by Erin Kinsley
‘Can you let me in?’ says Ron.
‘Who is it?’
There’s a short silence in which Ron doesn’t reply.
‘Fuck off then,’ says the voice.
Ron presses a third buzzer. Moments later, he sees the orange curtain move, and stands back so whoever’s looking has a clear view of him and can see he’s respectable. He gives a casual wave.
The curtain drops, and the intercom buzzes. Ron moves fast to open the door before he misses his chance.
Inside the hallway, the decor is as he’d expect: shabby, drab, depressing. Someone’s left a bicycle at the bottom of the stairs which makes it difficult to move. From somewhere upstairs there’s a smell of curry.
A door on his left opens. The man standing there is again what Ron might have predicted: long hair, funny slogan T-shirt, five days’ stubble, bad teeth.
‘Can I help you, mate?’ he says, in a way which suggests helping Ron is the last thing on his mind.
‘I hope so,’ says Ron. ‘I’m looking for a lady called Jennifer Lambert, Flat Four. You know her?’
‘What’s she done, then?’
‘I’m just asking if you know her.’
The man gives a slow, lupine smile.
‘Don’t give me that. You’re a copper. It’s written all over you. Not the type for trouble, I didn’t think she was. I know ’em all, I do, I see ’em come and I see ’em go. But she’s been gone a while, ’as Jen.’
‘Any idea where to?’
‘She met up with some South African, went to live with him over there. He was a doctor or something, as I remember. That was the last I heard. She said she’d send a postcard, but she never did. Anything I can help you with?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Ron, opening the front door to let himself out. ‘But thanks anyway.’
The drive from Sevenoaks to Woking takes longer than it should, but once Ron hits the A3, progress improves. As he’s driving, he calls Naylor and tells her he’s found one more dead end.
‘Not going too well, is it?’ says Naylor. ‘Still, you never know. No stone unturned.’
The address in Woking is a terraced house whose front garden has been bricked over for parking. There’s a car parked there now, a bright orange Mini Cooper. As he climbs from his own car, the traffic lights at the end of the road turn green. The waiting traffic moves on and the road falls into a brief hiatus, quiet enough to hear the shouts from a school playing field a couple of streets away.
It was Ron who taught Naylor to be suspicious of doorbells. He knocks, and waits, and in a minute or so a woman answers, a woman pretty good for her age, fit-looking in tracksuit bottoms and a high-vis Lycra top. Her cheeks are pink, as if she might just have been running.
‘Yes?’
Ron gives a bright, non-threatening smile.
‘I wonder if you might be able to help me,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for a lady by the name of Lindsey Stockman.’
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Is it Miss Stockman or Mrs?’
‘Neither.’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms Stockman, but I’m hoping you might be able to help me with a problem. It’s about a car you used to own.’
‘Really? What car?’
‘A red Ford Focus.’
Lindsey Stockman thinks.
‘Yes, we had one of those, but not for very long. I like something a bit smaller, like my Mini. Why do you think I can help you with anything?’
‘I’ve got an insurance issue,’ says Ron. ‘I’m trying to prove it’s a long-standing problem. Did you have any problems with it while you owned it?’
‘What sort of problems?’
‘Brakes. Anything in that department?’
Lindsey shakes her head.
‘Not that I’m aware of. My other half drove it more than me. It was in my name but it was his car really. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can help you. If you don’t mind, I’m just getting ready for work.’
‘If I could just ask you,’ says Ron. ‘I don’t suppose you can remember who you sold it to?’
She shakes her head again.
‘It was nothing to do with me. What I know about cars you could write on a postage stamp. He put it on eBay after he set his heart on a nice little Alfa. If you want to know who bought it you’d have to ask the DVLA.’ A thought seems to strike her, and her eyes narrow. ‘How did you get this address, anyway?’
‘Off the log book,’ lies Ron. ‘I just wondered if you might have sold it to a friend, anything like that.’
Lindsey shakes her head.
‘I’ve no idea who he sold it to.’
‘Can I have a word with him? Maybe he’ll remember.’
‘He and I aren’t together any more,’ says Lindsey. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’
Ron rings Naylor on his way home.
‘I’m sorry, kiddo,’ he says. ‘I did my best, but I don’t think there’s anything there.’
Naylor sighs.
‘Thanks for trying, anyway. At least there are two less stones in the mud.’
As she hangs up, the office is quiet. Hagen has left a note on his desk asking her to give him a call. She looks across the room at the whiteboards and the map they’ve been using to log activity.
There are a few spare pins to the side of the map, and Naylor chooses a red one and a green one. She sticks the green one in the heart of Sevenoaks to mark Ron’s visit there, and one on the outskirts of Woking as a visible record of his conversation with Lindsey Stockman.
Standing back, she considers the map. No matter how she looks at it, there’s no pattern to be seen, no connections to be made. But as Ron always used to say, one small piece of intelligence can make all the dominoes fall.
Back at her desk, Naylor puts in a call to Hagen, and reports the disappointing news that Ron appears to have come away with empty hands.
Since the last hospital visit, Ainsclough Top has become a place of much activity. There are regular visitors – palliative care nurses, carers and the local GP – interspersed with Dora’s many friends and family, some of whom she hasn’t seen for years and have travelled great distances to be here. They are welcomed with laughter, hugs and tears.
Evan might have struggled with this influx, except that most of the visitors are women, and all without exception are kind. They respect his wish not to interact with them directly, accepting his silent presence at mealtimes, since Jack has always gently insisted Evan eat downstairs at the table.
And in truth, he’s leaving behind the disquieting, almost spectral Evan who came back to them. The Evan who sits down to meals, though quiet, takes some interest in those around him, listening to conversations even if he doesn’t join them, sometimes smiling at jokes and trying to make himself useful in the fetching and carrying of the endless stream of plates and dishes, tea and cakes. If the comings and goings of people gets too much, he seeks sanctuary in the barn, where one of the feral cats that stalk the rodents there has had a litter of kittens. Evan’s found a vantage point overlooking the cosy nest the mother-cat has made in the straw, and is happy to lie quietly on the bales, observing them from above.
Claire has been spending much time at the farm too, with Matt as a regular visitor. The change of air has benefited her in some ways – a light tan has lifted the paleness from her face, and she’s put on a little weight from eating properly. With people to cook for, the effort seems worthwhile. Life might be looking brighter, except that Dora’s decline casts a shadow over them all.
On a rare afternoon when there are no visitors, Claire goes to find Evan in the barn. Seeing her approaching, he puts a finger to his lips to stop her speaking, and beckons her over to his observation point. Claire scrambles over the heavy bales, the dust of the sweet-smelling straw tickling her nose, reminding her o
f Sunday morning riding lessons in the days of her childhood when she was pony-mad.
She smiles at Evan, and he smiles back.
He points down to the nest.
‘Oh, aren’t they gorgeous!’ whispers Claire, and Evan finds himself regretful that he can’t talk to her about the kittens. He wants to tell her the names he’s given them, about when their eyes opened and about the poor, tiny one that died, how he removed it while the mother-cat was away hunting and buried it in the garden.
She asks how many there are, then answers her own question by making a count.
‘Are there seven, or eight? I’m trying to count the heads, but they’re so wriggly, aren’t they?’ She lapses into silence, enjoying alongside Evan the antics of the newborns.
‘I have to go,’ she says at last. ‘There are some things for Grandma I have to pick up from the doctor’s, and we need something for dinner.’
He nods that he understands and watches as she leaves, before giving his attention back to the kittens. He hears his mother’s car drive away, and then immerses himself in the mewling from the nest and the calling of the swallows overhead.
TWENTY-EIGHT
29 August
Hagen’s been occupied with other things – while most of the team is working on the Foxley Wood Road shooting, he’s fielding everything else, and there seems to be a constant stream of claims on his attention, requests for him to make phone calls and visits, tie up loose ends and chase lines of enquiry no one else can spare the time to deal with.
When Dallabrida drops a hefty brown envelope on his desk, Hagen is on the phone, on hold for a forensic pathology lab he’s been asked to call. The data requests he filed the previous week are all but forgotten.
‘Here you are,’ says Dallabrida. ‘I saw this with your name on it downstairs. No need to thank me for my kindness. My usual fee’s a pint.’
Hagen looks down at the envelope and frowns. That’s definitely his name on the front.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he calls after Dallabrida’s retreating back, and Dallabrida raises his hand.
With the phone still to his ear, Hagen breaks the seal on the envelope and pulls out a couple of the sheets it contains. Bank account data for Brian William Birch.
For a moment, the name rings no bells. Then he recalls the Ferrers case, and Naylor’s request for this information. There’s a voice in his ear at last from the pathology lab. Hagen pushes the papers back inside the envelope and gives his attention to the woman who’s finally taken his call.
It’s getting late when Hagen remembers the envelope. The office is quieter, winding down; the day’s been hot, and he’s been looking forward to a cool beer on his way home. But his conscience pricks him over the Ferrers case – he’s the only one doing any work on it at all now, as far as he knows – and so he decides he’ll give it ten minutes before he leaves.
What did Naylor say to him? Look for sources of income. He pulls the sheaf of papers from the envelope, finding a lot of paper covering two years’ worth of transactions.
The top sheets are statements from a joint NatWest account – Brian William Birch and Sheila Marie Birch – and unsurprisingly there are hundreds of transactions representing the minutiae of everyday life. In the debits he sees payments, among many others, to Asda, Costa Coffee, Total petrol, Domino’s Pizza, the National Lottery and Pets at Home. There are ATM withdrawals within the Chelmsford area and the usual utilities – Essex and Suffolk Water, British Gas – credit card payments and store-card bills. In the credits there are far fewer entries, mainly returns to stores and refunds, making it look as if Mrs Birch might be a keen shopper who loses interest in her purchases very quickly, and unshops on a regular basis. A sign, maybe, of a woman with too much time on her hands. What’s funding those purchases – apart from the credit cards – is what appear, without close scrutiny, to be regular credits from a company payroll, identical amounts month on month with Petersen Pneumatics Plc in the payee reference field.
Hagen grabs a yellow highlighter pen and marks a couple of these entries. Placing the sheets from the joint account to one side, he moves on to the next account, a NatWest current account in Brian Birch’s name only. For this account, there are only a couple of sheets, listing a few cash deposits – not huge amounts, but all four figures – and regular monthly payments made via standing order to his joint account with Sheila on the 28th of the month. The amounts of the payments tally exactly with what appear to be payroll credits in the joint account.
Hagen highlights these corresponding entries and stares at the sheets in front of him. Brian Birch is faking his salary. Why would he do that? In Hagen’s experience, the most common reason for that kind of deception is embarrassment over a job loss. Quite possibly, as Naylor suggested, Birch has been made redundant and daren’t tell his wife. But if he’s been made redundant and is no longer an employee of Petersen’s, who is he working for? He searches for the current balance on Birch’s personal account, and finds it a little over £8,000. That’s not someone who’s hurting for money – Hagen wishes his own account were only half as healthy – but it’s all coming from cash, and that’s a red flag. Generous deposits in cash are, as often as not, at least marginally suspect, signalling funds from a range of activities from tax evasion and illegal dumping of waste to drugs-peddling and people-trafficking. Where’s Birch on that spectrum? However he’s been making his daily bread, for some reason he doesn’t want his wife or the tax man to know about it.
There’s more in the envelope, statements from a Lloyds savings account. What catches Hagen’s eye first about this account is the amount of money it holds. Brian Birch has over £30,000 in savings. That’s not unusual for the man in the street – a legacy, a house sale or even a lottery win would cover it easily – but Birch’s money hasn’t come from any of those sources. Like his personal current account, this money has come from cash, a string of deposits that have begun to add up to a significant amount. For a man who seems to be unemployed, Brian Birch is on a very nice little earner.
There’s one thing outstanding. Hagen picks up the phone and dials the tech guys on the second floor. The girl who answers sounds flustered and weary.
Hagen states his name and his business.
‘Relating to a mobile phone owned by a Brian William Birch,’ he says. ‘We were looking for whatever you’ve got on that from June thirtieth onwards.’
She’s gone a while, hunting through the completed requests, and he’s expecting her to say he can come up and pick up the sheets. The kind of records he’s asking for commonly run into hundreds of calls.
‘Two inbound calls from Chelmsford, Essex on the thirtieth,’ she says, at last. ‘Phone switched off in the Aylesbury area the same day.’
There’s silence.
‘Is that it?’ asks Hagen.
‘That’s it.’
‘It’s never been switched on again?’
‘Nope. Not so far.’
‘OK,’ says Hagen slowly. ‘Thanks very much for your help.’
TWENTY-NINE
30 August
Hagen’s back at his desk early the next morning, pulling out the envelope with Brian Birch’s bank statements and glancing over them, re-confirming what he found last night. He needs to alert Naylor to what he’s uncovered, but in the meantime, he’s feeling inspired to do some digging in other areas.
He pulls up Naylor’s notes on the theft of the car. There’s a crime number from Cleveland Police and the basics of the incident: a red Ford Focus and its registration number, reported stolen from outside a Costcutter on Chatham Road, Hartlepool, at 18.43 on the 16th of June.
A prickle of intuition runs down Hagen’s spine. Something about the timing isn’t right. It takes him only moments to check, and he doesn’t even need to go through their own database to do so. News reports from Google confirm Evan Ferrers was found in the back of that Focus on 16 June,
but the first reports are timed before 5 p.m. They’d been making the assumption Birch reported the car stolen before Evan was found, because that’s the way it usually is. Car reported stolen, car turns up days later in some kind of criminal use.
But Birch’s car must have been missing for at least a few hours before he picked up the phone. Why would that be the case?
When Naylor comes in, Hagen gives her the full run-down: the cash deposits in Birch’s accounts, the switched-off phone, the mismatch on the stolen car timing.
‘Great work, Brad,’ she says. ‘If we can get the guys who nicked it on CCTV, we might get an ID and start to really put things together. The bad news is, I think you should go up there.’
‘To Hartlepool? No worries. My nan lives near there. She’ll be pleased to see me.’
‘It’s a long drive. You’d better take the train, or you’ll be gone for days. I’ll talk to Campbell and tell him what’s going on so he can authorise it. Make contact with Cleveland before you go, tell them you want to look at any CCTV footage they can get hold of for that location on that date, and see if they can dig out details on the call reporting the vehicle stolen. Allelujah, we might be making progress here at last.’
Cleveland Police Headquarters is an anomaly of a building, a modern, red-brick fortress amongst the vintage buildings of old Hartlepool – the Masonic Hall (now a tea-room and wedding venue), the Town Hall theatre, the Engineers’ Club and Snooker Room. Hagen announces his business and signs in, and waits in the reception area only a few minutes before a plain-clothes officer about his own age comes to greet him.
‘DC Alex Heron,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Pleasure,’ says Hagen, and here amongst friends, already his accent is lapsing further into its north-eastern origins.
‘We’ll take the stairs,’ says Heron, leading the way. ‘You’d wait all day for the lift.’
They pick up coffee from a machine, and in an open-plan office almost identical to the one he’s left in Berkshire, Hagen pulls up a chair to Heron’s desk.