Читать книгу White Lies - Rachel Green - Страница 9

Chapter 3

“Fenstone?” Meinwen opened the door and pulled her keys out of the lock. “So your brother would be John Fenstone, then? Ashgate Road?” She paused on the doorstep to look at him. He sported a short back and sides she hadn’t seen since her days in Aberdovey Methodist church and several crude tattoos on his hands and wrist. “What were you in prison for?”

Jimmy looked at the ground, scratching the back of his head. “I ran an import-export business for a while.” He looked up again, flashing her a grin. “It was a bit one-sided. Too much export and not enough import. The police took a sudden interest in where the antiques I was shipping came from. They pulled a manifest and matched it to a series of burglaries in Hull.”

“Ah. I can see that might be a problem. Of course, you had no idea.”

“All too much. They matched my dabs to a bottle opener in one of the houses, then my DNA to the bottle of beer I’d filched while the lads were shifting the heavier stuff.” He shrugged. “They got me bang to rights.”

“Burglary? You’re not a violent sort, then?”

“No. You’re quite safe with me.” Jimmy’s smile was lopsided, reminiscent of a boy she fancied at school. One of his incisors was chipped.

“Good to hear. Come along in then.” She pushed the door wider with her bag and barged through, pulling off her walking boots at the threshold and dropping them onto a sheet of newspaper already laid for the purpose. Her bag she carried through to the kitchen, heaving it onto the draining board and dropping her blanket on the floor next to the washing machine. “Pass the kettle, then, let’s have a cup of tea.”

Jimmy glanced around the kitchen and pulled a large brass kettle off the stove. “Have you no electric?”

“Electric, yes. Electric kettle, no. I could never be sure what electricity does to water. I suspect it ionizes it and makes it less palatable, hence my use of the brass.”

“Doesn’t the brass propel dangerous copper oxides into the water instead?”

“Not”–Meinwen took the kettle from him and filled it at the sink–“in this house.”

She plonked the kettle on the hob and switched it on, oblivious to the electric hob invalidating her earlier argument. She shrugged out of her muddy coat, letting it drop to the tiles then turned and picked it up. She passed it to Jimmy. “Go and hang that on the coat hook by the door, would you? I’ll brush off the mud when it’s dry.”

She began emptying the contents of the bag into the sink. Sandwich box, umbrella, tripod, camera, three shaggy ink caps which were a serendipitous find on the way to her vigil the previous night, a small pot of blackberries she’d picked from the clearing in front of the stone, plastic bag for sitting on, a compass which she wiped with a cloth and put to one side, half a box of candles and matches. The broken thermos she dropped into the largest of three bins.

Jimmy returned to stand in the doorway and she gave him an upward nod as she cleaned the mud from the tripod. “Take your coat off and sit awhile. What is it you think I can do that the police haven’t?”

“Find out what really happened.” Jimmy draped his anorak over the back of a chair and pulled it out, wincing at the shriek of protest it made against the tiles. He sat. “John wasn’t the sort to kill himself. He was a contented man. Nothing ever flustered him.”

“How well did you know him?” Meinwen glanced across as she extended the tripod to maximum height. “No offense, but you’ve been away a long time.”

“Is it that obvious?” Jimmy smiled thinly. “Ten years, bar a couple of months, but John used to write to me every week, until last week. I thought that was just because I was about to get out and he was saving the postage. He was good like that. Frugal. He used to save the string from parcels.”

“My mother still does. Or would, if parcels still had string.” Meinwen checked the camera but all it needed was a quick wipe of its case. “When did you last hear from him then?”

“A week last Tuesday.”

“The eleventh?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say? Did he seem in good spirits?”

“Pretty much, yes. He was full of this new love in his life. Though he wouldn’t tell me who it was. Didn’t want to jinx it, he said. Then he went on about work. That was going well. He’d sold two houses and made a pot of commission. He was going to start doing the house up at long last.”

“The house? Ashgate Road, you mean?”

“Yeah. We inherited it when our mam died. I was already in the nick then but they let me come out for the funeral. John was brilliant. Did all the arrangements himself. Didn’t blame me or nothing.”

“Why would he blame you? Was it your fault she died?”

“It was the shock of me going to prison. That’s what people said. It fair broke her heart.”

“Nobody ever died of a broken heart, Jimmy. What was the actual cause of death?”

“She cut her wrists after Faye died. She was depressed already, but with me in prison it was the final straw. It says death by misadventure on her death certificate. That’ll be at the house.”

“Faye?”

“Our little sister. She was run over.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jimmy shrugged. “It was years ago. Water under the bridge.”

“So John was deemed a suicide? Like mother like son? I’m sorry if the question is upsetting but ‘no stone unturned’ as the Oracle of Delphi said.”

Jimmy frowned. “It wasn’t suicide. I’m certain.”

The kettle began to boil, filling the area around the stove with a cloud of stem. Meinwen grabbed a tea towel and lifted it to one side. It gave her a moment to think. Was Jimmy telling the truth? Probably. Was he keeping something from her? Certainly. Everyone kept their secrets but she always found them out. “Tea or coffee?”

“Er...tea, please. I went off coffee after the stuff they used to give us inside.”

“Rough, was it?”

“Tasted like dog’s piss.” He grinned. “Not that I’ve ever drunk dog’s piss to make the comparison, but you get the general idea.”

“I do.” Meinwen picked up the teapot. “Bramble leaf tea or apple?”

“What?”

“What tea would you like?”

“Haven’t you got any Tetley? Or PG even?”

“I might have a box of Red Label in here somewhere.” Meinwen put the pot down and opened a cupboard. “I generally keep some in for the odd occasion when an inspector calls. He won’t touch herbal tea. He calls it ‘dirt in a cup’ but then he can be a tad brusque.” She pulled out a battered cardboard box and gave it an experimental sniff. “Here we are. It doesn’t smell too musty.” She dropped a couple of bags in the pot and filled it with boiling water. “Would you get cups out? They’re in the cupboard behind you.”

“Aye, sure.” Jimmy stood, turning to gain access. “These ones with the roses on?”

“That’s right.” Meinwen watched the muscles in his torso shift as he reached for her best china. She took a deep breath and looked away, letting it out slowly as she filled a milk jug and put it on the table. “Do you take sugar?”

“Er...no. I’m fine.”

He certainly was, if you ignored the blue-ink prison tattoos. “Splendid. Sugar’s something else I only keep for the inspector and I think there are insects in the bag. Some people object to that. I expect I could pick them out if you wanted some.”

“No. You’re all right, thanks.”

“As you wish.” Meinwen set the pot of tea on a trivet and sat. “Now, if you grew up around here, why have you got such a disparate accent? Is it from prison?”

“Not entirely. I left Laverstone when I was eighteen and went to live in Huddersfield with a bird.” He shrugged. “Didn’t last, o’ course. By they time she jacked me in for a richer model I’d landed a decent job on the removals lorries.”

“Which gave you the inside knowledge for the burglaries?”

“Too right. See, we’d do jobs for all sorts of customers then every so often we’d move someone with a decent bucketful of antiques. We’d mark the boxes with ultraviolet ink while they were in the van and nip back the following night. In like shadows through a door or window we’d left open while we were moving the stuff in and out again with the goods. The stuff was on a container ship bound for Amsterdam or Düsseldorf before the punters woke up.”

“Until someone connected the dots. Recent house moves correlating with burglaries.”

“Yeah. We kept it to a minimum but every job was another nail in the coffin. We should have stopped while we were ahead.”

Meinwen picked up the teapot. “It might have been prudent.” She began to pour, the color of the tea matching the colors of the leaves around the edge of the china. “Milk?”

“Please.” Jimmy took the jug and tipped a little in, watching the pattern as the milk sank below the surface and returned, bringing a flush of lighter color with it.

Meinwen poured her own and set the pot down again. “So who’s this girl your brother fell in love with? The one he mentioned in his last letter?”

“I don’t rightly know. I spent the night going through his things but there’s no mention of her in the house.”

“What about a laptop?”

“I don’t think he had one.”

“A desktop then. He must have had some sort of computer. Everyone does.”

“I don’t.”

Meinwen smiled over the rim of her cup. “You have a valid excuse not to.”

“I suppose.” Jimmy took a notebook from his pocket. “I did find this. It’s a record of his bank account, maybe. It’s a bit odd.” He handed it over.

She glanced through it. “Not a bank, I don’t think. The deposits are too irregular. A hundred pounds here and two there. There are entries for several hundred every week, followed by a drop to nothing. Every time he accumulates a thousand he takes it all out and starts all over again. How curious. There’s no money in the house, I suppose?” She flicked through the pages. “This has been going on for years.”

“He never mentioned anything about making extra money on the side. I haven’t found any money in the house. Not in those sort of amounts, anyway. I haven’t looked in the loft, mind, though I’m sure the police have checked every inch up there.”

“Is that where he...”

“Aye. From a roofing beam apparently.”

“I can understand your reticence then.” Meinwen put her cup back on the saucer. The scrape of china punctuated an awkward silence.

Jimmy reached across for the book again. “What do you reckon then? Betting? Money laundering?” He sighed. “John wasn’t the type to take risks with the law.”

“Not with such exact amounts. It was more like he was saving for something or salting it away. He was on the straight and narrow, I take it?”

“As far as I know, aye. Happy as Larry in his letters. All loved up, like I said.”

“But you’ve no idea with whom?”

“No. If I was in love I’d be shouting it from the rooftops. John? He was a bit more circumspect. Stayed on at school to do his A levels and went to university. Whoever his girlfriend was he was keeping quiet about her.”

“Perhaps she was married?”

“Aye. Maybe so. That would be a motive for murder, wouldn’t it? If the husband found out. It’s not like John was a gigolo.” He grinned and shook his head. “I did find some nice suits in the house, mind. Not your average Marks and Sparks affairs.”

“It certainly sounds like your brother wasn’t a man likely to commit suicide.” Meinwen reached across for his cup and saucer, carrying both across to the sink. She returned for the teapot and stood, staring down at the notebook. “Can I hang on to this for a while?”

“Sure.” Jimmy pushed back his chair and stood. “You’ll take the case then?”

Meinwen cupped her chin in her hand, tapping her lips with the index finger. “Let me have a nose about and see what I turn up. There’s certainly something unusual going on but whether there’s enough to persuade the police to reopen the case is another matter.”