It took me more than an hour to make my way to Rugby, a smallish industrial town. Out of curiosity I drove through the central area – a classic mix of traditional and modern architecture, with an attractive period high street at the heart of it.
The Chilworth Fields shopping centre was on the outskirts, in a district where housing was intermingled with industrial development. It looked pleasant enough in the autumn sunshine. Young trees were scattered around the open-air car park, most of them still bearing brilliant yellow leaves. Fewer than a quarter of the parking bays were occupied, but this was a weekday afternoon. At other times it might be busier.
The shopping centre itself was built in pale brick and steel. It looked smart, but even to my untutored eye it seemed slightly dated. I parked, wandered around the shops for a few minutes, bought myself a bar of chocolate, then returned to my car.
What had I learned so far? Nothing that I couldn’t have picked up from the internet. Frustrated, I drove slowly towards the exit.
As I waited to pull out on to the public road I couldn’t fail to notice a large hoarding on the opposite side. “The new Chilworth!” it proclaimed, and underneath: “Three times the space! Ten times the excitement! The Midlands’ newest retail experience – coming soon!” Most of the sign was taken up by an artist’s impression of a gleaming new shopping and leisure centre. At the bottom was a row of logos for agents and contractors, including one for Cavenham Risby.
A hundred metres down the road I pulled on to the verge and I got out. I leaned against the car, considering the large vacant site behind the metal fence. The surface was rough concrete. Tall weeds were thrusting through the cracks, and remnants of redbrick buildings were scattered across the plot, none taller than a foot or two. I saw no sign of any recent attempt to clear the site or embark on any new development.
At the far end of the plot was a modern-looking warehouse in gunmetal grey. I could see several large trucks parked at the foot of it. Something about it struck a chord with me. I returned to my car and slowly followed the road system round towards the warehouse. It disappeared from sight as I made my way through a housing estate, but then I found myself at the edge of an industrial area, and there was the warehouse again, looming over the end of the road. A large sign at the gatehouse read, “Backer Logistics – Delivering Drinks for You.”
* * *
I needed to know more about the property world, and as I sat staring at the Backer warehouse it occurred to me that I knew someone I could ask.
I was in luck again. Neil Wardell of Landsholme, the firm of surveyors in Banbury, turned out to be in the office that afternoon, and he accepted my call.
I said, “I’m probably not your favourite person.”
“At least you’re phoning me this time, not accosting me in the street.”
“I thought a respectful approach might work better.”
His laugh was not unfriendly. He said, “So what is it this time? I told you I can’t give you any information about my company.”
“I’ll be honest – I’m looking for a favour. I want to understand a bit more about the industrial property market in this area, and you seemed like a good person to ask.”
“What are you after in particular?”
I hesitated. “It would be easier if I could explain in person. I’m in Rugby at the moment, and I could get over to your office in about an hour.”
“Well, I’m leaving at five thirty. If you can get here by then, I can give you a few minutes.” He paused. “Drinks are on you.”
I only just made it in time, but by quarter to six I was standing with Neil Wardell at the bar counter of the same pub as last time. I said, “I’m interested in a warehouse in Rugby that’s occupied by Backer Logistics. They use it for a soft drinks distribution contract. I’m wondering if you know anything about it.”
“Oh, that’s Casement Rise. I know the place.”
The name seemed vaguely familiar, as if I’d seen it or heard mention of it somewhere recently, but I couldn’t think where.
Neil was saying, “I think I read somewhere that Backers are going to break their lease on it and move the operation somewhere else.”
“Break the lease?”
“Legitimately, I mean.” He looked me over, perhaps trying to decide how much I knew about his world. “That building has been there for quite a few years,” he said finally. “Originally Casement Rise was going to be a big industrial park, but in the end only that one warehouse was put up. I think it was divided into two large units.”
“It looks pretty modern to me.”
“Well, these places all look much of a muchness, don’t they? By my standards Casement Rise is mature.” He paused to think. “If I remember rightly, the original occupier of the Backer unit was a plastics firm. Backer Logistics took it over when they went bust.”
“So what about the lease?”
“Well, the leases on these properties generally have a break clause. Typically it allows the occupier to pull out half-way through the tenancy if there’s a problem – after the first five years, for example.”
“Could that problem include a big hike in the rental rate?”
“Possibly. That would depend on the original agreement. Some deals are written to prevent that from happening.”
“And in this instance?”
He picked up his pint and drank from it, then turned to me. “The Backer Logistics boss died recently, didn’t he? It was in the press.”
“Correct.”
He thought some more. “If I’ve got this right, that site is being re-zoned for light industrial and retail use. I think I read somewhere that the owners of the warehouse want to demolish it to make way for some kind of retail park. Does that fit in with what you know?”
“It could well do.”
“Well, well. So you’re thinking that the owners hiked up the price to drive Backers out.”
I was thinking precisely that. The warehouse abutted the open area opposite the shopping centre. If the developers merged the warehouse site with the vacant lot, they would have twice as much new space to play with.
Dan Risby had been part of the consortium behind this development, but according to Jess he’d wanted to call a halt to it. However, Dan Risby was dead, and now it was going ahead. Where did Nick Hathaway fit into this?
Chapter 53
As I walked into the flat that evening a text arrived from Noel. “News about Ellie. Best if you call me.”
Initially his report seemed less promising than I’d hoped. “At a glance she seems like a typical teenager,” he said. “She chats online about music, the teachers in her school, the concerts she’s been to, girl friends, boys – the usual stuff.”
“Is there a ‘but’?”
“Yeah, quite a big one. She hates the UK, she hates her mum, she hates her dad … there’s a lot of hate, if you get me. More than what you’d call normal.”
“Her dad forced her to come and live in London. I know she didn’t like it here.”
“Like it? She doesn’t have a good word to say about the place. She hates the food, she hates her school, she hates most of her classmates, she hates the accent, she hates the weather. Oh, and she even hates the TV. I get the feeling that right from the day she arrived, her only thought was how she could get back to the US.”
In a way this merely confirmed what I’d already suspected. I said, “Do you have any impression of what she’s actually like as a person?”
“Interesting question.” He considered it for a minute. “Would I like her if I met her? That’s how I usually judge these things.”
“And?”
“I suppose if you make allowances for her serious attitude problem, underneath it there’s probably a sad individual – someone who feels rejected, unloved, displaced.” He gave an awkward laugh. “I’m no psychologist.”
“I wonder what her problem is. Her mother is perfectly pleasant, and her father seemed a mild enough guy.”
“So
you’ve met them both?”
“Yeah, come to think of it.”
“You’re no slouch yourself then, when it comes to investigative work.”
“Sometimes I strike lucky.” I thought again about Ellie. “I suppose you can never judge family conflicts by what you see on the surface.”
“That’s for sure.”
I was running out of questions. I said, “Where are you getting all this from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, social media mostly. Email. Chat rooms. Here and there. Best if I don’t go into it.”
“Fair enough.”
He said, “Don’t you want to know about Chico?”
“Ah, so you had some luck with him then?”
“I prefer to call it skill.” He chuckled. “Yeah, it was easy enough. Christopher Lawler, that’s his name. He was at the same school as Ellie, and he seems to be the only person in the UK she actually likes.”
“Boyfriend, would you call him?”
“Possibly. A bit of a soul mate, really. He isn’t fond of his own parents, so they had that in common. They texted each other all the time. They hung out together.”
“Any clue about his character? Bad lad? Opportunist? Nice guy?”
“He comes over as basically sound. I should think he was a good influence on her. He probably calmed her down.”
“So are they still in contact, now that she’s back in the US?”
“Ah, well that’s the strange thing. He seems to have disappeared.”
* * *
I quizzed Noel for several minutes more on what he meant about Chico. It seemed that his parents had reported him missing around the time of the killing. Then a day or two later they’d told the police they’d heard from him. He was alive and well, and had simply run away.
“They don’t think he followed Ellie over to the US?” I asked.
“Not that I could see. At that age he probably wouldn’t have the means. More likely he breathed a sigh of relief when she left.”
“Usual question: how do you know all this?”
“Some of it was in the local press. The rest of it I picked up from online chit-chat by people who know him.”
“How about social media activity since he disappeared?”
“Nothing. He’s gone completely silent. He might have created a new identity, but if he has I can’t find it. He hasn’t used it to communicate with his existing friends, if you follow me.”
“That’s a bit strange, isn’t it? You don’t think … could something bad have happened to him?”
“Not according to his parents. They seem confident that he’s OK.”
“So where is he?”
“No idea.”
I told Noel to invoice me for the research he’d been doing. “You’ve surpassed yourself as always, and I insist on paying. And it had better be in the hundreds, not just something trivial.”
“I hear you.”
“Just one more favour. Could you keep your ear to the ground on this? Let me know if you pick up anything more on Chico?”
“You’ve got it.”
* * *
Surely there had to be some connection between Chico’s disappearance and Rob Openshaw’s death? He’d last been seen at the time of the killing. It seemed too much of a coincidence to be ignored.
Should I push this any further? The police wouldn’t thank me for meddling, but were they looking into this themselves? From what Dave had told me, it appeared not. I reasoned that I owed it both to myself and to Graham to find out anything I could. He was still languishing somewhere on remand, and apparently I hadn’t yet been totally cleared either.
It didn’t take me long to unearth an address for Chico’s parents. The Lawlers lived in Kentish Town – an inner London suburb not far from Camden Town. I took the Tube there next morning before I had the chance to reason myself out of it.
The address turned out to be half-way along a terrace of plain but smart-looking Victorian town houses on a broad main road – some apparently converted into flats, others still used as single dwellings. I walked up a short pathway, climbed a few steps to the front door and pressed the bell push.
A woman in her fifties opened the door, smartly dressed in black trousers and a loose-fitting blue jacket. Her dark hair and dusky complexion gave her a Mediterranean look. She stared at me suspiciously.
When I’d set off to come here I hadn’t been sure what I expected to gain from the visit, but on the way I’d narrowed it down to a single objective: to gauge the reaction of the mother or father if I managed to ask them about their son.
I said, “Mrs Lawler? Mike Stanhope, from Seismic Scene, the web site.” That spurious identity was proving remarkably useful. “We’re following up on your son’s disappearance.”
She looked at me expressionlessly. “And that’s national news, is it? Good god, what’s the matter with you people?” Despite her appearance, her accent was pure middle-class English.
“I’m sorry, I’m not with you.”
“Christopher hasn’t disappeared, for god’s sake, he’s just buggered off – and not for the first time. I’ve already told you people that. He’ll be back when he’s fed up with dossing around and he wants some home cooking. That’s usually what happens.”
“Where do you think he is?”
She looked hard at me. “Why should I tell you that? What he does with his life is up to him. He’s sixteen now. He’s free to make his own choices.”
“But you want him to come back – to finish school and go on to college?”
“He will come back.” She was already stepping back from the door. I felt we’d reached the end of the conversation rather quickly. I said, “What do you think of Ellie Openshaw?”
She scowled. “Little minx. It’s terrible, what happened to her father, but that doesn’t make her a nice person. Her parents should have taken her in hand long ago, while they still could.”
Chapter 54
Later that day I received a summons from Nick Hathaway.
It wasn’t expressed in that way, of course. It started as a friendly enough phone call. He asked me about Rob Openshaw’s murder, then wanted to know if his solicitor Bernard was doing whatever I asked of him. Then we progressed to his real agenda. “I’m in London today,” he said. “I wondered if you’d fancy meeting for a drink before I head home?”
“Sounds great.”
“Six o’clock in the Marylebone station bar. I’ll be expecting you.”
It was only after I disconnected that I realised he’d given me no choice of venue or flexibility in timing. He’d made it sound as if he was holding court and I’d been granted an audience.
He was sitting at a corner table when I walked in, wearing a grey suit with an open-neck shirt. There was already a pint of beer waiting for me in front of him. He waved me to the chair opposite.
“I find this is a handy place for informal meetings,” he commented.
“Useful if you want to make a quick getaway to Banbury.” I tried a smile.
“Yes it is.” No smile in return.
We made small talk for a while. He told me the latest on the housing market in Warwickshire. I talked to him about the logistics press. I felt we were playing some kind of game, but I didn’t know the rules yet. Then abruptly he said, “You’ve been seen in Banbury.” He accompanied this with a quick smile, perhaps to take the edge off what was apparently an accusation.
“Sorry?”
“Your car is the give-away. Not many red MGB GTs round our way, and yours is pretty stunning.”
I was still catching up with him. I said, “You saw me there?”
“I didn’t see you myself. I have spies everywhere.” Now he treated me to one of his mysterious smiles. “The first time was a couple of months ago – maybe more. Am I right? Then again a few weeks ago. You were quite near my office, yet you didn’t drop in to say hello.”
“I don’t like to barge in unannounced.”
He nodded. “What
were you doing there, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I tried an extra-strong smile of my own. “What is this – the third degree?”
If he was looking for a confrontation, evidently he wasn’t ready for it yet. He said, “I was just curious.”
“I had business in the area, and I thought I’d stop off to see what the town was like.”
“Twice?”
I shrugged. “What can I say?”
He decided to let that one pass. After a moment he said, “You should have called in on Sam. If she’d been at home she would have loved to see you.”
“Well, it was only a flying visit.” I hesitated. “Both times.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I wouldn’t have wanted to intrude.”
“Yet you were happy enough to go for a drink with her the other night.”
Were the gloves finally coming off? I still wasn’t sure. I said, “You mean with Jess? That was her idea, not mine. Anyway, Sam left when I got there. She had to go and help Ronnie unload their gear. We barely exchanged half a dozen words.”
“Jess.” He nodded to himself. “I’ve tried to like that woman, but I find her a bit of a meddler. A trouble-maker. What do you think?”
This felt like the first unscripted comment he’d made. I said, “She’s all right. She’s very supportive of Sam. But I suppose she might seem a bit over-protective.”
“Over-protective?” He made a scoffing sound. “She doesn’t like me. She’s made that abundantly clear. She thinks Sam should be with you, not me.”
“Well … that’s not possible.”
“I know it’s not, Mike. You’re spoken for. But nobody seems to have told Jess about that.”
For a moment neither of us said anything. I knew I shouldn’t be the first to break the silence, but in the end I couldn’t resist it. “Are you saying I’ve encouraged Jess to disrupt your relationship with Sam?” I managed to inject an appropriate note of indignation into this, though I was aware that in some ways it was true.
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