The Narrow Bed, page 20
Even if he’d lost the full four stone his group leader, Maeve, said he needed to lose, he’d still be in trouble here; you’d have to be a trained athlete to take this ascent in your stride. There were damp patches on his shirt already and he was only a third of the way up. He crossed the bridge over the River Culver, wondering how much of this stretch of it was made up of the sweat and tears of bastards fat and thin, and perhaps the occasional non-bastard too. Liam and Isobel Sturridge must have strong leg muscles, he thought.
His other prejudice against them, sight unseen, was the brother and sister sharing a house thing: too weird. Sellers didn’t care how well they got on – it wasn’t right, grown-up siblings living together. It suggested they’d failed to build any new relationships away from the family nest. The desire to strike out on your own was natural, wasn’t it? Sellers had once stayed a week with his brother and sister-in-law after Stacey had kicked him out for pissing into her wardrobe while drunk, when he’d risen from bed in the middle of the night and walked purposefully towards it, firmly believing it to be the loo. If only he’d aimed into his own wardrobe instead of hers, he might have avoided banishment. As it was, he’d ended up at Jeanette and Ed’s house and spent a crazy-making seven days observing their schizophrenic approach to child-rearing at close range. Sellers’ nephew Finn was a fledgling tyrant, endlessly appeased by his mother and periodically terrorised by his father. In the hushed, quaking voice of a supplicant, Jeanette would offer eight-year-old Finn every conceivable bribe – ice cream; extra pocket money; extra gems in Clash of Clans, his favourite game – if he’d only be good enough to consider stopping wailing and kicking, please? After several hours of this, when he’d decided the wailing had gone on for too long, Ed, having so far ignored the unfolding drama as if it wasn’t happening, would leap to his feet with a snarled ‘Right, that’s it!’ and Take Finn Into The Utility Room.
Sellers had never managed to work out what happened in the utility room. Whatever it was, no sound could be overheard by someone listening at the door. Sellers had enjoyed trying to guess: mouthed threats of limb amputation and disinheritance followed by the bloody murder of the pet rabbits in the garden? Whatever Ed did, it worked. Finn would emerge from the utility room ten minutes later with a mechanical happy-and-good-child grin on his face, and for at least two hours he would sit quietly in a chair asking for nothing. The whole performance was exhausting to watch, and Sellers had resolved never to stay with his brother again.
At last, he’d reached the Sturridges’ house, a large four-storey townhouse that could have been stunning but was letting itself down badly with stone windowsills that had almost crumbled away and hardly any black paint left on the railings.
There was no doorbell, only a heavy iron knocker that made Sellers wonder if, in addition to learning new eating habits, he ought to work on his upper-body strength.
A man – presumably Liam Sturridge – opened the door and said tonelessly, ‘You’re late.’ He stood back to let Sellers in. He was tall, with coppery blond hair cut very short, and had the build of an athlete – thanks to the steep approach to his home, no doubt. He was wearing a white shirt with jeans, black socks on his feet.
Sellers apologised for his lateness, then blamed it on the hill and the broken ticket machine in the car park. Sturridge gave him a look that said, ‘You should have taken potential late-making obstacles into account and allowed enough time.’ It was one of Sellers’ wife Stacey’s favourite looks, but she was an amateur compared to this guy. Sturridge’s large, slightly bulging eyes were ideal for staring disapprovingly. Even their colour worked: unusually dark blue; as if they’d started out ordinary blue, then been discoloured by the murkiness of the person in front of them.
Sellers introduced himself, producing his ID, which Sturridge made a point of not looking at.
‘I know who you are,’ was the response. The face had yet to crack a smile.
‘And I’m assuming you’re Liam Sturridge, joint owner of this house?’
‘Why else would I be here?’
‘I need to check. Sorry. This’ll be easier if you drop the hostility, mate, okay? I’ve just got a few questions and then I’ll be off. You’re not under suspicion of anything.’ Cheery banter had always been Sellers’ preferred manner for interviews, as it was for most things in life.
A surprised expression appeared on Sturridge’s face. It was … extreme was the only way Sellers could think to describe it. As if nothing at all made sense any more. ‘I’m not being hostile,’ he said. ‘Why do you say that? I’ve said nothing out of the ordinary.’
Sellers thought back over their conversation so far and decided Sturridge was right. He’d said very little, so there wasn’t much to go on. He had an unusual manner but perhaps he wasn’t antagonistic. Maybe he was just a bit weird. Lots of people were.
Sturridge didn’t look like someone about to offer refreshments, so Sellers asked if he could use the bathroom, and drank from the cold tap until he was no longer thirsty. He raised each arm in turn to examine the sweat stains on his shirt in the mirror. Could be worse, he decided; it shouldn’t be noticeable if he kept his arms at his sides.
Sturridge led him through the kitchen to a long, rectangular conservatory – or maybe garden room was a better name for it, because this wasn’t the usual white plastic crap that most people on Sellers’ street had stuck onto the backs of their houses. There were two disintegrating wicker chairs in the furthest two corners, and apart from that nothing but size-matched piles of books, stacked neatly in rows. Something about their orderly presentation suggested they were waiting to be taken somewhere for an official purpose, rather than a random scattering of personal possessions.
‘Ran out of room in the house?’ Sellers asked.
‘What? Oh, the books. Isobel refuses to throw anything away.’
‘Is she around? I’d like to speak to her too if I can.’
‘I don’t know. I suppose she’s somewhere.’
Sellers revised his diagnosis from just a bit weird to quite a lot weird. It was like talking to a machine that had been programmed to look and speak like a human. For the first time since Billy had started killing, Sellers found himself thinking, ‘Yes, this is a man I can see murdering again and again.’ Which, he knew from past experience, didn’t mean Liam Sturridge was a murderer.
‘That is one dramatic view.’ It wasn’t something Sellers could remember having said before, but he couldn’t help being impressed by the edge-of-the-world visual plunge through sharply descending woodland to the river and the fields and hills beyond.
‘I never look at it.’ Sturridge sat on the edge of a wicker chair. Either he liked being uncomfortable or he didn’t expect to be there long. ‘So: what do you want to ask me? I’ve checked at work: four of the dates you asked about – September, November, December and January – I was there all those days. If you need confirmation from them, I can give you a name and number. I wasn’t working on the October date. I was off sick, so I’d have been here.’
‘Where’s work?’
‘Harbinson Mortlock Ltd. I work on the patenting side.’
‘Thanks.’ Sellers made a note.
‘Do you have any other questions?’
Was he serious? They’d only just got started.
‘Yes. Quite a few. You were involved in a relationship with Kim Tribbeck until recently, correct?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known she was going to bring the police to my door.’
‘Mr Sturridge, we need you to think hard about whether you might know something that can help us. Kim believes, as do we, that she might be in danger from Billy Dead Mates. We—’
‘Why do you call him that? It sounds infantile.’
‘We thought he was targeting pairs of best friends. At first. Until Kim’s grandmother, Marion, was murdered.’
Sturridge shrugged. He said, ‘I don’t want Kim to be harmed, but whatever happens to her, it’s nothing to do with me. I’d rather not be involved.’
Charming. What had a talented, successful woman like Kim Tribbeck seen in this man?
‘Kim’s told us she ended the affair between the two of you. Is that true?’
‘Yes. It was hardly an affair.’
‘What was it, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it a sexual relationship?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it lasted two years?’
‘I suppose so. I didn’t keep track of its duration.’
This man was unbelievable. Sellers was sorry to be interviewing him alone. He’d never be able to convey the full oddness of the demeanour that at one moment seemed blatantly disdainful and the next merely robotic.
‘Were you upset when Kim ended it? Angry?’
‘Neither. It was a relief.’
‘Why?’
‘It made life easier, I suppose.’
‘Were you also thinking of calling it a day?’
‘No.’
Give me strength.
‘How did your sister feel about your relationship with Kim?’
‘I don’t know. Ask her.’
‘She knew about it, then?’ Many men conducting affairs with married women would make an effort to keep it to themselves. The rule was well known: if you don’t want to get caught, don’t confide in anyone. Sellers pushed the thought away; his own discretion record was pitiful. All his colleagues and friends knew he regularly cheated on his wife. The situation was far from ideal.
‘Isobel didn’t know for a long time,’ said Sturridge. ‘I didn’t tell her.’
‘So how did she find out?’
‘Why don’t you ask her that question?’
‘I’d like to. Do you know where she is? Do you know if she’s at home?’
Sturridge shook his head.
‘Do you think she worried you and Kim might want to make a go of it full time and she’d be left on her own?’
‘No. Isobel’s already on her own, in the relationship sense. I’m her brother, not her husband or boyfriend.’
‘Yes, but the two of you live together.’
‘We share a house. That’s it.’
‘So Isobel might have feared you leaving the house to move in with Kim.’
‘Why would she?’
‘Because then she’d be left living alone.’ Isn’t it obvious, you stupid twat?
‘I don’t know,’ Sturridge said after some consideration. ‘Seems stupid to me. What’s wrong with living alone?’ He might more aptly have asked, ‘But is living with me any different from living alone, when a fridge magnet would probably be capable of providing more entertainment and companionship?’
‘Did Kim ever mention to you that she’d been given a small white book by a man she didn’t know?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, hello!’ A female voice injected a welcome burst of energy into the room. Sellers turned in his chair and saw a small, thin woman with unusually short brown hair in a strange, tendrils-blown-forward-onto-her-face kind of style, as if she’d stood with her back to a strong wind. She was wearing a knee-length navy-and-pink-striped cotton dress with a pale pink wool cardigan over it, and white sandals with gold buckles. ‘Are you DC Sellers? I’m Isobel Sturridge. Liam, why didn’t you tell me he was here?’
‘You didn’t ask me to.’ To Sellers, Sturridge said, ‘Are you finished with me?’ He stood up.
‘I think so, but if you could wait and not go out? Just in case I think of anything else.’
‘I’m not going out, so I don’t need to wait. I can get on with my day, as I would if you’d left or never arrived.’
‘You’re not going to work?’
‘No. Day off.’ With that, Sturridge left the room.
‘Your brother’s … a character.’ Sellers smiled at Isobel.
Instantly her smile vanished. She bit her lower lip. ‘Do you think?’
No. I think he’s a noticeable absence of character, but that’s trickier to broach.
‘I worry he doesn’t have enough in his life. Especially now he and Kim have split up.’
‘Did you know Kim?’
‘No. Liam never introduced us. He’s very private.’
‘So you weren’t jealous that he had a girlfriend, or worried he’d desert you if things got more serious between them?’
‘No.’ She seemed to be telling the truth. ‘Liam won’t ever live with anyone apart from me.’ This was said in a reassuring tone. Sellers found it chilling.
‘Has he said that?’
‘No, but he wouldn’t last five minutes on his own.’
‘But … if he were to move in with a woman, he wouldn’t be on his own, would he?’
‘He couldn’t live with a woman for five minutes.’ Isobel laughed. ‘Apart from me – but that’s different. I’m his sister.’
‘Let’s say he did move out, though, and get married or something. Would you mind? How would you feel about living alone?’
Sellers waited for Isobel to tell him that Liam would be back within five minutes. He was surprised when she said, ‘Me? I’d be fine! We lead pretty separate lives.’
‘Right.’
She leaned forward. ‘You can’t honestly think Liam would kill anyone and needs an alibi?’ She looked as if she was waiting for Sellers to start laughing so that she could join in.
‘We have to rule him out – because of his connection to Kim Tribbeck, and the fact that she’s been threatened, probably by the person we’re looking for. It’s nothing personal against Liam. It’s a formality.’
‘I see. Well, what about me? Shouldn’t you ask me for my alibis for all the dates of the murders? And – oh – do you want some DNA from me? Liam said someone rang up about DNA.’ Isobel stuck out her tongue, then put it away again, as if realising she must look odd, sitting there with it sticking out.
‘I don’t do that part,’ said Sellers. ‘I don’t have a kit on me. But if you and your brother could follow up on the phone call you received, I’d appreciate it. We need to rule you out on the DNA front. And yes, I’d like to ask you about your whereabouts on the dates in question, if that’s okay? Again – only a formality.’
Sellers didn’t fancy Isobel Sturridge at all. If she made a pass at him, he’d give her the knockback. Wasn’t often he felt that way. He did a quick analysis of his aberrant response to her and decided it was her teeth that were the problem. There was a noticeable vertical groove at the centre of each of her front teeth, creating a disconcerting two-halves effect.
‘I was at work for all five,’ Isobel said once Sellers had told her the dates. ‘I work nine thirty to five thirty, Monday to Friday.’
‘Where’s work, then?’ he asked her.
‘The famous Rudolphy’s.’ Isobel was unable to keep the pride out of her voice.
Whatever Rudolphy’s was, its fame hadn’t spread as far as Sellers. Typical Silsford resident, he thought, imagining that everything that happens in Silsford is of inherent interest to the world. Two elderly Silsfordians had turned up at the nick last week – Spilling nick – to complain that the police in Silsford weren’t concerned enough about the dreadful wind-tunnel effect created by the new Waitrose on Bicknacre Road. What did Spilling Police intend to do about their negligent colleagues in the neighbouring town? they demanded to know. Answer: nothing.
‘It’s a labour of love more than a job,’ said Isobel. She couldn’t have sounded more self-satisfied. ‘I mean, the money’s negligible. People are always saying how much they envy me, when they’re earning three times my salary!’
Sellers heard the silent addition loud and clear: And yet, we all know I’m in the better situation.
‘So – aren’t you lucky?’ She laughed.
‘What do you mean?’
‘My alibi is Rudolphy’s! Which means you’ve got an excuse to go there now, to check it – and emerge several hours later and several hundred pounds poorer!’
‘I’ll be the one in need of an alibi if I spend several hundred pounds without my wife’s permission.’
‘Unless you spend it on her,’ said Isobel forcefully. This was the hard sell, all right. She looked sad, as if Sellers had spoiled all her fun. He resolved not to spend a single penny in bloody Rudolphy’s, whatever it turned out to be.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, providing him with the perfect excuse to leave. ‘I’ve got to take this call,’ he told Isobel, though he knew it was only a text landing. He was keen to get out of the Sturridge house and away from the Freak Siblings, and was relishing the prospect of a slow walk down the hill with dazzling views and fresh air to accompany him: compensation for what he’d suffered on the way up.
The text was from Lisa Norbury, Joshua’s sister. Sellers probably wouldn’t have followed up on his original message. They’d already been over Josh Norbury’s house with a fine-tooth comb; he knew he’d find nothing useful. After his last encounter with Sondra Halliday, it had felt important to Sellers to show he cared about the dead man she barely bothered to mention, but he’d be showing no one but himself, effectively. It was a vanity exercise.
