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Authors: Shaun Hutson
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introduced them briefly. Then, as Julie went through into the kitchen to make tea, Donna ushered Mackenzie into the sitting-room.
‘I hope you’re feeling better,’ the policeman said, standing self-consciously in the centre of the sitting-room.
‘Sit down, please,’ Donna said, slipping a hand inside her coat with her back to him, dropping the photos onto a coffee table. She pushed the newspaper over them, then turned back to face him and pulled off her coat.
Mackenzie perched on the edge of one chair, his hands clasped together as if he were cold.
‘The other night, when you arrived at the hospital, I know you probably weren’t thinking straight. It probably didn’t occur to you it was unusual that a plain-clothes man should be present at an identification. I didn’t think it was a good time to explain.’
‘Explain what?’ Donna asked.
‘There were questions I needed to ask you about your husband; only trivial things. Well, trivial to you, probably.’ He attempted a comforting smile but failed miserably. ‘I need to know how often he had his car serviced.’
Donna looked puzzled, then she too smiled thinly.
‘I know it sounds like a stupid question but it is important, believe me,’ Mackenzie told her.
‘He had it serviced once a year,’ she said.
‘And he never complained about it? About things going wrong with it?’
‘Like what? Everyone complains about their cars, don’t they?’
‘Did he ever complain about the brakes?’
Donna met the policeman’s gaze and held it, the colour draining from her face.
‘It’s a routine question, Mrs Ward,’ the DS said quietly. ‘When your husband’s car was examined following the crash, his brakes were faulty. It could have been that which caused him to crash.’
‘Are you saying the brakes were tampered with?’ Donna said, her voice low.
‘No, definitely not,’ the policeman qualified. ‘We have no proof that anyone interfered with the brakes on your husband’s car. I’m sure it was an unfortunate accident and nothing more.’ He shuffled his fingers together like fleshy playing cards, then looked at her again. ‘And your husband was hardly the kind of man to make enemies, was he?’ Donna shook her head.
‘No, Chris didn’t have any enemies,’ she said quietly.
‘None.’
‘Well then, that’s it. It was the brakes, I’m afraid.’
Julie arrived with the tea but Mackenzie declined and insisted he must go. It was the younger of the two women who saw him out.
Donna sat alone in the sitting-room, listening to the police car pull away. She moved the paper from on top of the photos, her mind spinning.
Enemies.
She looked at the photos lying on the table.
Enemies?
Twenty-One
‘Why would anyone want to murder Chris?’
Donna looked at her sister in bewilderment.
‘You said they were convinced that he wasn’t murdered, that it was a mechanical fault with the car,’ Julie insisted. ‘It’s just routine, Donna. They have to be sure of everything.’
The older woman nodded slowly and shifted her position slightly in the seat, looking down at the photos.
In particular of Chris and the five men.
One pile were those she’d taken from his office; the others those she’d taken from Suzanne’s flat that very evening.
Identical.
The same young faces, the same blurred images of two of the figures.
Those same gold rings on the left index fingers.
Who the hell were these people?
‘How could that happen?’ Donna said, prodding the photos of the group, outlining the fuzzed shapes of the older men’s faces.
‘A fault in the emulsion,’ Julie told her, inspecting the photos. ‘But it’s unusual. The negative could have been tampered with. The point is, why? Obviously, whoever these two men are, they didn’t want to be recognised.’
‘Then why have their photos
‘I hope you’re feeling better,’ the policeman said, standing self-consciously in the centre of the sitting-room.
‘Sit down, please,’ Donna said, slipping a hand inside her coat with her back to him, dropping the photos onto a coffee table. She pushed the newspaper over them, then turned back to face him and pulled off her coat.
Mackenzie perched on the edge of one chair, his hands clasped together as if he were cold.
‘The other night, when you arrived at the hospital, I know you probably weren’t thinking straight. It probably didn’t occur to you it was unusual that a plain-clothes man should be present at an identification. I didn’t think it was a good time to explain.’
‘Explain what?’ Donna asked.
‘There were questions I needed to ask you about your husband; only trivial things. Well, trivial to you, probably.’ He attempted a comforting smile but failed miserably. ‘I need to know how often he had his car serviced.’
Donna looked puzzled, then she too smiled thinly.
‘I know it sounds like a stupid question but it is important, believe me,’ Mackenzie told her.
‘He had it serviced once a year,’ she said.
‘And he never complained about it? About things going wrong with it?’
‘Like what? Everyone complains about their cars, don’t they?’
‘Did he ever complain about the brakes?’
Donna met the policeman’s gaze and held it, the colour draining from her face.
‘It’s a routine question, Mrs Ward,’ the DS said quietly. ‘When your husband’s car was examined following the crash, his brakes were faulty. It could have been that which caused him to crash.’
‘Are you saying the brakes were tampered with?’ Donna said, her voice low.
‘No, definitely not,’ the policeman qualified. ‘We have no proof that anyone interfered with the brakes on your husband’s car. I’m sure it was an unfortunate accident and nothing more.’ He shuffled his fingers together like fleshy playing cards, then looked at her again. ‘And your husband was hardly the kind of man to make enemies, was he?’ Donna shook her head.
‘No, Chris didn’t have any enemies,’ she said quietly.
‘None.’
‘Well then, that’s it. It was the brakes, I’m afraid.’
Julie arrived with the tea but Mackenzie declined and insisted he must go. It was the younger of the two women who saw him out.
Donna sat alone in the sitting-room, listening to the police car pull away. She moved the paper from on top of the photos, her mind spinning.
Enemies.
She looked at the photos lying on the table.
Enemies?
Twenty-One
‘Why would anyone want to murder Chris?’
Donna looked at her sister in bewilderment.
‘You said they were convinced that he wasn’t murdered, that it was a mechanical fault with the car,’ Julie insisted. ‘It’s just routine, Donna. They have to be sure of everything.’
The older woman nodded slowly and shifted her position slightly in the seat, looking down at the photos.
In particular of Chris and the five men.
One pile were those she’d taken from his office; the others those she’d taken from Suzanne’s flat that very evening.
Identical.
The same young faces, the same blurred images of two of the figures.
Those same gold rings on the left index fingers.
Who the hell were these people?
‘How could that happen?’ Donna said, prodding the photos of the group, outlining the fuzzed shapes of the older men’s faces.
‘A fault in the emulsion,’ Julie told her, inspecting the photos. ‘But it’s unusual. The negative could have been tampered with. The point is, why? Obviously, whoever these two men are, they didn’t want to be recognised.’
‘Then why have their photos
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