An Unfamiliar Murder Page 12

  He blinked at intervals, jolted back at times, wide eyed in surprise, but waited until she had completely finished before he spoke. “Sounds like you’ve had quite a day.”

  “You could say that. I feel bruised and battered, as though I’ve been used as an emotional punching bag.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I need some time to think. It’s too much to digest in one go.” He nodded and they continued to eat in silence.

  “If I can do anything to help . . .”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  As they were finishing up a thought occurred to Anna. “Ross?”

  “Yes?” he said, helping himself to another poppadom and dipping into a generous portion of mango chutney.

  “Do you think I should tell the Detective Chief Inspector about my brother? She gave me her card and asked me to call her if I heard anything.”

  He thought about this for a moment as he crunched away. “It’s up to you. They’re bound to have spoken to your parents.” He picked a stray crumb off his sweater, put it into his mouth. “I guess they’ll work it out sooner or later. That’s why they’re called detectives.” He smiled, but the joke was wasted on Anna who started clearing away the empty boxes and bags. Her stomach felt fuller than it had in days.

  As Ross took out the rubbish, she washed the dishes. A waft of cold air raced into the kitchen as he walked back through the door. She turned suddenly as it made her jump, too suddenly, just catching the edge of a wine glass on the drainer. The crash of the glass hitting the floor reverberated throughout her whole body.

  “Miss Cottrell, that’s a record,” Ross said jollily. “We should re-name you Clumsy Cottrell.” He was giggling now. “That’s three glasses in one month!” She could hear him chuckling in the background, but froze amongst the splinters of glass that littered the floor as her eyes blurred, her shoulders began shaking, letting the tears overflow and race down her cheeks.

  Ross, realizing that she wasn’t laughing, rushed to her side, ignoring the crunch of glass under his shoes, turned her around and pulled her into his arms. He held her tight as the grief exploded into uncontrollable sobs.

  Time stood still. Eventually, as her breathing slowly regulated itself, he kissed her gently on the head, moved her over to the breakfast bar and sat her down, whilst he cleared up the shards of broken glass. Anger having abated, the release felt good, and when the tears finally dried up she sat in silence, her body numb, watching the slow movement of the brush sweep across the floor.

  “Are you OK?” Ross looked over at her tentatively.

  “I think so,” she nodded, raising her eyes to look at him. “Why is this all happening to me?”

  “Bad luck I guess,” he shrugged. He finished and made his way over to her, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

  She turned to face him. “Sorry about all this.”

  He snorted, caressed the back of her neck tenderly and locked his soft, brown eyes straight onto hers. “Don’t be silly, it’s not your fault. Just wish I could do something to help.”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do at the moment,” she replied.

  “Would it help to talk some more?”

  She scrunched up her nose, trying to see through the mist that had descended in her brain, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What would you like to do?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No idea. Something to take my mind off things.”

  “How about bowling?”

  “I’d rather do table tennis.”

  “Come on, I’ll thrash you at table tennis.” She followed him into the lounge as he set up the TV and games console. Despite the fact that Ross nearly always won, it felt good to play ball games for a change. The Wii was much kinder to the uncoordinated than a real court.

  When they exhausted the sports, they switched to some dancing game where you had to copy the moves, which Anna couldn’t remember the name of. As the third tune finished, Ross collapsed onto the sofa with laughter. “You really are the most rubbish dancer I’ve ever been out with.”

  She sat down next to him, panting slightly, and smiled. “Beat you at cycling though, didn’t I?” He grinned back at her, stretching out his arm to pull her towards him. Anna breathed in deeply. She loved the smell of Ross. His hair was vanilla and his body a mixture of sporty shower gel and Armani Pour Homme after shave. An addictive scent which seeped into his clothes.

  He kissed her on the side of her neck, so gently, tenderly. “You smell lovely,” he whispered into her ear. Just thinking the same, she thought. Her stomach bounced as his nose brushed across her cheek. He kissed her gently at first, slipping his tongue in softly. His left hand hugged her neck, the right moving slowly down her back as he gradually became hungrier. Anna trembled as she surrendered herself to him. Ross was the perfect antidote to stress.

  It was almost eight o’clock when she untangled herself from his arms. She pulled the throw off the back of the sofa and stroked his tattoo. For some reason Anna loved the neatness of the small blue sign of infinity on his upper arm. She leant over, kissed him gently on the cheek, before covering him over, then pulled his long, fleece sweater over her head. It reached her thighs and she relished Ross’ scent on her, breathing in deeply as she walked back into the kitchen. Ross was sleeping soundly, lost in that satisfied, relaxed sleep that only sex can induce.

  As she leant over and flicked the switch on the kettle, she saw the creased business card she had left on the side, the card the Detective Chief Inspector handed her earlier. A pang of conscience hit her and she dialed the number impulsively.

  It rang five times and she was just about to hang up when the ring tone changed, as if it had been diverted, then a male voice answered. “DS Carter?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Anna Cottrell. I wondered if I could have a word with DCI Lavery?”

  “She’s interviewing at the moment. Can I help you with anything? I’m working on the same investigation.”

  “Well err . . .” Anna hesitated for a moment. She didn’t know DS Carter and didn’t feel comfortable telling him about her brother, which suddenly seemed very silly. “I just wanted to know if I could go back to the flat and get some clothes,” she said weakly. “I’m running out of things to wear.”

  “Right,” he said. “I don’t think that’ll be too much of a problem. Let me make some enquiries and I’ll come back to you.”

  “OK.”

  “What number can I get you on?”

  She gave him her new mobile number and hung up, a barrage of thoughts entering her mind. Anna blinked and tried to make some sense of the fuzz in her head. There were two questions that kept screaming out at her. Who was the DCI interviewing and did they have a new suspect?

  Chapter Ten

  Helen walked into the interview room and almost jumped when she laid eyes on Robert McCafferty for the first time. He was quite striking in appearance, the kind of man that would send a group of women into a flutter when he walked into a room, multiple hands checking hair, smoothing clothes, hoping to impress him into noticing them. But it was the resemblance to Anna which really made her start. Their facial features – the dark eyes, set against olive skin and chestnut hair. They could have been twins.

  She sat down opposite him, resting her hands on the table between them. “Hello Robert. I’m DCI Lavery and this is DS Pemberton.” He nodded in acknowledgment, a dark lock of hair flopping over his forehead.

  “I’m aware that you’ve had quite a shock. “ She needed to tread carefully. He had only just formally identified his father’s body a short time beforehand. “First, I’d like to say that I’m very sorry for your loss.” She watched as he pushed the corners of his mouth down and nodded again in solemn acknowledgement. “Are you sure you are up to talking to us today?”

  “Anything to help.” He pronounced his words strongly and definitively, but they had a soft, musical edge. She imagined he didn’t spend man
y nights on the town without charming some young lady into his clutches.

  “Thank you. DS Pemberton here will take some notes while we go along. Would you like a cup of tea, coffee perhaps?”

  “I’ve just had a coffee, thanks.”

  “Right. Why don’t you start by telling us about your father?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you can tell us about your father will help us build up a picture of his life and may, eventually, lead us to his killer. Why don’t we start with your relationship? Were you close?”

  Robert scratched his head and thought for a moment. “Not particularly.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “My mother died when I was eight years old. I was fostered out after that.”

  “Did you still see your father?”

  “I used to go back to see my dad sometimes, on visits, but they wouldn’t let me live with him. He was an alcoholic.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  He shifted in his seat. “We coped.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “What kind of question is that?” He sat back, clearly affronted. “He was my father. He didn’t abuse me or neglect me, he just drank himself into a stupor to take away the pain of losing my mother, so he couldn’t take care of me. But when he was dry he was great. Of course I loved him.” Helen watched his reaction carefully, focusing on his body language, looking for signs of animosity, latent resentment. So far there were none.

  She pulled back. “How did you find out that your father had been killed?” she asked, softly.

  “I’m sure if you don’t already know it, you’ll soon discover that I was released from prison on Friday . . .”

  “What were you convicted for?”

  “Armed robbery. It’ll all be on my file.” He gave her a hard stare before continuing, “As I said, I was released on Friday. I’m staying with friends at the moment. I tried to call Dad a couple of times on Saturday and then Sunday, but couldn’t reach him so I went down to his house today.” She nodded, encouraging him to go on. “The house was covered in blue and white police tape so I spoke to his neighbor who told me about the murder. I couldn’t believe it. I only saw him a month ago.”

  “Which neighbor did you speak to?”

  He paused to watch the other detective scribbling his notes for a moment.

  “It’s OK,” Helen said reassuringly. “We’ll draw it up into a statement and you’ll be able to read it all through before you sign it.”

  He shrugged his right shoulder. “If it helps.”

  “So, which neighbor did you speak to?”

  “Number 27.” He hesitated, thinking hard. “I think her name is Mrs. Hart.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “How did she tell you about your father?”

  “She was surprised that I didn’t already know. Grabbed the paper and showed me the news report. I haven’t much bothered with the papers this weekend, what with just coming out of prison and all that.”

  “It must have been quite a shock.”

  “One hell of a shock.”

  “And what time was this?”

  “I suppose I got there around ten thirty. There’s no point in going over there any earlier. He doesn’t get up early in the mornings.” He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Didn’t.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “To tell you the truth I didn’t know what to do. I read the news report and then I saw the address and couldn’t believe it. I had to go down there to Little Hampstead to check for myself.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “Why did the address shock you so much?”

  He looked at her for a while, appearing to be considering his options before he continued. “It’s a long story.”

  “No problem. We’re not in any hurry.”

  “I don’t think it will be relevant.”

  “Why don’t you let us be the judge of that? Anything to do with your father’s life is of interest at the moment.” A short silence followed.

  “OK,” he continued, but his reluctance was obvious. “Well. I have a sister. Her name is Anna. We were separated when our mother died of cancer and our dad hit the bottle. She was three and I was eight at the time. I haven’t seen her since. 22a

  Flax Street is her address.” Helen tilted her head to one side. “How did you know?”

  “What?”

  “If you haven’t seen her since she was three, how did you know that this was her address?”

  He sighed. “I have tried many times over the years to make contact with her, you know, through social services. I wrote letters and took them to my father to send off. When I was old enough I wrote on my own. But Anna was adopted and her new parents refused all contact. She is now an adult so I found her myself. I had planned to arrange to meet up with her - all of us meet up - when I came out of prison.”

  “Did your father know her address?”

  “Yes, I gave it to him when I saw him last month. But we agreed that I would make the contact first.” He snorted. “I doubt that she will be interested now.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, would you?”

  Helen ignored the question. “Were you and Anna close?”

  “When we were younger? Very. When Mum died and Dad crashed out, I practically looked after her on my own. Until they took her away from me.”

  “That must have made you very angry.” He shrugged in response. “What happened to you?” Helen said.

  “As I said, I was fostered out. I had a couple of false starts, I guess I was a bit of a handful at first, but stayed with the same family from thirteen, until I got my own place when I was seventeen.”

  “How did it make you feel, being separated like that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you feel anger or resentment towards your father?”

  “What?” He screwed his face up indignantly. “I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re asking me.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Nice theory,” he continued, “but wrong. I’ve never hated my father. I hate what he puts through his body. I hate the way it makes him behave. I don’t want to be like him, I couldn’t be more determined to build a different life for myself, but I don’t hate him. He’s still my dad. And it wasn’t him that took Anna away from me. It was social services. And I hate them for it.” His nostrils widened as he emphasized the word them.

  “We have to follow every line of enquiry.” Helen dropped her tone a level to mollify him. “I’m sure you appreciate that. No one is suggesting that you killed your father, but we do need to eliminate you from our enquiries. Where were you between two and six o’clock last Friday afternoon?”

  “I didn’t get out of Ashwell until late afternoon. There was some kind of . . .” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “disorder – that’s what they call it, happens when a few prisoners kick off. We were on lock down for most of the day. You can check with them yourselves – the prison’ll confirm it. My friends that I’m staying with collected me around five. It took us well over an hour to get back here, so I wasn’t back before six.”

  “Thank you. Did you see your father much while you were in prison?”

  “No, I was placed too far away. Started off in Nottingham, then they moved me to Leicester. For the last three months I’ve been at Ashwell in Rutland, an open prison, so I could come home a few weekends. I was supposed to go there sooner, but they didn’t have any space.”

  “You’ve moved around a bit then?”

  “Yeah, they do that to you. Don’t like you to get too settled, make too many criminal associations. Might defer your rehabilitation, if you get my drift? No problem for me, I just wanted to do my time and get out. I kept my head down and did as I was told.”

  “Did you write to each other, phone maybe?”

  “I rang him on his birthda
y a couple of times, sent him the odd card.” He pressed his lips together. “He wasn’t really one for letters.”

  “But you visited him a month ago?”

  “Yeah. I was on weekend leave.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “Alright. Not exactly dry but at least he was off the wacky backy.”

  “He used drugs?”

  “Only weed.” He allowed himself a wry grin. “Couldn’t be doing with anything you inject. Far too squeamish. But he seemed to have laid off it recently. Probably ran out of cash.”

  “Did he seem edgy? Worried about anything?”

  “No more edgy than usual. He’s always on the edge when he needs another drink.”

  “How long did you stay?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Anna mostly. He was really looking forward to the prospect of meeting her.” He grew sad.

  “How well do you know his friends?”

  He shook his head. “Not too well. There’s a couple he’s known since we were kids that I know, but since he was moved ten years ago, I think he lost contact with quite a few.”

  “What about his supplier?”

  Robert raised his hands. “No idea. I don’t touch the stuff. I’ve watched what has gone through him over the years. It’s enough to put anyone off.”

  “Are you aware of anyone who he may have upset, somebody who may have a grudge against him perhaps, or may wish to hurt him?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  The room became quiet. Robert was staring at the floor, churning over his thoughts. Helen sat very still and cast her eyes over Jim McCafferty’s only son. She could see nothing in his demeanor, his manner, his words, that indicated guilt on his part. But she wasn’t going to be fooled by the charming facade. This man was part of a ruthless gang of armed robbers who, eight years ago, charged into a bookmakers in the early evening, wearing ski masks. A male cashier was shot in the tussle that followed. Luckily, the bullet clipped his arm and he lived, otherwise Rab would still be sitting in a cell right now.

  “What about you, Robert?” she asked finally.

  “What do you mean?”