Crooked Street

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘I seem,’ she said, lifting her head, ‘to have made all the wrong decisions.’

  Now was the time to … ‘I expect it’s good having an old friend over,’ Joanna put in innocently.

  To her immense satisfaction, Eve looked startled.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We saw Mr Robertson leaving the house earlier.’

  Eve had to think quickly to supply an explanation but her eyes were very wary. Watchful, even.

  Korpanski’s face was set.

  ‘He’s been a support,’ she said quietly.

  Mark Fask rang her as she and Mike headed back to the car. ‘I’m going to have to hire a digger,’ he said. ‘This is going to be a very difficult crime scene.’

  Just give me an easy one, Joanna thought and started to plan what she would say to Rush. She had to at least inform him of the turn events had taken. He hardly responded over the phone and guaranteed her a sleepless night by inviting her to stand on his carpet at eight in the morning.

  Friday, 18 April, 7 a.m.

  She wouldn’t have slept anyway, and Matthew was equally wakeful. They shared a coffee then she headed for her car and back to the station.

  Rush was already in his office scowling into a computer screen. Without looking up, he said, ‘Give me some good news, Piercy.’

  And when she didn’t respond he followed this up with the tightest of smiles. ‘OK, something nice and cheap then.’

  How could she put this? ‘The body we believe to be that of Jadon Glover’s, sir. It was found by accident – coincidence. To put it bluntly, sir, it was stuffed down an old-fashioned earth closet some fifty yards up the garden path of a remote cottage. The property is empty as the owner is currently in a nursing home in Leek. She broke her hip a couple of months ago and recently decided she won’t be returning to her home so the cottage has been put up for sale.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A couple were viewing it.’ As succinctly as she could, she described the way they had found Jadon Glover’s body.

  Even Rush, for once, was speechless.

  ‘We’re going to have to investigate the cesspit.’

  Rush frowned.

  ‘With a mechanical digger, sir.’

  ‘Post-mortem?’

  ‘Planned for tomorrow, sir.’

  She knew she had to tell him. ‘There was evidence.’ No, there wasn’t. Not yet. ‘We believe,’ she began. Then substituted that for, ‘It looks as though …’

  Rush’s pale eyes locked into hers. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘It looks as though he might have been still alive when he was stuffed down the toilet. His hand was grasping the wooden toilet seat.’

  Rush’s mouth opened but nothing came out for a moment … two moments. Then, ‘He’s been there for how long?’

  ‘Probably since the night he disappeared. That’s over seven weeks, sir.’

  ‘And this place …’ he asked delicately.

  ‘Starve Crow Cottage …’

  Rush looked up, startled. She’d forgotten she had omitted to tell him the bizarre name of the smallholding.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Suspects?’ And as she was silent he barked, ‘Please, Piercy, at least give me some suspects.’ He was waiting for her response.

  She knew she had to be honest. With a drowning sense of failure, she said very quietly, ‘There’s no one specific in the frame at the moment, sir. Enquiries are …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘And Mrs Glover?’

  ‘I’m keeping her informed.’

  Rush pressed his thin lips together and was silent, which made Joanna fidgety. He was one of those people whose silences are more sinister than any words they could have said.

  His face, normally taut, sagged and he nodded. ‘You’d better get back out there.’

  She escaped as quickly as she could.

  Joanna had kept the watch back – not quite sure why, perhaps to give her another opportunity for storming Eve’s defences. Her eyes were dry and clear as she looked and nodded. ‘It is his,’ she said and already there was a calculating look on her face. Joanna almost shuddered. She had rarely ever met anyone quite so cold. The two people nearest to her had both had terrible deaths. And yet here was Eve, in the centre, icily calm, controlled and detached from the mayhem that surrounded her.

  She offered her an officer for company which Eve politely declined. At a guess, Joanna thought as she left, Robertson would soon be winging his way across to her.

  At Brooklands Stephanie Bucannon was listening to the news on Radio Stoke. She listened to the account of the body found at a cottage, its location and only stopped when she heard the name.

  She went straight into the sitting room. ‘Monica,’ she said softly.

  Monica Pagett looked up, her face softening when she realized who it was. ‘Hello, my dear,’ she said.

  Stephanie sank to her knees beside the chair. ‘You’re not going to like this,’ she said and related the story. The nonagenarian listened without comment until she reached the end. ‘How dare they,’ she said, looking up. ‘How bloody well dare they use my home to dump off some …’

  ‘The poor man,’ Stephanie said.

  But Monica had already jumped to the practical issue. ‘No one will want to buy it now,’ she said, then touched the carer’s hand. ‘Oh, I do wish I hadn’t broken this silly old hip. This …’ She met the nursing assistant’s eyes, ‘… would never have happened.’

  ‘Oh, Monica.’ The girl’s affection shone through. ‘You are a case.’

  But Ms Pagett had not quite finished yet. ‘If I hadn’t broken my hip I’d still be there.’

  ‘But maybe you’d have been in danger.’

  ‘The only thing in danger would be someone who came trespassing on my land and my property.’ Then she cackled loudly. ‘And that bloody bird,’ she finished. ‘I hold him responsible. I’m glad the silly old thing did starve to death.’

  Stephanie put her arm round her and kissed the lady’s cheek. ‘You,’ she said, ‘are a head case.’

  And Monica joined her in laughing.

  10.30 a.m.

  They held the briefing in the station’s main building, the assembled officers now numbering over a hundred. Two savage murders in a small town commanded man power. Even Rush with his head full of figures couldn’t argue with this one. The world’s press had somehow found the story and the gruesome place where Jadon’s body had been left. Starve Crow Cottage and its isolated surroundings was worthy of a headline or two, even without the added fact which had inevitably leaked out that his body had been dumped in a primitive privy. Thank goodness the full story had remained off the paper’s pages. But the pictures that graced the country’s headlines were enough to remind people of another moorland location near Manchester, a place which would always bring a shudder – Saddleworth Moor.

  ‘It’s nothing like it,’ Joanna said disgustedly, tempted to throw the paper in the recycling bin. ‘No similarity between the cases at all.’ But the following line was still sobering: Are there any more bodies out there?

  ‘I hope not.’

  Too much information was being collated, shared and pooled. It was difficult to sort the wheat from the chaff but the sticky threads continued to join together.

  ‘For now,’ Joanna said, ‘we’ll assume that the body found in the cottage toilet is that of Jadon.’ She looked around the room. ‘So …?’

  Dawn spoke first. ‘Karen Stanton,’ she said, ‘is a carer for Astrid Jenkins, the lady who lives in Mill Street. She puts her to bed at around eight thirty every night.’

  Joanna physically sketched in the line between the two women. ‘Which puts her,’ she observed slowly, ‘passing Jadon Glover at around eight thirty. Did she see him again?’

  PC Dawn Critchlow shrugged. ‘She says not, Joanna,’ she said. ‘She said she didn’t go out again that night.’

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  Joanna gl
anced at Korpanski and saw him stiffen. ‘OK, Dawn,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  They all stared at the map and wondered.

  Joanna spoke aside to Mike. ‘We need to talk to Mrs Stanton,’ she said, ‘and find out why the lie.’ She turned again. ‘Perhaps she knows something.’

  Korpanski spoke up, stating the obvious. ‘She was the one person who didn’t have a motive anymore. She’d paid her debt off.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Joanna’s mind was tussling with this. ‘It’s possible,’ she said, ‘that she was just furious at the money she’d already given.’

  Korpanski nodded but he looked unconvinced.

  Joanna turned back to the board and drew a faint line between Astrid Jenkins of Mill Street and Britannia Avenue.

  What were they still missing?

  She threw the question out to the roomful of officers. And then it hit her. As soon as everyone had left she looked at Mike. ‘Guess where we’re heading.’

  Karen Stanton sat on her sofa in her neat room, her back ramrod straight, expressionless. Calm, collected and very much in control.

  ‘I didn’t mention the fact that I’d gone out later that evening because it wasn’t relevant,’ she said.

  ‘You could have let us be the judge of that,’ Joanna said, her voice hard. Then, ‘Tell us the route you took down to Mill Street?’

  Karen was hesitant. ‘I crossed the play area,’ she said slowly, ‘threaded behind Big Mill and crossed the main road towards Mill Street.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  Karen licked her lips.

  ‘Mrs Stanton,’ Joanna said steadily, ‘tomorrow I shall spend the morning watching the post-mortem on Jadon Glover. I have just come from his wife. We have yet to enlighten her on the exact circumstances of her husband’s death but it will all come out in the inquest. It is a gruesome story, I can assure you, so help us.’

  Karen’s eyes were wary. Joanna tried again. ‘And only a few days ago I watched another post-mortem on Jeff Armitage.’

  Karen Stanton couldn’t prevent her lip from curling in contempt. Joanna had planned to say the second murder could possibly have been prevented but she could see there was no point.

  Karen knew something but she wasn’t telling.

  They left. She spent the rest of the day closeted with Korpanski, combing through various possibilities.

  By late evening she had a worm of an idea. Nothing definite, little more than a tiny thought, a faint glimmer of flickering candle light at the end of a very long tunnel.

  It was late when she stood up stiffly, stretched out her arms and yawned. She rested a hand on her sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Well, Mike,’ she said, ‘at least now we’re starting to ask the right questions.’

  He grinned at her. ‘I’m knackered,’ he said. ‘I can’t think straight anymore.’

  She nodded. ‘We both need a good night’s sleep. See you tomorrow.’

  Midnight

  It was late when she finally arrived home. Matthew was asleep on the sofa. He hated going to bed without her and would delay the moment as long as he could. She woke him with a kiss. No whisky breath this time. ‘Were you dreaming?’ she asked fondly.

  ‘Maybe.’ He was still sleepy.

  ‘About tomorrow’s little job?’

  Even that didn’t dent his sleepy grin. ‘Again, maybe.’

  Although it was late she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down next to him.

  He rallied slightly. She was tempted to flatten his hair which was sticking up like an errant schoolboy’s. And then she thought not. Leave him looking like a sleepy Just William.

  ‘Anywhere near finding out what happened, Jo?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Frankly, no. It’s like someone’s unpicked a patchwork quilt and I’m trying to stitch it back together with no idea of the final pattern. Lots of little fragments, anomalies, some of them quite promising but I can’t make sense of it. Korpanski and I have spent the day working through everything we know.’ She gazed into the fire. ‘I know it’s to do with debt. Money. I know it’s to do with revenge but Jadon Glover was a complex character.’

  ‘And Eve Glover?’

  ‘There seems so little passion there that …’ She looked at her husband. ‘I just don’t think she cared enough – either about her husband or her son. She’s almost detached from it all. Murder is a crime of emotion, jealousy, greed, hatred, love. Eve only seems to care about her own creature comforts. She’s almost a psycho in that way.’

  ‘Wow,’ he said, taken aback.

  She was silent for a moment. From the beginning she’d assumed that the origin of this murder and ignominious disposal of the body had arisen out of one of the stories of hardship and exploitation, of greed, poverty and desperation. But she had always wondered …

  There were other factors in this case.

  Karen Stanton had to be shielding someone. She had concealed the fact that she had been out and about that evening at about the time Jadon Glover had been abducted.

  There was the other murder of the little boy.

  There was the fact that Daylight had been backed by a friend of Glover’s wife. He’d turned up pretty quickly to ‘comfort’ the grieving widow.

  And then there were the flowers placed at the end of Nab Hill Avenue, the tragedy that had sealed off a road, turning it into a cul-de-sac. She was silent for a moment, feeling chilled in spite of the warmth – almost stuffiness – of the room.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Matthew said cheerily and she looked up.

  ‘If I’ve been wrong about the motive for the crime what else might I have been wrong about?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, yawning, ‘but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’ He sneaked in closer. ‘Shall I tell you what I’m doing?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘To be honest,’ he said with a wicked grin, ‘I’m doing a post-mortem on a very unsavoury corpse and watching me with an eagle eye will be the scariest detective inspector in the entire Leek Police Force.’

  ‘I’m almost sorry for you,’ she scoffed, ‘being exposed to that.’ But he was right. Tomorrow promised to be a very busy day. Joanna only hoped it would provide them with some answers.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Saturday, 19 April, 8.30 a.m.

  The post-mortem had been scheduled early so it made sense for Joanna to travel in with Matthew and meet the other members of the team at the mortuary. She could hitch a ride back to the station with them. As expected, with such a gruesome discovery set against a dramatic backdrop, there was no shortage of media interest, even a reporter from The Sentinel hanging around outside the mortuary. But they were all out of luck. As Matthew pressed in the keypad numbers Joanna crossed over to Richard Corby. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘you know I can’t tell you anything yet.’

  ‘Maybe in an hour or two?’ He sounded hopeful.

  The relationship between the police and the press was always tetchy, but she had learned not to let her irritability show. The press knew the police needed them to spread the word. They were better as allies than enemies but even so. ‘You can’t expect me to give you any details.’

  ‘Can you just confirm that the body found …’ the reporter made a great show of looking down at his notes for accuracy, ‘… in a remote moorland location known as Starve Crow Cottage is that of the missing man,’ another glance down, ‘Jadon Glover?’

  Joanna forced her face to remain blank. ‘We’ll be making a statement later, Richard,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to hang around here all day. There’s nothing here for you – not yet anyway.’ She put a friendly arm on his shoulder. ‘As soon as we’ve got anything we’ll be calling a press conference. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘OK.’ He turned to go but another reporter, a small girl with hair the colour and texture of dried straw, must have been short of column inches. ‘At least tell us if he’s been identified yet?’

  ‘Not formally, no.’ Joanna had learned over the years to measure each word she
uttered to the press. Careless statements or ill-advised phrases could look terrible in print – or worse, speech marks – and they could easily be tracked back to her and misconstrued.

  Focusing on identity, Joanna was thinking of the state of the corpse. Who could possibly identify him as the dapper and confident man who had parked his car in a supermarket car park a few weeks ago and had such control over his own and other people’s lives?

  Richard Corby turned around, gave her a hard look and took a step nearer. ‘You know who he is,’ he said under his breath, ‘and so do I. So when can I go public on this?’ He tried to encourage her to spill the beans with the sweetener, ‘Maybe rope Joe Public in on the investigation?’

  But she wasn’t tempted and shook her head. ‘You know the rules, Richard, as well as I do. We’ll have to use fingerprints and DNA,’ she said. Then added under her breath, ‘Off the record, just remember if it is Glover he’s been missing for seven weeks. The weather’s turned warm and this person wasn’t exactly buried six feet under in a lead-lined coffin.’

  He looked even more interested. ‘So how was he buried?’

  She said nothing.

  He took the inference and measured it. ‘Bit of a mess then?’

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is an understatement.’

  ‘Rumour is,’ he responded, eyebrows folding in on themselves and turning his back on his fellow members of the profession, who were watching with curiosity, ‘that he was found with his head sticking down the outside lav.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ she said. Then added curiously, ‘Where do you get your information from?’

  He simply grinned. ‘Keep in touch, Inspector Piercy.’

  ‘Yeah.’ It was good-humoured banter. They both knew the rules of engagement. As for the others, she wasn’t so sure and the last thing she wanted was to be hauled in front of the IPCC – again.

  She entered the mortuary.

  Over the years Joanna had learned the trick of dealing with less savoury post-mortems. She would dab Chanel perfume – not eau de cologne but proper perfume – on her wrist, ready to sniff when the mixed scent of gore, formalin and in this case putrefaction got too nauseating. She kept her breathing shallow and usually ate a light and anti-nauseous breakfast of dry toast. When the going got too tough she would simply look away and Matthew would describe the details she needed to know. The rest he would leave out. That seemed to work most of the time, sparing her feelings. As SIO she had to attend the post-mortem and sign out the evidence bags, but sometimes she would rather have been anywhere but here, in this clinical room, fans turned up to maximum but never enough.