Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(65)

“I had a cancellation,” he said, stepping aside to let them in.

Carl nodded, taking the man’s measure as they walked through. With Khan busy, Lynn had wanted a second opinion, hadn’t wanted to talk to Prentiss alone.

“You said you had one or two more questions about Jane Peterson,” Prentiss said, when they were all sitting down. “It’s terrible, of course, what happened to her. Such a waste.”

“When you were treating her,” Lynn asked, “I wonder whether you noticed any marks on her body?”

Prentiss blinked. “Marks?”

“Bruises,” Carl said.

Prentiss shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Did you ever see any bruises on Jane’s body, Mr. Prentiss?” Lynn asked.

Another little fidget, something irritating along his thigh. “I might have once … There were, there was bruising once, yes. Around the hip and along this, this side.”

“Severe?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t necessarily say severe.”

“And you asked her about it?”

“Yes. She said she’d been in a fall. Coming down the stairs from the living room. Carrying a tray. Cups and so on. She fell. I don’t know, as many as a dozen steps. Halfway.”

“Had she been to her doctor?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And the hospital? Accident and Emergency?”

“It’s possible. I don’t know.”

“Would you say,” Carl asked, leaning forward, “the bruises on Jane Peterson’s body could have come from a fall such as she described?”

Prentiss’ mouth was dry. “They could have, yes.”

“It never occurred to you that they might have been caused in any other way?”

Prentiss shook his head. “Not … not really, no.”

“Not,” Lynn said, “after what you told me about her husband? You said he was a bully, you remember that?”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean … That wasn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Verbally. Mentally. The way he got on at her. Not the sort of thing you’re talking about now.”

“Really?” Lynn said. “It never occurred to you that Alex Peterson might have been behind those injuries? You never for one moment thought he might have been hitting his wife?”

Prentiss sat on his hands. He didn’t say anything for some little time. It was quiet in the room, quiet outside. “All right, if I’m honest, it did go through my mind. Just the possibility. But Jane, she’d been so clear about what had happened, so detailed. To have questioned her would have been like calling her a liar. So I said nothing. She … we never mentioned it again.”

“A shame,” Carl said, “in the circumstances.”

“The circum … what? You don’t think, you’re not suggesting …?”

“This friend of yours you spoke about,” Lynn said, “Patricia, she used to teach with Jane?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“You wouldn’t have an address for her, I suppose? Just in case we need to get in touch.”

“Yes,” said Prentiss distractedly. “Yes, I must have it somewhere. If you’ll just give me a few minutes to look …”

“Wanker,” Carl said dismissively when they were back on the pavement.

“As long as that’s all,” Lynn said.

“You’re serious?”

Lynn unlocked the car door. “Maybe. As far as we know he’s unattached, doesn’t seem to mix much with other people, works from home. There’s a lot of things on our offender profile that he fits.”

Carl slotted his belt buckle into place. “Checking him out some more won’t hurt.”

“Right. And this Patricia, where did he say she was?”

“Peterborough.”

“Close enough to be worth a call.” Lynn checked the rearview mirror and pulled away.

“You know what’s getting to Prentiss, don’t you?” Carl said. “Thinking if he’d done something to stop this happening back when he had the chance, Jane Peterson might still be alive now. Maybe that’s what’s making him twitchy. Bad conscience, nothing more.”

“Probably,” Lynn said. “We’ll see.”





Thirty-six

“Thirty thousand the pair?”

“That’s the going price.”

“Bullshit!” Grabianski said, his voice louder than intended.

“Take it or leave it.” Eddie Snow shrugged as if he didn’t care.

They were sitting in a pub in Camden, one of those places that had been fashionably stripped back to bare boards, tat and clutter peeled away, a large room lit by candles and a few tastefully concealed ceiling lights, guest beers, a menu that included samphire and lemon grass, scallops and black pudding served on mashed potato.

The rest of the place was more or less empty at that time of day: a couple of thirtyish men in bad suits dragging out their last beer over the remains of a business lunch; an upmarket mum sitting outside with her two kids, waiting for them to sit back down and finish their fruit sorbet.