‘Intimate?’
‘There was nothing said to confirm it, but from something my son let slip, I wouldn’t have been surprised.’
‘Would that have worried you?’
‘It might have worried Irma, Dave’s mother, but I wouldn’t have been too concerned. My son is a grown man: he’s approaching nineteen, a mature nineteen, I think you’d say. He’s had girlfriends since he was fifteen, at school and at home. Yes, I could see him being attracted to an older woman, and she to him.’ He paused. ‘Inspector, the fact is, he and Sugar were planning to go to France together.’
‘To Collioure?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I was told that Sugar was supposed to be going there.’
‘It’s true. Dave told me that they had rented a place for July, through an agency, and that they were going to spend the time painting. It’s a favourite spot for artists, apparently; Charles Rennie Mackintosh, among others. I asked him how much they were paying. The figure he gave me didn’t sound very much for that part of the world, so I surmised that it didn’t run to a bedroom each.’
‘Do you know where your son is now?’ Stallings asked.
‘I assume he’s in France. He travelled back to our home in Buxton with us after the school closed. We drove, as he had to move all his stuff out of the boarders’ residence. The arrangement was that Sugar would fly there on the Saturday, that’s. . what?. . ten days ago now, and that Dave would follow her a couple of days after that. He left for Collioure last Monday; he flew to Perpignan and planned to take the bus from there.’
‘Have you heard from him since then?’
‘No. Not a word. I’ve been assuming that the two of them were painting away, or whatever. The last thing he said when I dropped him at Stansted was that he’d send me a postcard. Those can take for ever to get here from Europe, so I haven’t been bothered.’
‘Do you have an address?’
‘No, he didn’t give me one. I don’t think he knew it himself.’
‘Do you have a means of contacting him?’
‘He has a mobile. And as soon as we’re finished, Inspector, I’ll be calling him. Be sure of that.’
‘I think it might be better if I speak to him first,’ Stallings ventured.
‘You can think what you like,’ Colledge snapped, ‘but you’re not going to forbid me to call my son. I’ll be happy to give you the number, but I want a few minutes’ grace before you use it.’
‘If that’s how you want it, you’re right, I can’t stop you. But please, be careful what you say to him. Mature he may be, but it’s not the sort of news he’ll be expecting.’
‘I’m not without experience of such matters,’ the MP told her. ‘I’m a barrister by profession. I’ve handled Privy Council appeals for a couple of Caribbean clients in my time, in capital cases; unsuccessful appeals, I should add. It’s never easy to tell a chap they’re going to hang him in the morning. Here’s the number, if you’re ready. It’s a UK mobile, as I say. You won’t need to use the French code.’
She entered the eleven digits into her Filofax, under ‘C’, then followed it with Michael Colledge’s personal House of Commons and mobile numbers. ‘I expect to be kept informed,’ he told her.
‘I promise to do so,’ said Stallings. ‘Does your son have the means to get back to Britain?’
‘He has a return ticket; plus he’s not short of cash. He has a decent allowance, and a couple of pieces of plastic.’
‘Mr Colledge, one final question. Let’s assume that your son got to France to find that Sugar wasn’t there. How would he react?’
‘In any number of ways, Inspector. Because we’ve been apart for most of Dave’s growing up, I might not know him as well as I should. But I can tell you this. He will handle it; if he’s worried or hurt or anything else, he will not turn to anyone else for help. . not even me.’
Fifteen
As Becky Stallings walked up the path towards number eight Meriadoc Crescent, she saw the curtains twitch at number six, and guessed that Mrs Holmes was at her post.
On her second visit to the bungalow, there was no need to ring the bell. The door was opened as she approached by a tall, middle-aged man in a checked shirt and faded jeans. His face bore an expression that managed to combine shock and trepidation. ‘Ms Stallings?’ he asked. ‘I’m John Dean.’
They shook hands, and the inspector introduced DC Haddock, who was following her. ‘Thank you for letting me know you were back,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you till this evening.’
‘Don’t ask how fast I drove,’ Dean replied, as he led them into a thoroughly conventional living room, one of thousands of its type in Edinburgh’s middle-class suburbia. A woman sat in an armchair, a glass full of a brownish liquid clutched tightly in her hand. ‘My wife, Greta.’ He caught Stallings’s glance. ‘I’m sorry, after the journey we both felt the need of a drink. Would you like one?’
‘No, thanks. I know it’s a cliché, but we’re on duty.’
‘Have you sorted this thing out?’ the anxious mother asked harshly. ‘Have you found out who this woman is? It can’t be Sugar: we’d have … We’d just have known.’
Unbidden, Stallings sat on the couch close to her. ‘Mrs Dean,’ she began, but got no further. The woman bent forward, putting her hands to her face and pressing the glass against her forehead, as if she was trying to hide inside it from the truth. Her shoulders began to shake with sobs.
Her husband came and stood beside her, as if he was standing guard. ‘There’s no doubt?’ he whispered, colour draining from his cheeks.
‘The medical history you gave us,’ Stallings told him, ‘appendectomy scar, healed radial fracture: they’re both present on the dead woman.’
Dean was shivering as he stared blankly at the wall. Sauce Haddock stepped across to the sideboard, picked up his discarded glass and a bottle of Famous Grouse, and poured a large measure. ‘Here, sir,’ said the young man, as he handed it to him.
‘Thanks,’ he murmured. He took a swallow, then another. ‘You’ll want me to identify her, I take it. I’d be grateful for an hour or two to prepare myself.’
‘In the circumstances,’ the inspector replied, ‘that won’t be necessary. We can confirm your daughter’s identity by DNA, if you can give us personal samples.’
Greta Dean had recovered some composure. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ She paused for a strengthening breath. ‘But we’d like to see for ourselves that it’s true.’
Stallings looked up at John Dean, hoping that he had read her meaning.
He had. ‘No, Gret,’ he told his wife. ‘What the officers are saying is that there’s no legal requirement for a formal identification, and that it will be better for us to see Sugar in a funeral home, rather than in the mortuary. In that case, that’s what we’ll do.’
The inspector nodded, hoping that they chose the most skilled mortician in the city. Dean motioned her towards the back of the room, then through an open door that led into the kitchen. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’m aware now, from the radio, that this is a murder investigation.’
‘Sugar was shot in the back of the head. Her death bears strong similarities to a series of murders committed earlier this year.’
Dean frowned heavily. ‘Yes, I remember. Sugar knew one of those poor girls, Stacey Gavin. They were at art college at the same time. But I thought that you’d caught the person who did those.’
‘We did. He was found dead, and those investigations are closed.’
‘So this might be the sincerest form of flattery? Is that what you think?’
‘It’s an unavoidable possibility.’
‘So there may be more on the way?’
‘Let’s hope not. But we’re not there yet. The first thing we have to try to do is establish a motive for Sugar’s death. If we can’t, then we may come to the conclusion that it was random.’
‘I understand.’
‘You thought your daughter was in France, sir?’ she continued.