Dancing With the Virgins

Don looked shocked. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? Why should people want to come here?’

Cooper shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it. But they will.’

‘Oh, they’ll be running coach trips,’ said Weenink, grinning from the doorway. ‘Tours for Ghouls Limited.’

‘Not to mention the newspapers and the TV cameras.’

‘Blimey.’ Don looked nervously out of the doorway at the bike compound. ‘I didn’t expect that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect people would be like that. Perhaps I’d better ring the boss and ask if I can close up for the day.’

‘Close? Why would you want to do that? You could be a TV star, mate,’ said Weenink.

Don smiled uncertainly. As they walked away, he was watching the car park entrance. He still wasn’t sure whether they were joking.

Diane Fry always forgot. It slipped her mind every time how hopeful the family of a victim were when they saw the police on their doorstep in the early stages of an enquiry. They had such confidence, so often misplaced. An early resolution was their main hope, an end to the nightmare. They believed the police were doing their best, but rarely was a detective able to bring them hope.

Mr Weston was in the front garden of his house in Alfreton, raking leaves with an absorbed expression. He looked up sharply when he heard the police car pull into the drive. But DI Hitchens simply shook his head, and Weston turned back to his driveway and attacked the leaves with his rake as if he wanted to stab them into the ground.

‘Was there something else you wanted to ask?’ he said, when they reached him.

‘A few things, Mr Weston,’ said Hitchens. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Can’t be helped, I suppose. It’ll go on and on, won’t it?’

The Westons’ house was a large semi in a style that might have been called 1920s mock Tudor, with stucco above and brick below. The Tudor effect was achieved by a few stray bits of black wood, which supported nothing, inserted into the walls.

But the house was substantial and well cared for. The front door was of some oak-like wood, and through the bay window Fry caught a glimpse of a lounge with cast-iron wall lights in the shape of flaming torches, a wheel-shaped chandelier supporting electric candles and a log basket on a brick hearth.

‘I’ve taken compassionate leave for a few days,’ said Weston. ‘I need to look after Susan. The head of my school has been very understanding.’

Fry became aware of Mrs Weston standing in the background, listening. She was pale and looked tired.

‘Have you found Martin Stafford?’ she asked.

‘Not yet, Mrs Weston,’ said Hitchens.

‘So he’s got away.’

‘We’ll locate him, eventually.’

‘He always had a violent tendency.’

‘We want to eliminate him from the enquiry, obviously.’

Mrs Weston stared at him as if she didn’t understand what he was saying.

‘Susan –’ said her husband.

‘I always said he was no good,’ she said. ‘I was always afraid it would come to this.’

‘I don’t think we know any more about Martin Stafford than we’ve told you already,’ said Mr Weston. ‘There might be something at the house in Totley, I suppose. I mean Jenny’s house. He might have written to her or something.’

‘Trying to creep back,’ said his wife.

‘We’ve already looked there,’ said Hitchens. ‘We found this –’

The Westons examined the photocopy that he showed them. It was a note rather than a letter – just a few lines about an arrangement to meet somewhere. But it was addressed to Jenny, and it was written in terms that suggested a close relationship.

Mrs Weston coloured faintly when she reached the line about fruit flavours. ‘There’s no name on it,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Fry. ‘That’s why we’re showing it to you. In case you recognize it.’

‘You think it might be from Stafford?’ asked Mr Weston. ‘There’s no date on it, either.’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘I can’t really remember what his writing was like. Susan?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Weston. ‘I mean, I don’t know. It could be.’

‘Did he ever write to you? Might you have something that we could compare it to?’

The couple looked at each other. ‘Have we still got that postcard?’ said Mr Weston.

His wife went to a mahogany dresser and opened a drawer. It was one of those drawers that were always full of things that you never wanted. But Mrs Weston soon located a plastic wallet of the kind that usually contained holiday snaps.

‘I don’t know why we kept it,’ she said. ‘But you can see what sort of man he is.’

Fry studied the postcard. It showed a view on one side of a beach lined with tourist hotels.

‘Hawaii,’ she said. ‘Very nice.’ She turned the card over. It was addressed to the Westons and signed ‘Martin (your former son-in-law)’. The rest of it seemed fairly innocuous – a few lines about how hot the weather was, how luxurious the hotel, how stimulating the nightlife. ‘Spent nearly £2,000 already!’, it said, as if it was a boast.

‘I’m not sure what it tells me,’ said Fry. ‘This holiday was presumably after the divorce.’

‘Not only after the divorce – paid for by the divorce,’ said Mrs Weston. ‘He spent his share of the proceedings from the sale of their house in Derby. He never seemed to want for money, I don’t know why. While Jenny had to spend all of her share and borrow more to buy that little place in Totley, Stafford went on this holiday in Hawaii. The postcard was to rub it in. No other reason.’

‘Apart from Martin Stafford, we’d also want to try to trace any boyfriends that Jenny had recently,’ said Hitchens.

‘We’ve been asked that before,’ said Mr Weston. ‘I gave you some names that we knew. We didn’t know of anyone else. Not recently.’

‘She didn’t talk to us about things like that,’ said Mrs Weston. ‘Not since Stafford.’

‘Not even then,’ said her husband. ‘We had to work it all out for ourselves, what was going on. She didn’t want to say anything against him. Can you believe it?’

‘She was loyal,’ said Mrs Weston. ‘I tried to teach her always to be loyal to her husband. No matter what.’

Mr Weston looked down at the teacups. His wife continued to stare straight ahead, past Fry’s shoulder. It was an aggressive and challenging stare, but it wasn’t directed at Fry at all. It was hitting the wall behind her and ricocheting with unerring accuracy into the back of the seat next to her, passing through Eric Weston’s heart on the way.

‘No matter what,’ repeated Mrs Weston.