Silent Crimes

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘That’s odd,’ Polly said. ‘Didn’t Brotherton say that when he last saw Katie Templar she’d been in outdoor clothes and pulling a suitcase?’

  ‘A red one. Either he’s lying or the body isn’t her.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll head off now. It’ll take me, what, half an hour or so to get to the Nether Stowey area?’

  He glanced again at the folder containing the financial records. ‘We’ve got the very person to wade through this stuff. Lydia Pillay is with Bournemouth CID but had a two-year spell in the regional fraud squad in Bath. She’s just back at work from a long absence recovering after a thug half-killed her. She can only do office-based stuff for a couple of months. She’d enjoy going through this. Okay with you?’

  ‘Of course. I met her a couple of times when she was in Bath. Not a problem.’

  Chapter 20: Memories

  Monday Morning

  In the morning sunshine, Holly Cottage looked just as enchanting as Rae had said. Barry rang the doorbell and waited. He’d decided not to let Babs Atkins know he was coming. The reason for this was the usual one: forewarned, the interviewee had time to rehearse their story, which made it more difficult to get to the truth. Much better to catch them off guard.

  The door opened and a neatly dressed, grey-haired woman looked out at him, a look of polite enquiry on her face.

  He smiled. ‘Mrs Atkins? I’m Detective Inspector Barry Marsh from Dorset police. My colleague Rae Gregson interviewed you a couple of days ago. Would you have a few minutes to spare? I need to check up on a couple of points.’

  A flicker of anxiety, and then she forced a smile. ‘Of course. Come on in. I’ve just made myself a coffee. Would you like one?’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’ He followed her through to a large kitchen at the rear of the cottage.

  ‘This is lovely,’ he said. ‘Rae told me what a great view you have. She wasn’t exaggerating.’ He accepted the proffered mug and took a sip.

  ‘So what did you want to know?’ She sat down opposite him at the large kitchen table.

  ‘Andrew Atkins. Is he a relation of yours?’

  Babs turned pale and put a hand to her face. ‘He’s my son.’

  ‘He was a member of the commune that Rae asked you about?’

  ‘Yes,’ Babs whispered.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Rae?’

  Babs hesitated. ‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘But he was one of the four trustees that owned the farm. Didn’t you know that?’

  She shook her head. ‘I knew he was one of the leaders, but not that he had an official position. He never told me that.’

  ‘So what did he tell you?’ Barry asked.

  She paused, seeming to muster her thoughts. ‘He knew the man who originally owned Heathfield Farm because he did some conservation work there when he was in the local scout troop. He worked there for a few years after he left school. That was before the old chap died and the commune moved in. He got to know the leader, someone called Tim. When the group arrived and settled at the farm, he stayed on. We hardly saw him after that.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Barry could see she was upset and spoke gently.

  She shook her head, her voice trembled. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for years. We got Christmas cards from him until a few years ago and they always had a short letter inside, but they stopped coming soon after Harry — that’s my husband — died. I tried to find out where he was, but I never got anywhere.’

  ‘Do you remember the postmark on the envelopes? That might help trace where he is.’

  ‘Bournemouth and Poole. I tried to find him when Harry became ill, but it was impossible. My other two children told me to forget him. They said he obviously didn’t want to be found.’

  Barry groaned inwardly. Now what? The team had assumed the tramp was being honest about his identity — Paul Prentice, the name he gave to Jade Allen. She’d told them that the tramp she knew as Paul spent each winter in a hostel in Poole. What if he wasn’t Prentice at all? What if he was really the other missing trustee, Andrew Atkins, and had taken on the identity of Prentice for reasons of his own? This whole case was becoming ridiculously complex, particularly with three of the four farm trustees now apparently dead or missing.

  Babs stared at him. ‘Of course. You’re from Dorset, aren’t you? Investigating the death of a tramp.’ She gave a slight smile but then, as the realisation hit her, put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no. Surely it’s not him? It can’t be. Didn’t your colleague say you knew who he was?’

  ‘We had fairly strong reasons for thinking he was someone called Paul Prentice but there’s been no formal identification as yet. We should know tomorrow one way or the other, once we see some dental records that have finally turned up. Please don’t worry unnecessarily, Mrs Atkins.’

  ‘I just couldn’t bear it. It’s breaking my heart to think that Andrew’s been living as a tramp all these years.’

  ‘The chances are it is Paul Prentice because of the things of his we found. Do you have a photo of Andrew, maybe one taken just before he vanished? And I’ll need a description, particularly of any distinguishing features.’

  Babs seemed to calm down a little. ‘He’s of average height and about eleven stone — at least he was. He’s got mid-brown hair, slightly curly. There’s a scar on his lower stomach from an appendicitis operation he had when he was in his late teens, and another small one on the little finger of his right hand from where he gashed himself badly on a bit of broken glass when he was small. That’s all I can think of right now.’

  ‘From what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound like our tramp. He was taller for a start. Can you tell me what Andrew was like as a person, and what he did for a living?’

  Babs looked into the distance. ‘He was our youngest. I suppose we spoiled him a bit, but he was a nice little lad when he was small. He used to amuse the older two by chuckling at them. This was before he could speak. He was amiable enough as he grew up, but he wasn’t as hard-working as the other two at school, so didn’t cover himself in glory where academia was concerned. He was always interested in the outdoors and worked for a few of the farms around here until the commune opened and he joined. I think he probably got sucked in — you know, to that lifestyle. He was a bit weak-willed and easily led.’

  ‘Is there any reason why he would have chosen Poole or Bournemouth when he upped and left? Does he have family or friends there?’ Barry asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No. But I did hear he liked surfing and beach life. Maybe it was that.’

  Barry looked doubtful. ‘Really keen surfers go to Cornwall. It’s a bit tame down our way, none of those big Atlantic rollers.’

  She shrugged. ‘He probably fell in with a group of people and left with them, you know, after the farm closed up. Maybe that’s where they went, and he stayed with them.’ She paused. ‘I heard that a woman’s body was found at the farm at the weekend. Had it been there long?’

  ‘I can’t say much, Mrs Atkins, but it had certainly been there a while. Obviously, our investigations are ongoing and urgent.’

  ‘Andrew wouldn’t have been involved in that, honestly. He wasn’t that type of person.’

  Barry changed the subject. ‘Did he leave anything here? Personal belongings, papers, diaries or anything like that?’

  Babs hesitated. Barry watched her closely. He guessed she was wondering whether she’d be doing her son a favour by cooperating with the police. Did this mean she had some doubts about him after all? Finally, she said, ‘I think he left a few things, but I haven’t looked at them for years. Our two older children did a clear-out after Harry died, so they might have been binned. Let me look.’ She rose from her seat.

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘If you must,’ she said reluctantly.

  Her son’s bedroom was now a tiny guest room, tucked under the sloping roof and decorated in pale green.

  ‘I know there’s nothing in the wardrobe or drawers bec
ause I keep them clear for when my nephews or nieces come to stay. But there’s a hatch to a small storage area under the eaves. Harry put Andrew’s stuff in a box and shoved it up there when he decorated this room last.’

  She pulled a chair beneath the hatch and opened it up. Standing behind her, Barry could see a small cardboard box, perched on a couple of boards. The rest of the loft area was empty. Babs pulled the box down and began to sort through the contents, which consisted of school reports, a scout uniform complete with badges, an old teddy bear, a couple of boys’ adventure comics and a fishing reel.

  ‘The rod broke when Harry was packing the stuff up, so we threw it out,’ Babs said.

  A poor record of a life, and none of it gave any insight into the adult Andrew Atkins. Babs replaced the box and they started to make their way down the stairs.

  ‘Did he ever bring anyone from the farm here, Mrs Atkins? A girlfriend perhaps?’

  With a foot on the top step, Babs paused. ‘Well, yes, he did once. Let me think. He hadn’t planned to visit. I seem to remember that he was on his way to Taunton with this young woman and stopped off on the way.’ She continued on down the stairs, back into the kitchen. ‘It was so long ago. Oh, I remember. She played the trumpet and had ordered a new one. There’s a famous wind instrument shop in Taunton and they were going to collect it. They called in to borrow a street map of Taunton. I gave them a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. They were both so thin and hungry-looking.’

  ‘Can you remember her name?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Yes. Linda Brooker. She came from Bridgwater and I knew her mum once. She used to help out in a café in the town that Harry and I went to for coffee when we were shopping there.’

  ‘Linda? Or her mother?’

  ‘Oh, her mother. I’ve no idea what Linda did, apart from playing the trumpet and living on the farm.’

  ‘Have you seen her since?’ Barry asked.

  Babs shook her head. ‘Nor her mum. I don’t go to Bridgwater anymore since Harry died. I just use the local shops in Nether Stowey.’

  ‘Can you remember what this Linda Brooker looked like?’

  ‘Well, she didn’t look much like her mum, that’s one thing I can tell you. I remember saying that to her and she laughed. She had short cropped hair that was almost black, but it could have been dyed. She was tall, about the same height as Andrew, and she had a gap between her two front teeth. I can remember thinking that if she got that fixed, she’d be really pretty. I think she lives in Taunton now.’

  Barry reckoned he’d got as much information out of Babs as he was likely to get. He handed her his contact card. ‘If you remember anything else, however unimportant it seems, phone me on that number. And thanks. You’ve been really helpful.’

  Chapter 21: Some Cards and a Few Quid

  Monday Afternoon

  Barry emailed Sophie to give her a quick rundown on what he’d discovered. Then he set to work in the Taunton incident room, trying to trace the two new names, Andrew Atkins and Linda Brooker. Babs had said she thought Linda was living in Taunton. Were she and Andrew still together? Why hadn’t Andrew stayed in contact with his mother, particularly after the death of his father? This whole investigation was populated with people who behaved in unpredictable ways. Maybe that was only to be expected with people who had once lived in a commune. Wasn’t the rejection of an orthodox lifestyle one of the core characteristics of such a group?

  Atkins was proving to be very elusive. Just like Paul Prentice, he didn’t appear in any local records. Either, like the dead tramp, he’d dropped off the radar completely or he’d moved away from Somerset and was keeping a deliberately low profile. Linda Brooker did turn up, however — at least Barry hoped it was her. A Linda Brooker of the right kind of age did indeed live in Taunton. Barry headed off to find her.

  Montgomery Flats was a small block situated in a former council estate. Barry locked his car and strolled over to the main entrance, where he found the front door wedged open with a brick, despite a notice warning the occupants to keep it locked for security reasons. He went in and made his way up to flat twenty-two on the third floor of the four-storey block. The door was opened by a dark-haired woman wearing patterned leggings and a T-shirt. She was barefoot, flushed and out of breath.

  ‘Sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I’ve just come in from a run. It’s my day off today.’ Barry spotted the slight gap between her two front teeth.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ he replied, showing his warrant card. ‘It’s good to see someone doing their best to keep fit. I’m DI Barry Marsh from Dorset police. I’m looking for a Linda Brooker who lived on the Quantocks for a short while some years ago. Is that you?’

  She gave a cautious nod.

  ‘It’s possible that you may be able to help us with an investigation. Can I come in for a couple of minutes?’

  ‘I suppose so. I was about to have a quick shower and a cup of tea, but that can wait, I guess. I’ll need to go out in about an hour, to pick up my son from school. What did you want exactly?’

  Barry followed her into a neat living room whose windows looked out towards the town centre.

  ‘I understand you lived at Heathfield Farm for a while about twelve years ago. Is that right?’

  She turned away. ‘I think I’ll put the kettle on. Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks.’

  She went into the kitchen, leaving Barry to have a quick look around the lounge. He saw a couple of framed photos, both of a young boy. Barry guessed they were taken about a year apart. There were no other photos on display, so he went across for a closer look. The young lad bore a marked resemblance to Linda, but with a slightly turned-up nose, rather like Babs Atkins. Interesting. The same shelf bore several cards, closely crammed together, all wishing Logan a happy birthday. Barry wondered how long they’d been there. They had the slightly curled look of cards that had stood for several weeks.

  Linda returned to the room with two steaming mugs.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Barry said.

  She sighed. ‘Yes, I was there. For nearly two years. It was a long time ago, though.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ He took a sip of tea.

  ‘It was a sort of commune,’ she said, ‘run by a guy called Timothy. A bit religious but not one of the mainstream ones. He had a down on those, so he made up his own. He was a bit driven. Sort of obsessed. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Did you also know someone called Andrew Atkins?’

  He watched her eyes flicker. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘It’s Andrew I’m trying to trace. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No.’ The answer was too quick and too sharp.

  ‘Is that your son in the photos on the shelf?’

  ‘Yes. Logan. He’s six.’

  ‘Is Andrew the father?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Now she sounded really wary.

  ‘The photos. He looks a bit like Babs Atkins, particularly his nose. And there’s a card from her there. “From Granny Babs,” it says.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t notice one from Andrew, though.’

  Linda stared into her tea. ‘Haven’t seen him in five years. He disappeared when Logan was a tot.’ She took a sip and looked up at Barry. ‘Not a great loss. Too fond of the old wacky-baccy. And booze. And anything else he could lay his hands on. He wouldn’t consider remembering his own son’s birthday important. The only thing of importance to Andy is Andy.’

  ‘Did you stay together after the commune broke up?’

  ‘Sort of. On and off. It went on like that for years. I knew I was being used. He only appeared when he felt like it. Then I got pregnant. He stayed for a bit longer after that. Then he said the strain of having to look after a baby was doing his head in. I went back to work, see, soon after Logan was born. All Andy had to do was look after Logan, but he couldn’t even do that properly. Waster. He stuck around for a year, then just fucked off without a word. Bastard.’

  ‘I need to find him, Lin
da. If you know where he might be, please tell me.’ Barry waited.

  She remained silent for a while. ‘We did get a couple of cards the first year. I think he was in Poole then, maybe working on a local farm. He mentioned something about it in one of the cards.’

  ‘Linda, have you any idea why Babs didn’t tell me about Logan? She’s sent him a birthday card — it’s there on the shelf — but she never said anything to me about him.’

  Linda shrugged, as if dislodging Babs herself. ‘She’s an odd one. She lives a fantasy, a world of posh romance stories where everything’s always perfect. Abandoned kids and partners don’t exist for Babs. I don’t think the rest of her family know about Logan. Her other grandchildren don’t know they’ve got another cousin. It’s sick, isn’t it, the way some people cover up what they think’s a skeleton in the cupboard or something? She’s too churchy for me. I can’t stomach her. She never lifted a finger to help when we needed it. Now she thinks she can get round me by sending a card and a few quid on his birthday. Well, fuck her.’

  Barry left the flat feeling depressed. Why did so many relationships end up like Linda’s, full of bitterness and resentment? He made his way to the car, still bemused, and headed to the motorway, where he turned his mind back to the investigation. Maybe some of the answers would be found back in Dorset after all, if Andrew was still working in the Poole area. It was a big if, though. Maybe he should pay another visit to Linda in a few days’ time. With any luck, his questions might have brought long-forgotten memories to the surface.

  *

  Sophie had suggested that Barry should pay a visit to Judy Price, but not when Tim Brotherton was around. He checked that she was still on duty at the Weston-Super-Mare hospital and drove there. Would she open up to him? The boss thought there was a good chance. She’d have had two days to mull over the revelations about Tim’s background. That was about the right amount of time. Leave it too long and there was a chance she’d come to terms with it.