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“We weren’t what you would call bosom buddies. Out of all of them I always thought Anthony Palmer was the better one, the more sociable one, and probably even the most helpful. Looks like I got that one wrong, didn’t I?”
“Returning to the phone conversation with Michael Foreman, you also mentioned you’d been married to a bloke who couldn’t tell the truth if he was given Pentothal. Do you have much experience with drugs or chemicals?”
Rosie stood up, the knot in her stomach tightening. “What the hell are you getting at? Are you accusing me of something?”
“If you could just answer the question, please.”
“I’m a housewife for God’s sake, not a chemist. My life is my children. We’ve already established that I’m not responsible for the hit and run so why the hell are you asking all these stupid questions. Am I under arrest?”
“Not at all.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“We’re trying to get to the truth.”
“About what? Because this doesn’t sound to me like it has anything to do with the hit and run.”
“On the contrary, Mrs Henshaw, it is connected.”
“Do I need a solicitor?”
“Do you think you need one?”
“I haven’t done anything. So why am I so concerned all of a sudden?”
“Where were you last night?”
“I was here, all night. Ask my children.”
“Apart from your children, can anyone else confirm that?”
“There was no one else here, so no. And given that you have my landline records you’ll see I never took or made another call last night.”
“What about the night before?”
“Here again,” replied Rosie. “What is going on?”
“We’re just doing our job, Mrs Henshaw,” said the smaller, friendlier copper, in a soothing tone. “And there are times when we don’t like it but we still have to do it. Three months ago, a man and his wife were killed in a hit and run, which involved your husband and his business partners, all of whom went missing pretty much immediately afterwards. No one’s seen anything of them since, apart from Michael Foreman.”
“So you have found him?”
“Yes, Mrs Henshaw, we’ve found him,” said the taller one.
“So why don’t you ask him the questions you’re asking me?”
“I’m afraid we can’t.”
“Oh my God…” Rosie’s hands flew to her mouth. Her expression changed from one of abstract fear to growing concern.
With her legs trembling, she dropped back onto the kitchen chair. “Oh my God, that’s why you’re asking all these questions, isn’t it? That man in Leeds yesterday was Michael Foreman, and he’s dead. And you think it was me?”
Chapter Thirty-seven
They found Fitz in his office. The smell of fresh coffee hit them as they walked in. His desk, as usual, was clean and tidy and the only thing out of place was a small lunchbox to the left of his PC, containing a couple of sandwiches, two tomatoes, a chocolate bar, an apple and an orange. Gardener noticed the steam rising from the coffee cup. A classical music piece that he did not recognise filtered around the room.
Fitz glanced up at them. “Freshly brewed, help yourselves.” He then glanced at Reilly. “Biscuits in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.”
“It’s not like you to give up the location so easily.”
