Helen racked her brain for a suitable excuse, but couldn’t come up with anything. She had no idea whether he might have had something to do with her mother’s death, but whatever she said would probably be wrong, so she decided on the truth.
‘I’m investigating my mother’s murder,’ she said, aware how idiotic it must sound.
‘Your mother’s murder?’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘This happened twenty years ago. Have they reopened the case?’
Helen shook her head.
‘I see. You’re conducting your own little investigation.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I think they missed something,’ she said.
The other eyebrow came up. ‘Let me just get this straight. Little Orphan Annie comes back after twenty years, dismisses evidence, her own witness statement, identification parade, the lot …’
‘That’s right, and I’ll tell you why. Because there were other witnesses, but they didn’t come forward. Because the evidence was flawed. Because the person doing the identifying was me, a five-year-old epileptic kid, who’d just lost her mother, and couldn’t remember much.’
Moody stared at her as if he thought she was from outer space. ‘Blimey,’ he said when he’d recovered. ‘So you believe the Cooper woman is innocent?’
‘Yes, and I intend to find out who really did it.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘Too many.’
‘Am I a suspect?’
Yes, she thought, but modified her comment before it flew out of her mouth. ‘Should you be?’
‘Well, I knew your mother. We had some dealings together, although I didn’t take to her. I could’ve had her bumped off and thought nothing of it. That’s what people expect of me.’ He flicked at an imaginary speck of dust on the sleeve of his jacket.
Helen bit her lip. There was such a thing as walking into the lion’s den – where she was right this minute – but antagonising the lion further would be downright stupid.
‘And did you?’ she said, her mouth dry.
‘I’m not likely to admit to that, am I?’
No, he wouldn’t, would he? He was enjoying keeping her in the dark, she could tell, and even if he did admit to anything, what would she possibly do? An ominous silence followed, broken only by the clinking crystal decanters as they swerved around a corner.
‘Well, that about wraps it up,’ he said. ‘You’ve told me what I need to know. You’re free to go.’
As if on cue the car stopped, back where they started, across the road from the house. Helen hoisted her rucksack back on her shoulder. ‘I’d like my folder back, please.’
‘What for?’
‘Because it’s mine.’
‘I call the shots here, young lady.’ Moody held it out of her reach. ‘You’re not in a position to make demands.’
Red mist descended. The rancorous discussion between Ruth and Letitia, Ruth trying to make amends years too late, her splitting headache, the manhandling. And the rage, always the rage. She lunged across the seat and tried to grab the folder out of his hand.
‘You effing bastard! Just give it back!’
The sliding screen was pushed aside, and she found herself yanked against the bulkhead by the hair. A beefy hand closed over her windpipe and squeezed hard. Gasping, she clawed at the hand, but the grip was relentless. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, dark spots appeared before her eyes. A seizure threatened.
Studying his fingernails, Moody ignored her struggle for what seemed like an eternity, then made an imperceptible gesture. ‘That’ll do, Jones.’
The goon released her, and Helen fell back against the seat, fighting for breath, her head spinning.
‘I must apologise for Jones. He’s very protective.’
‘Really?’ Helen croaked and rubbed her throat. ‘You don’t say.’
Moody chuckled. ‘I admire your spirit. Your mother had that in spades too. Tell me, what’s so important about these papers that you’ll risk life and limb to get them back? They’re just newspaper clippings.’
‘I don’t have much of my mother,’ Helen whispered, and clutched her rucksack to her chest to stop herself from shaking.
He considered that, carefully, then handed her the folder. ‘Take it. I don’t need it any more.’
The door opened, and Helen was plucked from the car. Moody leaned forward to catch her eyes. ‘One final request. Stay away from my son.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Miss Stephens.’ He smiled pleasantly, just making conversation. ‘There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. Twenty-six of them are in the foot. Think about that next time you cross the road.’