Death at Rainbow Cottage by Jo Allen (book club books txt) 📗

Letham. I saw you in the car and worked out who you were. But I’m afraid I don’t have anything to say to you.’

‘You were with Cheshire Police at the same time as Superintendent Scanlon, though? Is that right?’

‘Yes, and at the same time as thousands of other people. I did meet Detective Superintendent Scanlon, but I didn’t work with her, so I’m afraid I can’t help.’

The woman’s disappointment was palpable. For the first time, Ashleigh sensed that her secret was safe even if Faye’s was teetering dangerously in the edge of the public domain. ‘I’ve heard rumours that Superintendent Scanlon left her previous job under something of a cloud. I wondered if perhaps you’d heard anything—’

‘I left last August. If anything happened after that then I wouldn’t have heard of it.’

‘Aren’t you in touch with any former colleagues? Perhaps you could give me a lead there.’

‘Only for a few drinks when I’m back down. And obviously I can’t pass on details.’ Thank God, she’d clawed her way onto the high ground. ‘I wish I could help you.’ That much had a grain of truth in it, though it would have been more than her job was worth to guide the woman to the conclusion that Faye was unfit for office. Reminded, she covered her back. ‘If I did know anything I couldn’t discuss it. But I don’t.’

Silence. Marsha’s big scoop, possibly the biggest headline she’d envisaged since vandals picking the daffodils from the town’s churchyard, bit the dust in front of her. ‘There must be–’

‘The Press Office would be a good place to start.’ Thank God, her phone rang, a number she didn’t recognise. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’ She turned her back and answered the phone, engaging in a futile conversation with an ambulance-chasing insurance company, and when she turned around Marsha had given up and was strolling along Little Dockray in the direction of the Market Square.

If only every battle were as easily-won as that one. With a degree of relief, Ashleigh ended the call and returned to her coffee and congealed bacon roll.

Chapter 10

‘So, now I’ve outlined the objectives of this session. We’ve identified areas where we may be showing subconscious bias. We know what the law requires of us in terms of appropriate — and inappropriate — behaviour in the workplace. The first question — exactly what does inappropriate mean? Actions? Words?’

Jude’s neighbour, an inspector from the community services team who almost certainly knew everything Claud was telling them and more, hid a discreet yawn behind her hand. She wasn’t alone. Aware of Faye’s judgemental gaze roaming the crammed conference room from her carefully-chosen seat by the door, Jude took care to keep his body language neutral, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to fake enthusiasm.

‘The clearest way to help you to know when behaviour is inappropriate is, of course, to show you.’ Claud Blackwell, positioned in front of the dozen or so middle-ranking police officers who were the first participants in Faye’s new project, raked them with his glance and paused to dwell severely on the yawning offender. ‘Natalie and I will act out a scenario between two co-workers and we can discuss whether any element of the scene amounts to inappropriate behaviour. Then we’ll try some role play.’

Role play. Jude was sure he wasn’t the only one to suppress a shudder, but there was always something he could learn — not necessarily about equality and diversity, but about the Blackwells, so recently the focus of his attention by their proximity to murder. Claud, brisk and bumptious, dominating the room, seemed to have bounced back, but Natalie was quiet and withdrawn in a way that struck Jude as uncharacteristic. The routine background check he’d had run on her had thrown up a complex and varied career, pointing to a talented woman with no staying power. She’d trained as a ballet dancer, excelling as a teenager but giving up on the career before she could pay too high a price in that bruising world of late nights and hard physical work. After a spell as a secretary she’d found the bright lights of the stage irresistible and turned to acting, played a few parts in repertory theatre and made a minor success of it. That, too, ended, this time when she’d run into Claud Blackwell five years before and settled down. When Claud had given up his charity job and branched out on his own she’d taken up a post as his assistant.

‘So, first.’ Claud motioned to his wife, who stood up and went to the side of the room. ‘You’re a man. You’re a touchy-feely man. You hug people, for whatever reason. Maybe it makes you feel accessible. Maybe you genuinely like people. In your line of work, maybe you think you’re offering comfort to someone who’s shocked and bereaved. Or maybe you think a hug with a pretty girl is a perk of the job. Most importantly: you mean well. But how do your co-workers see it?’ He rolled up his sleeves and placed his hands on his hips, like a peacock displaying. ‘Let’s begin. Okay, Natalie.’

A pause. ‘Natalie,’ said Claud again, a touch of impatience in his tone.

This time she responded, walking across the small space at the front of the room, with her eyes focussed somewhere over Claud’s shoulder. ‘Good morning Claud,’ she said, obediently.

‘Well, hello Natalie. My you’re looking good today. What a lovely top.’

The room shuddered under a collective wince. Jude watched. Claud, with his bright, all-seeing eyes and his sharp mind, was a master of communication. He knew exactly what he was doing – a clumsy, cringe-worthy performance that would have his audience thinking and talking about their real-world experience even as they mocked his examples.

It was astonishing that he’d been looking out of the window for the whole of the period during which Len must have died,