For almost a year, Janey had lived there with him – well, she had stayed there most weekends and during her holidays – but now it was more than a month since he’d heard from her. We’ll keep in touch she said, we’ll stay friends, but he’d known at the time what that meant, with the spaces in between calls and texts growing, stretching out into longer and longer silences. Janey was pretty and vivacious, and she liked having someone in her life. There would be someone else by now.
The traffic began to inch forward again. It would be good to get out of this, to find somewhere away from the town – a village, maybe even somewhere near the coast. That was feasible if he took up his dad’s offer of some additional cash. He’d said no thanks, naturally, but the response had been, well, you’ll get the money sooner or later, you might as well have it when you most need it. For the right place, Waters thought, he might change his mind.
Tomorrow, after the ten o’clock visit, he’d go into Lake and look around the estate agents, so he wouldn’t stay too long at The Blue Note tonight. It had become a regular thing lately, and when he walked in these days – or these nights – people would say hello. He had a usual seat at a usual table, and a small circle of people who one might say were more than acquaintances now, professional people, and students and lecturers from the university. He had developed some taste in the music and the ‘Recents’ folder in his streaming history consisted of great jazz piano players, past and present.
Which is, he told himself, an odd little coincidence. He selected devices on the dashboard and scrolled through until he found the name she had suggested – Keith Jarrett. He had stored one album in My Music but hadn’t played it yet. When the car was stationary again, he looked through the tracks and recognised only one title, so he pressed that and thought, best to begin with something you know. Over The Rainbow.
Chapter Sixteen
Jason Diver said, ‘The point is, it’s like Picasso.’
The youngish man he was debating with, a research student from UEA whom Waters hadn’t met before, shot back, ‘What, all flat heads, and mouths where their eyes should be? I know this lot aren’t good but they’re not that bad!’
It was an open mike night, and three local musicians had formed an impromptu trio of trumpet, double bass and drums. Waters was glad the players on the stage couldn’t hear the discussion, but he had to agree – this wasn’t the best he’d heard at The Blue Note.
Jason, undaunted – it was a family trait – waited until the amusement around the table had died down.
‘People think that’s all Picasso could do because it’s the only side of his work they’ve ever seen. But he was a brilliant draftsman. Have you ever looked at any of his early sketches, even from when he was a teenager? He could paint landscapes as well as any Impressionist, too. All I’m saying is, improvisation has more meaning if the artist can play conventionally but chooses not to. Then it’s true creativity. You think Bach never sat at a piano and improvised? No recordings, obviously, nothing written down but he must have done.’
Bach again, thought Waters – funny how these little synchronicities come in clusters. Wallace, the student, looked at the stage for a moment, making a point of listening, and said, ‘But you’re not saying these guys are somewhere between Picasso and Bach, are you? I mean, apart from having no idea what that would sound like, I’m sure they’re nice chaps but…’
It was all good-humoured. Jason looked serious, as if he was considering the possibility, before he said, to more laughter, ‘No. They’re terrible.’
It’s no different to friendships and lovers, though, is it, Waters thought. Why do we click with some people and not others? He’d seen, here in this place, two musicians who had never met, get up on the stage and immediately have some sort of bond; the three up there now clearly knew each other but it wasn’t quite working out – and it never would because something was missing.
Katherine Diver was in Europe, Jason had told him, and even he, her brother, seemed unclear whether she was there on business or pleasure. Waters guessed it would be at least a little of both. ‘But she’ll be back next week,’ Jason said, ‘and she’ll be pleased to see you, Chris. She’s always pleased to see you.’
Waters had drunk only a pint of lager and a single whisky in the hour and a half he’d been in the club, and that was by design. There had been a few weeks after Janey left when he had indulged more than was healthy – and on reflection he accepted there had been a few weeks of it before she left, too, because they’d both seen the end coming. He wanted to be up early to check over the flat before the estate agent arrived, and in the afternoon he had plans to take his latest purchase, a Nikon D850, for a drive up to the coast so they could get to know each other better. So at ten o’clock he got up from the table, said his goodbyes and left The Blue Note.
Outside, he stood for a moment and looked across the Market Square, empty now in the lull between the arrival of Friday evening and the raucous return journeys that seem to reach a peak around midnight in most town centres these days. Already he had memories here, memories of relationships and investigations, and sometimes it was difficult to separate the two. A gust of wind swirled down between the buildings, a cold wind, and something like a shiver went through him. Autumn was coming early and he was alone again. It didn’t bother him that much, but…
Eden Street was short detour on his way back to the flat. It might be useful to take a look, just to walk down it and get sense of life there after dark. The main entrance into the Kingsgate mall would be locked now, and so he took the alleyway behind the jazz club, arriving at the top end of the street, furthest from the Fairhills end. He stood and looked, aware of the CCTV camera up high behind him, the same camera that had recorded the movements of the men who had killed Neville Murfitt. They had crossed this very spot six nights ago with murder on their minds, and he tried to imagine that, tried to create in his imagination enough of a motivation to commit such an act. He tried and he failed. But whatever it had been, it was, as Smith once said to him, the ultimate act of selfishness, to deprive another being of life itself, and that’s probably all one needs to know.
There were people here but it wasn’t busy. The fast-food outlets and the cafés at the far end had a few customers outside, and beyond them was a pub with garish red and green neon signs announcing that The Rooster had live music tonight. He began to walk in that direction, with the vague thought that among the youths in the street he might find the two boys who had cycled into town minutes before Murfitt had been stabbed to death.
When he was level with Flower Power, Waters stopped and pushed his hands into his jeans pockets because the night was getting colder still. Then he walked over to the entrance and peered inside, stooping a little to do so, and he could see only a red light blinking. Odd to think, though, of all those blooms standing to attention in the darkness, flowers cut for our delight. Another little act of selfishness? That would be an interesting question to discuss with Miriam Josephs.
He sensed someone moving behind him, not immediately behind, but there were footsteps. Turning, he leaned back into the shadows of the doorway, and watched as a woman walked down the other side of Eden Street. He didn’t recognise her immediately but there was something in the way she moved that caught his interest. The nearest street-lighting was behind her, leaving her face in darkness, but she was wearing the same hooded top as she had been in the CCTV footage. Her steps slowed a little as if she’d seen him in the doorway, but Waters didn’t think she had, and so he waited, keeping silent and still.
She was carrying something in front of her, something cradled baby-like in her forearms, and when the angle of the light altered he could see it was a bouquet, still wrapped in cellophane. She moved forward again, level with him now, just a few feet short of the doorway where they had found Murfitt’s body, and Waters knew she was going to place the bouquet there. After she’d done so, she took a backward step and stared down, as if in wordless prayer at a cenotaph.
For Waters, the situation wasn’t entirely novel. On the last occasion when he had surprised a woman he had also been threatened with a blade – that was Mairead, DC’s daughter-in-law in the kitchen at Drift’s End – and in a more reflective moment he might have asked himself why he sometimes had this effect on the fairer sex. As it was, his priority was to make sure of his witness, their witness, because not only was this the woman who had walked along Eden Street moments before the murder – she had just demonstrated she perhaps knew Neville Murfitt in a more than passing manner.
She didn’t believe he was who he said he was, and so, with some care, Waters held out his ID towards her and she took it. He had no doubt she was at least as armed as she claimed to be. When she handed it back, the woman said, ‘All right, then. But you’re working bloody late, ain’t you?’
‘I’m not on duty.’
Honesty is, surprisingly often, the best policy when you’re dealing with real people. Smith had shown him that, and how Smith would have enjoyed this scene, how effortlessly he would have had this woman’s cooperation and trust.
She said, ‘So is this where a copper comes for a bit of fun on ’is night off? Don’t believe that, mate.’
Waters said, ‘I was at the jazz club, just around the corner. I thought I’d have a look here as I’ve been working on a case – the murder last weekend. The body was found right where you just placed those flowers.’
She was weighing it up, possibly realising that he could have started firing questions straight away but hadn’t done so – he was leaving it up to her, in the first instance. The people at the sharp end are more likely to give you something if you don’t demand it.
She said, ‘Yeah. Well, I knew ’im. Michael. A soldier. ’Spect you already know all that. Disgusting, what happened to ’im. Help for effing ’eroes?’
Waters took a couple of steps towards her, closing the gap, and she didn’t flinch. He asked whether she had known Michael well, whether she’d spoken to him last weekend. The woman was looking up at him now, and he saw the lines of age in her face. She was ten or fifteen years older than he had first guessed.
She said, ‘Bit posh for a copper, ain’t you?’
‘They’re desperate. They’ll take anyone these days,’ and she gave him the twist of a smile.
‘I knowed ’im pretty well, I s’pose. Always had a word when I went by. If I was flush, I dropped ’im a quid, y’know? And ’e helped me out a couple of times, which is more than I can say for most of the people round ’ere. Michael was all right.’
He glanced over into the doorway and said, ‘Nice of you, to bring the flowers.’
She sniffed as if dismissing that, but said, ‘Well, no one else ’as done nothing. White lilies, they are.’
Then she looked at him again, looked for something in his face and seemed to find it.
She said, ‘To be honest, I been feeling bad about it.’
‘Why?’
‘That morning, the Monday? I came by ’ere. I spoke to ’im, when he was just lyin’ there. Didn’t realise, see? The dog was there, everything looked normal. I was tellin’ ’im to wake up… Been on my mind all week, that has. So I got the flowers. Bought ’em from over there but didn’t put ’em down straight away, case anyone was watching, y’know? People always think the worst.’
She had pointed towards Flower Power, and Waters turned to look.
The woman said, ‘’S’run by a blind girl, that place.’
‘Yes.’
They stood in silence then and Waters thought, the CCTV camera – this is going to look good if anyone from the squad ever sees it: “On the night in question, Detective Sergeant Waters, you were in conversation for several minutes with a woman of questionable reputation. What exactly did the two of you talk about?”.
He said, ‘We’ve been trying to put together a picture of Michael’s life, of the places he slept. Did he use this doorway often?’
‘No. It was ’is regular spot for working the crowd but ’e’d only slept out in it the past couple of nights that I know of. ’E had a gaff not far away. Di’n’t you know that?’
It was one of those unexpected, priceless moments that few other jobs can offer. Waters could handle them these days, and he shrugged and said, no, but that would be useful information, if she knew where that gaff happened to be.
She said, ‘’S’close to where I’m stayin’. I’ll show you. You can walk me ’ome!’
For a frightening moment, he thought she was about to take his arm. If she had done so, he might have had to make efforts to obtain the CCTV footage before it fell into the wrong hands. But she set off towards Fairhills, and Waters took a couple of quick steps to catch up with her. Oh yes, how Smith would have loved this!
The Temazepam had finally had some effect, and the house was quiet again. Cara Freeman listened at the door to her mother’s bedroom as one listens for a child’s breathing but could hear nothing now. She missed out the fourth step from the bottom but it creaked anyway. Then she stood and listened once more but there was no sound other than the wind moving through the chimney above the open fireplace in the dining room – a low moaning that rose a little and then fell away.
She opened the French doors, walked out onto the patio and closed the doors behind her so they didn’t bang shut in the wind. There was a moon somewhere up beyond the clouds, and the wind was driving the clouds across the moon, the light restless and ever-changing, sometimes grey, sometimes silver but never quite extinguished. There is a light that never goes out… Take me out tonight, take me anywhere… It was the music of the eighties, of the decade when she was born, but Dale had been older than her, and she loved it as soon as he played it to her. These are the anthems of the Doomers, he used to say, but it was the darkness of those songs that made them happy, in a weird way. She wondered what had happened to him, to the others she’d known in those times, and for a moment there was a lump in her throat.
Take me out tonight. Fat chance. She smiled her stop-being-an-idiot smile, and thought that if she smoked, she’d have one now, it would be an appropriate point at which to do so. People seem to derive a lot of satisfaction from it, and more coppers smoke than the general public might imagine. Got to go somewhere, the stress of it, but she’d think about that in a minute or two.
The garden was long and it disappeared into the darkness beneath the trees. The house behind her had five bedrooms and a wonderful position in a really good Norfolk village. She hadn’t called an estate agent for a valuation but didn’t need to because anyone with any sense can work it out for themselves. The place was worth between three quarters and a million pounds. You have to be realistic, hard about these things now, because when the time came, her mother would need care in a home and that would need to be funded. Freeman had listened to the solicitor’s advice carefully and then taken it; she had sold her own apartment and the money had been transferred into her account ten days ago. Her current account balance was almost three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. In addition, she was now the co-owner of this place, which meant that as it was her home, it could not be sold to pay for her mother’s care unless that was what she, Freeman, decided to do. Do this in time, Mr Bradbury had told her, and you protect yourself from the charge of deliberate deprivation of assets.
So, now this was her home. The three of them, mother, Daria her carer, and Freeman herself would rattle around in it like the last three peas left in a can, and nobody knew for how long. Early onset usually progresses more rapidly but the consultant still would only be vague. Five years? Ten? Maybe more. You think about the money, about the time she has left and the time you have left. You can’t help it. You make these horrible cal
culations every day.
When Harry Alexander had first agreed to consider the idea of a new squad almost a year ago, she’d known these times were coming. The slow disintegration had begun, the silly moments and embarrassments that one could laugh off at first, then the visits to the GP, but Freeman had pursued the job anyway. No – not just “anyway”. She had pursued it consciously because her mother was ill. She would prove she could do both – carer and career – or prove that she could not, but she would not quit in anticipation of anything. She’d told Harry everything and all he said was, ‘Good. If you’re going under, let me know well in advance.’
There was a moment when the moon almost broke through, and she waited, hoping to see that, but it never came. She had turned back, thinking she’d been outside too long, unable to hear if her mother was out of the bed again, when her phone buzzed with a text message. She checked the time first – 22.52 – and then saw it was from Chris Waters. Almost eleven o’clock on an off-duty Friday night? Freeman was pleased. He didn’t have much experience as a sergeant but she was sure she’d been right to choose him; here might be the proof of that. She read: Ma’am, sorry to bother you. If you’re not reading this until the morning, it doesn’t matter. But I’ve located Neville Murfitt’s rented room.
She went inside, listened to the silence again, and then called him.
‘Chris? I don’t care if you’ve found Shergar – you’re not getting paid any overtime. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Drop the ma’aming, it sounds ridiculous when I’m in my mother’s house. As of this afternoon, we didn’t know he had a room. How the hell did you find it?’
Waters explained just enough, and without going into too much detail about April Kennedy. There would be plenty of opportunity for amusement on Monday when the rest of the squad heard the story and began asking questions.
On Eden Street Page 16