For Better, For Worse Read online

  Beth grabbed her phone and put out a call for white Jaguar XJ saloons registered in the county, and any reported stolen recently.

  Freeman was examining the facial features of the victim closely as she ended the call. Beth pocketed her phone when something glinted in her peripheral vision. Her eyes rested on the offending item, partially hidden beneath a vehicle nearby. She walked the few yards or so towards it, bent down and reached underneath the car, pawing at what she now realised was a card of some sort. It scraped against the asphalt as she dragged it out. The silver indentations on the credit card gleamed against the street lighting. ‘I thought he was familiar,’ she said, holding it up as she re-joined the others. ‘It’s Stuart Ingram.’

  Freeman pulled a face, stood and stared at the card. ‘That’s all we need.’

  3

  Back in the incident room, Beth joined the band of her colleagues called out of their beds at this late hour. The smell of damp cloth cloyed her nostrils as she cradled a mug of strong coffee. It wasn’t particularly cold outside, but the persistent drizzle had penetrated her jacket earlier leaving her shoulders soggy.

  Freeman cleared his throat. ‘Okay, we’re pretty sure our victim is fifty-two-year-old Stuart Ingram of 46 Hay Close, Great Oakley, Northants.’

  A murmur passed around, gathering momentum as it travelled. Stuart Ingram was a local councillor and businessman who’d been arrested last year when a former assistant accused him of sexual harassment. Although she later withdrew the complaint, the ensuing investigation discovered images of child abuse downloaded on his computer. Ingram pleaded not guilty to possession of indecent images of children, vehemently denying the allegations, claiming he had no idea how they found their way onto his computer. The file was built and the case prepared for trial, but not before it rocked the county to the core, the press chewing over the life of a prominent local businessman, well-known for his charity work and service to the community. Nobody in Northamptonshire could fail to be aware of the Ingram case.

  Freeman raised his hands to hush them. ‘Ingram was hit by a white Jaguar on the zebra crossing beside Market House in Rothwell.’ He unfolded a map, pinned it to a noticeboard at a wonky angle. Many crime incident units computerised all their documents these days and worked from screens, but Freeman had joined homicide in the 1990s and was old-school, preferring the pin board system. He pointed out the potential routes the car had taken into and out of the town. ‘We’ve put out a county-wide appeal for sightings of the car, and uniform are doing house to house for any witnesses near the scene. Let’s check all the borough and police cameras in the wider vicinity for CCTV footage of a vehicle that matches its description. We need to establish what route it was taking.

  ‘I also want the Ingram file reviewed. Every witness statement reread, every piece of evidence re-examined. We need to revisit friends, family and any associations he may have in case somebody held a personal grievance against him. That includes Vicki Ryan, the girl who accused him of the initial harassment. If this incident is linked in any way to that case, we need to establish that connection now.

  ‘Let’s build up a picture of the victim’s movements,’ Freeman continued. ‘Starting with today and then tracking back over the past few weeks. But first we need to visit his wife.’

  An ill-fitting window rattling in the wind was the only sound that filled the room. ‘Beth?’ he called. Beth felt the shoulders of others nearby relax, as she raised her hand. Although a necessary part of the job, delivering the death message tugged on every copper’s heartstrings and was a job they were keen to avoid if at all possible.

  ‘I’d like you to go out to see Gina Ingram. Deliver the news and see what you can find out. I know it’s difficult, especially with the background on this one, but we really need details of friends, family, acquaintances – all the usual – so we can start eliminating people. Obviously, we’ll look at their associations from the existing case, but there’s always a chance that something or someone has cropped up since. Get started on the family liaison officer role and see what you can find out about the victim’s recent movements; we need to know exactly where he was tonight. I’ll get Warren Hill to join you as soon as I can.’

  Beth’s heart warmed. Warren was a trained family liaison officer, like herself, and she’d worked with him on a high-profile murder a little over a month earlier, her first time in the role. He was a diligent detective, sensitive to the needs of the family and unobtrusive in his approach. It would be good to be working with him again.

  Freeman turned back to the main room. ‘Right, folks. Given the history, the press will jump on this, so let’s keep it tight for now. Nothing, and I mean nothing…’ He paused, beady eyes searching the bodies in front of him. ‘Leaves this unit, without my consent. I’ll liaise with the press office to put out a statement after the family has been notified, but I want to keep the flow of information close on this one. The last thing we need is a media circus deterring potential witnesses from coming forward.’

  ‘This could still be a random attack.’ Sergeant Nick Geary’s thick Northern Irish accent spread through the room. ‘Somebody lost control of their car, collided and drove off in a panic when they realised they’d hit something. The conditions were ripe for it.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Freeman responded. ‘We’re not ruling anything out at present. But the witness clearly stated the car veered across the road and mounted the pavement before it drove off. We need to get that corroborated with any other sightings. They also indicated that Ingram was a regular. He came by every Thursday at the same time. If this was deliberate, as it initially appears, then the killer either knew his movements or followed him there. Okay, everyone. Let’s get started.’

  Beth bent down to gather up her belongings. When she looked up, she was surprised to find Freeman hovering beside her. ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  His face was tense. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ Beth’s hand went to her stomach. He was referring to their last case, her first brush with death in her nine-year service. The bruises had healed but the scars of being held hostage with the family she was deployed to support stayed with her. ‘Because if you’re not ready, tell me now.’ Children’s screams whistled through her ears. ‘Beth?’

  She snapped back to the present, swallowed the bile in her throat. ‘Of course, sir. I’ve been back at work a month now. I’m ready.’

  He touched the back of her arm, his eyes lit with paternal concern. ‘Okay. But keep me informed. Take Nick with you tonight. I’d like you to pair up when out on inquiries.’

  *

  Gina Ingram stirred, opened her eyes and glanced at the credits winding up the screen to the soft sound of panpipes. She flicked off the television, yawned and checked the clock on the mantel. It was nearly midnight. Oscar wandered through from the hallway, his tail low, and gave her an inquiring look. He’d been pacing the floor all evening. She chewed the side of her lip, examined her mobile. No new messages. Where was Stuart?

  A stab of anger merged with her anxiety. Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to him staying out until the early hours, mopping up a late meeting in the nearest pub. He didn’t always call either. But he’d been different recently. The events of this past year had changed his behaviour, mellowing some of his former brashness. And it was Thursday, the night of his bowls club meeting in Northampton. The one night of the week he went out these days and he generally arrived home shortly after 10.30 p.m., usually with a curry in tow to stink out the place.

  She selected his number and pressed call. Waited as the dial tone rang out – one, two, three… She clicked off before the voicemail kicked in. Where was he?

  Maybe something had happened. Perhaps she should call the police. Although… Her opinion of them wasn’t altogether good after the past twelve months. Her mind switched back to last October. Officers crawling through her home, searching drawers, cupboards, shelves. Seizing their devices. The first arrest. The second. The charge.
r />   She closed her eyes, the pain of recollection still too raw to bear.

  A phone call to the police might prompt fresh questions. She couldn’t face that. It was bad enough that they were about to endure all the press interest again, with the trial looming. No, the last thing she needed was to add insult to injury. And anyway, what if it was something simple like a flat tyre? Knowing Stuart, he’d refuse to call out the breakdown service and fix it himself. Although that didn’t explain why he wasn’t answering his phone. She picked at the skin around her thumbnail.

  Oscar padded into the front room again, as a knock sounded.

  ‘There we are,’ Gina said briskly, ushering the dog into the kitchen, an automatic action to curb his annoying habit of running outside when she answered the door. Irritation wormed underneath her skin. Where was Stuart’s key? He could have called, at least. Christ, she’d been worried sick.

  She pulled open the door. The man and woman facing her were dressed in dark suits, too formal for this late hour. The lining of her mouth dried.

  She glanced from one to another. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Gina Ingram?’ the woman said. When Gina nodded, she introduced herself and her colleague. They held up their police badges. ‘Can we come in?’

  Gina’s blood chilled. A memory edged out of the shadows of her mind. Another night, another thump at the door, almost a year earlier. Different faces, but still police. The cold evening air reaching in with the same icy fingers. Following them into the front room where Stuart sat with his laptop balanced on his lap. He’d frowned as they introduced themselves, pushed his glasses up his nose. The disbelief as they confirmed his identity and arrested him.

  Less than a week later, another knock. The same detectives. This time she’d picked out the words ‘child abuse’ as they arrested him again.

  She’d watched him leave that second time. Taken a sharp intake of breath as they marched him out to the car, placed a hand over his head and guided him into the back seat. Gina shuddered, switching back to the suits on her doorstep. What the hell had happened now?

  4

  ‘Is there someone we can call?’ Beth asked. ‘To come and sit with you.’ Having delivered the news of her husband’s death, Beth sat beside Gina on the sofa in the Ingrams’ front room. The soft lighting cast shadows up the apple-green walls.

  Gina swallowed and gave a single head shake. She tucked a sheet of blonde bobbed hair behind one ear, exposing a fair complexion that might usually be considered classically pretty, but was now pallid. ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  Beth had delivered numerous death messages during her service, enough to grow accustomed to the different responses: anger, numbness, and most of all, disbelief. Responses like, ‘It can’t be, I only spoke to him earlier’ or ‘No, he’s at home asleep.’ The brain installing its own coping mechanism as it struggled to process the information. ‘We’re sure,’ Beth said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Gina’s hands trembled in her lap. She clasped them together, shiny knuckles turning white. The silence in the room was broken by Nick opening and closing cupboards, searching for what he needed to make tea in the nearby kitchen. One of the advantages of working with Nick was that he respected the family liaison role and allowed Beth to take the lead on sensitive issues.

  Gina’s blue eyes were fixed in space. Beth gave her a moment. The room was calm and homely. A wooden chest in the corner was decorated with colourful ABCs, hinting at the presence of young children. Photos of impish faces decorated the mantel, some in ornate frames, others tucked behind ornaments and candle holders. The top of a sideboard at the far end was covered with an array of tiered pictures in silver frames, arranged around a yellow orchid in bloom. A photograph of a young woman in mortar board and gown sat beside a wedding photo, featuring the same woman. Beth had looked over the file briefly before she’d left the station to gauge the family set-up. It mentioned an only daughter with two children.

  On the coffee table beside her were more snapshots – photos of Stuart and Gina beside a harbour, on a beach, standing at the edge of a canyon. A blown-up picture of them on the deck of a ship, sunglasses balanced on his head, her hair blowing loose in the wind.

  ‘If he hasn’t been formally identified, I don’t see how you know it’s him,’ Gina said suddenly, turning to Beth. There was a tremor in her voice.

  ‘We made a fingerprint match at the scene,’ Beth said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Beth watched Gina wince as thoughts of fingerprints on file dredged up harrowing memories. She hadn’t worked the case last year, but she hadn’t needed to pore over the file to be aware that Gina had chosen to reject the charge and stand by her husband. She looked back at the photos on the coffee table and couldn’t help but wonder when they were taken. They appeared to have pushed the allegations aside while Stuart was on bail, holding onto the prospect of him being exonerated at trial, but it was clear from the lines etched on Gina’s face that the incident clung to her like a leech. They were stuck, lives in limbo, until the trial was over and Stuart’s fate was decided.

  The door flapped open and Nick entered with a mug of tea. He placed it on a coaster beside Gina.

  Beth waited a few minutes. Gently does it. She was treading a fine line here, torn between the empathetic needs of a grieving family and the critical requirements of a live investigation. If the killer was familiar with Stuart’s movements, they could be someone he knew, someone close to him. Which made the pressing need for information all the more urgent.

  ‘I do need to ask some questions,’ she said in her kindest voice.

  Gina returned her gaze, her face devoid of emotion.

  ‘Do you know what Stuart was doing in Rothwell this evening?’

  ‘He’d been to his bowls club meet in Northampton, the only hobby he’s kept up since—’ Her words cut. She swallowed. ‘He calls in to a takeaway in Rothwell for a curry on his way back.’

  ‘What time did he go out?’

  ‘Six-thirty. It’s the same every week. He’s usually back about half past ten.’

  ‘What about you? Did you go out too?’

  ‘No. I’ve been here all evening.’

  ‘Alone?’ Beth surveyed the blue and white stripy shirt and navy slacks that fitted her slender frame. Smart, casual. She wasn’t dressed for a night out, but she didn’t look as though she was dressed to lounge on the sofa either. Cream slippers clad her feet.

  Gina nodded.

  ‘This is important. Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Stuart?’

  Gina closed her eyes. The head shake, before she reopened them, was weak, limp.

  ‘What about the threats you received after the charge last year? Have there been any more recently?’

  ‘We reported every incident to the police, as soon as they occurred, and were told the details were logged, although no one was ever arrested.’

  There were several crime reports on the Ingram file. Numerous calls to the police over the past twelve months, reporting damage to the house and car, threatening phone calls, abusive language. Every incident was investigated, but Gina was right, insufficient evidence and lack of witnesses meant none of them had led to an arrest.

  ‘I’m sorry, I know this is painful. But it’s possible the killer was someone close to Stuart. I will need to take down a list of all known associates.’

  A short sarcastic laugh. ‘What associates? Our daughter doesn’t speak to us. Our friends ignore us. Even most of our neighbours avoid contact.’

  ‘What about the bowls club?’ Beth asked gently.

  Gina inhaled and held it a second before she replied. ‘They seem to be the one group of people who’ve stood by him, encouraged him to continue to attend their meetings. Well, most of them anyway.’ She moved across to the sideboard, sifted through a drawer until she found a leather-bound book. ‘There’s a list of all the members in there. I don’t know how up to date it is.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Beth took the book and passed it across to N
ick who was scribbling down notes beside her. ‘Has Stuart mentioned that anyone unusual has been in touch recently? Perhaps somebody out of the ordinary?’

  ‘The trial is in two weeks. He’s been speaking to lots of people. We both have.’

  ‘What about Vicki Ryan?’

  Her face twisted as if she was sucking a bitter sweet, the underlying pain at the mention of the young woman who’d set this nightmare into motion obvious. ‘You think she’s involved?’

  ‘We don’t know. We do need to investigate every avenue though.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, he hasn’t heard from Vicki since last year. Everyone he’s seen or spoken to is in his phone. He kept it with him, used it as a diary. We unplugged the landline after all the abusive calls, changed the SIM cards in our mobiles so we had new numbers. Stuart only leaves the house for scheduled appointments these days. That, and his bowls meeting.’ She flicked her gaze to the kitchen. ‘Doesn’t even walk the dog anymore.’

  Beth thought back to the scene in the market square. His mobile phone hadn’t yet been recovered. It had to be there, somewhere close to the body. She made a mental note to flag it up with Freeman and the search team. ‘I see. Thank you. How did he seem before he went out this evening?’

  Gina lifted her shoulders and let them drop with a breath. ‘Stuart’s world altered after the allegations last year. It was as much as I could do to keep him going. I was hoping after the trial…’ Her lip quivered. When she raised her eyes, they were brimming. ‘Well, we’ll never know now, will we?’

  ‘What about you? Have you received any unusual emails, messages, calls?’

  ‘Any unusual messages?’ Her tone rose a decibel. ‘You know what we’ve been through. The abuse we’ve taken, the allegations we’ve had to swallow. And you people, you’ve done nothing to help, nothing to protect us. They’ve finally got to him, haven’t they?’