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She made a note before starting up another illegal program she had developed for infiltrating the DVLA in Swansea. Within minutes she had the owner of the Beetle: one Mary Miller of Carpenter’s Yard in Bramfield.
What was the car doing at the mill house in Sowerby so late at night? Grace didn’t know Mary Miller; she had never heard of her. Had Critchley stolen her car? Was he involved with her? Was she working with him? Not likely. He almost always worked alone.
She wasn’t happy. Something was wrong. The pattern was out of kilter. She was going to have to investigate. She could not lose control of the situation now, not having come so close.
She left the computer and went for a shower. Padding back to the living room for her coffee, she picked up the newspaper.
The headline and the following story completely stunned her. The body of a woman had been found buried up on the moors at a place called Bedlam Rocks, very close to where her life had completely disintegrated all those years ago.
Her head swam, her eyes went out of focus, and her legs simply wouldn’t support her. Grace dropped the paper back on the table, sinking into a chair. The whole shocking episode came back and hit her like a tornado, making her feel sick. Her hands were clammy as she raised them to her mouth. She tried to suck in air, but her lungs failed her.
The floodgates opened, and Grace cried like she’d never done before. Her whole body shook with the pain and the sobbing. She suddenly felt like she’d been violently assaulted. She was shaking, regretting never having had the chance to say goodbye. There had never been any closure; no funeral. The years she had missed with her mother, who would still have been a relatively young woman,
all because of that bastard.
And he was still at it.
Not for much longer.
Reaching for a tissue, she dried her eyes and forced herself to read the final paragraph: the police believed the body had been there for possibly twenty years, and were appealing for witnesses to come forward to help piece together the final movements of Jane Browne.
She clenched her fists, ground her teeth. “You fucking animal.” Grace silently vowed to herself that witnesses would be of no use to the police, because Critchley would not live another full day on Planet Earth.
Then a thought struck her. Now that he was back in town, had Ronald Critchley been responsible for Jane Carter’s death?
Chapter Forty-one
At precisely one o’clock Manny Walters was marched back into the interview room. Gardener had specifically arranged it so that Manny was sitting across from them at such an angle that he could not clearly see all of the room. In other words, he couldn’t see what was behind them.
Manny was agitated as he took his chair, constantly rocking one of his legs like he had Parkinson’s disease.
“Coffee, Manny?” asked Reilly.
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
Nothing further was said until Manny had his drink. During that brief period, Gardener assessed the file in front of him. Reilly simply stared at Manny Walters.
“Where were you on Friday, 24 November, Mr Walters?”
“Pardon?”
“It’s a simple enough question.”
“God knows,” replied Manny. “How long ago was that? Over a week?”
“Old memory not so good now, Manny, old son?” questioned Reilly.
“It’s ages, isn’t it? Can you remember where you were over a week ago?”
Gardener nodded. “Investigating a murder.”
No reply.
“So, I’ll ask you again. Where were you?”
“Are you trying to fit me up?”
“You really haven’t got the hang of this, have you, Manny?” said Reilly. “We ask the questions.”
