The Widow

Chapter 11

Thursday, 2 November 2006

The Detective

MATTHEWS HAD STAN Spencer’s notebook in his hand and looked unhappy.

‘I’ve been looking at this again, Boss, and reading back through Mr Spencer’s observations. Very thorough. Weather conditions, number and ownership of vehicles parked in the road, who went in and out of the houses. Including Dawn.’

Sparkes perked up.

‘Clocked her in and out of the house most days.’

‘Watching her in particular?’

‘Not really. All the neighbours are mentioned.

‘But there’s something we need to ask him about his notes. They end halfway through a sentence on the Sunday and then switch to Monday 2 October and the stuff about the long-haired man. Looks like there may be a page missing. And he wrote the full date at the top of the page. He doesn’t do that normally.’

Sparkes took the notebook and scrutinized it, his stomach sinking. ‘Christ, do you think he’s made it up?’

Matthews grimaced. ‘Not necessarily. He may have been interrupted doing the Sunday log and not gone back to it. But…’

‘What?’

‘The notebook says it has thirty-two pages on the cover. There are only thirty now.’

Sparkes ran both hands through his hair. ‘Why would he do it? Is it him, then? Is he our man? Has our Mr Spencer been hiding in plain sight?’

Stan Spencer was dressed for gardening when he answered his door, in old trousers, a sun hat and gloves.

‘Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, Sergeant Matthews. Good to see you. Any news?’

He ushered them through the house to the patio area, where Susan was reading a paper.

‘Look who’s here,’ he chirped. ‘Get the officers a drink, dear.’

‘Mr Spencer,’ Sparkes tried to bring an official note to what was turning into a coffee morning, ‘we want to talk to you about your notes.’

‘Of course. Go ahead, please.’

‘There appears to be a page missing.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he answered, reddening.

Matthews spread the relevant pages on the table in front of him. ‘Sunday finishes here, in the middle of your remarks about litter outside Dawn’s house, Mr Spencer. The next page is Monday and your notes about the man you say you saw.’

‘I did see him,’ Spencer blustered. ‘I tore out the page because I made a mistake, that’s all.’

There was silence round the table.

‘Where is the missing page, Mr Spencer? Did you keep it?’ Sparkes asked gently.

Spencer’s face crumpled.

His wife emerged with a tray of tasteful mugs and a plate of homemade biscuits. ‘Help yourselves,’ she was saying gaily when she noticed the heavy silence round the table. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘We’d like to talk to your husband for a moment, Mrs Spencer.’

She paused, taking in Stan’s face and turned, tray still in hand.

Sparkes asked his question again.

‘I shoved it in my desk drawer, I think,’ Spencer said and went into the house to look.

He reappeared with a folded sheet of lined paper. The rest of Sunday’s log was there, and halfway down the page, Monday’s original log started.

‘Weather, clement for the season,’ Sparkes read out loud. ‘Legal vehicles in road during day: AM: No. 44’s Astra, midwife’s car at No. 68. PM: Peter’s van. Illegal vehicles in road: AM: usual 7 commuter cars. PM: Ditto. Leaflets on nuisance parking stuck under wipers. All quiet.’

‘Did you see the long-haired man on the day Bella was taken, Mr Spencer?’

‘I… I’m not sure.’

‘Not sure?’

‘I did see him but it might have been on another day, Inspector. I may have got confused.’

‘And your contemporaneous notes, Mr Spencer?’

He had the grace to blush.

‘I made a mistake,’ he said quietly. ‘There was so much going on that day. I just wanted to help. To be of assistance to Bella.’

Sparkes wanted to wring his neck, but maintained the crisp, professional tone of the interview. ‘Did you think you were helping Bella by sending us off in the wrong direction, Mr Spencer?’

The older man slumped in his chair. ‘I just wanted to help,’ he repeated.

‘The thing is that people who lie often have something to hide, Mr Spencer.’

‘I haven’t got anything to hide. I swear to you. I’m a decent man. I spend my time protecting the neighbourhood from crime. I’ve stopped thefts from vehicles along this road. Single-handedly. Ask Peter Tredwell. He’ll tell you.’

He stopped. ‘Will everyone know I got it wrong?’ he asked, his eyes pleading with the officers.

‘That’s not really our main concern at the moment,’ Sparkes snapped. ‘We’ll need to search your house.’

As members of his team began sifting through the Spencers’ life, he and Matthews let themselves out of the house, leaving the couple to contemplate their new role in the spotlight.

Matthews rubbed his jaw. ‘I’m going to talk to the neighbours about him, Boss.’

At the Tredwells’ house, they had nothing but praise for ‘Stan the Man’ and his patrols.

‘He chased off some hooligan who broke into my van last year. Saved my tools from being nicked. Fair play to him,’ Mr Tredwell said. ‘I park it in a lock-up now. Better security.’

‘But your van was parked in Manor Road on the day Bella Elliott was taken. Mr Spencer noted it down.’

‘No, it wasn’t. I was using it for work and then put it in the lock-up. Do the same thing every day.’

Matthews quickly took the details and stood up to go.

Sparkes was still standing outside the Spencers’ bungalow.

‘There’s a blue van in the road unaccounted for at the material time, Boss. It wasn’t Mr Tredwell’s.’

‘For Christ’s sake. What else has Spencer got wrong?’ Sparkes asked. ‘Get the team looking back through the witness statements and CCTV in the area. And see which of our perverts owns a blue van.’

Neither man spoke again. They didn’t need to. They knew they were thinking the same thing. They’d wasted two weeks. The papers would crucify them.

Sparkes fished out his phone and rang the Press Office to try to limit the damage.

‘We’ll tell the reporters that we have a new piece of evidence,’ he said. ‘And steer them away from the long-haired man. Soft pedal on that front and focus on the hunt for the blue van. OK?’

The media, hungry for any new detail, put it on the front pages. This time, there were no quotes from their favourite source. Mr Spencer was no longer answering his door.