Luke Delaney - The Jackdaw

Sean couldn’t help but roll his eyes around his salubrious surroundings. ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ he said as tactfully as he knew how, ‘but from the outside he would have looked like just another wealthy banker.’

‘From the outside,’ she pointed out. ‘This monster knew nothing about Paul. He gave away thousands to charity. I used to joke that he’d give away everything we had if I’d allow him – make us homeless.’

‘Why?’ Sean asked, not sure where his questions would take him, but asking anyway. ‘Did he feel guilty about his wealth for some reason?’

‘No,’ she bit. ‘Why should he? Why should we? We’ve worked hard for everything we have. We both have. But there’ll always be jealous people who would rather just take what we have than earn it for themselves.’

Sean imagined her and her dead husband’s backgrounds – wealthy families sending them to the best schools and the best universities, feeding them in to the network of the privileged to ensure they’d be groomed for the top jobs. He swallowed his resentment.

‘So you think your husband was killed by someone who is jealous of him?’ he asked.

‘Of course he was,’ Mrs Elkins insisted. ‘What else could it be?’

‘Do you have someone in mind?’ he encouraged her. ‘Someone you know was jealous of your husband?’

‘No.’ She shook her head and pulled her daughter closer. ‘We don’t know anyone who could possibly do anything like this. Paul was killed by a stranger – a bitter, jealous stranger.’

‘And work?’ Sean persisted. ‘Was there anyone he’d been having trouble with at work?’

‘Look.’ She closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. ‘Paul was a very senior executive. It would be unrealistic to think there wasn’t a degree of professional jealousy, but nothing that would lead to this.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Sean told her. ‘Jealously can make people do terrible things.’

‘And it has,’ she agreed, ‘but not by someone we know. Paul was liked. He was a good man. He cared about other people – including the people he worked with. No one would have hurt him. My God,’ Mrs Elkins suddenly said as she began to sob heavily. Her friend quickly took some tissues from a box on the table in front of her and handed them to her. ‘I’m already talking about him in the past tense.’ Her daughter’s sobbing also intensified as Sean looked on; the need to escape to the sanctuary of the street was beginning to overwhelm him. He breathed in deeply and steadied himself.

‘What about someone else?’ he asked. ‘Someone who worked at the house maybe?’

‘No,’ she insisted, shaking her head again. ‘We only have the cleaners, and Rosemary who helps out with the children, and Simon the gardener, but no one else and they all loved Paul. He looked after them well.’

‘Was he having any trouble at work,’ he pressed, ‘from an unhappy customer – any threatening phone calls or letters – emails?’

‘Not that he told me of,’ she assured him. ‘I mean, when things were at their worst, when the banking crisis thing first started, there were threats to the bank, but nothing Paul seemed worried about. He didn’t mention anything specific. But he never talked about work at home. Maybe the bank can tell you more – I’m not sure, but this all seems a bit pointless. He was taken by an insane murdering animal, not a jealous colleague or bitter employee, and if you don’t catch him he’ll do it again,’ she warned them. ‘He’s as good as said he will.’

Sean and Donnelly looked at each other for a long few seconds before looking back at Mrs Elkins.

‘I think we have everything we need for now,’ Donnelly intervened. ‘A Family Liaison Officer from Special Investigations will come to see you later, and rest assured we’ll be in touch as soon as we find out anything. In the meantime, if you think of anything, anything at all, just tell the Family Liaison Officer.’

‘And that’s it?’ she asked. ‘Paul is murdered – a brief visit from the police and we’re supposed to just get on with our lives?’

‘No,’ Sean warned her. ‘I’m sorry, but this is just the beginning. It won’t be over until we find the man who did this.’

Mrs Elkins looked to the ceiling before taking a more conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been unreasonable. It’s just I can’t believe this has actually happened. It all seems so impossible.’

‘No need to apologize,’ Sean assured her, getting to his feet. ‘You’ve suffered a terrible shock. Best thing I can do for you now is find the man who did this.’ He pulled a business card out and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Call me if you need anything – any time. Don’t get up. We’ll see ourselves out.’

Donnelly pushed himself off the sofa and followed Sean out of the room towards the front door, with Mendham following close behind. ‘Any idea when you’ll get your Family Liaison Officer here? I don’t fancy being stuck here long,’ he asked.

‘They’ll be here when they’re here,’ Sean reprimanded him.

‘Cheer up, son,’ Donnelly told him. ‘It’s not all car chases and kicking down doors. Sometimes we have to earn our meagre wages.’

‘You won’t be here too long,’ Sean assured him as he opened the front door and walked into the street without turning to see Mendham’s frustrated gestures at being abandoned.

‘What now?’ Donnelly asked.

‘You said there were witnesses,’ Sean reminded him. ‘We might as well speak to them seeing as how we’re already here.’

‘Aye,’ Donnelly agreed. ‘So which one do you want to see − the housekeeper or the yummy mummy?’

‘I’ll take the mum.’

‘That figures. Name’s Angela Haitink. Number eighteen.’

‘Thanks,’ Sean told him and headed off without saying more. A few seconds later he was standing on the steps of a five-storey white Georgian house with a black door so shiny it made his reflection vibrate when he used the ornate chrome knocker.

Interviewing witnesses was never something he’d enjoyed. He always milked them for everything and anything they were worth, but he found their inaccuracies and hesitancy frustrating and annoying. He reminded himself not to treat Angela Haitink as a suspect. After almost a minute the door was answered by a tall, slim woman in her mid-thirties, with short blonde hair in a ponytail, wearing a designer tracksuit and trainers that he guessed would cost him a week’s wages. Her similarity to the mothers of the children taken by Douglas Allen reminded him of the impending trial he’d almost forgotten about in the fury of a new case.

‘Yes,’ she asked, her accent exactly what he expected. ‘Can I help you with something?’ She looked him up and down as if he was an unwanted salesman.

He opened his warrant card and waited for a change in her expression that never came. ‘Angela Haitink?’ he asked. She nodded yes. ‘Detective Inspector Corrigan. I’m investigating the murder of Paul Elkins. I understand you witnessed his abduction?’

She glanced at her sports watch, her expression finally changing to one of concern. ‘Do we have to do this right now? I’m afraid I’m running a little late.’

He swallowed his resentment. ‘It is rather important,’ he told her. ‘A man has been killed. One of your neighbours.’

She looked up and down the street before speaking again. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Please come in.’ She stepped aside and allowed him to enter, heading for the kitchen after closing the door – Sean following, taking in the opulent surroundings. ‘It was a terrible thing,’ she told him without sounding genuinely concerned. ‘We’re all in a state of shock. I even knew the poor man, for God’s sake.’