photograph and placed it on the desk beside the report. Wesley picked it up and stared at it. The young
man who stared out at him was around eighteen with close cropped hair, resentful eyes and a small tattoo of a spider on his
neck. There was something familiar about him but Wesley couldn’t think what it was. Maybe he had just seen too many like him
before. Young tearaways out of control, terrorising a postmaster or off licence assistant for a handful of notes from the till
that would keep him in drugs till the money ran out again.
But, according to police records, this particular young thug hadn’t continued his career of crime. Unless he just hadn’t been
caught.
Wesley passed the photograph back to Paul. ‘Find out all you can about this Collins character, will you? See if you can establish
any connection with any unsolved local crimes … or with Charles Marrick. Check on the staff in his warehouse. And get someone
from uniform to go round all the local pubs and restaurants to ask if Marrick ate lunch there on the day he died – and, if
so, was he with anyone. Look for places with quail on the menu.’
Paul was about to leave the office when Gerry Heffernan spoke. ‘While you’re at it, Paul, ask Rachel to go round toLe Petit Poisson and chat up the staff – check exactly what time Fabrice Colbert got back on the afternoon of the murder.
Okay?’
The tall, thin detective constable nodded wearily. For the first time in his career, Paul Johnson was starting to look as
if the workload was getting him down.
Annette Marrick was doing her best to play the grieving widow. While the police were still hanging around the place like flies
round a piece of rotten meat, she had to keep up the pretence. The pretence that she and Charlie had been a devoted couple.
That he’d not betrayed her with other women. And that she’d been the model of fidelity.
Living a lie made her restless. Made her want to kick out and shout the truth in their smug, pious faces. Charlie was a lying, cheating
bastard. Charlie was cruel and liked inflicting pain. And if she sought solace elsewhere, she couldn’t be blamed. Anyone would
have done the same.
She stood in the huge dining kitchen that was serving as a living room now the lounge was out of action, with her back to
the door. She needed privacy. There was something she needed to do.
Petronella was around somewhere but there was one place Annette knew she wouldn’t go and that was the lounge. The place still
reeked of blood – that rotting, faintly metallic stench she couldn’t get out of her nostrils – and the splashes on the walls
had dried to a rusty brown. The carpet had been taken up and the sofa removed on her instructions. She had seen no point in
keeping things as they were to remind her of that awful day.
Annette shut the door behind her and stood there, thinking about what she’d say. She’d be casual … call in a favour. After
all, she’d do the same for them if the situation ever arose. She listened for a while before picking up the phone and pressing
out the number. The ringing tone seemed tolast for ever and she was about to abandon the call when Betina answered.
‘Darling,’ Annette whispered. ‘I’m going to ask you a great favour.’ She was about to outline what that favour was when she
heard a sound. She watched with horror as the doorknob turned slowly. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she hissed into the phone before
hiding the thing behind her back just as the door swung open.
It was Petronella who stood there framed in the doorway, fidgeting nervously with a strand of hair. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘None of your bloody business.’
‘Betina. That’s one of the cronies you told the police you were with when Charlie died, isn’t it?’
Annette felt a tear tickle her cheek. ‘I expected a bit of loyalty from my own daughter.’
Petronella snorted. ‘You mean the same sort of loyalty you gave to me
man who stared out at him was around eighteen with close cropped hair, resentful eyes and a small tattoo of a spider on his
neck. There was something familiar about him but Wesley couldn’t think what it was. Maybe he had just seen too many like him
before. Young tearaways out of control, terrorising a postmaster or off licence assistant for a handful of notes from the till
that would keep him in drugs till the money ran out again.
But, according to police records, this particular young thug hadn’t continued his career of crime. Unless he just hadn’t been
caught.
Wesley passed the photograph back to Paul. ‘Find out all you can about this Collins character, will you? See if you can establish
any connection with any unsolved local crimes … or with Charles Marrick. Check on the staff in his warehouse. And get someone
from uniform to go round all the local pubs and restaurants to ask if Marrick ate lunch there on the day he died – and, if
so, was he with anyone. Look for places with quail on the menu.’
Paul was about to leave the office when Gerry Heffernan spoke. ‘While you’re at it, Paul, ask Rachel to go round toLe Petit Poisson and chat up the staff – check exactly what time Fabrice Colbert got back on the afternoon of the murder.
Okay?’
The tall, thin detective constable nodded wearily. For the first time in his career, Paul Johnson was starting to look as
if the workload was getting him down.
Annette Marrick was doing her best to play the grieving widow. While the police were still hanging around the place like flies
round a piece of rotten meat, she had to keep up the pretence. The pretence that she and Charlie had been a devoted couple.
That he’d not betrayed her with other women. And that she’d been the model of fidelity.
Living a lie made her restless. Made her want to kick out and shout the truth in their smug, pious faces. Charlie was a lying, cheating
bastard. Charlie was cruel and liked inflicting pain. And if she sought solace elsewhere, she couldn’t be blamed. Anyone would
have done the same.
She stood in the huge dining kitchen that was serving as a living room now the lounge was out of action, with her back to
the door. She needed privacy. There was something she needed to do.
Petronella was around somewhere but there was one place Annette knew she wouldn’t go and that was the lounge. The place still
reeked of blood – that rotting, faintly metallic stench she couldn’t get out of her nostrils – and the splashes on the walls
had dried to a rusty brown. The carpet had been taken up and the sofa removed on her instructions. She had seen no point in
keeping things as they were to remind her of that awful day.
Annette shut the door behind her and stood there, thinking about what she’d say. She’d be casual … call in a favour. After
all, she’d do the same for them if the situation ever arose. She listened for a while before picking up the phone and pressing
out the number. The ringing tone seemed tolast for ever and she was about to abandon the call when Betina answered.
‘Darling,’ Annette whispered. ‘I’m going to ask you a great favour.’ She was about to outline what that favour was when she
heard a sound. She watched with horror as the doorknob turned slowly. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she hissed into the phone before
hiding the thing behind her back just as the door swung open.
It was Petronella who stood there framed in the doorway, fidgeting nervously with a strand of hair. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘None of your bloody business.’
‘Betina. That’s one of the cronies you told the police you were with when Charlie died, isn’t it?’
Annette felt a tear tickle her cheek. ‘I expected a bit of loyalty from my own daughter.’
Petronella snorted. ‘You mean the same sort of loyalty you gave to me
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