‘Why was that?’
‘No idea. She told me her mother would never discuss it. Seems very odd to me, but I didn’t know the woman so I can’t give you any impression of her. I don’t want anyone here.’ He threw his hands up and gave dry, heaving gasps. ‘This is all bullshit! I have to see her!’
‘I understand. You will, and soon. Just for now, keep on helping me. Would Lauren have taken a bag with her? We haven’t found one so far, although of course it might be in your car.’
‘A small waterproof rucksack, a Kanken, dark orange.’
‘Thank you. It’s hard to be alone at a time like this. What about you? Do you have family nearby?’
‘I’ll contact them when I’m ready.’
‘I’d like to arrange for a family liaison officer to come and be with—’
‘I’ve fucking told you, haven’t I? I’ll contact anybody I want when I want. I don’t want any busybodies here, making tea and fussing.’
Her phone rang. She took the call from Ali.
‘The body will be ready for ID at five p.m.,’ he said. ‘I can take Mr Visser if you like. Pick him up at half four.’
It was tempting to let Ali do it, but she needed to bite the bullet and go back into a morgue again professionally. ‘Thanks for the offer but I’ll take him. See you soon.’
Visser was pacing again and rubbing his hands together. Siv stood. ‘That was my sergeant, DS Ali Carlin. He’s arranged for you to make an identification at five o’clock. I’ll accompany you. I’ll come and collect you at four thirty.’
He slumped against a wall. ‘No need for that. I’ll make my own way there.’
‘I’d advise you to let me take you. You might not think you need the support but you do.’
‘Oh, whatever. Do what you like.’
‘Do you have a spare set of keys for your car? The Seat is still in the Lock Lane car park. We need to examine it before we can return it to you.’
‘Yeah . . . in the kitchen.’
While she waited, she picked up a copy of Horse & Hound magazine from a stack and flicked through, glancing at glossy photos of lovingly tended animals. He came in, handed her the keys and leaned back against the wall.
‘I’m sorry to have brought you such distressing news, Mr Visser. I’ll go now. After the identification, I’ll need to speak to you again. If you need anything, please call me.’ She put her card down on the coffee table. He didn’t look at it, just closed his eyes. She left him standing against the wall behind him.
She walked back towards the station, ringing Steve Wooton as she turned out of Spring Gardens into a main road.
‘I’ve got Mr Visser’s spare keys to the Seat. Can you ask one of the constables at the scene to come to the station in about fifteen minutes and pick them up? Mr Visser told me that his wife would have had a small waterproof rucksack with her, a Kanken, dark orange.’
‘No sign of it so far.’
‘Anything new?’
‘Nope. Focusing on footprints right now.’
She stopped to buy a coffee, and then decided to get a selection of fruit, sandwiches, brownies and granola bars. It helped to get things off on the right foot if the new boss provided goodies, and this had all the makings of a long day.
Chapter Six
Ali Carlin munched a hard-boiled egg as he drove. His wife, Polly, was a chef and no matter what hours she’d worked, every night she prepared a cool box of food for him. She knew that otherwise, he’d be filling up on bread, sugary drinks and the kind of snacks that should carry a skull and crossbones for diabetics. Today’s box contained two bananas, two hard-boiled eggs, roasted chickpeas and aubergines and a small green salad. He tried to eat the eggs when he was on his own as the last time he’d had them in the office he’d been accused of farting. He was grateful for Polly’s kindness and felt guilty when he accepted one of the sugary treats that circulated at work. The truth was that the stuff she gave him just didn’t fill him up, but he could never bring himself to admit it. He ran a finger around his waistband now, regretting the biscuits he’d snaffled while he was arranging for the mortuary viewing.
He turned into North Road, looking for number 15B and opened a window to let the eggy pong escape. It was a down-at-heel area, a street of mixed residential and business premises. Polly brought stuff here from the restaurant for dry cleaning. He drove past betting, second-hand furniture and pound shops, a Kingdom Hall, a tanning salon, a Chinese takeaway, a removals firm and then saw the block of flats he wanted. He was working on the premise that Filip Mazur would know Matis Rimas. He’d got Patrick to check that the Honda hadn’t been reported as stolen. It hadn’t, so the car must have been on loan.
He left his car in the small car park at the side of the block, ignoring the half-mast Residents Only parking sign. Judging by the state of the sign, the litter strewn around and the scruffy appearance of the flats, he didn’t think that anyone would be scrutinizing cars, unless to steal one. He flicked a few spots of egg yolk from his jacket and looked for 15B. It was on the ground floor, just inside the peeling wooden double doors that had been wedged open. Ali rang the bell. He could hear a baby crying inside. A plump middle-aged woman with dyed black hair, deep bags below her eyes and dangling earrings opened the door, keeping it on the chain. She looked like a woman who’d had a hard life and expected it to get harder. Back home, they’d say she had a face like a well-chewed chop.
‘Yes?’ Her accent was certainly eastern European.
Ali showed his ID. ‘Hello. I’m looking for Filip Mazur. I need to speak to him.’
‘He not here.’ She looked wary.
‘Where is he?’
‘At work.’
The baby’s crying was growing into howls of rage. ‘Where does he work?’
The woman looked anxiously back into the flat. ‘I not sure. Different places. I have to see to baby.’
‘Are you one of his family?’
‘I Mrs Mazur, mother. I okay here, have papers.’
‘I’m not here about any papers. You’re not in any trouble. Can I come in, please? I need to speak to Mr Mazur urgently.’
The woman was wearing a shapeless, short-sleeved dress. Her upper arms, fleshy and mottled, wobbled as, frowning, she undid the chain, saying, ‘come.’
Ali followed her into a living room-cum-kitchen. It was sparsely furnished but comfortable enough. Something savoury and delicious was simmering on the cooker. The din from the baby was ear shattering. Mrs Mazur heaved the red-faced infant from a bouncing seat and sat with it sprawled precariously across her stout, slanting thighs, her skirt riding up to expose the tops of her hold-up stockings. She plugged a bottle into its mouth, holding its head in her other fat hand and a blissful peace descended. Ali thought that both she and the baby looked uncomfortable but they seemed happy enough with their arrangement.
‘Why you want my son?’ Mrs Mazur asked.
‘I’m very sorry to tell you that we’ve found the body of a young man we’ve identified as Matis Rimas this morning.’
She gasped, her face and neck growing blotchy. ‘Matis? No! How this happen?’
‘You know Matis?’
‘Yes, yes. He stay here, he rent a room. My son . . . he meet him at work. He like him.’ In her shock, her hold on the bottle had slackened and the baby yelped, kicking angrily. She murmured something and raised the bottle so that the rhythmic sucking started again.
‘Matis has been murdered near the river. We think he’d been fishing.’
Mrs Mazur nodded. ‘Yes, Matis love to fish. He go this morning. He bring me fish to cook for family. How, how murdered? Who do this thing?’
‘We don’t know. Matis was attacked. When did you last see him?’
Mrs Mazur jiggled the baby. ‘Last night. He have beers with Filip then he go to look at TV in his room. He say he watch film.’
‘Did he like to go fishing in the morning?’
‘He go morning, evening . . . when he can. He nice boy. Polite.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘I not sure . . . Filip meet him, bring him here last year. October, I think.’
‘Do you have any details for his family? Does he have family here?’
‘No family here. In Krosna. Sister, I know. He call her. Send money for grandmother. Nice boy, good boy.’
‘And do you have a phone number for them, in Krosna?’
‘No. Maybe Filip have.’
She whispered something in her own language. Ali thought her English was running out under the strain. The baby gulped the last of the bottle, its eyes half closed in milky ecstasy.
‘Can you tell me who lives here?’
‘Me, Filip, Anka — Filip wife, Matis. Baby. All legal. No trouble. Anka back home just now. Her papa not well.’
Ali showed her photos of Lauren and the little girl. ‘Do you recognize this woman or this child?’
Balancing the baby, Mrs Mazur fished in her pocket, and brought out a pair of reading glasses of the kind sold in supermarkets. The lenses were so greasy, Ali wondered that she could see anything through them. She dipped her head to put them on and then looked at the photo.
‘I not know. Never see.’
‘Okay, thank you. Could I see Matis’s room, please?’
The woman nodded. She reached for a tea towel, slung it over her shoulder and hoisted the baby up, rubbing its back. Her earring tickled the top of its head and it gave a loud burp.
Matis Rimas’s room was at the back of the flat, overlooking the bin area and the side of a timber yard. It smelled strongly of fish. Mrs Mazur showed him in and then stood in the doorway, patting the baby’s back. Ali drew on protective gloves. It was small, containing a single bed with a crumpled duvet, a plasma TV attached to a wall bracket, a slim white melamine chest of drawers, a mini fridge and a one-ring electric hob with a dirty frying pan on top. The double socket by the skirting board held two adapters and a jumble of plugs, some with frayed leads. Ali frowned. The place was a fire waiting to happen. A collection of DVDs was stacked on the worn carpet by the TV: Interstellar, E.T., Star Wars, The Martian, Gravity, Inception, Alien, Blade Runner. One of the curtains had detached from its track and a couple of well-worn hoodies and jeans were hanging from a picture rail.
He opened the drawers and found only a meagre stock of greyish underpants, socks and T-shirts. Under the bed was a large rucksack. It was empty, apart from the Lithuanian passport in a right-hand pocket. He flipped it open. The same young man from the driving licence stared back at him. Ali placed it in an evidence bag. One framed photo stood on top of the fridge on the chest of drawers. It showed the elderly couple from the picture tucked into his wallet. They were with a young woman with her hair in plaits and wearing a green embroidered waistcoat laced over a frilly white blouse, teamed with a long green-and-red woven dress and apron.
‘Is this Lithuanian national costume?’ Ali asked Mrs Mazur, who was still stroking the baby and crooning to it.
‘Is tradition, yes.’
‘And are you Lithuanian?’
‘Is right. All of us.’
Ali opened the fridge. There were just two shelves holding a couple of pieces of fish wrapped in cling film, butter, a half-used bulb of garlic and a carton of milk. He stood and looked around. Matis Rimas didn’t appear to have any paperwork in his life. He must have done his banking online. He thought of the young man lying by the river near his catch. It looked as if he’d been trying to eke out a fairly spartan existence.
‘Did Matis have a computer? Laptop?’
‘I not see one.’
‘Can I have your son’s mobile number? I need to speak to him about Matis.’
‘My son, he not in trouble? He a good boy too. Very good boy. Work hard. Look after us.’
These two good, polite “boys.” Well, maybe they were. ‘No, he’s not in trouble,’ Ali said. He had no idea. Maybe Mazur had been up Lock Lane earlier on and killed two people.
Mrs Mazur bit her lip, nodded and walked back to the kitchen area. The baby had fallen asleep on her shoulder, its face flushed. Her phone was lying on the worktop. She brought up her son’s number on the screen for Ali, who copied it and headed off.
He sat in the car and rang the number. It was engaged. Mazur’s mother would be calling him. He waited for a couple of minutes, lit up a Gitanes and opened the window. He sat thinking about his new boss. Seemed on the ball if a tad edgy. Nicely turned out, well-cut suit. A strong face and good-looking in a knackered kind of way. Keen, dark blue eyes but kind of strained. As Ali’s dad would put it, lookin’ fair wabbit. He’d noticed the way she sometimes touched the little white scar on her right eyebrow. Too skinny but then Ali preferred well-covered women like Polly. A bit waspish, maybe. There was something about her, as if she had a shadow at her shoulder. But then, from what Ali had heard, that wasn’t surprising. His last boss had been a sarky bastard so he was hoping he’d struck luckier this time. He tried the phone number again. A man answered, deep-voiced, shouting over background noise.
‘Mr Filip Mazur?’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘I’m a police officer. I need to speak to you urgently.’
‘Police? For what?’
Don’t give me that, he thought, you know why. ‘It’s about Matis Rimas. He’s been murdered by the river. We found your car nearby.’
‘When did you find him?’
‘This morning. I need to see you now. Where do you work?’
He named a building site, St Jerome’s, near the town centre. It used to be a hospital but was being converted into flats. Ali stubbed out his cigarette and rang the station as he drove, asking to speak to Siv, but was told that the guv was on the phone. He left a message to say where he was heading and that he should be back in about an hour.
* * *
The bright, cheery receptionist confirmed at the other end of the line that Mr Visser had attended a sales conference at the Raeburn yesterday and had been checked into the hotel’s restaurant for an evening meal. Siv tried the number for Errol Todd but it went to voice mail. She left a message. Her phone pinged as she finished the call and she saw that she’d had an email from her sister.
Good luck in your new home. You deserve it. Hope whoever bought Dad’s house has a happier marriage than he did! Rik
Minimal. Pretty much what she’d expected. Still, it was something. This had always been the dynamic between them. Siv sought her older sister’s attention and affection. Rikka doled both out in small, unpredictable measures. She pictured her sister, as blonde as she was dark, her expression cloaked and just a bit smug, as if she knew something and wasn't going to tell. Another email popped up, this one on her work computer. It was from Nick Shelton, the owner of the land by the river:
I’m so appalled at what has happened at Lock Lane. Please give my condolences to the families. Attached is the list of members of the angling club. Can you let me know when the site can be opened to members again?
She saw through the glass partition that DC Patrick Hill had come in and was sitting at his desk at the other side of the office, a big grin on his face, chewing at a nail on his left hand and dancing his right thumb on his phone screen. She forwarded the email to him and went into the team room. There were a few other officers, busy on phones, clicking on their computer screens. She walked over to Hill.
‘Hello. I’m DI Siv Drummond.’
He stood, straightening his tie. ‘Hi. DC Hill. Nice to meet you. Double murder on your first day!’
‘That’s right. I need you to do something for me.’
He was gawky and all angles, like a teenager. Fresh-faced, freckled, his straw-blond hair short and spiky. A sharp dresser, in his narrow trousers and close fitting jacket. ‘So, guv, I’ve been busy doing some checks on Matis Rimas for Ali.’
‘I could see you were busy on your phone.’
The sarcasm passed over his head. He looked pleased and tapped the phone, holding it out so that she could see the Twit
ter feed on screen.
@DCBerminsterPolice. Pensioner & young mum attacked and had bags stolen last weekend town centre. Man arrested & charged. #keepingberminstersafe
‘Did you make the arrest?’
‘That’s right, on the Maidwell estate. I like to keep my Twitter feed up to date every day. Let the public know we’re fighting the good fight for them. DCI Mortimer thinks it’s great.’
‘Well done. Just now, I’ve two dead people who need us to fight the good fight, so can you take a look at the email I’ve forwarded to you? It’s from Nick Shelton, with a list of the members of Berminster Anglers. I need you and another officer to contact all of them and ask if any of them were at the river at Lock Lane early this morning and/or if they know a woman called Lauren Visser or a man called Matis Rimas. And ask if they’ve ever seen a child there, a little fair-haired girl. I’ve attached her photo to an email.’
He ran a hand through his hair, lifting the spikes. His nails were chewed and ragged. ‘How many names?’
‘Thirty-ish. Let me know if you get any positives.’
She could see his face cloud. He was thinking this was grunt work. Nothing worth boasting about on Twitter. He’d need to learn to conceal his thoughts better. She went back to the empty desk where she’d left the goodies, picked up a chocolate brownie and brought it over to him.
‘It’s work that has to be done but just to sweeten it,’ she said, placing it on his desk. ‘Tell the others to help themselves.’
He put a thumb up. ‘Ta, guv. But don’t offer any of those to Ali. He’s diabetic.’
‘I know, so he’s not likely to take one.’
He shook his head, spluttering on the brownie. ‘That’s the problem, he would!’
She was making her way to the hot drinks machine in the corridor when her phone rang.
‘Hi, it’s Steve Wooton. We opened the Seat. There was no rucksack, no phone and no personal belongings other than the usual glove compartment stuff: packets of tissues, bottled water, sweets and that. Tartan rug on the back seat.’
‘Lauren Visser must have left her rucksack nearby when she went swimming. Maybe our killer liked the look of it.’ Although she was sure that these murders weren’t about robbery. The child’s photo made this personal and Rimas’s phone and wallet had been left.
These Little Lies Page 5