5
The next morning, Kate and Tristan started to go through the Joanna Duncan case files. They were also planning to scan all the documents. It would be time consuming, but it would also help if they both had electronic access to the files, and Kate figured it would be worth having a backup. They had permission to use the files, but police bureaucracy could be fickle. The police had granted access but could withdraw it at any time.
When they started on the first box, Tristan found a cassette tape tucked inside the file containing the official statement from Joanna’s husband, Fred Duncan.
“It’s dated September twelfth, 2002,” he said, reading the handwritten label on the side of the plastic box. “That’s five days after Joanna went missing.”
“Have any of the other statements from early in the investigation got cassettes in them?” asked Kate. Tristan flicked through the other files from the first box.
“These look like written statements from Joanna’s family, friends, and work colleagues, but no cassettes,” said Tristan.
“So, at the beginning of the investigation, they only brought in Joanna’s husband for official questioning. Next of kin are usually the first suspects.”
“How long is an audio cassette? I’ve never really come across them,” said Tristan, turning the plastic box over in his hands.
“Bloody hell. You make me feel old,” said Kate with a grin. She took the cassette box and checked it over. “This one is thirty minutes on each side, and it says it’s one of one, so it wasn’t a long interview.”
Kate got up and went to the filing cabinet where they kept an old radio cassette machine inherited from Myra. She took the cassette from its box and put it in the machine. She started the audio recorder on her phone, switched on the cassette player, and put the phone next to it.
There were two voices on the tape. A DCI Featherstone—an older, gruff-voiced male—and Fred Duncan, who had a pronounced Cornish accent.
“You said you were painting the house all day on the seventh of September, at the home you shared with Joanna in the village of Upton Pyne. Your neighbor Arthur Malone told us that a young woman arrived just after two p.m. and went inside your house, but he didn’t see her leave,” said DCI Featherstone on the tape. “Who was she?”
“A neighbor. Famke,” said Fred.
“Famke—sounds foreign? What’s her second name?”
“Van Noort . . .” There was a bit of back-and-forth as Fred spelled it out for DCI Featherstone. “The name is Dutch. She’s an au pair working for a family a few doors down.”
“Do people in your area have au pairs?” asked Featherstone, a mocking tone in his voice.
“Yeah. It’s a doctor and his wife. Paulson is their name. Dr. Trevor Paulson. I don’t know his wife’s name. They own the big manor house at the end of the village. Famke looks after their kids,” said Fred.
“And can you spell their names?”
“The names of their kids?”
“No. The doctor’s name,” said Featherstone, sounding annoyed. There was more back-and-forth about this.
“Why did this au pair visit you?” asked Featherstone. There was a long pause.
“Why do you think?” said Fred.
“I need you to state it, for the benefit of the tape.”
Fred let out a long sigh.
“For sex,” he said. “She came round for sex. She stayed for a couple of hours or so, then left out through the back garden.”
“There’s a footpath running along the bottom of your garden?”
“Yes. That’s the way she left.”
“And Famke will confirm this?”
“Yes. Please, don’t be hard on her. She’s only young . . . Well, she’s not that young,” he added.
“How did you meet her?” asked Featherstone.
“One day at the corner shop . . . She was giving me the eye,” said Fred. “I’ve been unemployed since we moved to the village. Feeling pretty shit about myself.”
“Why do you feel that way about yourself?”
“Me and Jo just got a mortgage, and I can’t contribute.”
“Joanna earns a good wage, then, up at the West Country News in Exeter?”
“Yes.”
“That must have caused tension,” said Featherstone. There was a goading tone in his voice.
“What do you think?” Fred shot back.
“That gives you a motive. Your wife dies. You get her life insurance, pay off the mortgage.”
“Do you know she’s dead? Have you found her body?” asked Fred, his voice cracking.
There was a silence that lasted almost half a minute. Kate checked the cassette player to see if the tape had stopped.
“How many times have you met for sex with this Famke?” asked Featherstone.
“Three or four times over the past couple of months. It’s not a crime to have an affair.”
“Of course not, Mr. Duncan. Does Joanna know you’ve been entertaining the local au pair in her bed when she’s out, hard at work, paying the mortgage?”
There was another long pause.
“No,” said Fred in a small voice. “But that’s all stupid. I’ve been so stupid. I just want her home safe, and I’ll tell her everything, if she just comes home.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?” asked Featherstone.
“No.”
“Could she be having an affair of her own? You’ve strayed.”
“What? No. No. She’s obsessed with her job. She spends all her time with me, or her mum, or she’s at work. She’s spoken before about a woman at work who had an affair with a colleague and how everyone talked about her in derogatory terms.”
“Who’s that?”
“Rita Hocking; she’s another journalist at the West Country News.”
“Your wife might have run away.”
“How am I supposed to answer that? That’s not a question. You’re the bloody police. You should be doing better than that . . . She wouldn’t just leave. She would never leave her mum. They’re close. Too close sometimes.”
There was another long silence, and then DCI Featherstone started to go through Fred’s official statement. Kate stopped the tape and the voice recorder on her phone.
“Why didn’t Bev tell us about Fred’s affair?”
“Maybe she has this idea of them being happy together,” said Tristan. “She didn’t mention that Fred was questioned. The police thought he had motive.”
“The neighbor and Famke gave him an alibi. Is it there?”
Tristan flicked through the files and found a piece of paper. “Yes . . . She gave the police a written statement . . . She arrived at Fred’s house just after two p.m. and stayed for two hours, until just after four p.m.,” he said, scanning the signed statement. “Then she left via the back door, along the footpath running behind the row of houses, and went back home.”
“How far is Upton Pyne from Exeter?” asked Kate.
“Not far, about four miles,” said Tristan, flicking through the other files in the box.