“And her husband threatened violence?”
“He threatened to kill her.”
A radio message when they got back to the car told them that perhaps he had kept his promise; Elizabeth Sanderson had died from her injuries.
Philip Waterhouse might have been designed by a protocol to be the killer. Although only twenty-seven, he had four convictions for violence, including seven months’ imprisonment for assault. He had several cautions for joyriding, and had tried his hand at social-security fraud.
“A charmer,” was Rich’s dry conclusion as they drove to Waterhouse’s flat next morning. It wasn’t a chintz-and-charm neighbourhood; low-rise blocks of concrete flats separated by tatty grass strips and old, rusting cars. Perhaps half of the windows around them were boarded. The atmosphere was one of hard hostility. It was the kind of area that the fire brigade didn’t want to know existed and that taxi drivers avoided after dark.
“With a grudge, perhaps.”
Waterhouse had had educational difficulties, leaving school at fifteen without anything to show for it, not even proficient in cycling. He had had a broken home, been fostered at the age of nine and then sexually abused by both of his foster parents, who had subsequently been convicted on seventeen counts.
Waterhouse answered their knock after a long delay, clearly woken from sleep. It was with some shock that they recognised the porter who had been in Intensive Care the night before. From his expression, he, too, had recognised them.
Beverley didn’t waste any time. “We’re here about Elizabeth Sanderson.”
“What about her?”
The room was cold and untidy and small. Baby’s things cluttered the floor and there was an odour of soiled nappies. Beverley wondered where the wife and child were.
“She died last night.”
“So?”
“We’re treating it as murder, and you are known to have threatened her.”
His attitude suggested insouciance, but Beverley saw concern in his small eyes as he said, “So I killed her? All I said was that I would get even with her.”
“What did she do?”
“She got my wife sacked.”
“Your wife stole some money from her.”
“So she said, but she’s a liar. Look around — we’re not rich — we needed that money. She’s got a job cleaning but she’s working her guts out and it’s a lot less than she was getting as a nurse.”
“But if she stole money...”
He said at once, “Sally’s no thief. Sanderson lost the money, or maybe someone else stole it.”
“You are a thief, though, aren’t you?”
His defence of his wife faltered, then he rallied. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“A thief; a violent thief.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
Beverley smiled. “So you say.” Then, “The fact remains that you did threaten to kill Elizabeth Sanderson and now she’s dead.”
“And it wasn’t me.”
“Where were you last night?”
“At work. You saw me.”
“What time did you start?”
“Nine.”
Beverley smiled. “Plenty of time. Elizabeth Sanderson was run down at about eight. Where were you before you went to work?”
“Here, babysitting. Sally doesn’t get in from work until eight-thirty.”
“You were alone?”
“No. The baby was here.”
Strangely no one laughed. Beverley asked, “You’ve got a car?”
“It’s got four wheels but I don’t reckon Michael Schumacher would rate it.”
“Where is it?”
A sleepy half-cry came from a room beyond before Waterhouse said, “Outside.”
“Make? Colour?”
There was a moment of quiet, but then the crying began again, this time louder, this time more demanding, this time not ceasing. Waterhouse said sourly, “It’s a white Ford Escort.”
Beverley and Rich stood up. Over the noise, she said, “We’ll need to take it for forensics.”
Despite the crying of his baby, Waterhouse stayed seated. “And what am I supposed to do?”
She held out her hand for the key. “Take the bus. Now, are you going to cooperate, or shall we take you down to the station for questioning on suspicion of murder?”
In the street, they inspected the car.
“I can’t see anything,” said Rich. “Can you?”
It was covered in scratches and was rusting badly around the doors. It had probably been in several collisions, but none of them recently as far as she could tell.
“No,” she sighed. “Still, he might have got a quick body job done on it. We should get it checked out by the lab.”
A woman was looking at them from across the street. She was old but still erect and apparently alert. She held her coat closed tightly across her chest. Beverley said, “I can’t believe we’re that interesting, can you?”
They crossed to her. Rich showed her his warrant card and Beverley asked, “Can we help you?”
The woman must have been around eighty. She said, “I saw you looking.”
“And?”
She nodded at Waterhouse’s flat. “Drives like a maniac, he does. ’Bout time you did something about it. Nearly knocked me down last week.”
Beverley nodded sympathetically. “What about last night? Did he drive like that when he went out last night?”
“Oh yes. Woke up half the neighbourhood, he was so loud.”
“And what time was that?”
The woman thought. “Just before eight. Coronation Street hadn’t finished.”
Elizabeth Sanderson’s home proved barren of interest. It was untidy, but no worse than Beverley’s, and Rich thought it positively exemplary. There were no letters from blackmailers, the bank statements were boring, and they found no hint that she was a drug dealer.
Rich, who had done the majority of the searching while Beverley watched, announced, “There’s nothing here of use to us.”
She was reading a letter that she had found in the kitchen by the bread bin. It was from the GMC. “We should speak to Ascherson.”
“Why? It’s obviously Waterhouse.”
She stood up. “It’s never obvious, Ed. Not even when they’ve been convicted.”
Ascherson lived in quite a large house that was slightly rundown. It had a view over a golf course at the back and the road was relatively wide, but there was a faint air of neglect over the entire neighbourhood; the paint on window frames and doors was peeling, some of the gardens were overgrown. It was as if the upper middle classes had moved on elsewhere, leaving the slightly less prosperous to their fate. The Ascherson house had clearly not been painted for a long time, and there was an ugly green stain on the brickwork where a blocked gutter had been overflowing, possibly for years.
The man who answered the doorbell was small and perhaps in his sixties. He looked crushed, both because he had a slight stoop and because on his face was a look of total loss. He had an unhealthy, pallid look to his skin. The room into which they were ushered was cluttered with ornaments and photographs; all of the pictures were of Ascherson and a woman, clearly his wife. The pictures presented a haphazard photojournal of their lives together, with some clearly dating back forty years. The surfaces had not been dusted for many weeks.
“We couldn’t have children,” he said, although no question had been asked. “We only had each other.”
“We’d like to talk to you about your wife’s death, Mr. Ascherson.”
He nodded. What else, he seemed to imply, was there to discuss?
“I understand she died because of an error on the part—”
“Negligence,” he interrupted. “It was unforgivable negligence.”