‘No, not at all. They were kids and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Who knows how any of us would have reacted if we saw what they did? I don’t know what I’d have done in that situation either. There’s only one person to blame for my mum’s murder and that’s Herbert Dunne – and yes, I do feel great bitterness towards him. I’m no angel, I assure you of that. Despite me having wonderful parents now, his actions made me sad, lonely, motherless and altered the course of my life and I will never forgive him.’
Quiet descended on them, Chelsea’s words filling the air and as the station car park finally came into view, Barnes had the sudden urge to spend more time with her. He didn’t want to let her go just yet and anyway, he had nobody to go home to.
‘Look, I don’t mind taking you all the way into Manchester rather than you getting the train. It’s no trouble.’ Once he’d said it he felt foolish and was sure his cheeks had reddened: they felt warm.
‘No, honestly it’s fine and you must have work to do. I don’t want to put you out and you’ve already been kind.’
Barnes gave it one last shot. ‘It’s really no trouble. My shift ends in half an hour anyway and I’ve done enough overtime this week so I think I deserve to finish on time for once. I can drop you off, then head home. Your call, whatever is best.’
Chelsea half turned in her seat. There was a pause, as if she was weighing up the thought of a packed commuter train, then another bus to her flat. ‘Go on then, if you’re sure. You can tell me all about what happened to my Prince Charming after he picked up my slipper. It’s only fair after I told you all about me.’
When his heart lifted, Barnes trained his face not to smile like an idiot so instead he indicated and pulled into another lane. As he drove towards the city, a strange and unprofessional thought entered his head. If it hadn’t been for someone torching Dennis Mills’ flat, not to mention the nasty stomach bug that was ravaging his colleagues, he’d never have bumped into Chelsea. And for fire starters and summer bugs, Barnes was glad.
18
Herbert waited in the lounge, watching through the net curtains as the detective made his way down the path. Margaret was obviously doing the same but not surreptitiously like him. She had shown the detective to the door and seeing as it hadn’t slammed shut, Herbert knew she’d remained on the step, bold as brass, no doubt giving the officer the evil eye, just as she’d done while he asked Herbert questions about Dennis Mills. He’d taken his time, and the tired young detective didn’t seem too enthusiastic about apprehending the arsonist, but apparently Mills was kicking up a fuss. Thankfully he stuck to questions about the fire. Herbert had no desire to go through the Scarlet Jones rigmarole again: last time was bad enough.
* * *
Owing to the fact he’d been in hospital, Dennis Mills had an alibi for the murder of Scarlet Jones, putting Herbert firmly in the frame. He’d been expecting it, a visit, just as he’d expected one when the news broke about the murder.
Regardless of whether he had form, Herbert was still affronted that they’d pointed the finger at him first, and didn’t care for their tone either. It was only the thought of being dragged down to the station, the rub of steel handcuffs and that stomach-churning, heart-stopping moment when you are charged that reminded him not to push his luck.
No doubt it was par for the course and once the news broke, Herbert surmised he’d be top of the suspect list for both crimes, and any other minor misdemeanours that befell the inhabitants of Elkdale. Then again, the police hadn’t bargained for Margaret, super-alibi for the wrongly accused and ardent defender of her man. She’d needed a nudge but thankfully once she got going there was no stopping her.
The detective who took the lead in the murder case clearly despised him, but Herbert had become used to that in prison, although it pissed him off when someone looked down their nose at him in his own living room.
‘So, you haven’t been out and about since your release, not at all?’
Herbert was beginning to think the detective was a bit deaf, or slow. ‘As I’ve already assured you, I’ve kept well away from the village and have no intention of going down there. It’s not like I would be welcomed with open arms, I haven’t used my car or left the house alone since the day I was released. Go and check if you like. It probably won’t even start.’
A smirk accompanied the detective’s response. ‘Oh don’t you worry, sir, we will.’
Herbert swore he could actually feel his blood boiling which compelled him to speak out, tired of being castigated. ‘And anyway, I’m ill – terminal cancer if you must know – and I have only months to live. Some days are worse than others so a trip to sunny Elkdale or anywhere isn’t high on my list of priorities right now. Which is why I object not only to your tone, but to your line of enquiry. You have simply no reason to point the finger at me, I’m merely an easy target.’
The detective raised a furry black eyebrow and didn’t even bother to commiserate before turning to Margaret who simply stared. ‘And you can vouch for Mr Dunne’s whereabouts on the day in question, Ms Tibbs?’
When Margaret remained mute, nervously twisting her fingers, Herbert felt a swell of irritation which erupted in the form of a rather harsh rebuke and direct command. When his words made her jump, the furry eyebrows of the detective rose once again and he scribbled something in his book.
‘For God’s sake, Margaret, speak, woman! Tell the detective where I was! He won’t bite.’
Finally, Margaret came back to earth and put them straight in their place, explaining in vivid detail how sick Herbert was and vouched for her ‘partner’s’ whereabouts for the whole day, even though both knew it was a lie.
Herbert had listened to the untruths roll from her tongue. Margaret had explained once more that on the night Scarlet Jones was murdered, they’d watched a DVD,The Greatest Showmanto be precise. She even marched over to the cabinet and produced it for the detectives to see before smugly replacing it. ‘Then we had a supper of cocoa and toasted teacakes before having an early night cuddled up in bed. Herbert – Mr Dunne – tires very easily and needs his rest.’
No, she continued, he didn’t drive his car anymore. They could check it if they so wished and no, he wasn’t insured to drive her sports car so how could a sick and dying man get to the village, murder someone, then get home without being noticed, especially someone of his notoriety? Oh yes, how silly, perhaps he ordered a taxi?
Herbert had cringed when she spoke to the detectives like they were imbeciles and worried momentarily that she might be doing more harm than good. They could quite easily have taken him in for questioning, just to get away from her big mouth. Thankfully, the detectives seemed satisfied with the story, reminded Herbert that it might be best to give the village a wide berth for the foreseeable and then they went on their way.
Next came the lone detective, DC Barnes, who looked a bit green behind the ears and like a rabbit caught in the headlights once Margaret stuck her nose in. On the night that Dennis’s flat went up in flames she’d painted a lovely wholesome picture of them playing Scrabble – which Herbert won, he was such a clever clogs – then they’d enjoyed a glass of port each and she’d made him cheese on toast for supper. She wasn’t hungry so had a digestive biscuit. Then they’d gone to bed, had sex twice and then slept soundly until morning.
Herbert had been most irritated when she insisted on giving a detailed rundown of their evening, but when she mentioned sex he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. From the look on the young detective’s red face, he felt the same. Margaret, on the other hand, actually smirked as she watched him write it down in his notepad, then he said he had everything he needed for the time being and left.
When she’d shown him to the door, Margaret was full of herself. She even had the nerve to ask the detective to close the double gates on his way out, adding, ‘I don’t want that scumbag Mills damaging my new car. Your lot couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery, so we have to be careful.’
Herbert couldn’t believe she had the nerve. Margaret really had lost the bloody plot.
Nonetheless, once again she’d given him a cast-iron alibi – even though on both occasions after they’d retired to their separate rooms she hadn’t seen Herbert until the following morning at breakfast. He could have been anywhere for all she knew.
