Still Waters (Charlie Resnick #9)(76)

“Doubt he does his repping in that,” Khan remarked.

“Let’s hope not,” Resnick replied.

“According to records, he owns a Vauxhall estate, L reg.”

“Left early,” Resnick suggested.

“Maybe never got home last night.”

The two of them had stayed in the vehicle, sixty yards back down the road, while Lynn took a slow wander past the house.

“Someone’s home anyway,” she said, returning. “Caught a glimpse. A woman, I think. Back door’s open and there’s a radio playing.”

“Houses like this,” Khan said, “how d’you tell which is the front and which is the back?”

“It’s like one of those tests they give you,” Lynn grinned. “You know, intelligence.”

“Likely the front door then, after all.”

“If it is the wife,” Resnick said, “no call getting her alarmed without reason. Lynn, why don’t you go and have a word? Anil and I’ll hang on here.”

Before she was halfway there, a maroon estate came slowly around the far curve and signaled that it was going to stop. The driver eased across and parked close behind the Fiesta. By now, Lynn had stopped in her tracks and Resnick and Khan were out of the car and beginning to walk toward her.

The man who emerged from the Vauxhall was tall enough to have the slightly stooped posture of someone who habitually dips his head in conversation. He wore heavy-framed glasses and though his dark hair was still quite full, the crown of his head was bald.

“Spurgeon?” Lynn said quietly, once he’d clicked through the gate.

“Unless he’s got a brother.”

They moved on toward the house.

“Louise!” Spurgeon called, pausing at the open door. “Louise?”

But by then Resnick had pushed the gate back open and was walking toward him along the path, the two other officers close behind.

“Mr. Spurgeon?”

“Yes, I …”

“Peter Spurgeon?”

“Yes.”

“Peter, what is it?” Louise Spurgeon was short to medium height, a couple of inches shorter than Lynn. She was wearing a smart suit skirt, but with an apron still fastened over the front of her white blouse.

“I don’t know, I …”

“We’re police,” Resnick said. “Detective Inspector Resnick.” He held out his card. “This is Detective Sergeant Kellogg, Detective Constable Khan.”

“Whatever’s the matter?” Louise Spurgeon said. “Is it one of the children? Peter, Peter, it can’t be the children, you’ve only just taken them to school.”

“We believe you know a Jane Peterson,” Resnick said.

Spurgeon blinked. “No, I don’t think …” He half-turned toward his wife.

“Peterson,” said Louise. “No. Unless it’s someone, Peter, from work. A buyer, perhaps? Someone from the University Press?”

Spurgeon removed his glasses and rubbed them against his trouser leg.

“Sir?” Resnick asked again. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“She used to be called Harker. Jane Harker.”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Spurgeon took a step back, fumbling his glasses back onto his face. “Louise, it’s Jane, you remember …”

“Yes, I know who she is.” Louise turned abruptly and went back into the house.

“Louise, please …” Shaking his head, Spurgeon gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry.”

“You did know her, then, Mr. Spurgeon?” Resnick persevered. “Jane Harker? Peterson as she became.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. But a long time ago.”

“And you haven’t kept in touch?”

“No. No, not at all.”

“In which case,” Resnick said, “likely you wouldn’t have heard?”

“Heard what?”

“I’m afraid she died, sir.”

“Jane … Oh, my God, how …”

“She was murdered.”

A shiver ran through Spurgeon’s body; his face was the color of fine ash.

“I’m sorry to have to be the one to break the news,” Resnick said.

Spurgeon removed his glasses, put them back into place. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Levelly, evenly, not goading him, Resnick told him the facts. Tears fidgeted in the corners of Spurgeon’s eyes, his hands knotted and pressed against his thighs. Then, silently at first, he began to cry. After several moments, Resnick touched Spurgeon gently on the arm and led him inside the house.

His wife was sitting at a plain kitchen table, still crowded with breakfast things, cold anger the only expression on her face.

“She’s dead,” Spurgeon said, voice cracking. “Jane’s dead.”

Louise tilted up her head. “Good,” she said. “Not before time.”

Some minutes later, Louise Spurgeon reappeared in the kitchen with her suit jacket and makeup in place. Switching on the ready-loaded washing machine as she passed, she lifted her car keys down from the hook alongside the door and stepped briskly out without uttering another word.

Her husband leaned against the table, then sat, head pitched forward into his hands, alternately sobbing and reaching for breath. Khan fetched a length of kitchen roll and placed it near at hand, where it stayed unused. Resnick waited until the edgy sound of the Fiesta’s engine had faded before touching Peter Spurgeon lightly on the shoulder. “Perhaps there’s another room where we can sit quietly, have a chat?”