In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(132)
“Which was when you decided to inform Martin Reeve what they were up to,” Lynley noted. “It was a good provocation for you to seek revenge.”
“I didn't hurt no one!” Shelly cried. “If you want someone likely to do someone else in—I mean, to kill them—then you look at the Prong, not at me.”
“Yet Vi doesn't point the finger at him,” Lynley said. “Which you think she would do if she suspected him of anything. How do you account for that? She even denies knowing him.”
“Well, she would do, wouldn't she?” Shelly declared. “If that bloke even thought she sneaked on him to the cops about … like … well, about his escort business, on top of her already using him to build up a list of clients and then doing a runner to set up in business on her own …” Shelly drew her thumb across her neck in a mime of throat-slitting. “She wouldn't last ten minutes after he found out, Vi wouldn't. The Prong don't like to be crossed, and he'd see to it she paid for crossing.” Shelly seemed to hear what she was saying and to realise all of the possibilities that could grow out of it. Nervously, she looked towards the door, as if expecting Martin Reeve to come barreling through it, ready to wreak vengeance upon her for the sneaking that she had just done.
“If that's the case,” Lynley said, “if Reeve is indeed responsible for Nicola Maiden's death—which is what I assume you're suggesting when you talk about people paying when they double-cross him—”
“I never said!”
“Understood. You didn't say it directly. I'm drawing the inference.” Lynley waited for her to give a sign of comprehension. She blinked. He decided that would do. He said, “If we infer that Reeve's responsible for Nicola Maiden's death, why would he have waited so long to kill her? She left his employ in April. It's now September. How do you account for the five months he waited to take his revenge?”
“I never told him where they were.” Shelly said it proudly. “I pretended I didn't know. I reckoned he was owed the tale of what they were up to, but he was on his own to track them down. And tha's what he did. Depend on it.”
[page]CHAPTER 19
I Peter Hanken had just got back to his office after his conversation with Will Upman when the news came in that a ten-year-old schoolboy called Theodore Webster playing hide-and-seek in a grit dispenser on the road between Peak Forest and Lane Head had found a knife buried in what remained of last winter's protection against road ice. It was a good-size pocket knife, replete with blades and the sort of miscellaneous gewgaws that made its inclusion in the equipment of a camper or a hiker de rigueur. The boy might have kept it hidden away for years for his own use—so his father reported—had its blades not been impossible to open without someone's assistance. Because of this, he'd taken the knife to his father for help, thinking that a few drops of oil would take care of the problem. But his father had seen the dried blood that was crusting the tightly closed knife, and he'd recalled the story of the Calder Moor deaths that had filled the front page of the High Peak Courier. He'd phoned the police immediately. It might not be the knife that had been used on one of the two Calder Moor victims, Hanken was told via his mobile by the WPC who'd taken the call, but the DI might want to have a look at it himself prior to its being sent onward to the lab. Hanken declared that he'd take the knife to the lab himself, so he barreled north to the A623 and headed southeast at Sparrowpit. This course bisected Calder Moor, running at a forty-five-degree angle from its northwest edge, which was defined by the road along which the Maiden girl's car had been parked.
At the site, Hanken examined the grit dispenser in which the weapon had been found. He made a note of the fact that a killer—depositing a knife therein—could then have proceeded on his way to a junction not five miles distant at which he could have turned either due east then north for Padley Gorge or immediately south towards Bakewell and Broughton Manor, which lay a mere two miles beyond it. Once Hanken had confirmed this bit of data with a quick look at the map, he went on to examine the knife itself in the kitchen of the Websters’ farmhouse.
It was indeed a Swiss Army model, and it now lay in an evidence bag on the car's seat next to him. The lab would conduct all the necessary tests to ascertain whether the blood on both the blades and the case was Terry Coles, but prior to those tests, another less scientific identification could give the investigators a valuable piece of information.
Hanken found Andy Maiden at the bottom of the drive leading up to the Hall. The former SO 10 officer was apparently installing a new sign for the establishment, an activity that involved a wheelbarrow, a shovel, a small concrete mixer, several lengths of flex, and an impressive set of floodlights. The old sign had already been removed and lay disassembled beneath a lime tree. The new one—in all its ornate, hand-carved, and hand-painted splendour—waited nearby to be mounted on a sturdy post of oak and wrought iron.
Hanken parked on the verge and studied Maiden, who was working with a fierce expenditure of energy, as if the replacement of the sign had to be accomplished in record time. He was sweating heavily, the damp forming rivulets on his legs and plastering his T-shirt to his torso. Hanken noted that he was in remarkable physical condition, looking like a man who had the strength and endurance of a boy in his twenties.