Guilty Parties Read online

  The tour party climbed back on the bus, and the red-haired woman leaned over to speak to Seymour.

  ‘Say, you come from Jamaica, don’t you? Your accent reminds me …’

  A slow smile spread across his face. ‘Ya man. But I live here now. Better way of life. More money, less crime.’

  Twelve years ago, Seymour had arrived in Grand Cayman with his wife and two daughters. Lots of people did the same. Wesley had made the journey eighteen months back. Rumour was, he hadn’t simply been making a lifestyle choice. Apparently, he’d upset someone important in Kingston, and his survival depended on making a run for it. There were stories that he mixed with drug-dealers and other criminals, that he was a criminal himself. Joolz suspected he encouraged the gossip, thinking it did wonders for his image. What the truth was about his past, she didn’t know, and didn’t want to know.

  ‘Y’know what we say back in Jamaica?’ Seymour asked the woman. ‘There are no problems.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Nah. Only situations.’ He gave a wheezy laugh and switched on the ignition.

  His homespun philosophy didn’t work for Joolz. Wesley could become a very big problem. Why had she been so stupid as to mention him to Giddy? The pair of them had been knocking back mudslides and fantasising about life with enough money to buy a mansion with a private beach and helipad. Joolz had mentioned that she’d never met a hitman, as far as she knew, though she wouldn’t be surprised if Wesley …

  That’s all it took for Giddy to talk her into arranging a meeting. He could be so persuasive. Against her better judgment, the three of them had got together at Pedro St James, in a dimly lit bar where they weren’t known. Wesley told funny stories about life in Jamaica, they drank too much Tortuga rum punch, and her heart didn’t skip a beat. Mary-Alice’s name wasn’t even mentioned.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Seymour boomed into the microphone. ‘So far you’ve seen our island paradise. Now you are about to arrive in Hell.’

  He turned off the main road, and parked in the open space behind the bright red post office and shop. Everyone trooped off to buy souvenirs and take photos. Joolz sat on the steps of the bus, watching people take it in turns to clamber on to the viewing platform and gaze out at the strange, spiky black limestone behind the barrier.

  Yesterday evening, Giddy had let slip that he’d met Wesley at West Beach last week, while she was escorting tourists round a turtle farm, and both men should have been working. When she quizzed him, he passed it off as a casual encounter between two guys who just happened to run into each other, and shot the breeze for half an hour. What could be more innocent?

  In the end, she nagged Giddy into admitting that he’d talked to Wesley about Mary-Alice. He said he’d been thinking aloud, just musing about how much simpler and better life would be if he were still a single man. She told him she wasn’t stupid, and neither was Wesley. He could read between the lines. For God’s sake, they hadn’t talked money, had they?

  Giddy said he might have mentioned ten thousand dollars.

  ‘I just love the devil!’ the red-haired woman said, mopping her brow as she returned to the bus. Her bag was overflowing with gifts from the shop. ‘I mean, what a nice guy. He posed for some pictures with us.’

  Did Giddy have any idea what he was messing with? During her teens in Harehills, Joolz had come across one or two men capable of anything. Wesley, for all his smiley face and winning ways, was a dead ringer for them. If he thought there was ten thousand dollars to be had from killing Mary-Alice …

  ‘You didn’t enter into no bargain with that devil, I hope, ma’am?’ said Seymour, the life and soul of the tour party.

  The red-haired woman barked with laughter. Joolz had stayed awake half last night, trying not to think about Giddy and Wesley thrashing out a deal. That had decided her. When she saw him at the Lobster Pot, she’d say he must leave Mary-Alice and McCullochs, and they’d make do with whatever pay-off he squeezed out of the doting daddy. If he promised to go quickly and quietly, he could negotiate reasonable terms. Okay, they’d need to leave Grand Cayman, but never mind. Plenty of islands in the sea. Countless beaches, innumerable bars. Opportunities would always knock for a hard-working tour guide and a great-looking guy with public school manners and charm.

  ‘So now you can say you’ve been to Hell and back,’ she told her passengers. ‘Our next stop is the beach. We’ll be there for fifteen minutes before heading back to the terminal.’

  While the group wandered out on to the sand, and an adventurous few ventured a quick paddle, she stayed in the bus with Seymour. Having made up her mind what to do, she felt calmer already. This was the only way.

  ‘You going to the full moon party tomorrow night?’ Seymour asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I used to love those parties, but I’m thinking it’s time to move on.’

  ‘You don’t mean, leave the island?’ Seymour put on a sad face. ‘We’d miss you, Joolz.’

  ‘Guess I’m stuck in a rut. It’s comfortable, but then so is a grave. There’s so much else in the world I want to see.’

  The passengers straggled back to the bus. Time to head back past Government House. At the terminal, Joolz did better than usual with the tips. A good omen. Every dollar would come in useful in her new life.

  ‘Stay safe,’ Seymour murmured as she said goodbye.

  The company office was on the other side of the road. She’d tell Mr Pottinger she was resigning, and someone else would have to do this afternoon’s Stingray Tour. Then she’d dash to the Lobster Pot. Giddy hadn’t texted back, but she’d show up at McCullochs’ office if she had to. Threading through the crowd, she saw a Compass placard bearing the latest news.

  BODY FOUND IN MANGROVE

  Oh Jesus, don’t say she was too late? Surely Wesley hadn’t done something terrible?

  Two police officers in crisp white shirts were waiting for her in Mr Pottinger’s tiny office. They nodded her into a chair without a word. Mr Pottinger’s face was ashen. The older of the two cops, a man whose bulky frame filled half the room, flourished his ID.

  ‘Joolz Ibbotson?’

  Her throat felt as if someone were squeezing it hard. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I understand you know a man called Gideon Tremlett?’

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The expression on the man’s craggy face baffled her. It was almost like … pity.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that we recovered his body from a mangrove near Rum Point earlier today.’

  No. She wanted to scream. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Wesley Stollmeyer has been arrested in connection with his murder, and so has Mr Tremlett’s wife. I’m afraid I have to ask you some questions, and it would be easier if you’d come with us to police headquarters.’

  The cop might just as well have clubbed her. She felt too dazed to utter a word. Sure, there’d been a Faustian pact. But Giddy, poor Giddy, had not been part of it. Wesley had got into bed with a devil woman.

  THE CONFESSIONS OF EDWARD PRIME

  Kate Ellis

  Kate Ellis was born in Liverpool and studied drama in Manchester. She worked in teaching, marketing and accountancy before finding success as a writer. The latest title in her series featuring Wesley Peterson is The Shroud Maker, while she has also written a series about another cop, Joe Plantagenet, and a stand-alone historical crime novel, The Devil’s Priest.

  Edward Prime was a nuisance.

  This was the third time that month he’d presented himself at the front desk and asked to see Detective Constable Janet Crowley. And she felt she’d had enough.

  ‘I’ve got to get it off my chest,’ he said, leaning towards her. She could smell something rancid on his warm breath and she edged her chair back a little. ‘I’ve got to make a clean breast of it.’ He lowered his eyes to focus on her chest and she raised her hand instinctively to make sure her shirt was properly buttoned.

  He began to fidget with
the empty plastic cup in front of him. They always gave him a hot drink in the interview room. Maybe that’s why he came, she thought. That and a feeling of self-importance.

  ‘What are you talking about, Mr Prime?’

  ‘The woman on Howdale Road. I killed her.’

  She took a deep breath and opened the file that lay on the table in front of her. ‘That’s as well as the post office you robbed in Bucknell Street and the man you stabbed to death outside that nightclub last week, is it?’

  ‘Well, er … I’ve been busy.’

  ‘So I see. In the past six months you’ve confessed to no less than eighteen crimes.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ve been busy.’

  She looked across the table at him. He was skinny with greasy brown hair and a long face that glowed with perspiration. The cheap yellow T-shirt he wore stretched tightly over his midriff riding up to reveal a not-so-tantalising glimpse of pasty flesh. She could smell his sweat. She wished his mother had taught him to use deodorant.

  ‘Look, Mr Prime. Edward,’ she said. ‘We know you haven’t done anything. We could charge you with wasting police time, you know.’

  He lowered his eyes, a small, secretive smile on his thin lips. ‘I know about the locket.’

  Janet Crowley looked up sharply. Up till now Edward had been so predictable. ‘What locket?’

  ‘The one I took from Paula Sloane when I killed her. The one with the picture of the kiddie inside.’

  Janet stared at him, lost for words. They knew from Paula Sloane’s friends and family that she’d always worn that locket; never took it off. They’d kept the fact that it was missing from the press. There was always something they held back. Just in case.

  ‘Do you know where the locket is?’

  Edward shook his head.

  ‘But if you killed her, you must have taken it.’

  Edward frowned, as though the logic of the statement was too much for him to take in. If it hadn’t been for the mention of the locket, Janet would have sent him on his way by now. But she had to find out more.

  ‘How did you hear about the locket?’

  Janet watched as new hope appeared in his eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to arrest me?’

  Janet considered the question for a moment. ‘No, Edward. We know where to find you if we need you. You go home to your mum, eh.’

  There was no mistaking the disappointment on his face. He was twenty, she knew that from the file, but he looked like a child denied a promised treat. ‘But I did it,’ he said in a whine.

  ‘You find the locket and we’ll have another chat.’

  It was the best she could offer. And as she watched him shuffle from the room, she knew it wasn’t enough.

  As soon as Edward unlocked the front door his mother was there in the hall. He could tell she’d been cooking from the smell of burning that hit him as soon as he’d walked in. She’d never been much of a cook.

  ‘Where have you been?’ She stood there, arms folded, a plump vision in velour tracksuit and carpet slippers.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘You’ve been to that police station again, haven’t you?’

  Edward could hear the exasperation in her voice. He closed the door behind him and bowed his head. ‘No. I never. I’ve just been out. Walking around.’

  His mother turned away and began to shuffle back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said.

  Edward wasn’t listening. Paula Sloane was dead but he knew her secret. He knew who she was.

  The DCI stood in front of the whiteboard and gave Janet a disapproving look as she slipped into the room. She was late for the briefing. If the DCI knew why, she knew he’d tell her to charge Edward with wasting police time. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do that to him. Perhaps she was becoming soft.

  ‘Paula Sloane. Aged forty-five. Divorced. Lived alone. Found stabbed in the kitchen of her house in Allerton the day before yesterday. No weapon found. No enemies that we know of. No suspects. Nothing appeared to be missing apart from a locket she always wore: according to everyone who knew her, she never took it off.’

  Janet began to put her hand up, nervous that the DCI would make some cutting comment. She was certain that he thought she wasn’t up to the job any more; that she was a middle-aged woman marking time till retirement. She knew she couldn’t keep up with the young men and women on the team with their gym-honed bodies and their hungry ambition tinged with a soupcon of callousness. When she spoke they all looked round and she felt her face burning.

  ‘Sir, I’ve just been talking to Edward Prime. He comes in to confess to any local crime that’s been on the news.’ She glanced round at the sceptical faces. ‘Anyway, he confessed to Paula’s murder. Normally, I would have taken it with a pinch of salt but he mentioned the locket. He knew it was missing. Is there any chance the information could have leaked out somehow?’

  The DCI was staring straight at her. ‘Is he still down in the interview room?’

  ‘I told him to go home. He lives with his mother and we can pick him up any time if necessary.’ She held her breath, expecting a public dressing down for letting a potential suspect go.

  But the DCI shrugged. ‘Any chance he’s our man?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, sir. He seems harmless.’

  ‘As long as we know where to find him.’

  Janet exhaled. She’d said her bit now and it was up to the senior investigating officer to decide what to do about it.

  The DCI continued, ‘One thing you should know about our victim is that twenty years ago her baby was abducted. It was a boy called Adam, aged four months. She left him in his pushchair outside the post office on Allerton Road and when she came out the pushchair was still there but there was no sign of the kid. There was a major hunt for him, of course, but he never turned up. According to Paula’s family and friends, she never really got over it and her marriage broke up as a result.’

  A stick thin young woman with long blonde hair raised her hand. ‘Any chance the kid’s disappearance is connected to her death, sir?’

  ‘Good question, DC Parker. Truth is we don’t know, but it’s an avenue worth exploring. She’d recently hired a private detective to try and trace the kid. We’ve spoken to him and he claims he didn’t get very far. However, she rang him on the evening she died and asked to see him the following day. I said I’d send someone round to take a statement.’ He looked straight at Janet. ‘DC Crowley, can I leave it to you to have a word?’

  Janet saw that all eyes were on her again. But this time she felt a small glow of triumph. ‘Of course, sir.’

  The evening was the only time Bradley Temple, the private detective, was free to see her but at least that gave her a chance to have something to eat at home before she drove to his flat at the Albert Dock for their meeting.

  Her son, Russell, greeted her when she arrived home. The house seemed to be in chaos. It always was when he was home from university.

  ‘Hi, Ma. How’s crime?’ he said as he propelled his lanky body off the sofa. His accent was still decidedly London, but that was hardly surprising as they’d only recently moved up north.

  Janet didn’t answer. It was a question he always asked, an automatic response to her arrival. After a brief conversation about his day which had been mostly spent in front of his computer screen, she cooked some pasta for them both and Russell wolfed it down as though he’d not seen food for days. Then, when she said she had to go out, he kissed her on the top of her head and told her to take care. She told him not to be daft, she was always careful. But she appreciated his concern.

  Throughout her police career down in London and now up in Merseyside, she’d had very little to do with private detectives and most of what she knew about them came from the pages of novels. But she thought Bradley Temple was a good name for someone in that particular profession and her mind conjured a dark, handsome gumshoe in a belted raincoat tramping the mean streets of inner city Liverpool.

&n
bsp; She drove into town from the suburbs, through streets of fine Georgian houses, eventually ending up at the waterfront. It was still light when she arrived at the Albert Dock but there was a chill breeze blowing in from the river and it had started to rain. Bradley Temple lived on the second floor of an old warehouse building, now transformed into luxury apartments. And when he greeted her at the door, he proved to be as disappointing as the weather. He was stocky and bald and he wore a shiny suit that had seen better days, but he invited Janet in with scrupulous politeness and offered her a cup of tea which she accepted gratefully.

  ‘Terrible about Paula,’ he began. ‘She seemed a nice woman. And she hadn’t had it easy. Not since her kid was snatched like that.’

  Janet smiled sympathetically. ‘I believe she called you shortly before she died. What did she say?’

  He paused as though he was about to make a dramatic revelation. ‘She said she thought she’d seen Adam; her son who went missing.’

  ‘Where did she see him? And what made her think it was him?’

  ‘She was walking down Allerton Road when she saw a young man going into one of the bars. She said he was the spitting image of her ex-husband so she thought—’

  ‘That’s hardly conclusive.’

  ‘That’s what I told her. But she was convinced it was him. She asked for a meeting but she died before I could find out what else she knew.’

  ‘She said she had more information?’

  ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was over the phone.’ He hesitated, as though he was deciding whether to break a confidence. ‘But when I’d called on her a couple of days earlier, I’d noticed a young man hanging around. I had the impression he was watching her house.’

  Janet leaned forward. ‘Can you describe him?’

  The man closed his eyes. ‘He was around five ten; brown hair that looked as if it needed a good wash; greasy skin; long face; T-shirt that looked a size too small for him. Unattractive character but he didn’t look particularly dangerous.’

  ‘Have you seen a picture of her ex-husband? Could there be a resemblance to this young man you saw?’