Wychwood Read online

  “No, not him. That novelist. I can’t remember his name, now. He’s writing a book about the Carrion King. Professor Miller seems to think quite highly of him, but he’s always seemed a bit up himself to me.”

  “Michael Williams,” said Elspeth.

  Oscar nodded. “That’s him. He was waiting for her in the car park. I was out having a smoke and saw them leave together. That was the last time I saw her.”

  Peter frowned. “You should have said that in the interview.”

  He pulled out his phone and thumbed the screen. He held it to his ear. “Yes. It’s DS Shaw. I need you to send a squad car for Michael Williams right away.” A pause. “Yes, now. Bring him in for questioning. And tell DC Patel I’ve got a missing witness I need him to find.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket and beckoned to Oscar. “You’re coming down to the station with me.”

  Oscar nodded but didn’t say anything. He looked utterly forlorn.

  “Ellie…” Peter shot her an apologetic look.

  Elspeth held up her hand as she got to her feet. “It’s okay. I know when I’m not needed. I’ll take a taxi.”

  “Thanks. I think I’m going to be tied up for a while.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “You’re pacing like a caged animal, Ellie. Can’t you sit down for a minute?”

  “I’m sorry, Mum.” She was standing by the window, peering at her phone screen in frustration. It had been six hours. She’d been through all of the newspaper reports she’d brought back from the Heighton Observer, and now she was growing impatient for an update. “It’s just I’m expecting a call.”

  “From Peter?”

  “Yeah. He’s been interviewing a suspect and I’m waiting to hear what’s happened.”

  Dorothy paused the TV. “Have you tried calling him?”

  “I left him a message. But he’s busy. He knows to call when he gets done.”

  Dorothy rolled her eyes. “Well, there you are, then. Sit yourself down. He’ll call you when he can.”

  Elspeth walked through to the kitchen and poked around in the cupboards, looking for something to distract her. She finally settled on a teabag she found behind the tea caddy, a sample wrapped in a foil envelope that purported to be blended with rose petals. Intrigued, she put the kettle on.

  “If you’re making one, love,” came Dorothy’s voice from the other room, almost as soon as she’d flicked the switch.

  She checked her phone again. There was another message from Abigail, asking if she fancied going to see a band the following Friday. She clicked the link and listened to half a song online. She’d never heard of them – a northern band called Urban Myths – but they sounded decent enough. She texted back a quick thumbs up, deciding that it was about time she made reparations to Abigail. A night out would do her good, and she could get the train in and crash on Abigail’s sofa. The text pinged back immediately with an icon of a smiling face.

  The kettle boiled. She put her phone on the table and grabbed another mug from the cupboard, then nearly jumped out of her skin at a sudden rap on the door. She placed the mug on the counter and ran through to the hallway, stubbing her toe on the telephone table. Cursing, she rubbed it for a moment, and then hurried over to the door, still wincing. “Coming!”

  She flicked the chain on – just to be sure – and then opened the door.

  Peter stood on the step, looking tired and drawn. He smiled when he saw her, but she could see it took supreme effort. The afternoon had evidently been longer than even he had imagined. At least it had stopped raining.

  “Perfect timing,” she said. “I’ve just boiled the kettle.”

  He held up a hand. “No, I can’t, as much as the idea appeals. I’ve only come to give you this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, which he handed to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “A recording of the interview with Michael Williams,” he said.

  She looked at the box more closely. “A cassette tape?” she said. “Really?”

  “Never let it be said that the police force isn’t the last bastion of defence against those who would abolish outmoded technology.”

  Elspeth turned it over in her hand. She hadn’t even held one for over a decade. “Really?” she repeated.

  Peter looked exasperated. “Yes. Really. We still use them to record interviews. It’s a tried and tested format, gives us a physical copy as evidence, and we’ve already got all the relevant equipment.”

  Elspeth shook her head. “Thankfully, so do I. I just hope it works.”

  “I’ll need it back first thing in the morning,” he said. “It’s a copy, but all the same, I’m taking a big risk.”

  “I know. Thank you. I feel terrible. I don’t want to get you into trouble. Did he mention our visit to his studio?”

  “Not in any way that’s going to raise questions. We’ve just got to tread carefully, that’s all. I know I can trust you.”

  “I’ll listen to this tonight,” she said.

  “Just make sure I get it back. It makes for interesting listening.”

  She opened the door a little wider, stepping aside to give him room. “Aren’t you coming in? I thought you could give me the salient points. You look like you could do with a rest.”

  He shook his head. “No. Griffiths is pulling everyone back to the station. We can’t hold Williams for very long without any forensic evidence. Everything we’ve got is circumstantial. She’s trying to find an angle to buy us more time.”

  Elspeth nodded. Clearly Williams hadn’t admitted to Lucy Adams’s murder, then.

  “Not even for five minutes? You look dead on your feet.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. Duty calls. Remember what I told you about the life of a policeman. We don’t always make good company.”

  “Maybe not,” said Elspeth, “but you make good friends. Thanks for this.”

  “Least I could do for my girl wonder.” He turned to leave but paused. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Sasha Reid – Oscar Waring’s girlfriend.”

  “Yes?”

  “Oscar was right. She’s missing. Or, at least, she’s not been back to her house, and she’s not answering her phone. Her car has gone. We’ve put an alert out and we’ve got uniforms searching for her.”

  “You don’t think Oscar…?”

  “It’s possible,” said Peter. “But then it’s also possible that she’s got something to do with it. They could be working together. Or she might just have driven off in a huff, and she’ll turn up in a couple of days wondering what all the fuss is about. We won’t know until we find her.”

  “What about Vanessa, and her brother?”

  “Her alibi seems to check out. Her brother has confirmed she was with him that night. Although, to be honest, he was so stoned that it was hard getting any sense out of him. If he was that out of it on Thursday night, too, I have my doubts he’d even have noticed if she was there or not. It’s tenuous at best.”

  She nodded. “I don’t know how you do this all the time, juggling everything, knowing what to prioritise.”

  “Practice,” said Peter. “And luck.”

  There was a long pause. “Oh, before I forget, there’s something else, about Thomas Stone,” she said.

  “Thomas Stone?”

  She outlined everything she’d discovered so far from the newspaper reports. “I’m trying to find out what happened to him. Whether he was ever found. And George Baker, too – where did he end up? There might be some connection there. Or maybe just another angle for a story.”

  “I’ll take a look tomorrow for you, if you like? There’s bound to be some old records on the system somewhere. If he didn’t turn up, there’s even a chance the case might still be open.”

  She nodded. “Thanks. Busy night ahead, then.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. See you tomorrow? Lunch at Lenny’s, one thirty?”

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  The old cassette deck in her bedroom had
been unplugged, but the wires were all still there, dangling from the back of the machine, tangled and matted in dust. She plugged it in and switched it on, relieved to hear the speakers crackle to life. One of the cassette decks was missing its ‘play’ button, so she tried the tape in the other one first, crossing her fingers that it wouldn’t catch and unspool. She had a biro at the ready, just in case.

  To her amazement, the reels began to turn, and a moment later she heard a voice she recognised immediately as belonging to Inspector Griffiths. The woman introduced herself to the suspect, reeled off some preliminaries for the recording – the time, date, and those present – and then asked Williams to state his name for the record.

  He did so, begrudgingly.

  The cassette hissed. “Do you know why you’re here?” said Griffiths.

  “No. I do not,” said Williams. Even on the cassette, Elspeth could sense the bubbling undercurrent of anger. “I’ve already spoken to your sergeant, who’s checked my alibis with my wife. I’ve nothing to add to what I’ve already said to him. I’m not involved in any murders.”

  “Let’s just go back to what you told DS Shaw, shall we, Mr Williams? For the benefit of the tape, I’m showing Mr Williams a photograph of Geoffrey Altman. You explained that you were acquainted with Mr Altman, and that he had, on occasion, hunted on your land and helped with the research of your novel.”

  “That’s right,” said Williams, impatiently.

  “I’m now showing Mr Williams a photograph of Lucy Adams. You told DS Shaw that you have never met Mrs Adams. Is that correct, Mr Williams?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then can you explain why we have a witness that places you leaving the theatre at Winthorpe with her, no more than a few hours before she died?”

  “What? They must be mistaken. I’ve never met the woman!”

  Elspeth could hear the crack in his voice. He was panicked. The arrogance had evaporated and been replaced by bluster.

  “Then I’m sure you’ll have no problem providing us with a DNA sample, Mr Williams, so we can confirm that you weren’t with Mrs Adams that night?”

  “I… I…” he stumbled for a moment, as if trying to find his words. “I think I need to speak to my solicitor,” he said.

  “Very well, Mr Williams. Interview suspended.” The recording stopped abruptly.

  Elspeth paused it for a moment, sipping her tea. Peter was right, it certainly made interesting listening. They’d take DNA evidence from him regardless, no doubt, and she guessed it would be a simple matter to confirm he’d slept with Lucy Adams, but Peter had said they’d found no other DNA evidence at the crime scene.

  She started the tape again.

  “Interview recommencing at five eighteen pm.” Griffiths cleared her throat. “So, Mr Williams, I’m going to ask you again – did you know the deceased, Mrs Lucy Adams?”

  “Yes,” said Williams. He sounded like a different man. The fight had gone out of him.

  “And did you have a sexual relationship with Mrs Lucy Adams?”

  “I did.”

  “How long had you known her?”

  “About six months. I met her at the theatre one night, after calling in to see David Keel. We got chatting, carried on talking online, and then met one night in Heighton. It was a bit awkward at first, but… well, you know…”

  “Did you murder Lucy Adams, Mr Williams?”

  There was a brief pause, followed by some barely audible mumbling, as Williams, she presumed, consulted his solicitor.

  “No. As I’ve already stated, I didn’t murder Lucy, or Geoff, or anyone else for that matter.”

  “Then why did you lie to my detective sergeant when he asked you if you knew the victim?”

  “Because I’m a married man, Inspector. I hardly want to go broadcasting my infidelity. You must understand that?”

  “I understand that you might have been the last person to see Mrs Adams alive, and that your lies might have impeded a murder investigation.”

  “Look, I love my wife,” said Williams. “Really, I do. But things have been… difficult. You saw that,” he was obviously talking to Peter, “you saw what’s she’s been like. We’re going through a bit of a rough patch. It’s not that I didn’t care for Lucy, but it was just sex. We both knew what we were getting into. She was married too.”

  “Walk us through what happened that night, Mr Williams, the evening of the twenty-third of June.”

  “I left my studio at around six thirty. Rebecca was up at the house, and I knew she wouldn’t even realise I’d gone. She never does. I left the lights on in the studio, locked up, and drove to Winthorpe. I met Lucy in the car park. She was already there when I arrived.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A black dress and black stockings,” he said. “We drove into Heighton, ate dinner at a little restaurant called Mitsou, then left about nine. We went to a little hotel around the corner. They knew us in there. I think she’d probably taken men there before, to be honest. We paid for the room and went upstairs. Then… well…”

  “You had sexual intercourse,” said Griffiths.

  “It sounds so cold when you put it like that, but yes, that’s what happened.”

  “Then what? You drove her out to the woods and killed her?”

  “What? No! Why would I do that? Look, I was onto a good thing with Lucy. She gave me what I wanted, and she wasn’t about to go blurting it out to my wife. We saw each other every couple of weeks, let off a bit of steam, and went our way. Why would I want to kill her?”

  “Tell us what happened after you’d had sex.”

  “I took a shower, then we had a cup of tea, and then left. It all sounds so sordid when you lay it out like that, but it wasn’t. It was nice. We both understood what it was.”

  “You drove her back to Winthorpe Manor?”

  “To the theatre car park, yes. I never dropped her by the house in case her husband saw.”

  “So you left her there in the car park and drove off?”

  “To my shame. I wanted to get back to my studio. Earlier, in the restaurant, we’d been talking about the book, you see, and a thought had occurred to me, a plot point. I wanted to get it down.”

  “And you drove straight home to Ascott-under-Wychwood?”

  “I did.”

  “Can anyone confirm this? We’ll be speaking with the staff at the restaurant and hotel, of course, but did anyone see you arrive home? Your wife, Mr Williams?”

  There was another pause.

  “Please speak for the tape, Mr Williams.”

  “No. No one saw me arrive home. I didn’t see Rebecca until the next morning, when I went up to the house for breakfast. I spent the night alone in the studio.”

  “What time did you arrive back at the studio?”

  “I didn’t check, but it must have been around ten thirty.”

  “So you claim your liaison with Mrs Adams at the hotel only lasted an hour?”

  “If that,” said Williams. “As I explained, we were only there for one thing.”

  “Alright. Interview terminated at five twenty-three.” The recording stopped.

  Elspeth allowed the tape to run for a few moments to ensure there was nothing else to follow, then shut it off and pressed ‘rewind’.

  So, Williams admitted to sleeping with Lucy Adams that night, but claimed to have left her in the theatre car park around ten o’clock. What had happened to her after that, before she ended up dead in the Wychwood? Elspeth was beginning to wonder if they’d ever know. If Williams was to be believed, she never made it back from the theatre car park to her house.

  Griffiths clearly thought Williams was lying. It was evident in her tone and the manner of her questions, and from what Peter had said on the doorstep, about her trying to find a means to retain him in custody. The police clearly didn’t have enough to charge him with. Nor did they have a motive, or any evidence, to link him to Geoffrey Altman’s death. He’d seemed genuinely disturbed by t
he news when she’d questioned him with Peter. She could understand Griffiths’ desperation to draw a line under the case, but it felt as if she was pushing a little too hard to make the circumstances fit.

  The cassette had finished rewinding. Elspeth popped it out of the player and slipped it back into the box. She’d talk it through with Peter in the morning, but she was beginning to suspect that Williams was innocent. There was no doubt he was a fool, that he’d treated his wife appallingly, but Elspeth was yet to be convinced he was the killer. Just like he’d said on the tape – what did he have to gain?

  She needed to get some rest. She was tired, and her mind was working overtime, still processing everything that had happened in London, her feelings about returning home, meeting Peter again after all this time, the murders…

  She climbed onto the bed, placed the folder carefully on the floor by the nightstand, and dialled up some Chairlift on her phone. Then, with the speaker on low, she closed her eyes and slowly drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You’re uncharacteristically quiet,” said Peter.

  They were sitting in Lenny’s, sipping coffee after lunch. Elspeth was peering out of the window at the high street, watching the world go by. It was spitting with rain, and people were weaving in and out of shops, carrier bags clutched tight, umbrellas threatening to decapitate the unwary.

  “I’m sorry?” she said.

  Peter laughed. “I said you’re quiet today.”

  She gestured dismissively. “Just thoughtful. Mulling over the details of the case.”

  “So it’s a ‘case’ now, is it?” said Peter, amused. “I mean, let’s not split hairs, but technically I thought, to you, it was a ‘story’.”

  Elspeth laughed. “I thought you were enjoying letting me do all of your work for you?”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” said Peter. “Game on.”

  They both laughed.

  “So, what did you think of the tape?” Peter asked. He’d insisted she hand it over as soon as she arrived, muttering about how he never should have given it to her anyway, but how he thought she ought to listen.