Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

‘Why not?’

‘I ran into the lad who worked for him. Gary Dawson. Gary used to help Warren Leach with the milking and stuff, but he said he’d just walked out on him. He said Warren was in a terrible temper all the time these days. So I decided not to go up to Ringham Edge. He can be an awkward bugger at the best of times, Warren. In a temper, he’s nasty. I can do without that.’

‘And what about Totley? Do you know it?’ asked Cooper.

‘I know it.’

‘Not many farmers up there. Not much ratting to do.’

‘I do all sorts of jobs.’

Weenink was peering through the back windows of the van. They were painted over, but some of the paint had flaked off on the inside, and there were a few small gaps where the glass was clear.

‘What’s the going rate for scrap metal then, these days?’ he asked.

‘Hey,’ said Teasdale, whose attention had been on Cooper. ‘What are you doing there?’

‘Scrap, eh?’ said Cooper. ‘The lady at Totley was right, then.’

‘It’s legal,’ said Teasdale sullenly.

Cooper nodded. ‘It depends how you go about it,’ he said. And Teasdale scowled at him.

‘Are you sure you weren’t at Ringham Edge Farm?’ asked Weenink.

‘It would be helpful all round if we could eliminate you,’ said Cooper.

Teasdale kicked the nearest tyre of his van. A few lumps of mud fell out of the tread. ‘All right. Gary Dawson told me it’d be a waste of time, but I went up there anyway. I need the money I get from jobs like that. They pay me next to nothing here, and it won’t last forever. You have to take the work where you can find it.’

‘That’s a bit more like it,’ said Cooper. ‘Now we know where we are. What time was this?’

‘About half past two, maybe.’

‘And were you at the farm long?’

‘Five minutes. Just long enough for Leach to give me a mouthful of abuse. I wasn’t standing for that, so I cleared off. I know things are bad up there, but there’s no excuse for that, is there?’

It was getting dark by the time Martin Stafford was brought into Divisional Headquarters at West Street. Stafford hadn’t seemed surprised to see the police outside the door of his flat in Congleton. In fact, he had made a point of taking a careful note of their names and numbers from their warrant cards, as if they had brought him information that would be useful.

Diane Fry sat alongside DCI Tailby in the interview room. Stafford was dark and good-looking, his hair well brushed back and falling slightly over his ears. He had eyes that laughed all the time, and what was sometimes called a boyish grin. He was the sort of man that some women fell for without considering the consequences. He was the sort of man that some fathers would forbid their daughters to marry. The grin made Fry want to punch him.

‘Yes, of course I heard about it. I saw it on the TV,’ said Stafford.

‘But you never thought to come forward, sir?’

‘Not really.’

Tailby waited, letting Stafford fill in the gaps rather than leaping in with the questions. Fry suspected that the DCI was already feeling disappointed. Stafford had come too willingly and looked too relaxed.

‘We hadn’t had any contact with each other for three years,’ said Stafford. ‘I’m sorry she’s dead, but — well, it may sound a bit hard, but she was nothing to do with me. Not any more.’

‘Would you say there was a certain amount of animosity in your parting, Mr Stafford?’

‘I’m a journalist, Chief Inspector.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t use words like animosity. They don’t fit in a headline.’

‘I see.’

‘Besides, most newspaper readers wouldn’t understand what it meant. I’d be more likely to say spite. Yes, as far as Jenny was concerned, I might say spiteful. Still, I am sorry she’s dead. Really.’

‘When you say you hadn’t been in contact, do you mean that you hadn’t met for three years?’

Stafford smiled slightly. ‘I mean we hadn’t spoken at all.’

‘No telephone calls?’

‘No.’

‘What about letters? Did you write to her?’

‘We did all our corresponding through solicitors,’ said Stafford. ‘It seemed to help to filter out the venom.’

‘You mean the spite.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But you did send a postcard to your ex-wife’s parents.’

‘Oh, that. They showed you that, did they?’ Stafford laughed, as if amused at the prank of a child who didn’t know any better. ‘It was just a joke. I’m amazed they kept it. They could hardly have wanted a memento of me.’

‘Was there some spite on the part of Mr and Mrs Weston as well, then?’

‘Chief Inspector, in this case I would go along with animosity.’

Fry studied the leather jacket Stafford wore. It had been an expensive jacket once. It had probably taken a long time for it to get so decrepit. Or should that be scruffy?

‘How’s the freelance journalism business these days?’ she asked.

‘Tough,’ admitted Stafford. ‘Very competitive, you know. But I’m keeping my head above water.’

‘Can’t afford a smart car, then, I suppose?’

‘I drive an Escort. It isn’t exactly brand new.’

‘When were you last in Totley?’

‘Where?’

‘Totley.’

‘That’s Sheffield, isn’t it? I think I’ve passed through it from time to time on the way into the city. It’s the sort of place that you do just pass through, if I remember rightly. Not the sort of place you’d stop. Unless you live there, of course. Is there a reason for that question?’

‘Do you know where your ex-wife lived after the house you shared was sold?’ asked Tailby.

‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Stafford slowly. ‘But might I make an intelligent guess that it was Totley?’

‘Her neighbours have reported a man trying to find her.’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘The afternoon of Wednesday 22nd of October. .’

Stafford produced a diary. ‘I have detailed records of my movements right here, Chief Inspector. I thought you’d never ask.’

‘We’ll take the details from you when you give a statement.’

‘Fine.’

‘Is the name Ros Daniels familiar to you?’ asked Fry.

Martin Stafford shrugged. ‘I have such a lot of old girlfriends, you know. It’s difficult to remember all their names.’

‘About twenty years old, hair in dreadlocks and a couple of rings in her nose.’

‘Hardly, dear.’

‘She was known to your ex-wife.’

Stafford shook his head. ‘Jenny was mixing in different circles from when we were married, then. I’ve no idea who the person you’re describing could be.’

‘Very well,’ said Tailby. ‘That’ll do for now.’

‘I am sorry, you know,’ said Stafford. ‘But she was nothing to do with me any more.’

When Stafford had gone, DCI Tailby seemed to want to sit for a while. Fry stayed with him, wondering if he wanted to discuss the interview, or whether he was content with his own thoughts.

‘Did you believe him, sir?’ she said.

Tailby looked at her in surprise. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It rings true. He believes that Jenny Weston was nothing to do with him.’

‘It seems as though she’s nothing to do with anybody, really,’ said Fry. And as soon as she had said it, the irony of the sentence lodged in a corner of her chest. It was as if the words hadn’t been her own at all, but had been said by someone else about her . She was aware that her life had become completely solitary, apart from the unavoidable professional contact with her colleagues, who had soon learned not to enquire about her private life. She was nothing to do with anybody, really.

‘Not quite true,’ said Tailby, watching Fry curiously. ‘There’s one person out there that she has a whole lot to do with. Though maybe she never knew it.’