A Stolen Shadow, page 14
“You work here and cater for outside functions too?” asked Shadow.
“That’s right. One of us needs to bring in some money.” She nodded towards the square window in the door through which the hunched figure of Owen could be seen still clutching his drink.
“I understood you and Mr Treadwell were separated.”
“If only it were that easy. We’re partners in the vet business, which as I’m sure you know is up to its ears in debts. The only way out would be to declare myself bankrupt, then I’d lose the catering business too. So like it or not, Owen and I are stuck together, trying to get out of this mess on our own.”
“Except for Rohan Kapoor.”
Her lips twitched into a small smile. “Rohan’s been a godsend. Owen couldn’t even remember hiring him or when he was due to start and I’m sure we aren’t paying him enough. He’s been doing the work of two vets and all the out-of-hours calls. The poor kid lives in the flat above the surgery so he’s had to put up with Owen too.”
She switched her cleaver for a knife and set about skinning one of the birds. For the first time in his life, Shadow thought he might have to become a vegetarian.
“Where do you live now?” he asked.
“With my parents. We had to sell the house.” She shook her head as she briskly deboned another bird. “If you want the definition of humiliation, it’s moving back in with your mum and dad when you’re thirty-nine.”
“Your husband seems to think Mr Knight was the cause of your financial problems as well as the breakdown of your marriage.”
Christine snorted. “That’s typical of him, always blaming someone else. If he’d followed Spencer’s advice and invested what he suggested, we would have been fine. The insurance company would have been a success, but oh no, Owen thought he knew best and only invested two-thirds of what Spencer said. If he’d only listened to me. Well, who knows what might have happened. Maybe things might have worked out between me and Spencer but instead his head was turned by that slut from the bank. He would never have got involved with her if Owen had just paid up and the insurance business had worked out.”
“Are you aware that Francesca French is also dead?”
Christine stopped abruptly. A lump of flesh in one hand, the knife in the other. “Francesca is dead too? How?”
“She was killed with the antique sabre that was used to open the champagne at the regimental dinner you catered for on Saturday night.”
“So Ian finally snapped, did he? I can’t say I blame him. That’s what comes of a man marrying someone twenty years younger than him. Francesca made a total fool of him. Spencer wasn’t the first. She’d been carrying on with any young lieutenant who caught her eye and always making jokes at Ian’s expense. I used to hear her at regimental dinners and cringe. Ian put up with it all, then she goes and leaves him. And then to top it, I heard she’d taken him to the cleaners.”
“We believe she was killed on Sunday night, but Major Armitage said he was here.”
A look of disappointment crossed her face. “Oh, well, that’s true. He was here drinking and boring everyone with his army stories. We had to call a taxi to take him home.” She paused again. “Hold on, did Spencer know Francesca was dead?”
“We don’t know. We found her body yesterday.”
Christine threw up her empty hand in exasperation. “Why didn’t you find her sooner? I could have gone to Spencer and consoled him. If he’d known, he might not have gone onstage and could still be alive now.”
Her voice was becoming high and rasping. Shadow became aware that her whole body was shaking, including the hand holding the knife. His sergeant had noticed too.
“Why don’t you put the knife down and I’ll make you a cup of tea, Mrs Treadwell. Would you like me to get Mr Treadwell?” suggested Jimmy gently.
The sound of her husband’s name seemed to bring Christine out of whatever state she was in. She gave Jimmy a scornful look. “What possible use would he be?” she snapped.
“Where were you on Sunday evening?” asked Shadow.
“We finished serving lunch here at about four. I cleared up then went home to my mum and dad’s.”
“And on Monday evening?”
“At the surgery trying to make sense of the accounts, and before you ask nobody else was there. Or at least nobody conscious.” She gave another scathing look in the direction of her husband then reached for a large saucepan. “Now if that’s all, I need to get on.”
Shadow and Jimmy murmured their thanks before leaving the kitchen and walking back through the bar.
“Well, she seemed a bit unhinged. And what is it with all these women giving Spencer Knight the benefit of the doubt, no matter how badly he behaved?” asked Jimmy as soon as they stepped outside. “What do you think, Chief? Christine was certainly handy with a knife, and she was at the regimental dinner when the sabre was stolen, and she hated Francesca. I bet she could have easily skewered her.”
“Can we avoid that expression please, Sergeant?” replied Shadow, who had been looking forward to his lunch before spending time in the golf club kitchen. “I agree she had a motive and possibly the opportunity to kill Francesca, and it’s also possible she could have access to methadone, but why kill Spencer? It’s obvious she still feels strongly about him.”
“Like I said, Chief: she’s unhinged.”
Shadow frowned as he climbed into the car. “When you give the finance team Spencer’s laptop, ask them if they can look at the company accounts for Town and County Vets, and I want Tom over there going through all the records for the store cupboard and checking the medicines are all accounted for. The place is a shambles. If I was a betting man, I’d say Sophie was right and the methadone came from there.”
Jimmy got to work on his phone, giving Shadow a few moments of peace with his thoughts until his sergeant turned on the ignition. The North York Golf Club was just off the ring road. Christine and Owen Treadwell, Spencer Knight and Major Armitage had all been here on Sunday.
“How long do you think it would take to get from here to the cottage where we found Francesca?” he asked as they turned on to the long driveway that led down to the clubhouse.
“On a Sunday evening, I’d guess half an hour at the most.”
Shadow nodded. They knew Major Armitage had spent most of Sunday at the club, as had Owen, and it sounded like neither was in a fit state to drive, but Christine’s alibi was a bit flimsy. Spencer Knight had visited Lottie after leaving the club and spent the evening with her. It was frustrating, but what was really bothering him was why hadn’t anyone at the golf club found Spencer’s laptop?
*
When they arrived back at the station, they found Ben, Ollie and Sophie all waiting for them. The two scientists were looking particularly pleased with themselves.
“We found something on the sabre,” announced Ben.
“A fingerprint?” asked Jimmy hopefully.
“No. A hair. Only a very small one, but it was caught in this curved part of the handle.”
He began tapping away at the computer on the desk in front of him and then turned the screen to show them close-up photos of the handle of the sabre and a hair that was about half an inch long.
“Our first thought was that it came from the back of a man’s hand,” Ollie explained, then glancing across to Sophie: “We weren’t being non-inclusive or anything, we are aware that women do also have fine hairs on the backs of their hands, but in this case the hand would need to be larger than average to press against this particular part of the handle and—”
“That’s fine, Ollie,” interrupted Sophie. “I’m more than happy not to be included in the hairy hand brigade.”
“Have you got a match for the hair?” asked Shadow impatiently.
“Yes, Chief. It’s Spencer Knight’s.”
“So he killed Francesca?” asked Jimmy.
“Possibly, but actually, it’s a bit more complicated,” replied Ben as he put up more photos on the screen. “We’ve had these images enlarged. Now on this one you’ll see the hair we found on the handle. Notice anything unusual?”
“The root or follicle is missing,” said Sophie almost immediately.
“Exactly!” agreed Ollie. “We carried out a fairly basic experiment. I used a pair of tweezers with edges similar to the width of the joint in the handle where the hair was trapped and removed ten hairs from the back of Ben’s hand.”
Ben obligingly raised his left hand to show a series of small red dots.
“Ouch!” said Jimmy, sympathetically patting Ben on the shoulder.
“Did this torturing of your colleague lead to any conclusion?” enquired Shadow.
“Yes. We don’t think the hair came from the back of the hand. Each time I extracted a hair the follicle came with it. Also, we’d need to check the victim’s hand, but we think the hair was too long to come from there and instead came from his head and was trimmed down and placed in the handle.”
“Tom told us the dressing rooms at the theatre were left unlocked. It would have been quite easy for someone to go into Spencer’s and remove some hair from a brush or a comb, the floor even,” added Ben.
“But why?” asked Shadow. “What would be the point of framing Spencer only to kill him anyway?”
“Maybe we are back to the theory of there being two killers,” suggested Jimmy.
“Or maybe it’s a classic red herring. Something to throw us off the scent and waste our time thinking about it,” said Sophie, who tapped her watch and gave her husband a meaningful look. “Speaking of time, I’ve booked us a table at that new tapas place on Fossgate to celebrate no more cervical collar. You’re all welcome to join us. I’m sure they’ll be able to squeeze you in.”
“No thanks, Soph,” said Ben. “We really want to nip down to the morgue and take a look at Spencer Knight’s hand. If you have no objection that is?”
“Be my guest,” replied Sophie as the two scientists headed towards the door.
“Hold on,” called out Shadow. “As fascinating as the discovery of this hair is, there is more to the investigation. What’s happening with all that stuff Susan Edmundson was shredding? Have you managed to piece any of it together yet?”
Both the scientists looked shifty.
“We were a bit snowed under, so we asked Tom to see if he could have a try,” said Ben.
“This isn’t pass the parcel, gentlemen. What about Spencer’s phone? Have you managed to open it?”
“Oh yes, didn’t we tell you?”
“No, you failed to mention it,” replied Shadow, who felt like he was clinging on to the last shreds of patience with his fingernails.
“Well, we didn’t find much. It looked like Spencer was in the habit of deleting his messages, emails and records of any calls on a daily basis.”
“Interestingly, the only messages he did keep were from Lottie Beresford. He seemed pretty loved up.”
“Would you say she felt the same?”
Ben shrugged. “I’d say she seemed a bit cooler, but I’m not an expert on these things. We can get their conversations sent over if you’d like to take a look, Chief.”
Shadow bit back a sarcastic retort and instead managed to say, “Yes, that would be helpful, Ben. We know Spencer was involved with a long list of women. Did you find any compromising photographs or had they been deleted too?”
“Are you thinking blackmail could be a motive?” asked Jimmy.
“We already have plenty to consider. It would be nice to rule something out,” replied Shadow.
“Most photos were of him and Lottie and a few of Francesca. Nothing worth killing him over, Chief,” replied Ollie.
“And Francesca’s phone?”
Another guilty look was exchanged.
“Sorry, nothing yet. We got a bit distracted with finding the hair.”
“All right, well, off you go then and see if your theory works out.”
“We’ll let you know what we find at the morgue,” Ben called over his shoulder as the two of them rapidly retreated through the door.
“What about you, Chief?” asked Jimmy as he helped Sophie on with her coat. “Would you like to join us?”
“No thanks. I’m planning on going to Francesco and Lucia’s place. I’m not sure Spanish food is really my thing.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to broaden your horizons occasionally, Chief. Paella isn’t all that different to risotto,” replied Sophie as Jimmy tried to shush her while he ushered her out the door.
“Don’t wind him up. You know what he’s like. He’s not keen on change,” Shadow could hear him whisper as they made their way down the corridor. He waited until they were gone, then sat on the edge of the nearest desk and removed his phone from his pocket. He counted ten rings before it was answered.
“Goodness I am honoured – two phone calls in one week.”
“I wanted to pick your brains again.”
“Yes, thanks, I’m fine and still having a fabulous time.”
“I was going to ask you that after.”
“Okay, off you go. What’s so important?”
“You said before you didn’t know how Spencer Knight found out you wanted to move to Spain.”
“Yes, it was odd. I barely knew the man.”
“Have you always banked at the Blackcliffe and Rose?”
“Yes, I have done since I was sixteen and got my first Saturday job. It was at that little café on High Petergate, which had walls papered in sheet music. They made the most wonderful French onion soup.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. Now did you happen to go to the bank and discuss buying a place in Spain?”
“Yes, I did as it happens. I spoke to one of their advisers about getting a bridging loan, but apparently they don’t do them anymore. She was quite off-hand. Told me they hadn’t offered them for years.”
“This adviser wasn’t Francesca French, by any chance?”
“Yes, it was. How did you know?”
“She’s been killed as well.”
“Oh my goodness! By the same person who killed Spencer?”
“I’m not sure, but I have a theory that she was passing information to Spencer Knight long before she started working with him. I think she pointed him in the direction of wealthy single females.”
“That doesn’t sound like very ethical behaviour. Is it allowed?”
“It probably breaks some sort of client confidentiality agreement, not that it matters now.”
“Oh dear. I can’t say I liked the woman, but she didn’t deserve that. You really have got your hands full. Now I must go, I’m meeting Sam and his girlfriend for dinner, and I’m already running late. Good luck with the case.”
And with that she was gone.
It was still sleeting heavily when he left the station. He put his collar up and his head down and hurried to Petergate only to remember when he arrived at La Scuola Femminile and found it in darkness that Francesco and Lucia always closed for a few weeks at this time of year so they could visit family back in Italy. As a cold drop of rain trickled down his neck, he sincerely wished he was there with them. By now he was too cold and wet to face sitting in another restaurant, so he headed home. Resigned to the fact that he would have to eat on board Florence, he called in to the Sainsbury’s on Ouse Bridge and grabbed a frozen pizza and bottle of wine. As he fumbled for his glasses and tried to work out how to use the self-service checkout, he realised he had picked up a Rioja rather than his usual Valpolicella. It would have to do. He couldn’t face upsetting either the tutting queue of impatient students behind him or the assistant who was stacking shelves and had glared at him as his wet shoes had squelched across her newly mopped floor.
Back on Florence, he lit the little wood-burning stove, then changed into his dressing gown and poured himself a glass of the Spanish wine while he waited for the oven to heat up.
He put on his favourite Ella Fitzgerald album, but even her magnificent voice couldn’t improve the taste or texture of the pizza. After throwing the majority of it in the bin, he absent-mindedly began dealing out an old deck of playing cards. He tried patience and clock patience without much success then switched to pairs, a game he hadn’t played since Luisa was alive. As he turned over the cards two at a time, his mind drifted back to the case and Jimmy’s comments about looking for two killers. It was true: all the suspects did seem to have natural allies or perhaps accomplices. There were the two Wests, although they seemed unlikely. Stanley and his daughter – Lottie – or Stanley and the major: his old commanding officer. Owen and his wife, Christine, who while they may not like each other certainly needed each other financially. Len and Malcolm, who were old friends, although Shadow was still struggling to see Malcolm being involved. That only left Susan Edmundson, who didn’t seem to have any natural allies.
Deciding it wasn’t much fun playing pairs alone, he drained his last glass of the Spanish wine and grudgingly had to admit that the Rioja had been more than acceptable and went to bed.
*
The previous night’s heavy rain had slowed to a mere drizzle when Shadow stepped on to the towpath the next morning. As he trudged along dodging puddles with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he didn’t hear anyone calling out to him at first. It was only when the scruffy spaniel, barking loudly, ran in front of him as he reached the steps of Skeldergate Bridge that he looked up.
“Are you going deaf in your old age?” asked Jake.
Shadow scowled. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. What do you want?”
“The Environment Agency have issued a flood warning for the Ouse. They said the level will peak at noon.”
“So?”
“So, if it gets as high as they are saying, the river will burst its banks. What are you going to do about Florence?”
“I’ll keep an eye on the river. As I said, I’ve a lot on.”
He knew he sounded defensive, but he wasn’t entirely happy about being lectured on what to do with his home by someone who had only borrowed her for a few weeks. Normally, when the river levels rose, he moved Florence down to Naburn marina, but that wasn’t usually when he was in the middle of a double murder investigation.
