probably won’t be necessary,’ said the DI. ‘But we’ll bear it in mind.’
Fry looked at him. ‘Why won’t it be necessary?’
‘It’s a lot of effort for potentially little result, Diane. There are other major leads we can be following up.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the possibility that our caller has already committed his murder.’
‘She never liked using that car park,’ said Geoff Birley. ‘But it was the only place near enough to the office, without her having to walk a long way.’
He stared down at his large pale hands where they lay helplessly on his knees. He’d given his age as forty-one, three years older than his wife. He was a foreman on the despatch floor at one of the big distribution centres just outside town. Hard physical work, no doubt, but never any sign of sun.
‘That’s the trouble with this town, you know. Not nearly enough parking spaces.’
He looked at DI Hitchens for understanding. Always a mistake, in Diane Fry’s view. But Birley’s face was pale and set in an expression of shock, so maybe he knew no better at the moment. A family liaison officer had been appointed, a female officer who might make a better job of sympathizing with Birley and getting him to talk once the detectives had gone.
‘They keep opening more shops, and encouraging more and more tourists to come in, but they don’t give people anywhere to park.’
Hitchens didn’t answer. He left it to Birley’s sister, Trish Neville, a large woman wearing an apron, who had insisted on making tea that neither of the detectives had touched.
‘Geoff, I’m sure the inspector doesn’t think that’s worth fretting about just now,’ she said. ‘He has more important things to talk to you about.’
She spoke to her brother a little too loudly, as if he were an elderly relative, senile and slightly deaf.
‘I know,’ said Birley. ‘But if it hadn’t been for that … If there had been somewhere nearer to park her car, and more secure. If the company had provided parking for its staff …’
They were sitting in a low-ceilinged room with small windows, like so many of the older houses in the area. Peak Park planning regulations wouldn’t have allowed the owners to knock holes in the walls and put picture windows in, even if they’d wanted to. It wouldn’t have been in keeping.
The room might have been dark and gloomy, if it hadn’t been recently decorated with bright floral wallpaper and dazzling white gloss on the woodwork. Somebody, presumably Sandra Birley, had arranged mirrors and a multi-faceted glass lamp to catch what light there was from the windows and spread it around the room. Fry found herself seated in an armchair with a chintz cover, facing the windows. Normally, she disliked the fussiness of chintz intensely. But in this room it seemed to work, softening the crude lines of the stone walls.
Geoff Birley had stopped speaking. He licked his lips anxiously, as if he’d forgotten what he was saying. He seemed to know they were expecting something of him, but wasn’t sure what it was. He looked up at his sister, who was standing over him like an attentive nurse.
‘Well, I’m just saying, Trish,’ he said. ‘About the car park.’
Trish Neville sighed and folded her arms across her chest. She looked at the two detectives. Over to you, she seemed to say.
‘Despite that, your wife used the multi-storey car park regularly, didn’t she, sir?’ said Fry.
‘Yes, she did,’ said Birley. ‘But she always tried to get a space on the lower levels, so she wouldn’t have to go up to the top to fetch her car if she worked late at the office. Only, you have to get there early, you see. You have to be there at seven o’clock, or you’ve had it for the rest of the day.’
‘And she was late yesterday morning?’
‘She got held up by a phone call as she was leaving the house. It was only her mother, mithering about nothing as usual. But Sandra always has to spend a few minutes listening to the old bat and calming her down. Sandra is like that – if she cut her mother off short, she’d have felt guilty about it all day. So she made herself late because of it. By the time she got to Clappergate, the bottom levels of the car park would already have been full. A few minutes make all the difference, you see. And when that happens, you have to go up and up, until you’re on the bloody roof.’
‘Her car wasn’t quite on the roof level, in fact,’ said Fry. ‘It was on the one below, Level 8.’
‘She was lucky, then. She must have nipped into a space.’
Fry and Hitchens exchanged a glance. The fact that Mr Birley should still be describing his wife’s actions as ‘lucky’ told them that reality hadn’t sunk in for him yet. The one thing Sandra Birley hadn’t been last night was lucky.
‘Mr Birley,’ said Hitchens. ‘When your wife went back for her car, we think she used the stairs to get to Level 8, instead of the lift. Yet the lift was working. Would that have been her usual habit, do you think?’
The question seemed only to confuse Geoff Birley. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Would your wife normally have used the stairs to go up eight floors, rather than take the lift?’
Birley hesitated. ‘It depends. What did it smell like?’
Now it was Hitchens’ turn to look puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘The lift. What did it smell like? Did anyone open it and have a smell inside?’
Fry had been present when the lift was examined. Even now, she had to swallow a little surge of bile that rose to her throat as she remembered the stink.
‘Yes, it smelled pretty bad.’
‘Like somebody had thrown up in there, then pissed on it?’
‘Those smells featured, I think.’
Birley shook his head. ‘Then Sandra wouldn’t have gone in it. She might have pressed the button and opened the doors. But if the lift smelled as bad inside as you say it did, she wouldn’t have used it. No way. She couldn’t stand bad smells in an enclosed space. It made her feel sick.’
‘So you think she’d have used the stairs, even though the lift was working?’
‘Yes, I’m sure she would. You can count on it.’
Trish put her hand on her brother’s shoulder, perhaps detecting some sign of emotion that Fry had missed. She left it there for a few moments, while Birley breathed a little more deeply. The two detectives waited. Fry noticed that Trish’s arms were broad and fleshy, yet ended in surprisingly small, elegant hands with long fingers, as though the hands had been transplanted from someone else.
‘I’m fine, really,’ said Birley at last.
‘Your
