So the previous night she had found herself dropping in to her neighbourhood pub on the way home. Just the one, she had said to herself. Just the one. A quick gin and tonic. Support the local economy, and all that. Maybe Terry would join her. They could make a night of it.
But of course he was at her house, DVD on the TV stand, takeaway menu in hand. Waiting for her. So she would just have the one. It went down so fast she barely noticed it. So she had another. And another. And when she arrived home, the house was dark, cold and empty.
So she had another drink.
She had noticed this pattern before when she was working on a case as big as this one. She would pull away from those closest to her, make excuses not to spend time with them. It was the only way she was capable of working. And it always involved alcohol. She was surprised Terry put up with it. She doubted he would for much longer.
DC Deepak Shah was looking out of the window. Away from the house, away from her. He had kept his eyes averted all the time she had sat there taking the tablets. He had made no comment, no judgement, but his lack of comment was judgement enough.
Jessie looked at him. He still had his eyes averted. ‘What?’
He stayed where he was. ‘I didn’t say anything. Ma’am.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ she said, running her tongue over her teeth. Feeling the bitter grit beneath. ‘I think we’ve worked together long enough for me to know when I’ve disappointed you in some way.’
He turned, looked at her. Slowly. ‘What you do in your free time has nothing to do with me. As long as you can still function when we’re working together, that’s fine. Ma’am.’ He looked away again.
Jessie kept staring straight ahead at the big front door of the Sloane house. Willing it to open.
The two of them had visited the Sloanes as their last call on their way home the previous night. As soon as Deepak had taken the call concerning ownership of the car left parked outside the destroyed cottage in Aldeburgh, the Sloane residence had jumped to the top of their list for investigation. They had pulled up in the early evening, gasping audibly. The house, situated in Playford, between Ipswich and Woodbridge, was a huge, imposing sixteenth-century hall.
Jessie had stood at the front gates, spoken to the intercom. The voice on the other end had tried to fob her off, but she had been insistent. The gates had opened and they had both walked up the drive past the gatehouse, over the footbridge to the door of the main hall, trying to pretend they weren’t overawed. They flashed their warrant cards, asked to speak to Michael Sloane and were told by the housekeeper that he was out and wouldn’t be back that night. They asked when he would return and were greeted with a shrug. They left a message asking him to call them and departed. The gates closed behind them.
That had been that.
And Jessie had spent the rest of the night hiding in a bottle.
Deepak, on the other hand, hadn’t been idle.
He had called in at the station, run a check on Michael Sloane. Found out that he ran one of the biggest industrial farming operations in the east of England, with trade and shipping links to Europe. A very wealthy man, a very well-connected businessman. They would have to tread carefully when they spoke to him.
‘Oh God, that’s all we need,’ Jessie had said, groaning. ‘Involving one of the Chief Constable’s golfing mates in this investigation. We’ll have to be careful how we handle this, Deepak, me old mate. Or you and me’ll be back in uniform working in Traffic.’
‘We don’t know that he knows the Chief Constable,’ Deepak had replied.
‘No, we don’t. But until we learn otherwise, let’s just assume.’
‘There was something else,’ Deepak said. ‘A couple of things, actually.’
Jessie waited.
‘I don’t know if you remember, but the Sloanes were involved in a huge case a few years back. Their father remarried and their new stepbrother took a shotgun to the whole family.’
‘Oh,’ said Jessie. ‘Those Sloanes.’
‘Indeed. Michael and his sister survived but needed a lot of patching up. They took over the family business, extended into Europe and became recluses at the same time.’
‘A sister and brother? Holed up in that house together? Weird.’
‘And there’s something else. Get this. Jeff Hibbert, our dead man from yesterday, was one of the chief gangmasters for Sloane’s Farms.’
Despite the headache, something prickled at the back of Jessie’s neck. ‘Oh. Now that’s interesting. A mystery man gives Hibbert’s address at the scene of a crime and then disappears. Hibbert is then found murdered. And Michael Sloane’s car is found at the scene of the first crime. Interesting … ’
They had cancelled their plans for Sunday and come to pay Michael Sloane another visit.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Jessie. ‘You know what was odd about last night?’
Deepak said he didn’t.
‘The housekeeper. She never asked why we were here. Two detectives rock up on your doorstep to speak to your boss. Never once did she ask what it was about. Don’t you think that’s strange?’
‘Maybe she didn’t think it was her place,’ Deepak said.
‘Or maybe we were expected,’ said Jessie.
They had resumed their vigil while they decided what to do.
Their minds were made up for them. As they watched, an Ipswich city cab pulled up. The passenger got out, paid the driver, watched the car pull away before turning to look at the gates.
‘Hey,’ said Jessie, ‘see who that is?’
Deepak nodded. He was looking towards the house now. ‘Helen Hibbert. Widow of the parish. Wonder what she wants?’
They watched as Helen Hibbert walked up to the gate, pressed the intercom, spoke. Waited.
‘No chance,’ said Jessie.
‘Shouldn’t have sent that cab away.’
Then the gate swung open and Helen Hibbert was admitted.
They looked at each other.
‘Someone’s home now,’ said Deepak. ‘Should we follow?’
Jessie thought for a few seconds. ‘Let’s just wait,’ she said. ‘See what happens. No hurry.’ She smiled. ‘Besides, we wouldn’t want to crash the party, would we?’
57
Even though Michael Sloane had agreed to see her, Helen Hibbert hadn’t thought it would be this simple. Just walk up to the gate, announce herself, walk in. But as she approached the house, the gravel crunching beneath her heels, she began to remember that dealing with the Sloanes was never straightforward. Her previous experiences with them had been exhausting. Countering their lies, dodging their deceits had taken all her skill and concentration. Trying to get anything from them had been a nightmare.
But at least she was in and they were going to meet with her. That was the first step. Now all she had to do was make sure she didn’t lose her nerve. Got what she came for.
No pressure, then.
She walked up to the front door, ready to ring the bell. Before she could, the door opened. The housekeeper stood there. Silent. Expectant.
Helen cleared her throat. ‘I’m here to see Michael Sloane. He’s expecting me.’
‘Mr Sloane is unavailable at the moment.’
‘You mean he’s out?’
‘He is unavailable.’
Helen felt anger rising with her. The Sloanes up to their old tricks. Messing her around again. ‘No,’ she said, speaking slowly so that this foreign woman could understand. ‘I phoned him. He said he would be here. He is expecting me.’