A Time to Kill (P&R14) Page 5

  ‘Like mature cheese?’

  Jerry screwed up her face. ‘I suppose,’ she agreed. She didn’t really want to start discussing how she was like mature cheese, or vice versa.

  ‘And why are you representing the woman upstairs?’

  ‘She’s complained of a vile smell in her apartment, but the building supervisor has told her that there is no smell. Now, she wants to sue the owner, so that he’ll do something about it.’

  ‘My daughter isn’t in at the moment.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, I don’t live here. I arrived here last weekend for a short visit, but Zoe hasn’t had much time for me. I’m going back home on Friday. That’s the trouble with high-fliers she tells me, they have no time for anyone.’

  ‘What does your daughter do?’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t want to stand out here talking. Shall we go inside and have a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ Jerry said.

  Shutting the door behind her, she followed the woman into the apartment.

  ‘My name is Lucinda Upson. Sorry, what did you say your name was again?’

  ‘Jerry – Jerry Kowalski.’

  ‘Like that model who married the rolling stone . . .’

  ‘Jerry Hall, you mean.’

  ‘That’s the one, but you’re far prettier.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Zoe does something in banking she tells me. She’s one of those people who got the country into all that trouble . . . Not personally you understand, but aren’t those banking people all the same – a load of shifty-looking money-grabbers?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about bankers, but you must be proud of your daughter.’

  ‘I just want her to be happy, and I don’t think she is. Oh, she says she is, but how can a woman be happy without a man and lots of children. That’s what we were put on God’s green earth for – to look after our man and produce babies. Why would a woman want to work in a bank instead of creating a happy home with lovely children? I’ve asked Zoe, and she says the world has changed. Not for the better if you ask me. What I’d like to know is who’s doing the women’s work if women are all out working? And as for the home-alone-husbands . . .’

  ‘House-husbands,’ Jerry corrected her.

  ‘Let’s not get started on those . . . say when?’ she said as she poured tea from a shiny stainless steel teapot into a black and white striped mug.

  ‘When.’

  ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar. Sorry that I can’t offer you a cup and saucer, but there aren’t any. Zoe says that nobody uses cups and saucers these days. Well, I have news for her – I do. And the women at the church coffee mornings do too. Teacups are for tea, not mugs. In fact, I have no idea what a mug is for. In my opinion, which isn’t very popular I know, there doesn’t seem to be any difference between a mug and a bucket. Have you got a husband and children of your own, dear?’

  ‘Yes – one husband and four children.’

  ‘Four’s a good number. I only had three before my womb decided it’d had enough. The doctor took it out, said it was past its sell-by date. Past its sell-by date indeed – men have no idea. I didn’t miss it though . . . Well, not in a physical sense anyway, but I think I missed not being able to have any more babies . . . I think that’s why Hulbert left me . . .’

  ‘Three children is just as good as four,’ Jerry said.

  ‘Except it’s one less. Mind you, I may as well have not had any children for all they care about me. I had two boys before Zoe. Do they ever come and see me? Do they call? Do I ever get flowers, or birthday and Christmas cards?’

  ‘I would guess not.’

  ‘And you’d guess right. Would you like a chocolate digestive?’

  She was feeling hungry. A chocolate digestive would fill the small hole that had gnawed its way into her stomach, but she had no doubt that the calories of a chocolate digestive biscuit would shift her Body Mass Index (BMI) from underweight to obese in the blink of an eye. Her hand shot out towards the plate of biscuits as if it had a mind of its own. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘So, why are you knocking on Zoe Upson’s door, Jerry Kowalski?’

  ‘I’d like to sniff your vents, if I may?’

  ‘I know what you mean, but it sounds obscene.’

  ‘Would you like me to re-phrase it?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary. I expect you know where they are?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Feel free. I’ll make another pot of tea while you’re doing your sniffing.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jerry found the air vents in the living room, the two bedrooms and the bathroom. She sniffed deeply, but didn’t smell anything unusual. How strange, she thought. For any smell to reach Illana’s apartment, it had to pass this apartment – didn’t it?

  ‘Any luck?’ Lucinda asked her when she returned to the kitchen and pushed a fresh mug of tea and a second chocolate digestive biscuit in her direction.

  ‘I don’t know about luck!’ she said, picking up the biscuit even though her mind was elsewhere. ‘I didn’t intercept any bad smells though. Has your daughter Zoe complained about any unwelcome smells?’

  ‘Not to me, but then she’s never here, so she wouldn’t necessarily smell anything.’

  ‘What about you – have you smelt anything unusual since you’ve been here?’

  ‘Sunday.’

  ‘What about Sunday?’

  ‘Zoe had gone into work. Can you believe that? What type of boss wants their employees to come into work on a Sunday? The world is going to hell in a handcart and no mistaking. Anyway, I did smell something strange – just for the briefest of moments. The window was open, and I thought that maybe it had come from outside – pollution and such like – even though we are on the fourteenth floor.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  Lucinda shook her head. ‘No. I’m sure I can’t.’ She tried sniffing to activate the olfactory cells in her brain, and then shook her head again. ‘No, nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘Not to worry. I’m going to speak to the building supervisor next, and see if he can shed some light on the problem.’

  She finished her tea, and extricated herself from Lucinda Upson’s clutches.

  ‘Goodbye, dear.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lucinda.’

  ‘Feel free to pop in for tea any time.’

  ‘I will.’

  ***

  Richards checked, and The Gun and Giblets on the A1170 had a number of five star reviews regarding their service and the quality of their homemade food.

  ‘Giblets doesn’t sound very appetising,’ he said as they walked from the car to the entrance.

  ‘Is that what you’re going to order?’

  ‘For you.’

  ‘Mmmm! Can’t wait.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be saying that if there really was giblets on the menu.’

  Thankfully, there were no giblets anywhere on the menu. When the waitress brought the two glasses of orange juice, Parish ordered the stilton and roasted vegetable tart with chips, peas and gravy. Richards had the Portobello mushroom and goats’ cheese tagliatelle with salad and garlic bread.

  ‘What do you think?’ Richards said.

  ‘I think the giblets would have made a nice change.’

  ‘About the case?’

  ‘Get your notebook out and make notes. It’ll save us time later.’

  ‘Okay – shoot.’

  ‘We have an attractive dark-haired woman – Catrina Golding – aged twenty-five, who was murdered at Apartment 8, 34 Plomer Avenue in Hailey, possibly on Saturday, August 2. She was sixteen weeks pregnant, so we need to find out who the father was . . .’

  Richards wrote: “Who was the father?” on a separate page. ‘Who would sexually assault and murder a pregnant woman?’

  ‘Maybe the killer didn’t know she was pregnant. The baby bump wasn’t very noticeable.’

  ‘It was
n’t unnoticeable.’

  He shrugged. ‘. . . She was strangled and possibly sexually assaulted . . .’

  ‘Could she have been strangled while she was being sexually assaulted?’ Richards suggested. ‘Maybe it was a game of erotic asphyxiation that went wrong?’

  ‘That’s a question for Doc Riley.’

  Richards made a note of the question.

  The food arrived. They ate while they talked.

  ‘What about the bruising around her neck?’ Richards asked.

  ‘I thought I was shooting and you were writing?’

  ‘Sorry, but I was wondering if there were any marks that could be matched to the killer’s hands – like a ring, or a missing finger.’

  ‘Another question for the Doc. Write it down. Can I carry on now?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘She had two boyfriends – Jimmy Landers and Donald Dewesbury . . .’

  Richards stopped eating. ‘Which could mean the motive was either jealousy or betrayal.’

  ‘I thought you were convinced it was a motiveless serial killer murder?’

  ‘You told me not to ignore the other possibilities. I’m following your orders.’

  ‘That’ll make a change. Anyway, I’m not convinced either of those two killed her. From what Catrina’s parents were saying, I don’t think Jimmy knew about Donald.’

  ‘He knew about the baby?’

  ‘Mrs Golding said that Jimmy and Catrina were arguing about whether Catrina should keep the baby, or not. Was the baby his? We’ll have to ask Doc Riley to carry out a paternity DNA test.’

  ‘Maybe Donald found out about Jimmy and the baby,’ Richards said.

  ‘Okay, let’s move past the two boyfriends.’

  Richards raised an eyebrow. ‘If two boyfriends was all she had?’

  ‘Mmmm! There is that. We’ll know more when Toadstone’s people interrogate her computer, tablet and phone records.’

  Richards smiled. ‘You’ve missed something.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘The jewellery.’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘You know very well that it’s the key to unlocking this case.’

  He took a swallow of his orange juice. ‘You’d like to think so, but it means nothing. Catrina was going through her jewellery with a view to taking some unwanted items to the charity shop. She laid them out on the bed, paired her earrings up, placed matching items together and so on. She was doing that when she was distracted or interrupted – maybe by the killer, who knows? And that’s it – nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘What if there’s a piece of jewellery missing?’

  ‘So what? She mislaid it, lost it. It dropped into her plate of lasagne and she ate it. A missing piece of jewellery means nothing.’

  ‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’

  ‘Not everything. I have no answer to the question: Who killed Catrina Golding?’

  ‘What about the person that the next door neighbour saw getting into the lift on Saturday afternoon?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He could be Catrina’s killer.’

  ‘Yes he could, and he’s our number one suspect. But until we can narrow down the time of death, and find the suspect to ask him what he was doing there, that knowledge is not much use to us.’

  ‘So, we really haven’t got much at all, have we?’

  ‘Same old same old.’

  ‘Why are you saying that? You never say that.’

  ‘Isn’t that what young people say?’

  ‘No. And anyway, you’re not young people . . . Ah!’ She grinned. ‘Your birthday is coming up in October, isn’t it? You’re feeling as old as you look.’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish.’

  Richards leaned forwards with narrowed eyes. ‘Is that a grey hair I see?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It looks like there could be more than one.’

  ‘I have no grey hairs.’

  ‘If you say so. How old will you be in October?’

  ‘Twenty-nine.’

  ‘Let’s see – twenty-nine plus another five years, that you’ve conveniently forgotten about, equals thirty-four . . .’ Her eyes opened wide. ‘Holy cow! Thirty-four is really old. I don’t know how you can bear to look at yourself in the mirror every morning . . . Don’t look now, but there’s a man staring at me?’

  Parish turned round to see a man of about Richards’ age with long light brown hair sitting at a table on his own.

  ‘Which part of “don’t look now” didn’t you understand?’

  ‘Maybe he fancies you.’

  ‘More likely I’ve got a spot on the end of my nose.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what that is?’

  Richards stood up, strode over to the man’s table and stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. ‘Why are you staring at me?’

  ‘Staring? No, I don’t think I was staring. Except . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No one could blame me if I were.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘You haven’t seen many women then?’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of women, but you’re still the most beautiful of all those I’ve seen.’

  She looked around the pub. ‘Has someone put you up to this?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Just keep your eyes to yourself in future.’

  She walked back to her seat.

  ‘Pervert.’

  ‘He fancies you,’ Parish said.

  ‘He’s just escaped from the psychiatric hospital.’

  ‘You’re going to live alone for the rest of your life and die a lonely old woman. You complain all the time that you can’t find a man, and yet when one does come along who isn’t a copper, a witness, a suspect or a serial killer you think he’s escaped from a psychiatric hospital.’

  ‘There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?’

  ‘I would say so.’

  She withdrew a business card from the back of her notebook.

  ‘Is he a colleague, a witness or a suspect?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t give a business card to a man who wants to take you out for dinner and then ravish you.’

  Huffing, she wrote her name and number on a post-it note. ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Much.’

  She returned to the man’s table, held out the post-it note and said, ‘Call me.’

  He took it. ‘I’ll call you Mary Richards, shall I?’

  ‘That would be a good idea if you want to see me.’

  He shoved the chair on the opposite side of the table out with his foot. ‘Take a seat, Mary Richards. Let’s have a chat.’

  ‘I’m busy at the moment. That’s my partner over there.’

  ‘Partner?’

  ‘I’m a detective constable, and he’s the detective inspector.’

  He smirked. ‘And you want me to call you?’

  She stared at him, leaned forward and snatched the post-it note back. ‘No, I don’t think I do now.’ Then she returned to her seat and sat back down.

  ‘That went well.’

  ‘He thinks he’s God’s gift to women.’

  ‘Don’t all men?’

  ‘Paul doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s because he’s not.’

  ‘At least he’s a gentleman. Should we go?’ She stood up and strode out with her nose in the air.

  He threw back the rest of his orange juice and followed her.

  ***

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ Stick said.

  ‘Are you confused?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are, Stickynuts. For some strange reason you’ve got it into your empty head that you’re in charge.’

  ‘You’re having an off-day. I’m just . . .’

  ‘An off-day! I’m feeling great. Other people, however, ar
e a different matter entirely. I have another idea, Sergeant. I’ll do the talking, and you can shut the fuck up.’

  ‘I’m sure that will work just as well.’

  ‘Hello, Inspector Blake,’ Staff Nurse Parish said. ‘Miss Hamill is awake and the doctor has said you can interview her now, but please keep it short.’

  ‘About time.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘See, Stickynuts, easy when you know how.’

  Giselle Hamill was sitting up in bed with her head turned away from them. She was a pretty twenty year-old with red hair and a spiralling tattoo of a ladybird on her shoulder.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Blake, Giselle,’ Xena said, showing the woman her warrant card. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Gilbert. We need to ask you some questions.’

  She turned her head towards them. Tears dribbled from her eyes, down her cheeks and onto the white hospital gown. ‘I killed him,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what we’d like to talk to you about. Can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘Robbie’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh God! I was hoping . . .’

  ‘Tell us what happened, Giselle?’

  ‘We were in the car. Usually, there are other cars there, but last night we were the only ones there. We climbed into the back and started making out . . .’

  Stick passed her a handful of tissues.

  She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose loudly. ‘We heard the back door on Robbie’s side open and the interior light came on. Before Robbie could say anything, a man dragged him out by the hair . . .’

  ‘You’re sure it was a man?’ Xena interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  She shook her head ‘He wore a white hood with eyeholes cut out of it . . . God, it was like something from one of those old horror movies.’

  Xena glanced at Stick.

  ‘Halloween? Friday the 13th?’

  ‘Yes, one of those. The hood was tied at the neck.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He made Robbie kneel down in the dirt and held a knife to his throat, then he told me to get out of the car . . .’ She began sobbing again.

  Stick pulled up a chair, sat down and passed her more tissues. ‘Take your time, Giselle,’ he whispered.