drove all the way to Cardiff because Tom Jones was on at the Palladium.”
“Not really, love. Jimmy Fenstone’s idea of taking and driving away was nicking a Beamer and stripping it down to the last nut, then packing it in crates and shipping it to the continent.”
“Oh.” Meinwen swallowed, glancing down the passage toward the kitchen. “I didn’t know that. He’s not dangerous, is he?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got his rap sheet here. I pulled it when he turned up asking about his brother. He was never violent when he was arrested and he kept his nose clean while he was inside. You should be fine.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Was that all, then, or did you ring for another reason?”
“Yes, there was, really. I don’t think John killed himself at all.”
“Not that again. I told you, I have my doubts but without some decent evidence there’s nothing I can do.”
“How much do you need to reopen the case as a murder?”
“Five hundred quid in used tenners?” Peters laughed. “Look, Meinwen. There would have to be a pretty big reason to open a murder investigation. They cost a fortune and the departments on a bit of a budget freeze. They won’t even pay for the petrol if you use your own car, now, so of course we’re all using squad cars instead.”
“I didn’t think Laverstone had that many squad cars.”
“They don’t. We’ve requisitioned them from Uniform, so they’re back to pounding the pavements and not very happy about it, let me tell you.”
“I bet they aren’t.” Meinwen grinned. “You could always put forward an ecological policy for the department and request bicycles.”
“Not on your bloody life!”
She laughed. “About this case, then...”
“All right. What have you got? Anything concrete?”
“Sort of. First, he hanged himself in his mother’s house.”
“Stands to reason. Going back to the womb. Childhood. Somewhere he was happy, all that psychology guff. That won’t hold up as a reason to reopen the case. Next?”
“Can I ask you what his supposed suicide note said?”
“Usual stuff. ‘I can’t go on. Nobody loves me. There’s no point in living a lie. Sorry James.’ Nothing that would give us pause for thought.”
“Okay.” Meinwen got out a pen and her address book, turning to the section marked Notes. “Would you tell me again?” She wrote it down this time, staring at it for a moment, the top of the biro brushing her lip. “James. He said, ‘James.’ What do you make of that? Jimmy calls himself ‘Jimmy.’”
“The brother was a bit posher, wasn’t he? An estate agent. Probably thought the name ‘Jimmy’ was a bit common.”
“Maybe.” She dropped the pen into the crease of the book and put it to one side. “What was it written on?”
“Come again?”
“Well...was it on a sheet of paper? The back of an envelope? Lilac-scented Basildon Bond? What?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to mislead you. It was done on a computer and printed out on a laser printer.”
“He didn’t have a laser printer, though. No printer at all, as far as I’m aware. He could have gone to a copy shop, I suppose. Lots of people do.”
“To print a suicide note? Nah.” Meinwen could imagine Peters shaking his head in that diagonal way of his. No one but Peters shook their head like that. “There was a laser printer at the estate agents. He could easily have done it there.”
“It doesn’t seem very likely, though, does it? He prints off a suicide note at work several hours before he tops himself. I could understand it if he’d written several pages but for a dozen or so words? It seems a bit odd to me. Do you get many suicides who write a note hours beforehand?”
“Well, no, but we don’t get a great many suicides, to be fair. Even at Christmas we only get a couple. It’s Happy Town, is Laverstone.”
“Does that mean we can put a mark in the maybe-it-was-murder category?”
“I suppose. What else have you got?”
“The
“Not really, love. Jimmy Fenstone’s idea of taking and driving away was nicking a Beamer and stripping it down to the last nut, then packing it in crates and shipping it to the continent.”
“Oh.” Meinwen swallowed, glancing down the passage toward the kitchen. “I didn’t know that. He’s not dangerous, is he?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got his rap sheet here. I pulled it when he turned up asking about his brother. He was never violent when he was arrested and he kept his nose clean while he was inside. You should be fine.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Was that all, then, or did you ring for another reason?”
“Yes, there was, really. I don’t think John killed himself at all.”
“Not that again. I told you, I have my doubts but without some decent evidence there’s nothing I can do.”
“How much do you need to reopen the case as a murder?”
“Five hundred quid in used tenners?” Peters laughed. “Look, Meinwen. There would have to be a pretty big reason to open a murder investigation. They cost a fortune and the departments on a bit of a budget freeze. They won’t even pay for the petrol if you use your own car, now, so of course we’re all using squad cars instead.”
“I didn’t think Laverstone had that many squad cars.”
“They don’t. We’ve requisitioned them from Uniform, so they’re back to pounding the pavements and not very happy about it, let me tell you.”
“I bet they aren’t.” Meinwen grinned. “You could always put forward an ecological policy for the department and request bicycles.”
“Not on your bloody life!”
She laughed. “About this case, then...”
“All right. What have you got? Anything concrete?”
“Sort of. First, he hanged himself in his mother’s house.”
“Stands to reason. Going back to the womb. Childhood. Somewhere he was happy, all that psychology guff. That won’t hold up as a reason to reopen the case. Next?”
“Can I ask you what his supposed suicide note said?”
“Usual stuff. ‘I can’t go on. Nobody loves me. There’s no point in living a lie. Sorry James.’ Nothing that would give us pause for thought.”
“Okay.” Meinwen got out a pen and her address book, turning to the section marked Notes. “Would you tell me again?” She wrote it down this time, staring at it for a moment, the top of the biro brushing her lip. “James. He said, ‘James.’ What do you make of that? Jimmy calls himself ‘Jimmy.’”
“The brother was a bit posher, wasn’t he? An estate agent. Probably thought the name ‘Jimmy’ was a bit common.”
“Maybe.” She dropped the pen into the crease of the book and put it to one side. “What was it written on?”
“Come again?”
“Well...was it on a sheet of paper? The back of an envelope? Lilac-scented Basildon Bond? What?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to mislead you. It was done on a computer and printed out on a laser printer.”
“He didn’t have a laser printer, though. No printer at all, as far as I’m aware. He could have gone to a copy shop, I suppose. Lots of people do.”
“To print a suicide note? Nah.” Meinwen could imagine Peters shaking his head in that diagonal way of his. No one but Peters shook their head like that. “There was a laser printer at the estate agents. He could easily have done it there.”
“It doesn’t seem very likely, though, does it? He prints off a suicide note at work several hours before he tops himself. I could understand it if he’d written several pages but for a dozen or so words? It seems a bit odd to me. Do you get many suicides who write a note hours beforehand?”
“Well, no, but we don’t get a great many suicides, to be fair. Even at Christmas we only get a couple. It’s Happy Town, is Laverstone.”
“Does that mean we can put a mark in the maybe-it-was-murder category?”
“I suppose. What else have you got?”
“The
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