Insidious Intent

  Kevin took a quick look round anyway. The flat was the polar opposite of the one Paula had described. Where Kathryn had been tidy to the point of Spartan, Amie was a clutter queen. Clothes, magazines, make-up, holiday souvenirs, exotically coloured alcohol in oddly shaped bottles and what Kevin could only classify as ‘junk’ filled every room. Secretly, he was quite happy not to be responsible for searching the place.

  ‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ he said once he’d satisfied himself there was nothing obviously helpful to the investigation.

  ‘We’ll let you know if we find anything,’ the sergeant in charge said. ‘Apart from the definitive archive of Heat magazine.’

  Since he was there, Kevin decided to try the neighbours. It was a purpose-built block of six flats, originally put up by the council in the mid-fifties, but long since sold for buttons under Thatcher’s right-to-buy policy. Now their price tags were out of reach of first-time buyers but perfect for someone like Amie with a decent job, so long as they’d scraped together an eye-watering deposit.

  No reply across the landing, which wasn’t surprising in the middle of a working day. But Kevin thought he’d seen a net curtain on the ground floor twitch as he’d approached. There was a long pause after he rang the bell of Flat 1, but eventually the door opened to reveal an elderly man neatly dressed in grey twill slacks and a clean maroon knitted waistcoat over a blue shirt open at the neck to reveal a concertina of vertical skin creases. His face was lean and wrinkled with a scatter of brown age spots like a Golden Delicious left too long in the fruit bowl. He held an aluminium walking stick tight, arthritic knuckles bulging like marbles in a leather bag. ‘Are you a policeman too?’ he asked, every bit as forthright as cliché demanded of Yorkshiremen.

  ‘I am,’ Kevin said. ‘Detective Inspector Kevin Matthews.’

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re from round here,’ the old man complained. ‘Nobody lives where they come from any more.’

  ‘I’m from Bradfield. Do you mind telling me your name, sir?’

  ‘Why not? Costs nowt. I’m Harrison Braithwaite.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Braithwaite. I wondered if I could have a word with you about one of your neighbours? Amie McDonald?’

  His face softened in a smile. ‘Amie? Lovely lass. Got herself into some bother, has she?’ He giggled, a high-pitched sound that didn’t match the rest of him. ‘High spirited, that’s Amie all over.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious than that,’ Kevin said gently. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Amie’s dead.’

  His watery blue eyes widened and his jaw sagged. ‘Nay, lad. There must be some mistake. I saw her Friday after work. She popped in to say she was off for the weekend to the Dales, did I need owt from the shop before she went. She were fit as a fiddle. How can she be dead?’

  ‘Could I maybe come in?’

  Braithwaite nodded absently, pulling the door wider so Kevin could enter. The flat was overheated but smelled surprisingly of incense. There was a strange twittering sound coming from the living room at the end of the hall. Kevin followed the old man into a bright room, one wall of which had been caged in to make an aviary. There must have been two dozen small birds – budgies, canaries, parakeets and even a pair of lovebirds. Now the incense made sense – underneath its muskiness, there was a faint trace of ammoniac bird droppings. ‘Wow,’ Kevin said, going right up to the slender bars. ‘I wasn’t expecting these.’

  ‘My pride and joy,’ Braithwaite said, sinking into a threadbare armchair. ‘They’re not pets, they’re companions.’ There was neither stillness nor silence here. The fluster and chatter would have driven Kevin mad but Braithwaite clearly thrived on it. ‘Amie loved the birds,’ he said. ‘But what happened to her? I can’t take it in, nobody was more full of life than Amie.’

  Kevin sat opposite him on the armchair’s less worn twin. ‘We found her body in a burned-out car on a back road in the Dales.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Braithwaite cried out, stricken. ‘Not burned to death? Not that?’ He looked close to tears. ‘I was a miner, I’ve seen what fire does.’ He clapped a hand to his mouth.

  ‘No, no,’ Kevin said urgently. ‘No, we think she was already dead when the car was set on fire.’

  Braithwaite frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Mr Braithwaite. We think Amie was murdered and her body set on fire in the car to cover the killer’s tracks. What I’m trying to do is to build up a picture of Amie’s life in the days before she died to see if we can find out where she crossed paths with her killer.’ He paused, giving the old man a chance to compose himself.

  ‘I can’t credit what you’re saying, lad.’ He shook his head, wincing. ‘Why… I don’t know why anybody would want to harm Amie. She had a heart of gold, that lass. I broke my foot last winter. I slipped on the step like a complete demmick. Amie did all my shopping for three weeks till I could get about again. And she still gets all my heavy stuff. Tinned tomatoes, bird seed, bottles of beer.’ His face crumpled. ‘What am I going to do now? Some weeks she was the only person I spoke to apart from my birds.’

  Kevin let him have a moment. ‘She sounds lovely.’

  ‘She were. Unlucky in love, though. She was an eternal optimist. Every time she took up with a new one, she was sure he was the one. But they never lasted. She had standards, did Amie. Liked things done properly. And if they didn’t match up? Well, what is it they say in America? Three strikes and you’re out.’ He shook his head, sighing.

  ‘We think she might have met someone recently,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Aye. Happen you’re right. She got rid of that waste of skin Steve Standish about three weeks back, but then she met a lad at a wedding, oh, it must be two Saturdays back. Mark, his name was.’

  ‘Did she have much to say about Mark?’

  ‘She thought he were the bee’s knees. They’d been out two or three times since the wedding and she said he were a perfect gentlemen. Most men, she said, they were only after one thing. And they expected to get it on a first or second date. But she said Mark were different. He wanted to take things steady-like.’

  ‘And was Amie happy with that?’

  ‘She said she hadn’t been out with somebody like that before. Somebody that seemed to want to get to know her for herself, not what she could do for him. She said he was widowed. Cancer.’ He spoke the word as if it had power of its own. ‘That’s why he didn’t want to rush into owt. Amie said he told her she reminded him of his late wife and that made him feel respectful. To tell you the truth, it was the first time I ever liked the sound of any of her men.’ He pushed himself to his feet and went across to the cage. He pushed a finger through the bars and immediately, a blue budgie flew to it. He put his face against the cage and the bird rubbed its head against his wrinkled cheek. It was a curiously tender encounter. A moment passed, then Braithwaite gently withdrew and returned to his chair, composed again.

  ‘So was it this Mark who did for her, then?’

  ‘At this stage, we don’t know anything for sure. Did Amie tell you more about Mark? A surname? What he did for a living?’

  ‘He’s a marketing executive with Tesco. Does a lot of travelling. He has to make sure the stores are displaying things properly. Something to do with promotions. You know? Buy one, get one half price. A hundred extra loyalty points on toilet rolls. That sort of thing. Not a proper job for a man, but you take what you can get. And he seemed to be doing all right for himself. Took her out nice places. Very well dressed too. I like to see a man taking pride in his appearance.’

  Kevin struggled not to show the effect Braithwaite’s words had on him. ‘You actually saw him?’ Deliberately casual, as if it didn’t matter a damn.

  Braithwaite nodded. ‘When he took her out on Tuesday, they came back in a taxi. He got out with her and walked her up to the main door. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t spying or owt. I’m not a pervert. But I’d just that minute turned the telly o
ff, so I was sitting in the dark. I like to listen to the birds settling themselves down for the night. Any road, they kissed goodnight. Nothing unseemly, but a bit of passion, you know? And he walked back to the cab while Amie let herself in. The cab waited while she came inside, then it drove off.’

  ‘What kind of time was this?’

  ‘Like I said, I’d just switched off Newsnight, so it would have been not long after quarter past eleven.’

  ‘Could you describe him to me?’

  Braithwaite tugged an earlobe in thought. ‘Average height, maybe about five ten. Slim build, but not weedy, you know? Well made, you’d say. Dark hair brushed back in a bit of a quiff. He had them little round glasses with gold rims like that John Lennon used to wear. Granny glasses, we used to call them. Very nice suit, by the looks of it. He didn’t get that from Tesco’s.’

  ‘You’re very observant,’ Kevin said, even though the description was no real use. But he was hoping for other fish to take his hook.

  ‘I watch the birds in the garden as well as my own chaps,’ he said. ‘Telling the difference between different species, you learn an eye for detail.’

  ‘Obviously. I don’t suppose you noticed which taxi company they used?’

  He nodded, showing a momentary flash of pride. ‘I did, lad. Yorkie Cabbie. I remember particularly because I use them myself. They give pensioners a discount.’

  Kevin knew it was the frailest of leads. But it was a lead. And there had been damn few of those over the past couple of weeks. He was bursting to pass the information on, but he knew he couldn’t leap straight up and run for his car. Carol Jordan had always drilled into her team the importance of leaving the door open with witnesses.

  Five minutes. That’s what he’d give Harrison Braithwaite and his birds. And then he’d fly the coop himself.

  34

  T

  hey found Steve Standish using a painfully noisy machine to take a tyre off its alloy wheel. The tyre and exhaust centre where he was assistant manager was running at maximum capacity. All the bays and inspection pits were full and the mechanics juggled their tasks with a frantic air. Paula and Karim had sauntered in, apparently untouched by the bustle. They’d asked the first man in overalls they’d encountered to point out Standish. He’d jerked his thumb towards the machine. ‘That’s him. The one stripping the tyre off.’

  They approached slowly, not wanting to obstruct any of the workers. Paula took the chance to size up Standish. He couldn’t have been much more than five feet eight but he had wide muscular shoulders and his coveralls were cinched in at the waist with a broad leather belt. It was the tell-tale shape of a man who spent more time in the gym than on the sofa. But the physical element of his job meant his weren’t just gym-bunny muscles. They were the real thing. He had a shock of dirty-blond hair, shaved close at the sides and a fraction too high at the back so he looked like he was wearing a wig that had slipped forward. They waited for him to free the tyre from the metal rim and turn off the machine, then Paula spoke. ‘Steve Standish? We’re from the Regional Major Incident Team.’

  He whipped round at the sound of his name and his eyes widened in shock as he realised they were cops. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong,’ he said hastily. His voice was deep and assertive.

  ‘Nobody said you had. I’m DS McIntyre and this is DC Hussain. Is there somewhere we can have a quiet word?’

  He carefully placed the tyre iron on the ground at his feet. ‘What’s all this about?’ he demanded, hands on hips, jaw thrust outwards, unconsciously making himself bigger.

  ‘Trust me, you don’t want to have this conversation in front of your mates,’ Karim said.

  ‘I’ve got no secrets. Anything you’ve got to say to me, spit it out.’

  The two officers exchanged looks. ‘When did you last see Amie McDonald?’ Paula said.

  Standish rolled his head in an exaggerated motion suggesting the question made his brain hurt. ‘What is she saying? Look, I never touched her. OK, I threw the bloody teapot at the wall. I might have shouted a bit. But I never laid a hand on her. Why’s she waited three weeks to call you lot? Has she got bored with her new life or what?’ He leaned forward, hands bunched into fists.

  ‘If you could answer the question, sir?’ Paula was stony-faced. Already she was wondering what Amie McDonald had found so appealing in this man. Yes, he wasn’t bad looking, but if this was his default mode, she wouldn’t have wanted to be around him.

  ‘I last saw her three weeks ago. She threw me out because I’d broken one too many of her stupid rules.’

  ‘What kind of rules were those?’ Karim asked.

  ‘Don’t leave the toilet seat up, don’t put your feet on the coffee table, put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher, don’t leave your towel on the bathroom floor. All shit like that. Stupid crap. Like, stuff that would take her ten seconds to sort out. I mean, I did stuff for her all the time. Built her stupid bloody IKEA chest of drawers. Valeted her car. Picked her up from work. Like you do. Give and take. But no, fucking Amie was looking for Mr Perfect and, to be honest, she only just beat me to the draw. I’d had enough of her picking on me all the fucking time. So whatever she’s said to you, it’s bullshit.’

  ‘So you weren’t angry with her? You didn’t want to get your own back?’ Paula asked.

  He shrugged his meaty shoulders. ‘I was a bit pissed off. Nobody likes being given the heave-ho, do they? Especially not when they feel they’re the one being hard done by. But I wasn’t that bothered, to be honest. It’s not like I was homeless or anything. I still have my own place, I wasn’t daft enough to give it all up for a woman who’s had more blokes than I’ve changed tyres.’

  ‘So you didn’t see her last weekend at all?’

  He frowned, his forehead corrugating with the effort. ‘This past weekend? Why would I see her? I never went near her after she chucked me out. I don’t have to go begging any woman.’

  Paula was aware that they were the centre of attention in the garage. The other mechanics were finding reasons to pass close by their conversation, and a couple of lads replacing an exhaust had given up any pretence of working and were earwigging for all they were worth.

  ‘What were you doing this weekend?’ Paula asked. ‘Just for reference.’

  ‘Is she saying I did something to her? Because I never laid eyes on her, never mind a hand.’

  ‘This weekend.’ Paula’s voice had hardened. ‘We can do this here or we can do it at the station.’

  He snorted. ‘I know my rights. You can’t make me go to the nick unless you arrest me.’

  Paula took a step forward into his space. ‘You sure you want to push me down that road? Trust me, you will regret it. Does your employer really want his customers to see one of the staff being dragged out in cuffs? You think you’ll have a job tomorrow?’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ His voice had lost some of its certainty.

  ‘No. Informing you.’ Paula held his stare. He looked away first.

  ‘Friday after work I went to the pub with the lads. They’ll back me up. We went for a kebab after.’ Once he started, there was no stopping him. ‘I was home by eleven because it was my weekend on. I was here from eight till six on Saturday, then a bunch of us went into town. Same as before, except I picked up this lass at GlitteratLeeds. You know? The club down behind the station. I went back to hers, gave her what for, got her name and number off her and buggered off home around nine in the morning. Hardly had time to have a shower and get changed for work. I was here ten till four, then I went round my mam’s for Sunday dinner. With my mam and dad, my sister and her bloke. I stayed till late – we watched Match of the Day 2. Then Joni and Chris dropped me off on their way home. That was my very fucking exciting weekend. So whatever that bitch Amie says I was doing, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll need a full statement to that effect, with the names and contact details of everyone who can corroborate what you’ve told us here. I’ll have someone contact y
ou and arrange a time for you to make your statement.’ Paula gave a thin smile.

  ‘Is that really necessary? All over some nuisance bloody complaint?’ He had recovered his belligerence.

  ‘Oh, it’s necessary, sir.’ Paula made as if to leave, taking a few tactical steps away that took her out of the range of his powerful arms. ‘You see, this isn’t some nuisance bloody complaint. We’re investigating a murder.’

  His face froze mid-sneer. ‘A m-murder?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Paula wasn’t given to shock tactics, but for Steve Standish she was willing to make an exception. ‘Somebody murdered Amie McDonald. And you’ve got some serious questions to answer.’

  35

  Y

  orkie Cabbie operated out of what had once been the morning room of a Victorian villa in the no-man’s-land between Headingley and Meanwood. Now the once-grand family home was home to a dozen small businesses. Stranded between a boxy three-storey sixties office block and a deconsecrated church that had been turned into a complementary healing centre, it looked like the interloper rather than the oldest resident. The street reminded Kevin of his Irish grandmother’s frequent expression of disgust. ‘Neither flesh nor fowl nor good salt herring.’

  He pushed open a heavy front door that led to a scruffy hallway with cracked vinyl flooring and scuffed beige paintwork. A laminated sign on the wall directed him to the various tenants of the building and he made his way past Fone/Tablet Fast Repairs to Yorkie Cabbie. Kevin walked into a tiny cubicle with a door on one side and a counter at right angles. A metal grille separated him from the taxi office where a couple of women and a man were hunched over laptops, headsets clamped to their ears. The fractured mutter of their conversation was an aural palimpsest of projected journeys. Immediately behind the counter sat a sour-faced woman in her forties. She looked him up and down with an expression that said life had been a succession of disappointments and Kevin wasn’t about to change that.