He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2) Page 7

  I might have sworn an oath not to stoop to serving up the mainstays of British breakfasts in my premises but that didn’t mean I had stopped eating them. I had no personal, ethical or business conflicts regarding buying bacon rolls from the baker’s next door and eating them in my coffee shop. I just didn’t like customers doing it.

  I was burping dead pig, brown sauce and black coffee when Jo showed. She’d declined my offer to join me for breakfast. She helped herself to a hot drink and came and sat opposite me.

  She looked tired and gloomy but still good, as usual. Under different circumstances, to bask in the knowledge that we’d shared a bed the previous night would have buoyed me. Actually, it still felt special.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’

  ‘I’m not smiling; it’s wind.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Maybe not for you, but for me...’ An image of Sigmund Swaine lying crumpled and bloody on the cold stone floor returned to remind me of something more serious. ‘How are you this morning?’

  ‘Not great. I keep wondering if I could have handled that better. If I had he might still be alive. My sloppiness has cost a life, David.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jo. You weren’t sloppy. He was off his head. He was terrified of something. He was crazy. What happened last night is nothing for either of us to reproach ourselves over.’

  Jo took a sip of her drink. ‘My friend from Ashford – the DS from last night – gave me a call this morning. Her DI is new and keen. She’s also, naturally, professionally curious about two suicides so close to each other in the same household.’

  ‘I get the picture. So you don’t know this one?’

  Jo shook her head and didn’t look happy about that.

  We didn’t have long to wait. I recognised one of the women from the previous evening. She and Jo greeted each other less warmly than they had less than twelve hours previously but that was probably because the DS had a senior officer with her who looked like she’d swallowed a bumble bee on the way in. Or it could have been that the DS was feeling as tired as she looked. I felt a bit sorry for her when I thought of the night she’d had and now she was back on duty.

  Jo’s friend nodded to me. The new one, the detective inspector, introduced herself and didn’t offer to shake hands. There was something standoffish about her. Maybe she didn’t like private enterprise in her field. Maybe she didn’t like the look of us. Maybe she didn’t like the fact that Jo was disgraced ex-job and a killer of civilians. I could wonder all day about what she didn’t like. It wouldn’t get us anywhere.

  I offered them coffee and they accepted without fuss.

  DI Francis took a turn around the shop. ‘This place yours, Mr Booker?’

  I said it was without sounding smart about it. No point in getting her back up.

  ‘Nice. It’s like Waterstones meets Wetherspoons without the booze.’

  ‘Maybe I should have called it Waterspoons,’ I said for fun.

  ‘Weatherstones might have been better,’ came back DI Francis.

  ‘Trouble is neither of those is my name,’ I said.

  ‘If it’s that important to you, you could have changed it by deed poll. How’s business?’

  ‘Slow, but it’s early days.’

  ‘You don’t seem too worried about it.’

  ‘Money is not an issue, yet.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  She came and made herself comfortable. She regarded Jo with what I took as an acute professional interest. She had to have known about Jo’s history. As someone who’d taken on and slain one nasty piece of psychotic work and one giant albino idiot with anger management issues, and then escaped jail, Jo had a reputation among her ex-peers – generally, in a good way. In gunning down the bad guys, she’d lived out some of their fantasies.

  DI Francis got down to her reason for being there. ‘Two suicides within twenty-four hours in the same family. You can understand why the police are interested, I’m sure.’

  We both nodded.

  ‘What exactly is the nature of your involvement with the family?’ She looked between Jo and me and waited.

  ‘I was retained by Rebecca Swaine to look into a personal matter. A private matter,’ said Jo.

  ‘What private matter?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her about that. I can’t discuss it. It would be unethical.’ She’d changed her tune, I noticed.

  DI Francis had to accept this. ‘What about you, Mr Booker?’

  ‘Same meat, different gravy, Inspector. It just so happened that Mrs Swaine needed my services too. I don’t think I’m breaking any confidentiality clauses when I say it was about books.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Sorry. I’d rather you asked her. I said I could keep a secret.’

  ‘Where were you both when the husband took his own life?’

  ‘We don’t know when he took it,’ said Jo.

  I knew she did, so I knew she was lying to the police. Tut tut.

  ‘When we heard about it we were both in London. Together,’ I said.

  ‘He died between the hours of midnight and dawn.’

  ‘I was in bed asleep,’ I said.

  ‘So was I,’ said Jo.

  ‘I suppose you can corroborate each others’ stories?’

  ‘No,’ said Jo, unhelpfully. ‘And why do we need to?’

  ‘Just an expression. You know how it is.’

  ‘I know that’s how it is if you suspect someone of wrongdoing.’

  It suddenly felt a bit tense.

  ‘Calm down, Miss Cash,’ said DI Francis. She set her mouth in her idea of a patronising smile. She pulled off broken twig.

  ‘I am calm. But I’m not sure I like your thinking, Inspector.’

  ‘Just exploring avenues of enquiry. You’ve got to admit it’s all a little strange. And like it or not, you two are involved.’

  ‘Involved in what?’ said Jo.

  ‘Events. Broadly speaking.’

  We said nothing.

  ‘Tell me about last night.’

  Jo said, ‘Mrs Swaine called me late evening. Told me her brother was missing and she was worried about him. She asked me to look for him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her, but the police weren’t interested, apparently, and she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.’

  ‘Did she ask that both of you go?’

  ‘No. I asked David to accompany me. When we got to Goldenhurst, Mrs Swaine pointed us in the direction of the woods. We followed the trail and came to a fence by a field. I saw lights on in the church and we decided to investigate.’

  DI Francis was frowning. ‘Why? Why investigate?’

  ‘It seemed odd that there were lights on in the church at that time on such a night.’

  DI Francis was still frowning. It looked like it pained her.

  ‘We were right,’ said Jo.

  ‘And what happened when you forced your way in?’

  ‘We didn’t force our way in. The door wasn’t locked. We just turned the handle and there we were. Sigmund Swaine attacked us.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t offer an explanation.’

  ‘Had you met him before? Would he have recognised you?’

  ‘I had,’ I said. ‘I met him when I visited the house earlier this week.’

  ‘So he would have recognised you?’

  ‘It would make sense, unless he was not in his right mind.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ and there was a professional barb attached.

  ‘He acted very oddly in the church.’

  ‘Go on.’

  I wanted to look at Jo to see whether she would want me to go on but that might have seemed suspicious. DI Francis seemed suspicious enough. I had a clever thought.

  I smiled falsely at Jo and said, ‘Why don’t you tell them? You’ve got more experience at this sort of thing than I have.’

  They both looked at her and she loo
ked at me. I recognised her deadpan expression and thought she’d have some unfriendly words for me when we were alone.

  ‘He was clearly agitated about something. He was ranting and violent.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  I waited for Jo to show me what a good cooperative citizen she was these days by telling them what he’d said.

  ‘He was shouting incomprehensibly. I didn’t understand any of it. Did you?’

  I realised she’d sent the ball back over my side of the net. I shook my head slowly and made an exaggerated downward curl of my bottom lip. It felt so fake, I nearly blushed. I couldn’t hold DI Francis’ stare.

  DI Francis huffed. There didn’t seem anything personal in it.

  ‘If anything should occur to either of you, I’d appreciate you giving me a call.’ She laid two of her cards on the table. Face up. Insanely, it crossed my mind to shout, ‘Snap!’

  The DS took our statements while DI Francis made some phone calls, had another coffee and a slice of cake on the house. It might not have been time for elevenses but she was police. There are exceptions to every rule.

  ***

  22

  When they’d gone, I said to Jo, ‘What happened to all that guff from last night about always tell the truth? Never lie to the law.’

  ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’

  ‘Very funny. I’m serious: why?’

  ‘Because Mrs Swaine is going to want answers and if I tell the police everything I might not be the one to find them for her.’

  ‘So you kept something back so you could be ahead of the police?’

  ‘Listen, they’re going to lose interest pretty quickly anyway. They don’t have the time, the manpower or the motivation to investigate the reasons why people take their own lives, and they can’t bring charges against dead people for committing that particular crime so they move on, quickly, to something that isn’t a waste of their valuable resources. I’ve just given them less to bother their consciences over when the time comes to signing it off.’

  ‘What do you think he meant?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sigmund. When he said, he made me?’

  Jo breathed in deeply and then out heavily through her nose. I recognised it as a sign of deep thought, like she needed more oxygen for it. It was a mannerism, one of the few I’d come to recognise in her.

  ‘Can we recap what happened after we entered the church? What do you remember?’

  ‘You want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or the police version?’

  ‘You do know that sometimes you’re not funny, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But your reaction is always worth it. He attacked us.’

  ‘No. He attacked you, not me.’

  ‘OK. He went for me.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘Because he recognised me? Because I was a man and therefore more of a threat?’

  Jo raised a mocking eyebrow.

  ‘Maybe it was just because I was closest to him. He was screaming, so it’s fair to say he was furious.’

  ‘Or terrified.’

  ‘OK. Or terrified. He slashed at me with whatever it was. Thanks, by the way. Shoving me aside maybe saved me a headache this morning. I told him we were there looking for him because his sister was worried about him. I called him an arsehole.’

  ‘I meant to talk to you about that. You need to work on your people-management vocabulary.’

  ‘I was brought up to call a spade a spade.’

  ‘You can’t say that these days. It’s racist.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’

  She was half smiling at me. ‘Yes. But your reaction is always worth it.’

  ‘I meant what I said to those two: he didn’t seem in his right mind, if he had one that is. When I met him in the library he seemed... highly strung. And in the church, well, he seemed crazy. Wouldn’t you say?’

  Jo nodded and made a mmm noise. ‘Mad. What did he say before he lunged the second time?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? He was shouting loud enough.’

  ‘I want to know what you heard.’ She took out her little pocket notebook and a pencil.

  I said, ‘You can take the woman out of the police...’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘He said, You’re lying. I know what you want. I know why you’re here.’

  Jo looked impressed. ‘Very good. That’s what I got. He was frightened.’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘What did you hear just before he jumped?’

  ‘It’s not my fault. He made me.’

  Jo consulted her notes. She said, ‘How about, you can’t blame me. He made me.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I thought you were an English teacher.’

  ‘It’s not my fault and you can’t blame me amount to the same thing.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘The important bit is he made me. What could he have meant by that?’

  ‘Another male made Sigmund do something that, presumably, he was either ashamed of, embarrassed about or was against the law.’

  ‘Maybe. In that case, I’d say against the law would be favourite, wouldn’t you. He did kill himself.’

  ‘But you said he might not have been in his right mind. And people do die of embarrassment. And shame.’

  Even I cringed at that. ‘He made me could also have meant that another male made Sigmund the person he was in some way.’

  ‘He made me the man I am today?’

  ‘Something like that. And there’s something else we shouldn’t discount, especially given the location.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He could have referred to God. We were in His house after all.’

  ***

  23

  Jo gave the police time to get back to Ashford before ringing her DS friend. She wanted a private word without DI Francis within earshot. I was coming to appreciate that it’s not just the old boys who have networks. She asked whether her friend could let her know the details of the post-mortem of Nigel Tate and while she was about it could she also her let her know the same for Sigmund.

  Then she called Marion Pardew and gave her the news. They spent a few minutes chatting.

  Jo’s phone rang the moment she hung up on Marion. It was Rebecca Swaine. I know this because Jo clicked her fingers at me and mouthed Rebecca Swaine.

  It was a brief conversation. When it was over Jo was smiling. ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘She wants you back?’

  ‘Just like Michael.’ In response to my thick-face, she added, ‘Jackson, dummy.’

  I let my eyes roll up into my skull. ‘For how long? An hour? Two? Before she casts you aside like a Dymchurch day-tripping baby’s soiled nappy on the Parish Council car park gravel after a Bank Holiday Monday.’

  (There were eight bins in the car park and yet at the end of every Bank Holiday Monday the ground was dotted with soiled nappies where the lazy-bastard parents wouldn’t be bothered to Keep Britain Tidy. These were the kinds of people I was spending a fortune on encouraging into my business. I must’ve been mad.)

  Jo made a face. ‘I’m going to insist that she sees it through this time or I’m not getting involved.’

  ‘How can you do that?’

  ‘Watch and learn.’

  ‘I’m coming?’

  ‘I want you to. Of course, if you’re too busy...’

  ‘The architect is coming at one.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be back home by then, in your wellies and hard hat, clutching your tape measure. I promise.’

  ***

  24

  Romney Marsh was enjoying a bit of unseasonal sunshine. The calm after the storm in this case. You couldn’t live on the Marsh without sooner or later realising that the place enjoyed its own micro-climate and mostly it was the exact opposite of what the rest of Kent was either basking in or drowning in. I’m not saying it snowed in J
uly but as a native of the place I was used to standing on the beach at Dymchurch in a T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops while dark and petulant storm clouds, thunder and lightning, prowled around the hills at Lympne, like some mythical beast scared of crossing an invisible line. The magic of Romney Marsh.

  Jo had asked if we could take my car. I’d said we could. She’d asked if she could drive. I’d said she could, but only if I could start sitting in the back and she wore a cap and got the door for me. She’d asked if I wanted a punch in the mouth. I threw her the keys to my four-wheel-drive indulgence and tried to make her promise to drive carefully.

  All my life I’d made do with battered second-hand cars; I’d never even owned a new bicycle. Until now. The money I’d come into after the deaths of my relatives encouraged me to break that cycle of making do. And I broke it in style, like a thundering volley from outside the box in the eighty-ninth minute of an FA cup final.

  I didn’t buy a new push-bike; I treated myself to a brand new Range Rover HSE Sport in black. And I loved it and how it made me feel. Like a king. The convenient tipping point in my umming and ahhing over whether to really spend that much money on a lump of metal, plastic, rubber and glass was my very-near-death experience at the hands of the French loonies. You only live once and you can’t take it with you. And in my case there was no one to leave it to. My mind was made up.

  Of course, Jo saw through my shallow male vanity for the purchase before I had the handbrake on in the back yard for the first time. She poured her own particular brand of good-natured scorn on the fire of my enthusiasm by saying that in profile it put her in mind of a giant surgical shoe. She might have been right, but it still said Range Rover on the bonnet and boot in big shiny metal letters. And that’s what mattered most. It’s worth mentioning that her reservations regarding the aesthetic appeal of the car didn’t stop her asking to borrow it or drive it when we went out together. She said it impressed clients and gave her respectability when she went calling on them. I wasn’t having any of it; she was as shallow and vain as me at times.

  She drove at a sedate pace for a change. I looked out of the window. We had Adele rolling in the deep on the CD player and the windows down. I could smell winter off the fields and the dykes on the crisp air that was being channelled in and it was nice. I saw an owl on a fence post and a heron standing sentinel with his beady eye on something in the water. He did not bat a feather as we growled past.