Jayne’s pale cheeks had reddened. It was the first time she had shown animation. Alix felt like hugging herself. The ice was well and truly broken. Jayne might say she didn’t want to talk, but it was only natural that she would seize the chance of challenging the received wisdom. Maybe, just maybe, she genuinely believed what she was saying. Or had made herself believe it.
Suddenly Alix understood something that had eluded her until now. “You expected him to get off, didn’t you? You really supposed the jury would acquit.”
“That was when I had faith in British justice.”
“But two of the deceased actually left legacies to you or your husband.”
“It happens, in residential care homes. We cared for people, night and day. They were full of gratitude. We didn’t encourage them to make us gifts. But some residents can be very persistent. They wanted to show how much they appreciated the way we looked after them, that’s all.”
“You have to admit the timing looked unfortunate. Both the wills were made in the fortnight before the deaths occurred. No wonder the families became suspicious.”
“Only one of them, the Devaneys. Pure greed. They were the people who alerted the police. If it hadn’t been for them, William would never even have been questioned, let alone convicted. In each case the doctors certified death as due to natural causes. As for the legacies, William and I were only ever going to get peanuts.”
She was in full flow, the legal advice on omerta well and truly forgotten. To encourage her, Alix assumed her most fascinated expression and said, “Really?”
“Yes! You must have researched this. Fifteen hundred or two thousand at most. Don’t forget, our residents weren’t rich people. Most of them had spent their lives doing manual work in inner-city Liverpool, or else on the dole. The council was paying their fees because its own homes were packed out. Why would my husband kill for so little reward?”
“Because he could?” Alix sampled the bread. It was dry, and a single mouthful was enough. “So easy, you see. Old folks, come to while away their twilight hours at this home. Frail, defenceless eighty-somethings. Easily smothered. At that age, if someone dies, who makes a song and dance? Hey, death is what happens to old people. He had a good innings, that’s what people say, isn’t it? It’s only to be expected. Maybe even to be welcomed. Passing away peacefully in bed, there are plenty of worse ways to go.”
Jayne drained her cup. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like? Don’t you see, Jayne? This is your chance. You can tell your story for the first time. Explain to the world how it feels to be treated in this way.”
Jayne got to her feet. “Sorry, I just don’t want to carry on with this. Please go away from here. I’m not prepared to talk to you anymore.”
In the bar of the swanky four-star Seascape Manor, Alix finished her vodka and tonic and said, “She’s got something to hide, I’m sure of it. Maybe evidence that could wreck William’s appeal if it came to light. She only talked to me to find out whether I’d discovered a clue to whatever it is she’s trying to keep secret.”
Rupert thrust out his lower lip. It made him look about thirteen. “Maybe she helped her old man to do in the geriatrics. So what?”
She punched him lightly on the stomach and he pretended to double up in pain.
“You don’t understand. This is important to me. This could be such a great programme. What’s it like, being married to a serial killer? Does it come as a terrible shock, to find out the man you’ve been sleeping with has committed a string of murders? Or is it really confirming what, deep down, you already suspected? All those little things you turned a blind eye to, the nagging doubts at last bitterly confirmed.”
Rupert laughed and Alix felt his leg brushing against hers under the table. “This really turns you on, doesn’t it?”
Alix unclipped her hair from the ponytail, letting it fall onto her shoulders. This evening was going to end the way most such evenings ended. More than likely she’d just lie back and think of the BAFTAs. Yeah. Best Documentary, it definitely had a ring to it.
“This could make such great telly,” she said.
“Right,” Rupert said. She could tell from the way he was looking at her that he’d talked enough about murder. “So, Ms. Alix Lawry, what else turns you on?”
Next morning, Alix lingered in bed until it was after ten. She had a hangover and didn’t bother with breakfast. Peel was supposed to be famous for its kippers but the very thought of tucking into dead fish made her want to puke. Rupert left her early: He had meetings to attend and money to make. They’d have one more night together before he went home to his posh flat in Fulham and the accountant girlfriend who, he said not very convincingly, bored him rigid. Alix wouldn’t be sorry to see him go: He wasn’t the least selfish lover she’d ever encountered. Perhaps he might say the same about her. Whatever. They’d helped each other to wile away the time.
She wasn’t sure how long she would stay on the island. The booking was for a week, but more than likely she’d know sooner than that whether a programme about the Ive case was viable. The first time they’d spoken, she’d talked about a fee for cooperation, but Jayne had said at once she wasn’t interested in money. A lie, of course, for everyone was interested in money. All the same, she could understand why Jayne was sensitive. Refusing the tabloid offers to tell her story might have cost her, but it was a good move in terms of maintaining credibility. Once you sold your soul to the red-tops, you were fair game. What chance then of insisting on personal privacy? Jayne was wise to keep her options open. What Alix needed to do was to keep on at her. Everyone was persuadable. It was a question of making her understand that a serious, balanced, and fair examination of series killings from the perspective of the culprit’s (sorry, alleged culprit’s) wife would give her a right to answer everyone who said she must have known.
Alix scrambled out of bed and started getting dressed. She’d always realised it wouldn’t be easy to tempt Jayne into talking. Perhaps she ought to play dirty. It was never the first option; she had professional standards, after all, and before long she would have a reputation as a serious broadcaster to protect. But it wasn’t a last resort, either.
Before leaving London, she’d done her homework. Rosie, poor Rosie, her father’s final victim, had found herself a part-time job in a bookshop. Although Alix didn’t have the name of the place, how many bookshops could there be in somewhere the size of Peel?
Several, as it turned out, and it was a case of fourth-time-lucky when, around lunchtime, Alix arrived at an antiquarian dealer’s dusty place of business in a side street near the harbour. The front window was given over to a display of Hall Caine first editions. Whoever Hall Caine was. There were two big ground-floor rooms, crammed with books from floor to ceiling. The place reeked of mildew. In one of the rooms an old man with a flowing beard was talking to a doubtful customer about a volume of local history.
“It will tell you everything you’d like to know about that remarkable fellow Magnus Barefoot. How he built the first castle...”
Magnus Barefoot? For God’s sake, this place was like something out of Tolkien. Alix moved away. A scruffy sign on a piece of cardboard said Upstairs to Children’s, Reference, and Sport. She climbed the steps carefully, holding on to the wobbly banister. The rickety staircase was a deathtrap.
A young woman stood facing a set of shelves devoted to the likes of Enid Blyton and Captain W.E. Johns. Her ample backside wasn’t flattered by today’s choice of leggings, in hideous mauve. A mobile phone was clamped to her ear.