoken. ‘We may need to check what Mrs Williams remembers about Julie Grimshaw. People’s recollections are sometimes very different, twenty years on. Even those of people with nothing to hide. And you’re giving me the distinct impression that you have something to hide.’

  That wasn’t true. It was just that you automatically exploited any sign of weakness in an enemy, and he certainly listed Williams as an enemy. He doubted at this moment whether the man had anything to do with this death, but he would check that out thoroughly before he accepted his innocence. And he wasn’t going to make any concessions to Steve Williams. They looked challengingly at each other across the ten feet or so which separated them and he saw with some satisfaction fear and hatred in the one good eye of his opponent.

  John Lambert knew he couldn’t force an interview with Hazel Williams. As far as the law of the land went, these were good citizens who were helping the police voluntarily with their investigation. He didn’t want to accuse a disturbed woman of obstructing the police in the course of their enquiries, but he would certainly do so at a later stage in this strange case if it became necessary. He said quietly, ‘You had a son living in this house twenty years ago. A son who must have been about the same age as Julie Grimshaw.’

  ‘Yes.’ For the first time since he had brought them in here, Williams was edgy rather than truculent. ‘Liam had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘But we can’t speak to him. He’s no longer around.’ Lambert’s tone had softened a little, for the first time.

  ‘Liam was killed in a traffic accident eight years ago. RTIs, you call them, don’t you? There’s no such thing as an accident, as far as the filth are concerned.’

  ‘I’m sorry you lost your son, Williams. But I need to know about his relationship with Julie Grimshaw.’

  ‘He knew her. Same as he knew lots of other girls.’

  ‘But he brought her here.’

  ‘Same as he did lots of other girls. There was nothing special about Julie Grimshaw.’ He was tight-lipped, determined to be unemotional.

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Quite sure. Liam had lots of girls. Too many, to my mind. But I was probably the same, at his age.’

  ‘If Liam was here now, do you think he’d be able to help us to find out exactly how this girl died?’

  Williams looked with open hostility at Lambert, hating the question but knowing he must answer it. He would have lied unthinkingly and automatically on Liam’s behalf if he had been alive and in the next room. For some reason he would never to be able to explain, Steve found it more difficult with the boy no longer here. Liam would have been forty-one now, but his father could n
ever picture him as more than the thirty-three he’d been when he’d killed himself on the road a mile from here. For most of the time, he remembered him as a young, irresponsible, attractive lad, the age he’d been when Julie Grimshaw was around. That wasn’t helping Steve now. He said carefully, ‘Liam knocked around in a crowd, a group of lads and a group of girls. Julie Grimshaw was one of the girls.’

  ‘Was he getting drugs from her?’

  ‘No. Liam wasn’t a user.’ He was furious and he wanted to say more, but he didn’t trust himself with words. Not on this.

  And Lambert, who wanted to press him, knew that he wasn’t going to get any further today. They told him ominously and unsmilingly that they would be back. They treated him as they left as a known criminal who had frustrated them over many years, rather than as the grieving father he had been for the last few minutes.

  They didn’t know it, but Liam Williams’s room had been the one immediately above the door of the solid red-brick house. As Hook reversed the police Mondeo, Lambert glanced up at the window of that room. He saw the white face of a permanently grieving woman, watching them depart.

  NINE

  Jim Simmons told himself that he was luckier than most people involved in the case. He worked on the land. He could use the eternal rhythms of weather, seasons and soil to sooth the fears he felt over what was happening around him.

  The cornfield was doing well this year. Green was dominant still, but he fancied he could see the first tinges of gold as the low early-morning sun shone almost horizontally on the slope of the land. The small herd of cows was proving a success, despite the pessimists who had said you needed huge herds or nothing. The Herefords were looking healthy and there was enough growth in the pasture now to keep them amply supplied without the need for expensive feeding supplements. The milk yield had increased over the last two weeks. Hopefully the negotiators would screw a decent milk price from the supermarkets in their present meetings, and make dairy cattle less of a suicide venture for the small farmer. The cows mooed at him as they saw him standing there; their udders were full as they assembled outside the milk parlour for the evening milking.