Hunting for Crows

by Iain Cameron

  Valerie Lassiter came into the room wiping her wet hands on a towel and didn’t seem surprised to find a couple of cops sitting on her sofa. She looked a big lady with a pleasant, ruddy face, dark brown eyes, wiry, unkempt hair, and wearing baggy tracksuit bottoms and an ill-fitting home-knitted jumper.

  She collapsed into an armchair, the springs and floorboards squealing with displeasure. ‘This isn’t something to do with my Josh is it? He’s always getting into trouble in school, but it’s never involved the police before. Well, only once when he broke the window in the library.’

  ‘They might be here to take him away Ma,’ said a voice from the floor where the little girl sat cross-legged, her eyes never leaving a cartoon on the television.

  ‘Shurrup you little madam. She’s got it in for the boy ’cause he switches her programmes off so he can watch the music channels.’

  ‘When I’m bigger I’m going to break his nose if he does it again.’

  ‘I’m warning you missy.’

  ‘No, this isn’t about Josh, Mrs Lassiter,’ Jake said as quickly as he could, trying to regain control of the conversation.

  ‘My divorce just came through, so it’s Miss Lassiter from now on. It took ages because of stupid lawyers–’

  ‘It should be Miss Crow,’ the little voice said.

  ‘I told you to shut up and watch the telly; now do it, will you? I always hated the name ‘Crow’, you know, ever since I was a little girl and there’s no way I want to go back to it. It reminds me of those ugly black things in the garden, peck-pecking away at worms and dead birds at the side of the road. I hate them.’

  ‘Fine, Miss Lassiter, but our visit is nothing to do with your son or your divorce. We are here to talk to you about your brother.’

  ‘My brother? Did something happen to Derek? Is it something terrible? I kept telling him he needed to stop his drinking and smoking. I said it would be the death of him.’

  ‘Miss Lassiter,’ Jake said a bit louder than intended, ‘this is not about Derek but your other brother, Barry.’

  ‘Oh him? Why didn’t you say so? Me getting so het up about nothing. You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So what’s happened to him? I mean I wouldn’t put it past him to–'

  ‘Miss Lassiter, I am sorry to inform you that yesterday morning the body of your brother, Barry Crow, was recovered from the River Arun in Arundel.’

  ‘Wha...what did you say?’

  ‘I said, your brother Barry drowned. Rescuers found him yesterday morning and it seems he may have gone into the water trying to rescue his dog.’

  ‘Oh my God, how awful. How is Lucky? Is he ok?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry to say the dog drowned too.’

  She clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s terrible, so it is. I loved Lucky.’

  ‘Me too,’ the girl said.

  ‘How did it happen?’ she asked.

  Jake nudged Saks.

  ‘As my colleague said, it appears your brother, Barry, entered the water in an unsuccessful attempt to save his dog. Local people in the town saw the body in the river and alerted emergency services. It was recovered about a mile downstream by a boatman who rowed through thick reeds to reach him and the body of the dog.’

  ‘I need a drink,’ she said. ‘Can I get you folks something?’

  ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘We’re still on duty.’

  Saks gave him one of her looks, not because he refused a drink for both of them, but expressing her dislike for Valerie Lassiter’s lack of sensitivity about her dead brother. The deceased’s sister had proved to be a difficult woman to locate, as they didn’t find any reference to her in Barry’s house, and only when a police researcher called them this morning did they even know he had a sister.

  The bottle and everything else rested on a plastic tray on the sideboard, close to hand and set out for quick access. She returned a few moments later with a glass of vodka topped up with lemonade and sat down.

  ‘Does Derek know?’ she said, after downing a large slug. If Jake drank like she did, the miserly 25ml measures they served at his local wouldn’t last two minutes.

  ‘By Derek, I take it you mean your other brother?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Officers are attempting to make contact with him as we speak. Does Barry have any other relatives, aside from yourself and Derek?’

  She shook her head. ‘Barry’s wife died a few years back and they didn’t have any kids; couldn’t. She blamed him for shooting blanks but he said it was her fault, barren as the Gobi Desert he liked to say. Don’t bother trying to contact my ex, I want nothing more to do with the swine, nothing more.’

  ‘Were you and Barry close?’ Saks asked.

  ‘Derek’s an important businessman and needs to be told, but he’s a very busy man and difficult to pin down. I know this from personal experience because when I went through a bad patch with my ex, he’s called William if you must know, I could never get hold of him.’

  ‘Is there anyone else we need to inform, for example, work associates or friends?’

  ‘There’s no one I can think of. Barry worked on his own after the band split up and set himself up as an internet entrepreneur. I don’t know what he did, but he made a lot of money doing it. As I was saying about Derek…’

  She carried on yapping about Derek; she didn’t seem to be talking to them, but giving a little speech made dozens of times in the lounge of her local pub or at the bowling club, telling anyone who would listen about Derek, her important brother.

  Jake supposed if anyone in his family became famous or rich he would want to tell all and sundry about them, but not when being informed about the death of his brother. It was similar to cracking a dirty joke at a funeral. The sombre circumstances might call for it but if you did let fly, your wife would always remember her embarrassment and never let you forget it.

  They left the house ten minutes later, the freeze between him and Saks thawing as they discussed the woman’s indifferent attitude to her dead brother and the genuine level of concern she expressed for the very-much-alive brother, Derek. The question which hung in the air and caused an altercation between Valerie and her daughter whenever it came up, was where were they going to bury the damn dog.

  FOUR

  DI Henderson stepped out of the car and locked it. Before leaving Sussex House, the Brighton home of the Major Crime Team of Surrey and Sussex Police, he’d told colleagues he was following up his earlier encounter with Davy Cairns. In fact, everything was already in place and he would put a team together and raid the skunk factory, after some bits of paperwork were signed-off. Instead, he was in Arundel, home of the recently deceased Barry Crow, as his untimely accident had piqued his interest.

  He walked out of the car park, situated beside the River Arun, and strolled along the road running parallel to the riverbank. The spot where they’d found Barry’s body proved easier to find than he first thought, as a nearby fence was resplendent with floral tributes, messages and cards from appreciative local people and breast cancer charities. Despite several days of dry weather, the river lapped close to the top of the bank and gave him some sense of how dangerous it could be and only increased his bewilderment as to why anyone would consider jumping in.

  He headed back towards the High Street and climbed the steep hill past the Red Lion pub, numerous antique shops and banks, towards the cathedral, but received no reply from a knock on the door of Barry’s house in King Street. It was a pretty, white-painted terraced house with the front door opening straight onto the pavement. On the negative side, it didn’t provide enough space to position a chair and chat to the neighbours or set down a few geranium pots to add a bit of colour in summer, but on the positive side, he didn’t have a path to sweep, garden to dig, and there wasn’t a squeaking gate to keep anyone awake at night.

  He knocked on the door of Barry Crow’s next door neighbour. He half-expected it to be answered by an old hi
ppy with long, grey hair in a pony-tail or a groupie, way past her sell-by date, but instead there stood an elderly lady wearing a flowery dress and sensible slippers. He should have known better as Arundel was a sedate tourist town, famous for quaint pubs, a castle, and dozens of antique shops, not for loud music and dope-smoking rock fans.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, smiling. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Good afternoon, I’m Detective Inspector Angus Henderson of Surrey and Sussex Police.’

  ‘Are you investigating the death of poor Mr Crow next door?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You better come in.’

  That was easy. He half-expected to be faced with a nosey neighbour who would ask him why anyone was spending valuable time probing a clear accident, or if they were really on the ball, why the case of a drowning man required the presence of a senior murder detective. Whatever the response, he was prepared with a stock reply. He was there to collate information about the dead man, building a picture for their files. In fact, if he tried digging a bit deeper, he still wouldn’t know the real reason as he didn’t know either.

  Mrs Partridge served Darjeeling tea in china cups with saucers, accompanied by a plate of plain and chocolate biscuits, all neatly laid out on a lace tablecloth. This was in stark contrast to the way he treated his guests, as the best they could hope to receive at chez Henderson was a faded Brighton and Hove Albion mug and a pack of biscuits that had probably been lying at the back of the cupboard for months. The living room felt warm and chintzy, full of photographs and commemorative plaques and mugs, mainly of the Queen and Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, all shimmering in the flickering light from a vigorous coal fire.

  The room reminded him of an elderly aunt’s house in Glasgow, as she was big on the royals and loved her soft fabrics but she didn’t live so close to her neighbours that she could see a figure moving around in the house opposite, in spite of the obligatory net curtains. If she was still alive, she would soon be battling through deep snowdrifts just to get her newspaper and milk. Central Scotland was scheduled to receive a large dump of the white stuff this afternoon, while Mrs Partridge’s house in Arundel, was bathed in weak Sussex sunlight under clear, blue skies.

  ‘I knew Mr Crow better than anybody around here as he didn’t talk much to anyone else, but you see I always looked after his dog when he travelled anywhere.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘My, that’s a very good question. I'm not really sure.’

  ‘The report I read said he was an internet entrepreneur.’

  ‘I don't know what that is, but I do know he invested in lots of businesses.’

  ‘Did he do it with any degree of success?’

  ‘I think so.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘You see, this isn’t his only house. Oh no, he's got one in London and another one in Spain and travelled overseas on business about two or three times a month. He only bought the house next door to be close to his wife.’

  ‘Does she still live in the town?’

  She smiled. ‘No, no. She died six years ago and she’s buried in the local churchyard. They used to live in Worthing and came to Arundel most weekends. She loved it here and always said it was the place where she wanted to be buried. When she died of breast cancer, the money raised by local people was used by Barry to start a breast cancer charity. Before he died, he was its chairman.’

  ‘Ah, that explains the cards I saw down at the river. Does, or should I say, did his brother Derek ever come down to see him?’

  ‘Oh, now and again. Barry used to say he saw more of him on television than he ever did in person, but only yesterday I received a call from a nice young lady at his office in London who said they would be sending someone down in a few day’s time to clear the place.’

  ‘They don’t hang about, do they?’

  ‘I thought so too, but I suppose his brother wants to sell the house, although I suspect he doesn’t need the money.’

  This dovetailed into a request to take a look inside Barry’s house, but far from responding in the negative as he expected, Mrs Partridge offered him the keys and apologised for not taking him there herself, but she suffered from arthritis and found it difficult moving around.

  His suspicions that Barry’s house was a mirror image of Mrs Partridge’s appeared well-founded, but with less furniture and fewer personal items. It looked as though he didn’t stay there often, or he was a man of few needs. If the ground and first floors were much as he expected to see in a small terraced house, the basement wasn’t.

  ‘Welcome to Kennedy Space Centre’ declared a photograph of Barry in front of a gigantic space rocket. The rocket was long and sleek but Barry was fat and dumpy, and gripped in his hand, his own brand of rocket fuel, a large drum of popcorn. The ‘space centre’ description might well be used to describe the room as it was kitted out with all manner of computer gear: giant screens along one wall, printers, keyboards, scanners, little encryption pads and a Spaghetti Junction of cables.

  Henderson drove back to Brighton in a reflective mood. Barry’s basement was surprising and intriguing but indicative of what? He was a switched-on investor who used technology to monitor stock markets and track investments? Or did he manage the personal affairs of his rich big brother and use the apparent modest lifestyle to shield it from nosey buggers like journalists and the Inland Revenue?

  It was clearer in his mind now why he came to Arundel. He had been deluding himself into thinking something suspicious was going on, and that he could become involved in something that interested him for a change, but having seen the winking lights of Barry Crow’s computer set-up, it was obvious he’d intended coming back and this wasn’t some elaborate cover-up.

  It was foolish of Barry to enter a river as fast-flowing and menacing as he’d seen today, but the more he thought about Barry Crow and added it to the information given to him by Mrs Partridge, the more he realised such an act of unselfish bravery was in his nature. He was always the quiet one, ready to follow the lead carved out by his brother without drama or fuss, but willing and able to step up when circumstances demanded it.

  It would always be a mystery why he did what he did, but if the words of the local paper were anything to go by, the headline of which he saw as he walked past a newsagent, the people around here were calling him a hero.

  FIVE

  Peter Grant edged the big BMW into a parking space and sat there for a few minutes with his eyes closed. He was enjoying a song by Bruce Springsteen on Planet Rock, coming through a twelve-speaker Bose system, while held in the sumptuous grip of a body-moulded seat clad in soft Napa leather. All the time, trying to decide if the car was a good omen or bad.

  It was less than three months old, but in that time, his company’s first out-of-town superstore had opened here, in Redburn Retail Park in Croydon, the turnover of the whole business had passed the thirty-million mark, and one of their products had been voted muscle-builder of the year. On the negative side of the equation, he’d lost one his best friends, Barry Crow, in a drowning accident, and the divorce from his wife of over twenty-six years had just come through.

  Until the opening of this superstore, Grant's Fitness Emporium had consisted of twelve city-centre shops stocking their own brand of fitness and weight-gain powders, food supplements and various items of sports clothing, backed by a growing web-based business. Now, the monster he was walking towards, where the sign proclaiming the name of the business looked taller than him, had over ten times the square-footage of his biggest shop. This allowed him for the first time to realise his dream of selling a wide range of fitness equipment, including rowing machines, multi-gyms, tennis, squash and badminton racquets, racing, road and city bikes, and with a cafe upstairs serving good food and fitness drinks.

  He walked into the shop and moments later the manager, Ben Young, came striding towards him and shook his hand.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grant.’

  ‘Good morning, Ben. How are you? How’s Martha keepi
ng?’

  ‘I’m fine. She’s getting better day by day, thanks for asking.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Grant started walking. ‘Let’s take a wander around the shop before we start our meeting. How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s a lot bigger than my old shop, and now that we’re dealing with a much larger product range, I can offer a more complete fitness package to our customers.’

  ‘What about you?’

  He puffed out his cheeks and blew a blast of air, flicking up a lock of jet-black hair. ‘It’s been a big learning curve for sure, but I think I’m getting there.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘Pradip’, the badge said, was demonstrating an expensive rowing machine to a young couple, clearly impressed by his ability to row and talk at the same time. It was not hard to feel jealous of this tall, rugged individual who moved without breaking sweat and enthralled his audience, and even though Grant was as fit as any office-bound forty-seven-year-old could hope to be, he didn’t feel the urge to take over the demo and show the young Turk how it should be done. He knew what he was good at and this wasn’t it.

  Peter Grant was a businessman and no matter the sophistication of the machines or the palatability of the weight-gain and muscle-building powders, it was nothing but a bag of beans unless the same magic was being pushed through the tills.

  Ben did not disappoint with his assessment of the shop’s progress to date or his three-month projections, and when Peter Grant left the new face of Grant’s Fitness Emporium an hour later, he was a happier man than when he’d arrived. He could now see the idea, one he’d championed in the face of deep reservations by many of his colleagues, was living and breathing in the big wide world and taking its first tentative steps.