Off Minor

Forty-five

“I thought you might have lent a hand today, Jack,” Skelton’s wife said, “today of all days.”

Skelton nodded glumly. Tomorrow was actually the day of all days, his father-in-law’s birthday, his eighty-first; today was simply the day you chased round like blue-arsed flies getting things prepared. The old man was due to arrive that afternoon, the 5.27 from Coventry; the year before, his eightieth, Leeds had been Saturday afternoon visitors, and both Skelton’s wife and father-in-law had been forced to take refuge in the ladies’ toilet while soccer supporters waged a pitched battle up and down the platforms.

From early on Sunday morning, the rest of the family would start arriving: cousins from Uttoxeter and Rhyll, from Widmerpool the unmarried triplets, a Methodist clergyman from Goole.

“I thought the least you’d do is collect the sparkling wine we ordered from Threshers. I promised we’d pick up the cake from Birds before midday.”

Skelton was moved to kiss her forehead. It would be hectic, but he was certain she’d manage; all the better, most likely, without him being involved.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I didn’t make this happen today on purpose.”

The look she gave him back suggested she might be having difficulty believing that. As Skelton was half-way to the garage he stopped and turned, wondering if his wife was still there. Instead, there was Kate, staring at him from the doorway in that half-mocking, entirely disparaging way of hers, black jeans torn across both knees, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder. Skelton realized he didn’t know if she were coming home or just leaving.

“Twenty-four hours, then, Charlie.”

“Twenty-three,” Resnick said, a quick glance at his watch, “give or take ten minutes.”

“Thirty-six, thirty-five, if we need them.”

“We’ll have him charged before then, sir.”

“Genuine hope or just optimism?”

“Face him with the photographs, I think he’ll start talking.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Fibers that Hansen found down by the spare in the boot, we’ve got forensic earning their overtime, trying for a match with the ones found with Gloria’s body. They’re also analyzing the stains on the front-room floor, hammers and the like from the cellar. One of that lot’s got to come up trumps, surely?”

“Waste of time trying the tip, I suppose? Rug’ll have made the trip to the incinerator long since.”

“More than likely. But I’ve shipped Mark Divine off down there just in case.”

Skelton fiddled with the cap of his fountain pen. “Does he have a solicitor?”

“On his way back from Stoke apparently. Arnold Bennett Festival.”

“Who?”

Resnick wasn’t sure; the only thing he knew about Arnold Bennett, he had a damned good omelet named after him.

“Turn the screw easy, now, Charlie. Remember what happened yesterday.”

“Yes, sir.” No two ways about that, Resnick thought, he had no intention of misjudging Shepperd twice.

What Joan Shepperd normally did Saturdays: collect up the towels and tea towels and decide which needed to be soaked in bleach, which could go into the washing machine straight off; hoover the house from top to bottom, dust in reverse order; put on her outdoor clothes and walk along the boulevard and round by the marina, over the bridge to Sainsbury’s-walking back with the shopping, she would stop off at the Homebase cafeteria for a pot of tea and Danish pastry.

This Saturday, by nine-fifteen, she had done none of those things. True, there had been the chance of a cup of tea, Lynn Kellogg had asked permission to make it, but Joan had no more than sipped at hers.

“You should have something,” Lynn said.

Joan looked at her slowly. “I’ll have one of my tablets in a minute,” she said.

Lynn went up to the bedroom and brought down the bottle; stood it on the table beside a glass of water.

“There was a photograph of you with one of your classes in the cupboard beside your husband’s bed,” Lynn said, sitting on the chair Stephen had occupied before. “You’ve no idea what it was doing there?”

Joan Shepperd tipped one of the pills into her hand. “No idea at all.” She placed the pill an inch back on her tongue and drank a mouthful of water, swallowing hard. “I expect it got put there by mistake,” she said.

Millington was holding the photograph with both hands. “Who do you recognize in this?” he asked.

Stephen Shepperd blinked. “Joan, of course, my wife.”

“Who else?”

“I don’t know if there’s anyone.”

“Look again.”

Shepperd appeared to do as he was told; time passed without an answer.

“Are you looking, Mr. Shepperd?” Millington said.

“I must ask you not to badger my client,” Shepperd’s solicitor interrupted, earning himself a sudden, once-and-for-all-time look from Resnick that would have stripped several coats of paint.

“Look closer,” Millington suggested, moving the photo towards him. “Say, along the bottom row.”

“Remember,” Resnick said, “who you were talking about yesterday. It’s on the tape.”

Shepperd made a show of screwing up his eyes. “Is that her?”

“Who?”

“The girl. Gloria.”

“You tell me.”

“I suppose it could be. It doesn’t look a great deal like her.”

All right, Resnick thought, play it this way, drag it out, we’ll see which of us is the more patient in the end. “What were you doing with this photograph beside your bed, Mr. Shepperd?”

“It wasn’t beside my bed.”

“It was in the cupboard beside your bed.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s close.”

“It’s still not the same …”

“As what?”

“What you said, it makes it sound as if, well, I had it there to look at it.”

“What else would anyone do with a photograph?”

Shepperd started to answer, finished up looking at his solicitor instead. Resnick and Millington looked at him also, as if daring him to intervene. He was a slender man in his late fifties, dark-rimmed spectacles and gray hair. His blue suit was rumpled from the journey back by car and he had forgotten to remove his Arnold Bennett Festival delegate’s badge from his lapel. Most of his professional life was spent conveyancing and processing small claims for compensation.

“I tell you what, Stephen,” said Resnick, getting to his feet and allowing himself a stretch or two, “it’s not so far from when we might take a break. I wonder though, before we do, those other photographs, perhaps you could tell us something about those?”

Shepperd set both hands to his temples and Resnick guessed that behind them, that tell-tale nerve was beginning to beat. Slowly, he took the plastic wallet from his pocket; slowly, he slid the batch of photos down into his other hand.

“This, for instance,” dropping the first on to the table under Shepperd’s nose. “Or this. Or this. Or this.”

Stephen Shepperd’s eyes were closed, screwed tight. Even so, Resnick assumed, he knew the contents of each photograph in detail, like well-remembered dreams.

After three-quarters of an hour trying to get Mrs. Shepperd to cooperate, Lynn was certain she was wasting her time. She called in to speak to Resnick, but he was in the interview room, so she asked for the superintendent instead.

“Absolutely,” Skelton agreed, “come back in.”

“How about the Morrisons, sir? Do you think I should call in, let them know we’ve a suspect under arrest?”

“No,” Skelton was definite. “Far too early in the day for that.”

But by that time of the day, Lorraine and Michael Morrison already knew.

All good crime reporters have friends in the right places and one of the local man’s particular friends had been on duty at the desk when Stephen Shepperd was brought in. One phone call, quick and discreet, and the reporter was on his way to the Morrisons’ house, a nod in his line of work every bit as good as a wink.

The only way Michael Morrison had got to sleep the night before had been with the aid of a bottle of Bulgarian red and a video of The Last Picture Show. Fortunately for Lorraine, the VCR had been moved back downstairs. Michael had fallen asleep on the settee, woken to find himself sprawled half on the floor, Timothy Bottoms flattened on a dusty street. He had stumbled up to bed and hogged most of the duvet, which was where he still was when the reporter called to get the Morrisons’ reactions to the news.

Lorraine had been astonished, briefly elated and now was mooching about the kitchen, picking up jars and cartons and putting them back down. Whatever she was feeling, she didn’t understand it. No, she did. The man who’d been arrested had been charged with both crimes. Lorraine didn’t want to remember the details she’d read about Gloria Summers’s body when it had been found, but there was no way she could prevent herself.

The reporter had gone off to file his story, no doubt intent upon getting an exclusive placed in the nationals before Wapping woke up to what was going on. Lorraine had given him a couple of quotes, not as much as he would have liked, but promised that Michael and herself would talk to him again later on. Before that, she would have to wake Michael and tell him the news.

She found the number of the police station and asked for Lynn Kellogg.

“Hello,” the voice said, “DC Kellogg speaking.”

“I thought you were going to let us know,” Lorraine said. “Keep us informed.”

Lynn was quiet; she should have gone round there, never mind what Skelton had said; she should have gone round there first.

“You’ve arrested somebody, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but …”

“It’s the man that killed that other girl, isn’t it?”

“We don’t know that.”

“But that’s what you think?”

“It’s a possibility, yes.”

“Then what does that mean for Emily? What does that mean?”

Lynn’s answer was lost in the fumbled slamming of the receiver. Lorraine’s head smacked forward against the wall and from nowhere great sobs were shaking her as if she were in the grip of a fever. When Michael touched her she jumped, not having heard him on the stairs. “It’s okay,” he said, as she gasped for air against his chest. “Come on, it’s all right.”

“They’ve found her, haven’t they?” he said, as Lorraine finally pushed herself away.

She shook her head, easing wet hair from her mouth and eyes. “They’ve got the man they think killed the other little girl.”

“Oh, God!” breathed Michael. “And they think he killed Emily, too.”

Divine had drawn a blank at the household tip; forensic were still working on the floorboards, the fibers found in the car. Preliminary examination of the tools from Shepperd’s workshop promised nothing, but they were trying again. The solicitor had boned up on his crib to PACE and forced a break at the end of the first two hours.

“Sometimes,” Stephen Shepperd had said, “I take the camera with me when I run. I take pictures, what’s wrong with that?”

“All of little girls?” Resnick had asked.

“They waved at me,” Shepperd said. “They knew who I was. ‘Stephen, take our picture,’ they shouted out. They were all in Joan’s class. There’s nothing wrong in that.”

Joan Shepperd had called ahead to the health center, the tablets that Dr. Hazid had prescribed for her, oh, some time ago now. She would like to pick up a repeat prescription if she could. Some kind of tranquilizer. Dia-, Dia-, Diazepam, yes, that was it. The receptionist checked her name and address: Joan assured her she would be in to collect the prescription before they closed.