Miller stared at me until I felt uncomfortable. When he spoke it was to ridicule me. ‘Philip Hargreaves was a junkie. The doctor and the coroner were both satisfied as to cause of death. There was no evidence of foul play. If this anonymous witness had seen a handful of serial killers in the vicinity, it wouldn’t alter…’
‘In the building. He’s known as Smiley. He’s got a scar…’
Miller held up his hand. ‘This isn’t a bloody gangster movie.’ He leant towards me. ‘No crime has been committed.’
‘It has,’ I insisted. ‘Murder.’
‘Wrong.’ He stabbed his finger at me. ‘The facts speak for themselves. There’s only one murder, that of Janice Brookes.’
‘But Martin’s the link. They must be connected.’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned. You’ve been under too much pressure, Miss Kilkenny.’ He shook his head to and fro. ‘Dealing with an accidental death and now this. Way out of your league. Can’t be an easy job for a woman, anyway. We know what we’re doing. We take it from here. You need a break; take the kiddies away for a few days. Help you to get things in the right perspective. This sort of hysterical reaction doesn’t help anybody.’ He moved towards the door. Tintin followed. ‘We’ll be doing our level best with the Brookes case, I can assure you of that.’
I was glad I hadn’t offered the bastard a cup of tea.
Well, I’d done my duty. I’d passed on Leanne’s story. If DI Miller thought I was going to sit back and twiddle my thumbs, he’d another think coming. Oh, they could solve the murder, I wouldn’t tread on any toes there, but I would solve the mystery. I had to know why Janice Brookes was willing to spend a grand tracing a runaway schoolboy. And if I hadn’t easy access to the Brookes family, then I’d start with the other side of the family. With the real Mrs Hobbs.
The rain came down like stair rods as I drove over to Bolton. Traffic was bad, with road-works along the M61. I made it to St. Matthew’s just before the end of lunch break.
After a few enquiries, I found Max Ainsworth in the Chemistry Lab. The smell of sulphur took me straight back to interminable Friday afternoons, perched on a high wooden stool, listening to Miss Jackson drone on. We’d given her hell. Turning on unlit Bunsen burners in attempts to gas the class out of existence, competing with each other to see how many test-tubes could be broken during one experiment. At fourteen, we dropped chemistry like a shot.
