Текст книги "Dangerous Promises"

Автор книги: Roberta Kray

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

Sadie shook her head. ‘No.’ Keep it simple, she warned herself. Don’t embellish. Don’t say anything you don’t need to.

‘So you left straight after the burial. Was that by the main gates?’

‘Shortly after, yes.’ Had anyone seen her leave? Not Eddie’s family – they’d had had their backs to her. And she didn’t have to worry about the Gissings; they weren’t about to admit that she’d been lured to the far side of the graveyard. No, she was pretty sure that Sharon would be telling much the same story as she was.

‘And who was still in the cemetery at this time?’

‘The priest,’ she said. ‘Eddie’s parents and his sister, Kelly and her mother. A few others I didn’t know.’

‘And what about Wayne Gissing?’

Sadie wrinkled her brow as if she was thinking about it. ‘I’m not sure. He might have gone by then. To be honest, I can’t remember.’

‘But you didn’t hear the shot?’

‘No.’

‘You left and went straight back to the guest house?’

‘That’s right.’ Sadie reached out for Joel’s hand, took his warm fingers between hers and softly squeezed them. ‘I was tired. It was… an emotional morning. I just wanted to come home.’

‘Did you see anyone at Oaklands?’

‘No, sorry, there wasn’t anyone around. I went up to my room, got my holdall and went to the station.’

Frayne gave another nod. ‘There’s just one more thing,’ he said. ‘Do you know a man called Nathan Stone?’

Sadie’s pulse began to race. She had to battle to keep eye contact with him. Jesus, how should she answer? How much did he already know? She didn’t want to get caught out in a lie, but the truth might be even more dangerous. The denial was out of her mouth before she had proper time to consider it. ‘No, I don’t think so. The name doesn’t sound familiar.’

Frayne looked towards the constable. It was a quick conspiratorial glance but Sadie still caught it. ‘Are you sure?’ he said, leaning forward to place his palms firmly on his thighs. ‘Only we’ve been informed that you had a long conversation with him in the Fox last night.’

‘What? Who told you that? No, that isn’t… that can’t be…’ Sadie frowned hard as if she couldn’t understand it and then produced what she hoped was a look of enlightenment. ‘Ah, do you mean the tall guy with the grey hair? Was that his name? I don’t think he introduced himself. He came over to the table and said that he was sorry to hear about Eddie. He didn’t stay for long. A few minutes at the most. Was that him?’

Frayne gave her a long hard stare. ‘You’ve never met him before?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

Sadie, who was still holding Joel’s hand, wondered if he could feel the dampness of her palms. ‘Absolutely. I went for a drink with Velma – she’s a woman I met at the guest house – and the guy just… he just came over.’ She gave a shrug. ‘Sorry, is it important? I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘You didn’t see him again at the church or the cemetery?’

‘No.’

‘You think this man had something to do with the shooting?’ Joel asked.

Frayne didn’t answer directly. ‘We’re still making enquiries.’

Sadie felt her stomach shift. Had someone seen Nathan Stone at the cemetery? Or maybe his car parked by the gates? But it didn’t matter, she thought, so long as Wayne Gissing kept quiet about who had really done the shooting.

Frayne rose to his feet and smiled at her. ‘I think that’s all for now. Thank you for your time. If anything else occurs to you…’

‘Yes, I’ll let you know,’ Sadie said. She jumped up, eager to see the back of him. Relief was washing over her. A short while ago she’d felt like a woman on the way to the gallows. Now she’d been given a last-minute reprieve. She wasn’t stupid enough to feel that she was safe, but at least she wasn’t being escorted off the premises in handcuffs.

‘I’ll see you out,’ Joel said.

He went to the door and the constable followed him. Frayne was on the point of leaving too when he stopped and gestured towards Sadie’s hand. ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’

‘Oh, this?’ she said, waving her hand in the air and trying to sound casual. ‘It’s nothing, a scratch. I caught it on a nail.’

‘Was that here or in London?’

Sadie might have lied to him, might have said that she’d done it downstairs in the workroom, if Joel hadn’t still been within earshot. ‘At the guesthouse,’ she said. ‘It was my own fault. But it’s fine, nothing serious. It will have healed up in a day or two.’

Frayne continued to stare at the plaster for a few seconds as if he was trying to form a link in his head between the wound and the shooting of Wayne Gissing. He lifted his eyes to stare directly into Sadie’s. What did he see there? Fear, hope, deceit? She was the first to look away, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his gaze.

‘Well, I’ll leave you in peace,’ he said. ‘Have a nice evening.’

Sadie forced her mouth into a shaky smile. In peace? She sensed a hint of mockery in the words as if Frayne could see right into the darkness of her soul and knew that her days of freedom were numbered.

41

Nina Frayne could hear the rain lashing against the window as she poured hot water over the whisky and added a teaspoon of sugar and the juice from half a lemon. She gave the whole lot a stir, carried the mug through to the living room and placed the hot toddy on the table beside her husband.

‘Here, drink this before it goes cold.’

‘Thanks, love.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? It won’t take a minute.’

‘No, I’m fine. I grabbed a sandwich at the station.’

Nina placed a hand on the back of his chair. She always worried about him – it had become a habit over the years – but she became even more anxious when he immersed himself in a complicated case. It was as if he lived and breathed every little detail until some form of resolution was eventually arrived at. ‘It’s turned nasty out there. Pouring down. You won’t need to go out again, will you?’

‘Let’s hope not.’

Looking over his shoulder she saw that the file on his lap was open to a rough sketch of Kellston Cemetery. It included the main thoroughfare, both sets of gates and a few side paths. Eddie Wise’s grave was marked with a tombstone and there was a series of stickmen with initials placed neatly beside them.

‘Is this the funeral?’

Gerald pointed with his forefinger to a tiny figure with SW printed beside it. ‘Sadie Wise,’ he said. ‘She was standing right here with Sharon Gissing. That’s odd, don’t you think?’

Nina studied the diagram, trying to see what he was getting at. ‘Odd?’

‘Well, there’s no love lost between the Gissings and Sadie Wise. It’s not that long since they were accusing her of murder. So why would the two of them choose to stand together like that? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Maybe the family changed their mind, decided she’s innocent after all.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘So maybe Sharon was trying to prise some information out of her. You know, the softly-softly approach? What did Sadie say when you asked her?’

Gerald picked up the glass and took a sip of the whisky. ‘Not much. Only that they got talking outside the church and walked together to the cemetery.’

‘Perhaps she wanted to clear the air. It’s not very nice having people think you’re a killer.’

‘Except the Gissings aren’t what you’d call the rational sort. And they’re hardly the type to talk things through either. No, that family do most of their talking with their fists.’

‘What, even the women?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Gerald said. ‘Both Kelly and Sharon have been charged in the past with assaults on other females. Not to mention numerous counts of affray. It’s usually over some bloke or another; they don’t take kindly to having their toes stepped on.’

‘So you think Sharon was up to something?

‘Possibly.’

‘But Wayne Gissing was the one who got shot.’

‘Yes.’

Nina thought about this for a while. ‘You don’t think she did it, do you? Sadie Wise, I mean.’

‘I haven’t ruled it out. She claims she left shortly after the burial, went out through the main gates and back to Oaklands, but there aren’t any witnesses. Nobody can back up her story. No one saw her at the guest house either.’

‘Where would she even get a gun from?’

‘It might not have been hers. Perhaps it was Wayne’s. There could have been an argument, a scuffle and the thing went off accidentally. But I’ll tell you something, she looked white as a sheet when we turned up at the flat this evening.’

‘Lots of people are nervous of the police. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And it must have been a difficult day for her with the funeral.’

‘It was more than that. Her body language… She was tense, defensive. It was all wrong. I’ve got a feeling she’s hiding something. I’m sure she is. I just can’t figure out what. And then there’s all this business with Nathan Stone. I told you about him, didn’t I?’

‘The man who works for Terry Street, the one she was supposed to have gone to the dogs with?’

‘That’s him. So she claims they’ve never met, that she’s never heard of him, but one of McCloud’s men saw them talking in the Fox last night. When I pulled her up on it she said he was a complete stranger who came up to her in the pub to express his condolences over Eddie.’

‘But you don’t believe her.’

Gerald shook his head. ‘I’d swear on it. She knows him all right. So why is she lying?’

‘Well, if there was… is something between the two of them she’s hardly going to admit to it in front of her boyfriend.’

‘She could have come down to the station at any time, talked to me in confidence. Better that, surely, than being a suspect in a murder case.’

Nina, who felt that part of her job in these exchanges was to try and put the opposing point of view, chipped in with, ‘True, but why would they even talk to each other in the pub? If they are involved, wouldn’t they be more likely to keep their distance?’

‘Maybe he had something important to tell her, something that couldn’t wait. Maybe he’s not very smart. Or maybe he’s so arrogant that he thinks he can do whatever he likes and get away with it.’ Gerald drummed the fingers of his free hand on the arm of the chair. ‘Cowan Road had a tail on him – that’s how they knew about him seeing Sadie Wise – but he gave them the slip this morning. Disappeared for hours and didn’t turn up on the radar again until the early afternoon.’

‘So he could have been involved in the shooting. What’s Ian McCloud’s take on all this?’

Gerald swirled the whisky and lemon around in the glass and gave a weary sigh as he thought about his former colleague. ‘I think he’s leaning more towards the gangland idea, some kind of feud that’s got out of hand, an eye for an eye and all that. He can’t see any real motive for Sadie Wise wanting her husband dead.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be one – on the surface. I guess you just have to follow your instincts. I mean, McCloud’s never spoken to her, has he? He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen.’

Gerald was quiet for a moment, pondering. ‘Peter Royston’s got his suspicions too. He’s been sniffing around, looking for an angle.’

‘I don’t like that man. He’s a scandalmonger… and a creep.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s wrong, though. The guy’s got a nose for a good story.’

Nina bent and kissed the top of his head. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to have a bath and go to bed. You won’t stay up too late, will you?’

‘I won’t. Goodnight, love.’

Gerald finished off the whisky while he slowly perused the contents of the file. He checked out Sharon Gissing’s statement again, trying to read between the lines. She claimed that after the burial Sadie Wise had left the graveyard while Wayne had gone to collect the car. The other two, Kelly and her mother, had decided to walk to the Fox and so she’d stayed and waited for Wayne alone. She had heard the shot as she was walking towards the main gates but presumed it was just a car backfiring.

Gerald flipped over the page and continued reading. After a while, when Wayne still hadn’t come back, Sharon had started heading up the main path. She could just about make out the red Capri at the far end, but was short-sighted and couldn’t tell if Wayne was actually inside or not. It was only when she reached the car that she discovered he’d been shot and was lying in front of the bonnet. She hadn’t wanted to waste time by calling for an ambulance and instead had driven him straight to A&E.

Gerald raised his eyes to the ceiling and gave a snort. It was nonsense, the whole damn lot of it, but impossible to prove. A cock-and-bull story invented to prevent the police from discovering who the real assailant was.

Wayne’s statement naturally tallied with Sharon’s except for the embellishment of his three black muggers. Petra and Kelly Gissing had nothing useful to add; they had left with Eddie’s family and didn’t know anything about what had happened next. The statements from the two plain-clothed officers, sent to keep an eye on proceedings, were next to useless too. They had gone to stand just outside the gates, but were unable to confirm or deny that Sadie Wise had left when she said she had. Within a minute or two a brawl had broken out in the street and by the time it had been broken up the mourners had dispersed.

Gerald frowned. A deliberate ploy or an unfortunate coincidence? The former, he decided. Whoever put a bullet into Wayne Gissing had made sure that the police would be distracted at the time of the assault. And, standing on the street with the sound of the traffic and the shouting of the brawlers, the officers would have been less likely to hear the gunshot.

Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Gerald yawned. His eyes felt sore and scratchy. He knew he should go to bed and try to get some sleep, but too much was going through his mind. He thought about the cut on Sadie Wise’s hand and wondered if it meant anything. He thought about her face, pale and pinched and drawn. It was true to say that bad things happened when she was around.

Gerald moved his head and looked down at the file again. He flicked over a few more pages until he came to a photograph of Nathan Stone. He stared long and hard at the picture. With some villains you could read their personalities in their features – the cocky smile, the hard eyes or the mocking mouth – but this was a harder face to fathom. There was something closed about it, something impenetrable. Nathan Stone was a man who, according to McCloud’s notes, had probably murdered his wife. And Sadie Wise was a girl who might have had her husband killed. Perhaps the two of them had more in common than he’d originally thought.

42

Peter Royston ate the last of his chips while he stared out at the grey stormy sea. He had taken shelter from the rain in one of the covered benches on the front but the wind still whipped around his ankles, causing the bottom of his trousers to flap and a chill to gather in his toes. He checked his watch again and saw that he still had five minutes to wait. The graveyard shift didn’t start until ten.

The promenade was virtually empty. It was too late for the dog walkers and too early for the pubs to be kicking out their customers. The sky above was starless, full of clouds, but there was plenty of light from the streetlamps. He watched the waves smash their way on to the sand, rushing up the shore before quickly retreating again.

At this time on a Friday night he’d usually be in the White Swan, sipping on a pint and keeping his ears pricked for any local gossip. Still, he’d easily make last orders if his bit of business ran smoothly. And even if he didn’t make it, it would be worth the sacrifice if he managed, eventually, to dig the dirt on Sadie Wise.

Royston scratched his chin and grinned. The chances of a scoop in a place like Haverlea were few and far between and he wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. There could be big bucks to be made by selling the story on to the nationals, but that wasn’t the only reason he wanted it so much. For years he’d had to put up with the likes of Frank Hunter and his cronies poking their noses in where they weren’t wanted and dictating what could or couldn’t be printed in the local paper. Middle-class, conservative and influential, they yielded an excess of power and even had his spineless editor in their pocket. Thatcher’s puppets, the whole bloody lot of them. Just for once he’d like to wipe those smug smiles off their faces – and what better way of doing it than exposing Frank Hunter’s future daughter-in-law as a murderer.

Royston rose to his feet, screwed up the vinegary chip paper and chucked it in the litter bin. As he crossed the road towards the hotel, he thought about the girl Joel Hunter was planning to marry. On the surface she might seem whiter than white, but he wasn’t taken in; he reckoned there was a dark streak running through her. He’d been tipped the wink that she was involved with a Kellston villain called Nathan Stone, but as yet hadn’t been able to corroborate the rumour.

When he’d approached her in town, Sadie had been… what was the word he was looking for? Evasive, perhaps. Certainly not cooperative. Since then, things had moved on. Today’s news about the shooting at Eddie Wise’s funeral had stoked the fire, adding to his suspicions about her guilt; he was kicking himself now that he hadn’t bothered to make the trip to London.

Royston rubbed his hands together as he climbed the steps to the Bold, pushed open the door and walked inside. The place was deserted and it wasn’t much warmer inside than out. He strode over to the desk, leaned on the counter and dinged the bell. While he waited he gazed around the foyer at the faded wallpaper and slightly shabby furniture. The hotel, built in the Victorian era, had once been a splendid building and a fashionable place to stay, but its glory days were long over. Now they struggled to fill the rooms even in the summer months.

It was another few minutes before Derek Pugh, the man on night duty, shuffled out from the back. He was in his early sixties, grey and morose with a face like a slapped arse. ‘Ah, Mr Royston. I haven’t seen you in a while. What brings you here?’

‘I need some information.’

‘And what kind of information would that be?’

‘The useful sort. You had a girl staying here last weekend, Anne something. Early twenties, slim, short black hair. I’d like an address if you’ve got it.’

Pugh’s eyes turned sly. His tongue darted out and slid along his upper lip. ‘Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, Mr Royston. I think it’s against the rules.’

Royston leaned against the counter and held up a folded five-pound note between his fingers. He watched as the older man’s eyes flicked down towards the money. ‘Well, what do they say about rules? They’re there to be broken, right?’

Pugh, possibly hoping for an increase in the bribe, wasn’t immediately forthcoming. ‘The boss wouldn’t like it.’

‘There are lots of things your boss wouldn’t like, a copy of your criminal record being one of them.’ Royston always made a point of knowing other people’s business, of rooting around in the shadows; he was an expert on dirty laundry and skeletons in the closet. ‘I mean, what if he got to hear about those cautions you’ve had for —’

‘Aw, Mr Royston, you know I don’t do that any more. It’s all in the past.’

‘Of course it is. Still, people aren’t always quick to forget or forgive. Be a shame to lose a good job like this over something that happened years ago. Personally, I’m all in favour of second chances, but then I’m a liberal-minded sort of person.’

Pugh glared at him for a moment, but when he realised that his indignation was wasted, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I suppose it won’t do any harm, not just this once.’ He reached out for the fiver, but it was quickly snatched it away.

‘Anne something,’ Royston said. ‘Last weekend.’

With a sigh, Royston reached down under the desk, picked up a large red leather-bound book and placed it on the counter. He flipped back through the pages until he came to the right days and ran a finger down the short list of bookings. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no one by that name.’

‘Try the Friday.’

But Pugh shook his head. ‘Sure you’ve got the right hotel?’