Death Walks Behind You

by Scott Hunter

  “You have a room?” Charlie frowned. “Seriously?” She wondered why she had confided in Banner. Insecurity is bottomless, Charlie. Any port in a storm…

  “Yep. I was going to place an ad today, as a matter of fact.”

  “What sort of house?”

  Banner gave a short laugh. “A normal sort of house. It’s a big semi. Four beds, big lounge, diner, conservatory.”

  “Sounds too grown up for you, Banner.”

  “Funny. Actually, I inherited it from my parents. Early. They downgraded to Cornwall, so I’m living there, renting out rooms to cover costs.”

  “Right.” Charlie sipped her coffee. She hadn’t meant to share her thoughts, least of all with Banner, but hey, maybe it was serendipity. “Who else shares?”

  “One guy and a girl so far.”

  “They OK?”

  Banner shrugged. “I don’t see much of them. Maybe the odd weekend – when I’m not here. They’re fine. She’s a student. He’s in IT, plays football twice a week. Regular guy.”

  “You’d really rent me a room?”

  “Why not? It’s a big place. We can keep out of each other’s way. Who knows, we might even get to like each other.”

  “I don’t dislike you, Banner.” Charlie finished her coffee. “I have a job to do. Play by my rules and we’ll get on fine.”

  “Whatever,” Banner said. “Anyway, it’s up to you. Let me know.”

  “I will.”

  She watched the Detective Sergeant stroll across the canteen floor, pausing briefly to banter with a young WPC. The WPC giggled and gave Banner a friendly shove. God, what was she thinking? Renting from Banner? But it was tempting. It would be nice to socialise a bit, get to know people, share stuff. Charlie pursed her lips. Four in a big house. It was do-able. She didn’t have to spend time with Banner, she could get to know the girl, maybe go out together. It was closer to the station, too.

  Charlie stacked her tray and left the canteen. She was in a decisive mood. No point procrastinating. What was more, her landlady would be onto her about the lease renewal any day now.

  She went after Banner. No time like the present.

  Chapter 6

  Moran drove up to the iron gates and stopped the car. It was raining, a slow, persistent patter on his windscreen. He got out. There was no lock. He could see the house at the end of the long, curved drive. Or perhaps ‘house’ was not the best description. Pile, his convalescing sergeant, Robert Phelps, would have called it.

  Moran swung the gate open on protesting hinges and returned to the car. As he crawled up the drive he wondered how much money was required to maintain a place like this. But even as the thought occurred to him he could see the first evidence of neglect. The gardens were untended, the grass too long and the hedges untrimmed and unkempt. The building itself was half-covered in ivy and creeper and those stone blocks which were visible seemed, even to Moran’s untrained eye, to be in urgent need of a mason’s expertise. Impressive, nevertheless, he conceded; a once stately home for sure, even allowing for the obvious signs of decline and decay.

  His feet crunched on the gravel as he made his way to the front entrance and climbed the steps to the grand porch. And why are you here, Brendan? Moran hesitated on the threshold. Because you’re taking your mam’s advice, he reminded himself. If you want to know what’s going on, be it office politics, consumer complaint or idle curiosity, go straight to the top.

  He raised his hand to knock and paused again. Idle curiosity? No, it was more than that. He pulled the pitted brass knocker towards him and let it go, impressed at the resonant noise it made.

  He waited. Nothing. Two further knocks also failed to elicit a response. He stood back. There were outbuildings to the east of the drive and he could hear the sound of hammering. Perhaps an estate worker could tell him where to find the lady of the manor. As he approached the nearest building a door set into an alcove of the main house swung open and a tall woman stepped onto the drive. “Can I help you?”

  Moran altered his trajectory and approached the woman with a courteous nod. “I’m not sure, to be truthful. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I’m looking for some information concerning a missing person.”

  “Ah. The police.”

  “Well, yes, indirectly. But I’m not here in any official capacity,” Moran explained. “Actually, I’m on holiday, but as I was in the vicinity–”

  “–You thought you’d do a little recreational sleuthing?”

  Moran laughed awkwardly. “I suppose you could put it like that, yes. But a friend of mine is seriously concerned, and I said I’d do what I could.”

  “A friend?”

  “An acquaintance. A local lady. You might know her. Her name is Celine.”

  “I didn’t catch your name,” the woman said coldly.

  “I apologise. Brendan Moran.” He held out his hand, which was not taken.

  “Irish.”

  “That’s right.” Moran dropped his arm. “I take it I’m speaking to the owner…?” Moran waved vaguely towards the house.

  “Lady Cernham. Yes.”

  She was a striking woman, Moran observed. Beautiful, once, he supposed. Her face was still handsome but the onset of middle age had lined her forehead, creased her cheeks and greyed her hair, which she had kept long, but wore piled in an unfashionably high bun. Her bearing was aristocratic and her voice and tone left Moran in little doubt that Lady Cernham was used to being obeyed without question.

  “So, you don’t know Celine?” Moran kept his voice conversational, pleasant.

  “I do not.”

  “Can I–?”

  “And I don’t see what business it is of yours, either,” Lady Cernham interrupted, “to come here asking questions. Leave it to the local police if there’s a problem.”

  Moran took the hint. “Yes. Well, perhaps I’ll do that. Thank you for your time, Lady Cernham.”

  But she had already turned away and Moran watched her re-enter the house. The door closed and he was alone in the rain.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” he muttered.

  He didn’t bother closing the gate.

  Parked in his favourite petrol station, Moran waited impatiently for someone to pick up.

  “Avis. Can I help?”

  Moran gave Blanche’s details. And waited.

  “Sorry, sir. No one of that name has hired this week.”

  He tried another.

  “Prestige. Name please.”

  Moran gave it and waited. Muzak blasted in his ear.

  “Due back tomorrow,” the call centre operative told him. “Cassidy, yes? Mrs Blanche?”

  Good. A match. “That’s right,” Moran said. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Let’s see.” A pause.

  Moran drummed on the steering wheel.

  “Already back with us, sir. Is there a problem.”

  “Back with you? Mrs Cassidy returned the car?”

  “One moment.” The muzak returned briefly. Moran ground his teeth.

  “It was delivered back by a Mr James Clark. Early this morning.”

  “I see. A relative?”

  A pause. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “The police.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I can’t tell you much more, I’m afraid. That’s what the records show.”

  “Can you give me a description of Mr Clark?”

  “I can’t, but I can try to find out who was on earlies today. Can I call you back?”

  “I’d be obliged.” Moran gave his number and thanked the operative. As he went into the shop to buy a Coke and a Mars Bar he remembered that he had no signal at the cottage. Hopefully Prestige would leave a message. He was half-way across the forecourt with his purchases when his mobile rang. He answered the call.

  “DCI Moran?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Jane Levitt from Prestige. I understand that you were enquiring about a return?”

  “That’s right.” Moran explained again bri
efly.

  “How do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “Call Thames Valley HQ. Ask for DI Charlie Pepper. She’ll confirm my ID and number.”

  A slight pause, then, “That won’t be necessary. How can I help you?”

  “Can you tell me what time the vehicle was returned; perhaps give me a description of the gentleman in question? Anything he might have told you about the circumstances under which he was returning the vehicle?”

  There was a brief silence. “Yes. I booked the vehicle in this morning at about quarter to eight. From a Mr Clark – he told me he was Mrs Cassidy’s brother, as a matter of fact. Sorry, Mrs Blanche Cassidy was the name on the rental form – and as she had decided to extend her visit he had offered to lend her a vehicle for the duration of her stay.”

  “Can you describe Mr Clark?”

  “Mmm. Around six and a bit foot. Late forties, early fifties, perhaps. Short, sandy-grey hair. Well dressed. Jacket and slacks, expensive-looking.”

  “Well spoken?”

  “Posh.” Jane Levitt laughed. “Very plummy.”

  “I see. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Pleasure.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want the Lexus quarantined. Until the police have conducted an inspection.”

  “I’m not sure I–”

  “Just do it, Ms Levitt, would you?”

  A slight pause. “I’ll see what can be done. Can I reach you on this number?”

  Moran explained the signal restrictions, gave Jane Levitt the pub’s landline number and ended the call. He retrieved his Mars Bar, took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. How was he going to get the Lexus inspected when he had absolutely no jurisdiction in the area, no evidence regarding the suspect, and possibly the biggest hindrance to any possible cooperation with the local force, no body? Moran crumpled the chocolate wrapper and tossed it aside. More thought required, Brendan… But in the meantime his next port of call was much clearer.

  It was time to pay Mr de Courcy a visit.

  “What’s on your mind, Charlie?” DCS Higginson invited her to take a seat with a friendly gesture. As she settled into the chair – a quality piece from the latest Staples range, no doubt – she noted with pleasure the other small touches which pointed to Higginson’s status as a comfortably married family man: a photo of the kids, a bone-handled letter opener, a brass inkstand. A china mug inscribed with ‘Best Dad’ above a smiley face resting on a patchily sewn coaster, a remnant of some long-forgotten needlework project. The homely ambience gave her a warm, cuddly feeling, like she was working for her own dad rather than a senior – and very successful – police chief. So far, DCS Higginson’s profile ticked all the right boxes and Charlie knew from previous conversations that he was more than happy to provide a listening ear during Moran’s temporary absence.

  “DS Banner has come up with a name, sir. I thought you should know.”

  “The Ranandan case?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charlie described her visit to Sheldrake and the ex-policeman’s assessment of the possible reasons for Huang Xian Kuai’s presence in the UK.

  “I see.” Higginson rested his arms on the desk and interlocked his fingers. Firm, dry hands, Charlie noticed. She admired his meticulously pressed, speck-free uniform, his calm, unhurried manner, and the neatly trimmed fingernails. The Chief gave a small cough and Charlie, realising she’d been gawping like a teenager at a rock concert, launched herself into a flustered, ill-prepared speech.

  “I thought perhaps it might too big for us, sir? I mean, with all the press stuff we’ve had, the fallout from the summer? I thought you might want it referred onto SOCU? They can keep a handle on Huang Xian Kuai, maybe carry it through and bust the whole UK operation while they’re at it?”

  You’re babbling, Charlie. Shut up. Shut up and let the man speak…

  “We could.” Higginson nodded. “But I’m not keen to get them involved without a little more to go on.” His hands toyed with the letter opener, the broad fingers moving up and down the blade, back and forth, back and forth. Charlie found herself mesmerised by the slow, repetitive action and flinched when he rapped the handle on his desk, decision made. “It would be nice for us to start the ball rolling with a little hard evidence, don’t you think? Given the history? So, let’s keep a weather eye, Charlie. Have a chat with the team; ask them to keep gentle tabs. The man may just be passing through. Watch, wait. Let’s be patient. Keep me in touch. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie got up, smoothed her skirt. Higginson made her feel as if she was ten years old. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, by the way, Charlie?”

  “Sir?” She turned at the door.

  “I know how sensitive an issue this is for you and the team, believe me. I worked with DC Harding in Southampton.” Higginson paused, a flicker of emotion clouding his face. “He was a good lad.”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie bit her lip fiercely. Harding had asked her out just minutes before his surveillance van was firebombed. And Helen, gentle, helpful Helen…

  “I know, I know.” Higginson was on his feet and before Charlie could gather herself had placed a strong, fatherly arm around her shoulder – not threateningly, not creepily, just – just right.

  “DI Pepper, listen to me.” He spoke gently, made her face him, placed his hands on both her shoulders and engaged her with his confident, grey-blue eyes.

  “Sir.” Don’t blub, don’t blub…

  “Huang Xian Kuai has done himself no favours. We know who he is. We know where he is. We’ll get him. The slightest move out of line and we’ll get him, all right? He’ll make a mistake and you’ll be there to nail him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re a good officer, Charlie. And you have a good team out there. Use them.”

  “Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir.”

  “And how are you sleeping these days?”

  “Not too bad, thank you, sir.” Liar.

  “No more amnesia episodes?”

  “No, sir. The doctor said it was to be expected, after a trauma, you know. But he was more than happy for me to resume active duty. I’m fine, really.”

  Higginson nodded and returned to his chair. “That’s the spirit. I expect I’ll see you before Moran gets back, but in case I don’t, have a good couple of days.” Higginson picked up the letter opener and reached for a pile of correspondence. The interview was over.

  Charlie made it to the toilet door before the tears exploded in a volley of repressed grief as it all came back to her. Helen, Harding, the van, the fire… Oh God, why did it happen?

  She should have been with them. She should have died too.

  But where had she been when the van was being doused in petrol? Getting a fish supper, for God’s sake.

  A stupid fish supper.

  Chapter 7

  “Not bad. Not bad at all,” Charlie whispered under her breath as she parked her car outside the red-bricked Victorian detached. Number 226. Dovecote Villa. Very posh. Banner’s parents weren’t short of a bob or two by the look of it. Nice road, tree-lined, off the beaten track. OK-looking pub down the lane. This’ll be fine, Charlie girl. You can handle Banner. Won’t see much of him anyway, the size of the place.

  Charlie killed the engine and rummaged for her handbag. The car badly needed de-junking; it was amazing how stuff just accumulated, especially when you were flat-out busy all the time…

  There was a tap on the side window. Charlie looked up. A girl of around her own age was peering in with a quizzical, half-expectant expression. Charlie opened the door and stepped out. “Hi?”

  “Are you Charlie?”

  “That’s me.”

  “At last! I have been so looking forward to you coming! Stephen told me we are getting a new house mate and when I hear you were female – well, I was so happy!” The girl offered her hand. “My name’s G.”

  “G?”

/>   “Yep. Or Gosh, but most people just call me G. I know they both sound like exclamations, but what to do?” She laughed and shrugged.

  “Well, you know who I am already.” Charlie grinned as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you, G.”

  G laughed. She had long, thick brown hair, an infectious chuckle and an accent Charlie couldn’t quite place. “You too.” G said. “Come – let me give you a hand with your stuff.”

  Charlie followed G along the path. A blackbird sang out a shrill, twittering warning from somewhere deep in the hedge as they approached. Charlie’s heart sang along with the bird. Banner or no Banner, she already felt as though she’d made the right move.

  “So, what would you like?” G opened the fridge and retrieved a bottle of wine. “White – this is really nice, Spanish. Or I have some red in the cupboard. Or–”

  “White sounds great. Thanks.” Charlie’s eyes roved around the huge kitchen with its granite-topped breakfast bar, beautifully restored Aga range and state-of-the-art coffee machine. The units and cupboards were exquisitely unobtrusive, beautifully presented in a dark, peachy matt finish. Not your standard flat-pack assembly, that’s for sure, Charlie thought to herself. She knew just by looking that the drawers would glide open at the lightest touch. Everything in the room had been designed for ease and comfort. She felt a sudden pang of jealousy, thinking of the flat she’d just vacated, her parent’s poky little galley kitchen. Dad had always promised mum the kitchen of her dreams. If he won the lottery. Charlie’s lips tightened. It wasn’t going to happen. And here was Banner, reaping his parents’ good fortune, taking it all for granted…

  “Hey!”

  Charlie snapped out of her reverie. G was offering her a glass, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh. Thanks.” She accepted the glass, a long-stemmed crystal beauty she felt immediately reluctant to handle. “Sorry. Miles away.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. It is too good for Stephen, all this, yes?”

  “It’s gorgeous. His parents must be worth a bomb.”

  “He worked in advertising, I think. TV. Some big job. Come on, let’s go through.”