Hilary Bonner - When the Dead Cry Out

“Yes.” Jennifer Roth’s response was brief at first, then she seemed unable to stop herself saying more. “Ricky made a lot of money on a property he owned in London,” she said defensively. “Anyway, it’s not one of the flats at the front...”

Her voice tailed off. Cooper raised his eyebrows and studied her appraisingly, wondering why she had felt it necessary to explain Marshall’s ability to own an expensive apartment, because even the ones which didn’t actually have a harbour view would still be worth a great deal of money in this highly sought-after location. Maybe she knew all too well that whatever funds Marshall had used to buy the apartment had not come his way through totally honest means. Cooper himself would happily have bet a month’s salary on that.

“So how long have you known Richard Marshall, and how did you meet him?” he persisted.

Jennifer Roth’s face creased into an angry frown. For a moment Cooper thought she was going to tell him again that Marshall was now Ricky Maxwell. But she didn’t, although there was an edge of irritation to her reply.

“We were introduced by friends. It was quite a while ago, I can’t remember when, and in any case I don’t see what it’s got to do with anything. We became closer over the years, and eventually it just seemed to happen that I came here to live with him.”

Cooper appraised her, allowed himself a little self-indulgence for a moment.

“You’re a great deal younger than him, Miss Roth. Perhaps you could tell me what attracted you so much to him?”

“I could, Detective Sergeant, but I won’t. It’s none of your business.”

Cooper was aware of the until-now impassive DC Smiley struggling to suppress a laugh, and didn’t entirely blame him.

Fairly swiftly after that Cooper concluded the interview. He had learned at least one fact, although he did not know what importance it might have, which was that Marshall and Jennifer Roth were having a relationship. But he did not see much chance of learning anything else. Not with her attitude, he didn’t — an attitude which would need to be dealt with if she was to be of any further use at all in the investigation, Cooper reckoned. So he decided at least to fire a final salvo before beating a tactical retreat.

“We will be talking again, Miss Roth,” he told her solemnly. “It may not be me, it may be some of my colleagues, but we will be talking to you again. And, if I were you, I would really think about how you are going to handle this. For your own good, Miss Roth, I would strongly advise you to decide to be as helpful as you possibly can in future. This is a murder enquiry. You have been living with a man whom we believe has committed the most foul and brutal kind of murder.”

Jennifer Roth stood up then, and with surprising speed moved around her desk towards Cooper so that she was standing just a few inches from his chair, looking down at him. Cooper didn’t like that. He quickly stood up too. Jennifer Roth really was tall, though. A little over six foot, he thought, certainly taller than him. Cooper was a broad shouldered, well-muscled man, a sportsman, a rugby player. However, he stood a bare five foot eleven, and Jennifer Roth was still looking down on him.

“But he didn’t do it, you ridiculous pompous man,” she said. “Don’t you understand? Ricky has never hurt anyone in his life. He couldn’t. He’s a lovely gentle man. For almost thirty years he’s been chased around the country by you people. He had to change his name because of the mud that’s stuck to him.”

She paused. And when she continued her voice had risen several octaves.

“He didn’t do it, you bastards,” she shouted. “He didn’t do anything. He loved his wife, and he loved his children. He didn’t do it.”

And with that she slumped to her knees on the floor of the marina office, and buried her head in her hands. Her shoulders began to shake and she started to weep loudly, her whole body contorted with sobbing convulsions.

When Karen Meadows arrived back at Torquay Police Station Sean MacDonald was sitting in reception. Waiting for her.

Karen was up to her eyes in work. Her adrenalin was on overtime. But she invited him into her office at once. Sean MacDonald, like her, like all of them, had waited a long time for this day.

The Scotsman looked pale and tired, but he was fit and well-preserved for his age. A neat white beard complemented his full head of white hair. His eyes were still sparkling bright and yet so dark that the irises seemed almost black against his pale papery skin.

He gave Karen a small smile as he sat down in one of the armchairs in her office and she took the other one next to him.

“You’ve been to get him, haven’t you?” he began quietly.

She nodded. But she was mildly surprised. Marshall had been safely delivered to the custody suite at the back of the building, driven straight into the private yard there and smartly escorted in by PCs Brownlow and Richardson. Mac couldn’t have seen him. And she was sure nobody at the station would have told Mac about the arrest. She’d have them keelhauled if they had. But she had total confidence in her team not to do anything that might jeopardize this case, and in any event the front office clerks would probably not even be aware yet of what was going on.

“How do you know?” she enquired, genuinely interested.

Mac’s smile widened. He still had a lovely smile, warm and gentle. But you could see the pain in his eyes: it was etched into the little lines at their corners and ran away from the sides of his mouth, too.

“I’ve longed for this moment for nearly thirty years,” he said quietly, enunciating each word in that precise way he had, his cut-glass Scottish accent pure and sharp as the first fall of snow on the mountains of his beloved Highlands.

“Night and day, ever since she went...” The voice trailed off. There was a catch in it. His smile faded away, slipping into the folds of skin around his mouth, disappearing into the leathery contours of a face that in itself told so much of the tragedy that had overshadowed his long life. He seemed to be struggling to regain control before continuing.

“It’s been with me, all of it, all this time, at the back of my mind all day long regardless of what I am doing, and in my dreams every night. And I mean every night. It’s always there.”

He looked at her. His eyes were even brighter now. She thought a tear or two might be forming.

“But you know that, lass, don’t you?” he said gently.

She nodded. Mac lowered his eyes. But she could see that he was blinking rapidly. She had never seen Sean MacDonald break down, not at any stage since Clara had disappeared. He was a tough dour Scotsman, unaccustomed to showing his feelings. She did know just a little of what he had gone through for all those years. She really did. He was right about that.

“It’s like an instinct with me, all of this,” Mac went on. “When I got here and they said you were out, I just thought: ‘Yes, they’ve gone to get him. At last they’ve gone to get him.’ And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Karen nodded again. “Yes, Mac. You were right.”

“And he’s here now? He’s in this building?”

“Yes. He’s here. In one of our cells by now, probably. Locked up where he belongs at last.”

Mac took a deep breath, drawing in a big gulp of air very slowly, almost as if it hurt him to do so. His voice was even softer when he began to speak again.

“I can feel him here,” he said. “I can feel his presence. I knew he was here.”

He reached out, touched her hand with his.

“Can you keep him locked up? Can you do that, Karen lassie? Is he going to go down? Is there going to be justice for my lovely girls at last?”