Ali glanced across as she sighed and rubbed an eye. She was so pale. Some mornings, she seemed hung-over, although she never smelled of alcohol. He’d noticed her drinking a lot of water first thing. He had an image of her alone in her wagon, getting bladdered, and anxiety knotted his guts.
* * *
After the police had gone, Clive Hemmings opened two windows wide and let the chilly breeze flow in. The sergeant had reeked of pungent cigarettes. It would take a while to eliminate the smell.
He took the tray to the kitchen and washed the dirty crockery by hand, taking time over each piece. He had a dishwasher but rarely used it, convinced that it harboured bacteria. He threw the uneaten biscuits away because the sergeant’s fat fingers might have touched them.
He rubbed soapy suds through his hands, recalling the day his mother died. He’d panicked and lied then, to Posy and the police, and he’d lied today. He’d known his mother was at home. When he’d got back from school, he’d gone to her bedroom and seen her lying under the duvet. He’d heard a little groan, and he’d backed out of the room, not wanting to wake her. It was better when she was asleep, because then she wasn’t moping around downstairs, sighing and staring out of the windows. When she cried, which she often did, she would drape herself around him and he hated the sticky heat of her body and her gulping sobs. That day, he’d had chemistry homework and had been eager to tackle it without her bothering him, so he’d crept downstairs, set out his books at the kitchen table, turned on the radio and studied for two hours until Posy had come home, gone upstairs and started screaming.
The autopsy had said that his mother had died between four and five that afternoon, during which time he’d been sitting in the room below, working on equations. The police had told him it wasn’t his fault but then, they didn’t see through his lies.
In a way, he counted himself a murderer. A murderer by omission if not by deed. When he’d been told his mother was dead, his first excited reaction was that now he could have her bedroom. He was aware that if anyone had been able to read his mind, they’d have been horrified. He hadn’t felt guilty about Posy, because it wasn’t an emotion he experienced, but he was aware that it sounded good to say it. He should have been guilty and ashamed about his mother and Posy, and if he wasn’t so weird deep down, he probably would have. He’d enjoyed erasing the old Clive and seeing a different, reshaped face. He could pretend that some of his weirdness had vanished with the surgery.
He’d told two lies today. He wondered if his visitors had noticed. His body language was well controlled, but he’d read that the police were trained to spot tells. The woman, Drummond, had that ability to sit very still and focused and it had unnerved him. He dried each piece of crockery and put it away in the cupboard. He wondered why the police were searching for Tim Stafford, remembering the way he’d stunk the house out when Posy had found him wet and hungry, begging outside the station, and had brought him home for a hot meal. She’d always been a soft touch. A bleeding heart, attracted to waifs and strays.
He’d seen Stafford leaving once and had confronted Posy about it. She’d promised it wouldn’t happen again, but she’d given Stafford shelter and fed him a couple of times. When he came home, he could always smell those lingering traces of filthy clothes, damp and poverty lurking below the air freshener she’d plugged in. He’d denied knowing Stafford because he didn’t want the police coming back here, cluttering up his life and there was nothing useful that he could tell them about him, other than that he was a sad loser.
He dried the work surface and rubbed the chrome mixer tap until it sparkled. Then he stood back, pleased with his efforts. When he went back to the living room, the intrusive smells had almost gone. He hoovered up the scattering of biscuit crumbs dropped by the messy sergeant.
He didn’t expect that the police would be back, but if they did return, they’d learn nothing more from him. That woman had deserved to die.
Chapter 22
Tim Stafford checked the time. He’d been dozing all afternoon, tucked up in two sleeping bags. He was warm enough, despite the chilly breeze snaking through the broken window, but his legs were stiff and his nose was icy. It was half five and he heard his stomach grumble. He dug into his pocket and checked that he had enough for a burger and chips. He could get a free soup and sandwich from the St Hugh’s outreach van later in the evening, but that was at least three hours away, and he preferred to keep away from the do-gooders if he could. They were always asking nosy, nagging questions. He craved a plate of hot carbs now, drenched with salt and vinegar. He salivated, anticipating the savoury hit.
He sat up and coughed chestily, then removed his woolly hat and scratched his head. He reached into the scarred desk with names etched into the top that served as a bedside cabinet, and took a slug from a bottle of lemonade. The fizz had gone, but at least it washed the fur and phlegm from his mouth.
Tim had decided to give up on London, where he’d mistakenly hoped that a homeless person might come by more freebies. He’d left the city and had been camping out for a couple of weeks in this empty school in St Leonard’s. A street sleeper in Brighton had shown him a website about abandoned places, and he’d found Westhaven on there. It was on the coast, not that far from his usual haunts. A link led him to a YouTube video some kids had made of themselves exploring the building. One of them had gone to school there, and she’d whooped with amazement as she’d found her old classroom, the same room where Tim was now living.
The first time he’d entered, he’d approached carefully, because other people, including homeless, would probably be using it, and things could get territorial. He didn’t want a repeat of the bad experience at Steiner’s. There had been two women hanging out in the least damaged parts of this building, one in the head teacher’s study and one in a storeroom, but they seemed peaceable and said they didn’t mind if he took over Room Three as long as he didn’t bother them.
In its heyday, Westhaven had been a handsome Edwardian red-brick building with mock Tudor cladding above the front windows and a deep veranda with wooden railings running along the front. It had opened as a school in 1908, and had continued as an educational establishment with a succession of owners through the years. In 1988, it became an independent sixth-form college, but closed for business in 2003 after the company that owned it went bankrupt. Now, it was more derelict than Steiner’s. Lead had been stripped from the roof so that parts of it had collapsed, only two sash windows were still intact, and vandals had smashed and flooded the toilets.
Tim had no idea that he was sleeping in the Classics room, where pupils had once learned Greek and Latin in preparation for their Oxbridge applications, and the teacher had inspired her pupils with her love of Plato’s comic poems. He hadn’t noticed the sign over the door, Condemnant Quo Non Intellegunt and it wouldn’t have interested him much if he’d understood it. He was using two damp, speckled copies of Caesar’s Gallic Wars and a tatty paperback of Homer’s Odyssey to prop up the broken chair he threw his clothes on. Despite the decay and damage, the room retained some of its handsome features: parquet flooring, high ceilings with ornate friezes above the picture rails, central sunflower roses, elegant cornices and stained glass in some windows. Tim was fascinated by patterns and he liked the herringbone design of the floor. He’d cleaned a large square around his sleeping area, exposing the warmth of the wood, where he’d lie tracing the oak blocks and lines with a finger.
Tim’s experience of school had been hazy and overwhelming. He’d spent a lot of time truanting to avoid the chaos, noise and indecipherable pages of information — and to spite his foster parents. When he had attended, he had been more interested in the shapes made by interconnecting triangles, the configurations of rivers on the map of the UK, and the details of the geometric designs on his form teacher’s ties. He was just about literate, but that was all his teachers had managed to do with him over the years. Tim had passed through the education system with staff who lacked the training and time
to recognise Asperger’s syndrome, and would have been short of resources to compensate if they had.
His hunger was growing. He unzipped his sleeping bags, wriggling out like a pupa shedding its skin, and put on his Burberry coat. It was covered in muck and smelled terrible, but it still kept the cold out.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked, head down, towards the town centre, imagining crispy fried onion rings. He might get a double portion of chips and bring some back for breakfast. The evening was dank, with a thin, cold mist drifting from the sea and he coughed as it crept into his lungs. Two giggling girls ran past him, dressed as witches and waving wands. One of them had to hold onto her cone-shaped hat and she called to him as she flashed by. ‘Trick or treat?’ He stopped for a moment and stared after her, realising that it must be Halloween.
He trudged on, passing houses with glowing, ghastly pumpkins in the windows and fake, wispy cobwebs tracing the glass. He laughed, his chest rattling. He’d plenty of genuine cobwebs. Thick, furry ones in Room Three.
A car behind him slowed and he heard the purr of a window opening and a voice. ‘Is that you, Tim?’
He turned, alert and ready to bolt, and peered through the dusk. He’d had enough run-ins with people over the years to get nervous when approached. He made out a smiling, familiar face, and he relaxed.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages. I thought it was you, I recognised your walk,’ the voice continued.
He waved. ‘Hi, what brings you here?’
‘Just passing through. This is an amazing coincidence. How are you?’
‘Oh . . . just going for a takeaway.’
‘Well, hop in and I’ll give you a lift. It’s a rotten evening for walking.’
He didn’t need to be asked twice. He slid into the warmth and comfort of the passenger seat and sat back. The car smelled of mints and leather. His driver’s voice was low and soothing, the way it had been that last time at Steiner’s, when the old guy with the dog had got angry and come at him with a broken bottle. He’d avoided the place after that, reckoning it had bad karma, because another time when he’d gone there, he’d nearly tripped over the couple in the office. He’d had a shock when he’d recognised the woman half-naked on the mattress he’d kipped on the previous week, and the muscly guy beside her wearing just boxer shorts and opening wine. He’d got out of there quickly, before they saw him.
‘This weather’s a bit like it was that evening we first met, outside Steiner’s,’ the driver said. ‘You had a nasty cut from that broken bottle. Seems ages ago now.’
‘Yeah. I was just remembering that. You gave me a tenner and a plaster.’
‘So I did. I could see you’d been rattled. Have you ever told anyone about meeting me that night?’
‘Nah.’
‘What about what you saw inside Steiner’s that other time? Those two on the mattress — ever told anyone about them?’
‘Nah. Too much hassle.’
‘I don’t blame you. It’s hard enough being homeless without making life even more complicated. Comfy?’
‘Yeah, lovely and warm.’
‘Good. Sit back and enjoy it while you can.’
The car surged forward through the deepening night, while the thickening haze licked at the windows.
* * *
Patrick had left Siv’s Halloween costume on her desk with a note. This is from Noah. He decided you’re a wood sprite. Thanks for the help, guv. We’re doing okay.
It was a light, gauzy costume in many shades and layers of green, calf length, with a headband of mosses and acorns. At home, Siv put it on, deciding that she passed muster, albeit rather tall for a wood sprite. She was hunting for black tights and flat shoes when Bartel sent an email.
Just a chilling little story to put you in the mood for tonight.
A peasant’s wife and children died of the plague and he fled to the forest. He fell asleep and was woken after midnight by a great noise of music and dancing. He was astonished and delighted as he heard joyful pipes and drums approaching, but his heart froze in fear when he saw a crowd of spectres, dancing beside a high black wagon with the plague sitting on top. Everything the ghastly company met on the road changed into a spectre and joined them. The peasant was terrified. He seized his axe and struck at a spectre, but instantly it became a tall woman who spat fire. Then the peasant saw that even the trees, the owls and plants were changing and joining the awful harbingers of death. He fell senseless on the ground, and when he woke in the morning, all his belongings were broken or burnt. He knew that death had sent him a warning, and hurried from his own country to a land that was free of the deadly sickness.
She replied, You’ve certainly put me in the mood. See you at the harbour.
The story had made her shiver. When she looked out of the window into the murky, damp night, she was glad to see the glow of Corran and Paul’s light from across the meadow. The wind was rising and sighing around the wagon, teasing at the door and windows as if it was trying to find a way in. Scraps of dark cloud drifted across the dull moon’s face. She had a fleeting sense of foreboding and shook her head impatiently, blaming Bartel and his unsettling tale. Time to fix a smile and mingle.
At the harbour, the wind was gusting, the boats rocking at their moorings. Salt spray stung Siv’s cheeks and she held onto her headband as she saw a vision with a long, grey beard carrying a staff and covered in large slimy scales approaching.
‘I hope none of your boss’s guests get seasick,’ Bartel said.
‘You’re . . . astonishing.’
He waved his staff. ‘Ah, your British irony. Astonishing good or bad?’
‘Oh, good, of course. Are those scales made of rubbery stuff? They’re disgusting.’ She touched one. It was damp and sticky.
‘Behave, or I’ll trap your soul in my teapot. We’d better get inside or your flimsy layers might blow away. Which boat is it?’
She frowned into the wind. ‘Just along there, Quicksilver.’
‘Smile, you’re going to a party, not an execution!’ Bartel struck his staff imperiously on the ground and strode towards the boat while she scurried after him, head down against the next gust, her flimsy skirts flapping.
Inside Quicksilver’s large cabin, there was a tight crowd and all was warmth, light and noise. Paper bats and huge spiders hung from the ceiling and a tango played, a tune with dark, insistent rhythms. The raw night outside was held at bay in the clink of glasses and hum of conversation. Now and again, the boat lifted almost imperceptibly, the only sign that the weather was bad-tempered. Bartel went to the makeshift bar in the corner to find a beer while Siv accepted a glass of wine from Patrick, who was dressed as a skeleton. Beside him was a flame-haired woman in a Bride of Dracula outfit, who he introduced as Kitty.
Siv asked, ‘Where’s our host?’
Patrick pointed with his thumb. ‘He’s with his new lady friend in the other room, helping her fix her costume. Seems very smitten with her.’
She sipped her wine. The cabin was fitted with grey leather seats, ceiling to floor walnut shelves and cupboards, with dimmed spotlights inset into the ceiling. She’d never have considered Mortimer as a sailor, reading charts and tides, battling the elements, and couldn’t equate his narrow fingers and manicured nails with a mariner’s hands. He seemed like a man built for more domestic, small-scale activities such as golf or bowls. She gazed at the weird and wonderful characters thronging the cabin. Noah waved to her from a corner, raising his bat wings in greeting. She spotted Ali, dressed in shaggy brown fur with a hare’s ears, a horse’s mane and a long tail. He was gazing longingly at the table spread with food, a finger to his lips.
‘Bet you he takes one of the chocolate brownies,’ a voice said at her side.
She turned to see a man dressed as a grey wolf with tall, pointed ears. He wore a sleeveless black leather jerkin over ripped black jeans, with thick fur covering his chest and arms. Amused eyes glinted through his facemask.
‘Two, probabl
y,’ she replied.
‘Just as well Polly’s not here yet. If she sees him, there’ll be trouble. Could you just push this sleeve up for me? I’m struggling with my claws and I don’t want to spill this excellent beer. It’s hard enough trying not to dip my whiskers in it.’
She put her glass down and pushed at the elastic over his right wrist, freeing his fingertips from the pointed black claws. ‘That okay?’
‘Great, thanks. What are you, some kind of elf?’
‘I’m a wood sprite,’ she said, mustering her dignity. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Can’t say it is, whereas I’m clearly seeking Little Red Riding Hood.’ He took a draught of beer. He had a sturdy, square jaw and his teeth were large and even.
‘What big ears you have, Grandma,’ she said.
He stroked his whiskers and grinned. ‘Is the big guy you came in with your partner?’
She preferred men who didn’t vacillate when it came to acting on attraction but this was intrusive. ‘Bit nosy,’ she said.
The wolf man laughed. ‘Just a polite enquiry.’
‘He’s my friend.’
‘He’d like to be more than that. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’
‘Maybe you need an eye test.’
‘Okay, I can see I’ve stepped over a line. How are you doing with the Dimas murder?’
She stared up at him. She couldn’t place him and didn’t recognise the silky voice. ‘I can’t discuss a case with you.’
‘What, not even with a colleague?’
‘Who are you?’
He put his paw out. ‘DI Tommy Castles.’
She could hardly refuse a handshake. He had a strong, hairy grip. His claws scraped her skin lightly and she had to control a tremor. She was annoyed at her disadvantage and the way he’d ambushed her. A wood sprite would be a walkover for a prowling wolf. Bartel probably had a tale about such an encounter.
‘Good, steady hand,’ he said. ‘So, how’s the investigation? I hear you’ve ruled out Barnwell and Aston.’
NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2) Page 28