For Better, For Worse Page 3

  ‘I’m so sorry. I understand you’re angry. But we are here to help. I’ll be your family liaison officer, here to answer your questions and support you.’

  ‘Help? Support? Stuart and I needed your help when we had a brick thrown through our front window. When we had paint splashed across our car. We weren’t given a family liaison officer then.’

  ‘What about your daughter?’ Beth asked, trying to keep the conversation on track. ‘Would you like me to call her for you?’

  Gina stood, ignoring the question. ‘It doesn’t make any difference what I say or do. If I’ve learned anything this past year, it’s that you people will do what you want anyway. I’m going upstairs. You can let yourselves out.’

  5

  Gina Ingram sat on the edge of the bed and balled the duvet in her hands. Stuart was dead. Murdered. The detective’s questions wound around her, again and again, until she was trapped by a straitjacket of words. Where was he tonight? Who was he with? Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt him? There was a time when she would have answered all of those questions with an assured confidence, an unequivocal reply. Now everything was blurred, hazy.

  She gulped deep breaths. Slowly. In and out. Desperately trying to soothe her shattered nerves. The pulse of her heart tapped at her palm. Only a few hours ago, Stuart’s heart was still beating. He’d been travelling back from his beloved bowls club. She could imagine him pulling off the dual carriageway, parking up, crossing the road in Rothwell. Smacking his lips together at the thought of his weekly indulgence. Nothing, not even the rain lashing into him, would put him off his curry.

  She recalled the hours and days after the charge, when the news broke. ‘Images of child abuse found on local councillor’s computer’ was what the local news reported. The journalists were relentless, banging on the door, phoning around the clock and gathering in knots outside their home during daylight hours. They’d had to draw their curtains to shut out the faces at the window, desperately trying to get a photograph or an interview.

  And when they weren’t hounded by journalists, the phone rang for more sinister reasons: anonymous calls commanding them to move out of the area. Words that fought with a string of insults to tell them their sort weren’t welcome there, whatever that meant.

  A few days later a splat of muck was posted through their letter box. The potent smell of dog excrement lingered for days after she’d scrubbed the back of the door, the carpet beneath. Within a week, paint was poured across the windscreen of her Audi. It made no difference that Stuart professed his innocence. Some people had already taken it upon themselves to become judge and jury.

  What was worse was that people they’d considered close withdrew from them. Friends stopped calling. People they’d known for years, family friends, ignored their messages and pleas for support. A few neighbours stayed loyal, but most avoided them, crossing the road if they passed either of them in the street. She became aware of curtains twitching when she ventured out to walk Oscar, watchful eyes from behind windows, chains of distant whispers at the supermarket. People keeping them at a distance like they had some contagious disease. Even her daughter refused her calls.

  It had been a difficult decision to stand by Stuart, the most challenging of her life, but she wasn’t prepared for how people treated her afterwards. She was persuaded to step down from her position on the Parish council, to ‘give her a break to focus on personal issues’ the secretary had said. Invitations to coffee-morning fundraisers dried up. Her cleaner gave notice. And now Stuart’s murder would cement her as the woman who stood by her husband, a man accused of viewing abusive pictures, unable to prove his innocence.

  A shiver slid down the back of her head, spiralling into her shoulders. Gina tugged the duvet over herself. Stuart’s grey robe dangled from the hook beside the en-suite. His plaid shirt hung over the back of the chair; shiny black shoes were scattered in the corner, the laces loose. The room looked the same as it had that morning. When he was alive. When he was still with her.

  If only she could turn back the clock.

  But if she could it wouldn’t only be twelve hours, or even twenty-four. She’d go back further. To the February before last, when they’d taken a cruise to celebrate thirty years of marriage. Watched dolphins dance through the waves as they sailed the warm Mediterranean waters. Drank wine on the top deck under the clear moonlight, the indigo ocean stretching around them. She’d go back to a time when she was married to a successful businessman, a respected local councillor, well known for his charity work. A time when she was an early-retired mother, active in her local community and a supportive grandmother, collecting her grandchildren from school and attending parent assemblies with her daughter. When all she had to worry about was whether the minutes of the Parish council meeting were typed up accurately, or the local newsletter was circulated punctually. A time when life was easy. Normal. Before everything became lopsided and the world turned askew.

  Gina covered her face with her hands, willing the tears that refused to come. Who would do that to Stuart, mow him down in the middle of a street? But even as she formed the question, a plethora of answers crowded her brain. Perhaps the people who’d thrown a brick through their window. Or those that tipped paint across the bonnet of her Audi.

  Her mind switched back.

  A different man had returned home and sunk into a chair at their kitchen table on the night of the second arrest. His skin was grey and paper thin. He’d aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours and his hefty frame seemed to shrink before her. ‘Why would somebody do something like this?’ he’d said, maintaining his innocence. He called it a smear campaign, talked about people accessing his computer without his knowledge.

  Gina had wanted to scream and shout, throw him out of the house. She’d prepared herself to do exactly that. The thought of him trawling through indecent photos of children made vomit pool in her mouth. She didn’t want to look at him. They had grandchildren, for Christ’s sake! How could he do such a thing?

  But the sight of his woeful body, hunched over the kitchen table, plucked at a heart string. What if he was innocent? What if a cruel twist of fate had placed him in this situation?

  And the seed of doubt was planted.

  In the days following the arrest, he’d been vigorous in protesting his innocence, even writing an open letter to the press. He’d started his own investigation, searching for the responsible party, targeting people that could have had remote access to his laptop. The council elections were due in a few months; his plans for the extended rejuvenation of the town centre were opposed, due to budgetary constraints. The thought that someone they knew, someone they’d shared breathing space with, could detest him enough to plant such images sickened her. But, despite extensive efforts, he appeared to be unable to unearth the guilty party.

  When the police charged him, he was immediately suspended from his position on the council and advised to withdraw from the estate agency business he owned. Although… it made sense they would take some measures, until the trial when his innocence would be proven.

  How could a man she’d known for most of her life, a man she’d laughed and cried with, a man she’d raised a daughter with, someone she’d confided in, trusted in their wisdom, have a propensity for such evil? The notion abhorred her. Surely, she’d have known. Yes, of course she would. There’d have been some clue. And, as the niggling doubts crept in over the ensuing days, weeks and months, she crushed them, safe in the knowledge that it was wrong. There was a mistake. The jury would find it, clear his name, and all those who’d doubted them would be forced to apologise.

  The trial.

  Her heart sank. The trial was set to begin in a fortnight.

  Fresh fear crept into her bones. It seeped into the depths of her mind, reaching the distant corners, the areas she’d protected, the areas that guarded hope. Hope that after the trial their lives might eventually resume some kind of normality. Stuart would no longer be able to defend himself.
In death, the murky allegations would cling to him, forever sullying his lasting memory.

  6

  ‘That’s it.’ Nick clicked a button and shut down his iPad.

  Beth eased back into the sofa and glanced at the ceiling. She’d been expecting some reluctance from Gina Ingram. People reacted differently to grief and hers was undoubtedly exacerbated by the problems the family had faced recently. Beth resolved to tread carefully, give her time to gather her thoughts. But she was also aware of the ticking clock and the pressing need for Gina’s cooperation. Half an hour had passed since she’d retreated upstairs. Half an hour in which Beth had worked with Nick to go through the Ingrams’ book of contacts and put together a list of associates to email back to the station. She was drumming her fingers on the arm of the sofa, a soft rumble, toying with how much longer to leave it before she tried to reason with Gina, when her phone rang.

  ‘Any news?’ Freeman didn’t bother with preamble.

  ‘No, sir. She’s bitter. Resentful at how they’ve been treated. Feels we’ve let the family down. She maintains she was here all evening, alone. He was on his way back from a bowls club meeting in Northampton. We’ve drawn up a list of their contacts including the bowls club members’ details and the location of the club.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. Get that list emailed across as soon as you can, will you?’

  ‘It’s already sent. Should be with you shortly. She said all his contacts and his diary are also in his phone. Made a point of saying he always kept it with him.’

  ‘The search team have been despatched, I’ll ask them to look for it. His mobile phone number was already on file, we’ve requested his call records to make a start.’

  ‘Gina doesn’t want anyone to come and sit with her. When I mentioned her daughter, she said they weren’t speaking. Might be significant?’

  ‘Possibly.’ He grunted. ‘Their daughter, Phoebe, is married to the son of Mike Carter.’

  ‘Not the Mike Carter?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Mike Carter was the editor-in-chief of Northants News, the county’s largest newspaper and online news channel. He was known for his tenacious approach to investigative journalism and was one of the few editors who bucked the system when it came to the services working together. So much so, that senior officers trod carefully around him and his nickname in the police was ‘TAC’ (That Arse Carter).

  ‘Jason’s his son,’ Freeman continued. ‘Phoebe and Jason have been married about ten years. Got two boys, four and seven. Jason manages Stuart Ingram’s estate agents. It’s amazing his father kept the connection out of the news. When the story broke initially, Phoebe distanced herself, refused to see either of her parents. From what you’ve said, it sounds like that’s still the situation.’

  Beth remembered the toy box in the lounge, the host of photos of children on the sideboard and mantel. It screamed of a close family, one that was treasured, and she could only begin to imagine how difficult it must have been for Gina, standing by her husband; losing her daughter. What a dilemma for any woman to have to deal with.

  ‘Any news on Vicki Ryan?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing yet. We’ve been to her parents’ house. One of the neighbours heard us knocking and came out to tell us Vicki’s parents are away at a holiday home in Italy. We’re trying to locate them.’

  ‘Okay. What do you want to do about the daughter?’

  Freeman was quiet a moment. She could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain as he mulled over what to do next. ‘Leave that one with me. I wouldn’t normally recommend knocking them up at night, especially with young children in the house, but in view of their difficult relationship with the deceased, and his closeness to the media, it’s likely they’ll find out soon anyway. It won’t take long for the press to sniff this one out.’ His voice cut.

  ‘Hello?’

  He didn’t answer. She could hear a kerfuffle in the background. Excited voices merging together in a din. Nick shot her an inquiring look and she responded with a bewildered head shake. It was a while before Freeman came back on the line.

  ‘Beth, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Has something happened?’

  ‘Can you check the victim’s car is at their address?’

  Confusion washed over her. If he wasn’t driving his own car that evening, how did he get to the crime scene? And, more importantly, how was he planning on getting back home from there?

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Stuart’s wife’s car was parked in the market square in Rothwell,’ Freeman said. He sounded harried. ‘We’ve drawn up a list of registered owners of white Jaguar XJs that live nearby and Stuart is on that list.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting he was killed with his own car? There must be several owners of white Jags in the area.’

  ‘Actually, there are surprisingly few. Where is his wife? Can you check with her now?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll call you straight back.’

  Beth rang off, quickly relayed the conversation to Nick and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. When she reached Gina’s room all was quiet.

  ‘Mrs Ingram,’ she called. No answer. She tapped her knuckles on the door. ‘Gina. I need to speak with you.’

  A rustle in the background was followed by a cough. The door opened a crack, showing a thin line of Gina Ingram. Her face was ghostlike. ‘I can’t talk right now.’

  She made to close the door, but Beth stopped it with her hand. ‘I’m afraid we have to. There’s been a development. Could you join me downstairs?’

  Nick was in the hallway, waiting for them as they descended.

  ‘What is it?’ Gina asked.

  ‘You said Stuart left the house at six-thirty this evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he travel to the bowls club in Northampton?’

  ‘By car.’

  ‘Which car?’

  ‘He used my Audi. Why?’

  ‘Where is Stuart’s car right now?’ Beth asked.

  ‘In the garage. We don’t use it much.’

  ‘Can you check?’

  Gina shot Beth a perplexed look and moved to a colourful mosaic dish containing an assortment of keys on the hallway table. The metal clattered against the glass as she sifted through them. She picked out a bunch, pushed past the two detectives and strode down towards the end of the hallway. Just before the kitchen, she turned off to another door on the left, selected a Yale key from the ring and unlocked it. The hinges squeaked like bald chalk on a board as she pulled it open.

  ‘We rarely use Stuart’s car these days,’ she said, switching on the light.

  A swish of cool air rushed inside. The red-brick walls of the garage were lined with shelves of tools, a stepladder, a lawnmower. An oil smear the shape of Australia stained the empty concrete floor.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Gina stuttered. ‘Where’s the car?’

  ‘When did you last use it?’ Beth asked.

  ‘I don’t use it. It’s expensive to run. It was here on Saturday though. I know, because I came into the garage for some vacuum cleaner bags.’

  ‘What about Stuart?’

  ‘Stuart hasn’t used it for months.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  A single nod.

  ‘Where are the car keys?’

  Gina brushed past her, back up the hallway. Metal clinked against glass as she vigorously searched the bowl. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her fingers worked faster, checking each set of keys, lifting the bowl in case they were trapped beneath.

  Beth noticed Nick retreat into the kitchen. He closed the door behind him and, guessing he was moving off to call the DCI, she guided Gina back into the front room, out of earshot, and sat her down.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Gina said to Beth. She looked befuddled. ‘Why are they doing this to us?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘W-what?’

  ‘You said, “they”. Who did you mean?’

&nbs
p; A sharp headshake. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.’ She covered her face with her hands. Tears gushed through the gaps in her fingers.

  Beth passed her a tissue and sat beside her, waiting for the sobs to subside. Eventually, a car engine purred outside. Headlights beamed through the swathes of the curtain and immediately extinguished. She crossed to the window, parted the curtains. DC Warren Hill gave her an affectionate nod as he climbed out of the car.

  By the time Beth reached the front door, Warren was already on the doorstep.

  She gazed up at him. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Is it?’ He looked up at the sky. ‘You wouldn’t think.’ The edge of a smile played on his lips. ‘How are you doing, Beth?’ He was taller than her, his cheeks sinewy, a legacy of all the triathlon training. A greying cowlick framed his face.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘I take it we’ve got a new case?’

  She nodded, stood aside for him to enter and was about to fill him in when Nick joined them from the kitchen. He greeted Warren and turned to Beth, lowering his voice as he spoke, ‘Change of plan. Freeman wants you and Warren to visit the daughter. I’m to arrest Gina Ingram on suspicion of murder and bring her straight in.’

  7

  The amber glow of a cigarette flashed in the darkness outside the front of 22 Poppy Leys as they pulled up at the kerb. Beth could just about make out a figure standing in the shadow of the porch in a long coat, one arm wrapped around her chest, the other attached to a cigarette. Swirls of smoke rose up into the damp night air. Phoebe Carter lived in Brixworth, a large village located near the Northampton town boundary, on a modern estate of houses arranged into closes and cul-de-sacs.

  The thirty-minute journey from Gina Ingram’s home had given Beth the opportunity to ring through to the incident room to obtain Phoebe’s number. She’d dialled, more in hope than expectation, and been surprised when the call was answered – it was nearly three in the morning after all – but grateful that she’d been able to alert the woman to her visit and minimise the disruption to the rest of her family by a knock at the door at this ungodly hour. As they climbed out of the car, a shower of hot ash bounced through the air. The cigarette was flicked to the floor and stamped out.