She took a quick shower, put on her Harry Potter pyjamas and climbed into bed. Her Kindle was fully charged, and she settled down at last, breathing a sigh of relief. She knew tomorrow would be hard, but tonight was for her. Graham was clearly out of the picture, and she was going to have to live with that.
And if they charged Charlie with anything to do with the murders at the bookies, she would be a rich woman. She smiled at the thought of the stash in the safe underneath the flooring in the conservatory. Hers, all hers.
11
Tom looked at the email, reading it through for the second time. It seemed Holly’s idea of giving Graham and Kenny their coffees in proper mugs had paid off. Their fingerprints were in the system, but until recently had been listed as unidentified.
They related to an old crime from back in 2001, a burglary, and the subsequent death of the owner of the property after he had fallen downstairs. There had never been any proof that the two unknown men had physically contributed to the old man’s death, it had been a known fact that he was unsteady when he walked and the coroner had been a hundred per cent sure that he had fallen down the stairs.
But money had been taken. His daughter thought he had at least £500, kept in the microwave. Fingerprints had been recovered, but the case had eventually been shelved because they had no idea whose fingers had carried the prints.
Now Tom knew. He waved through his window for Holly to join him, and she stood to one side as he spun his monitor around. ‘Bingo. You cleared up a cold case.’
‘I did? That’s ’cause I’m bloody good at my job.’ She laughed, and bent down to read the email.
She read it for a second time, making sure she had all the facts, then stepped back.
‘So our upstanding citizens have a criminal past…’
‘Seems like it. Bear with me while I think this through.’
Holly moved to the chair facing him, and waited.
‘I think,’ Tom said slowly, ‘I think we put this on the back-burner for the time being. If we start hauling them in and questioning them about this, they’ll clam up about anything that may be helpful in solving the murders. That’s far more important than a years-old burglary, but when we have resolved all issues with Carla Andrews and Lorraine West, we’ll damn well arrest them. They will pay for this. I want the full file of that case so I can go through it, I need to make sure it was accidental death and not an open verdict, because if there’s any way it could be murder, they’ll go down for a bloody long time. Do we agree?’
Holly nodded. ‘Fully. We don’t want to lose focus on this one. We going to talk to Charlie Linwood?’
‘We are. I think we’ll be letting him go, but let’s see if we can get anything helpful from him first.’
Charlie wasn’t a happy man. He’d been sitting in the interview room for an hour, for a start, and the plastic seat was making his arse ache. He couldn’t stand because every time he did, the PC guarding him from the corner moved towards him, his face expressionless and intimidating.
Charlie had asked for a drink of water but it hadn’t appeared, he was tired to some extreme depth, and whatever they thought they’d got on him, he knew he hadn’t done it. Frustration was a new experience for the overweight bulldog of a man, and the temptation would be to put his fist straight into the face of…
Holly Jones opened the door and walked in, taking a seat opposite him. She was accompanied by Adele Shea. Holly checked them in, then looked up at Charlie.
‘You’ve waived your right to a solicitor, duty or otherwise?’
‘Don’t need one,’ Charlie growled.
‘Then if you’re sure, we’ll carry on. Let’s go back to Saturday, fifth May. Where were you between nine and twelve that morning?’
He looked startled. He’d decided during the long sleepless hours of darkness that he was only there about that tart who’d thrown the boiling water all over his face.
‘Eh? I was at home, probably sleeping off Friday night’s beer.’
Holly gave a slight nod. ‘Okay. Names of people you were with on the Friday night, please, Mr Linwood.’
Adele held her pen ready to write down his words, and she lifted her eyes to meet Charlie’s. ‘When you’re ready, Mr Linwood.’
‘Tina was working, she served me with most of the beer so knows how much I had, and I was with Judd, and for a big part of the night Willie Vanton was there.’
‘Judd?’ Adele queried.
‘Erm… Barker, Judd Barker. They’re in the pub every night. Judd is a big black man, straight as a die, lovely wife, and Willie is an Irish leprechaun. About five feet six, and listen careful, like, his accent’s a bit strong.’
Holly didn’t doubt Charlie had proof of where he had been the night before the murder, and she knew for a fact that his rolls of fat wouldn’t fit into the clothes the killer had worn, but she had to play the game.
‘So who did you talk to in the pub, Mr Linwood? Think about it. We shall be asking all the customers. You talk to a slim bloke, a bit handy with a gun, did you? Someone like your Willie Vanton perhaps? He’s the right height, right sort of voice…’
‘No I bloody didn’t. And the bloody leprechaun hasn’t got the nous to shoot anybody. He’s not the brightest button, know what I mean? Whoever killed those lassies, it was nothing to do with me, or Willie. Perhaps I do need a solicitor.’
Holly stood and gathered up her file. ‘Okay, we’ll see to that for you. We’ll talk later if a solicitor is free, if not it will be tomorrow. We’ve applied for an extension, so we can keep you for some time yet, Charlie. Sleep well.’
The two women left the interview room, aware that Charlie was following their movements with his mouth open, unsure what had happened but knowing he was probably in for yet another night.
Saturday night at seven, written in Tom Fowler’s notebook and etched into his brain, arrived without fanfare.
He wanted fanfare; it had taken so long to find the courage to ask Holly out on a date, and yet now the time was here it seemed a bit anticlimactic. He was still in shock that she had agreed, and at work THE DATE seemed like the elephant in the room.
He pulled up outside her home and got out the car, but before he had opened the front garden gate she came out of the door, and waved.
‘I’m here,’ she called, and turned to lock the door.
Then he knew he had his fanfare. In a blue silk dress that swirled around her knees as she walked, and carrying a pretty silver bag, he was blown away.
‘Stunning,’ he said and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Absolutely stunning.’
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I don’t take compliments very well so can you stop now so I don’t get fidgety.’
He laughed aloud. ‘Get in the car, Jones, but know this: if anybody even looks at you in a fancying sort of way, I’ll blow their head off. It’s a man thing.’
‘Okay, no problem. Why haven’t we done this before?’
‘Because I’m an idiot. And again, it’s a man thing. I didn’t expect you’d say yes.’