Web of Lies, Sally Rigby [list of e readers .TXT] 📗

so if there are any we can take a look at the footage.’

‘Assuming it’s kept for this long.’

‘I expect there isn’t any or Twiggy would have requisitioned it to see the time Witherspoon arrived and what his movements were.’

‘Are you sure he’d have done that when it was assumed to be suicide?’

Would he? She’d like to think so, but she couldn’t be sure. If it had been a busy weekend he might not have.

‘I think so. There doesn’t appear to be anything else here, so let’s go to the pub,’ she said, anxious to move the conversation on.

Chapter 10

7 May

‘Is the pub within walking distance?’ Seb asked, as they left the scene of Donald’s death and headed back to the car.

‘It depends on how fit you’re feeling. We should drive, it’s beside the Foxton Locks staircase. FYI, it’s one of the largest in England and has ten locks.’

‘Impressive.’

‘Never let it be said that my education was wasted.’ She grinned in his direction.

‘I was referring to the locks, not your knowledge of them.’ He paused a moment. ‘I didn’t mean that—’

‘I know,’ she said interrupting. ‘I was joking.’ She pointed to the left. ‘If we drive back down Gumley Road that will take us to the pub and the lower car park.’

‘Is the pub likely to busy at this time?’

‘I’ve no idea. In the summer, when the weather’s good, it is. People sit outside watching the boats go by.’

‘Let’s hope it isn’t, or the staff might be too busy to talk to us. Where exactly were the parents parked when the body was found?’ he asked, scanning the deserted car park.

‘It would have been close to where we are, if they could see their sons playing over there. I’m not sure exactly. Does it matter?’

‘Most likely not. It helps to get a complete picture in my mind of everything that occurred. Especially if it turns out that the time at which Donald died there were other people around. Although, one would assume that if there had been, someone would have reported hearing shots. But at the moment we don’t know because there’s nothing recorded in the file about that.’

‘Look, the investigation deemed Donald’s death to be suicide from the start. If there was anything suggesting otherwise it would have been investigated. Twiggy did his job the best he could.’

Had he touched a nerve?

‘He’s your partner, and you’re bound to feel protective of him. All I’m doing is getting an overview, I’m not here to apportion blame.’

‘That’s all right then,’ she muttered, scuffing her shoes on the gravel.

He drove them to the lower car park, and they walked to the pub, an attractive building overlooking the water. As they entered, he glanced around; it was much larger than it appeared from the outside, and not as quaint as he’d imagined. There was a group of men in suits standing beside the bar, and several couples sitting at tables.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

‘I’m starving. I haven’t eaten for hours.’ She stared longingly at the bags of crisps hanging behind the bar.

‘Is this going to be a theme of us working together? Everywhere we go you need feeding?’ He arched an eyebrow.

‘I did come straight from work, remember, and it’s way past six,’ she said, an incredulous expression on her face. ‘What do you expect me to live on? Thin air?’

‘Fine. Food it is.’ He laughed to himself as they headed to the bar.

‘Can I help you?’ the man serving said as they approached.

‘I’m Sebastian Clifford, and this is DC Bird from the Market Harborough police. We’d like to speak to the landlord, please.’

He hadn’t intended pulling the police card, but decided it might help speed things along.

‘We have a manager. Will he do?’

‘Yes, he would, thank you.’

‘I’ll fetch him. I won’t be long.’

They stood to the side and waited. After a couple of minutes, a tall, overweight man, who looked to be in his fifties came over to them. He wore a red Foxton Locks polo shirt which pulled tightly across his stomach.

‘I’m Freddie Evans, the manager,’ he said in a broad Welsh accent.

‘Sebastian Clifford and this is DC Bird. We’d like to speak to you about this man.’ He held a photo out of Donald. ‘Do you recognise him?’

‘Yeah, course I do. He’s Donald Witherspoon, who screwed everybody out of their money and then decided to commit suicide on our doorstep. How could I forget him?’

‘Did he ever come in the pub?’

‘He was a regular over the years. To be honest, I’d always thought he seemed a like decent bloke. Friendly, chatty. Never rude to the staff. But what the hell do I know? He had us all fooled. I’ve been managing the place for twenty years, and we’ve never had a suicide here before. It played havoc with our business. Plenty of press around, but the locals kept well away. Why are you investigating now, after everything has settled and things are going back to normal?’

‘This isn’t a police investigation.’

‘You said you’re police.’ His brow furrowed as he glared at Birdie.

‘We’re looking into his death on behalf of his wife,’ Seb said.

‘I have nothing else to tell you. I’m busy with admin and only came out because I thought you were police. I don’t like being lied to.’

‘I am an officer, Mr Evans,’ Birdie said, holding out her warrant card. ‘Off duty.’

‘What does that mean? That I don’t have to answer your questions?’

‘It wasn’t my intention to mislead, but would you have spoken to us otherwise?’ Seb said.

‘I suppose not.’

‘So you understand our dilemma. We didn’t lie to you, but maybe we were a little economical with the truth.’

‘You can say that again. I’m going back upstairs to my work.’

He’d risk asking some more questions, as he suspected he wouldn’t get another chance.

‘Before you go, when Mr Witherspoon visited who was he usually with?’

‘Clients, I believe.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because he’d ask for somewhere quiet in the restaurant, and often there were documents spread out on the table.’