The Aden Vanner Novels

by Jeff Gulvin

  They were all three silent. Weir sat forward. ‘We’re trying to trace her movements during the time leading up to the murder,’ he said. ‘We knew she had been away for the weekend, her neighbours told us as much but before we spoke to you we had no idea where.’

  ‘She rented a cottage,’ Mrs Holt told him. ‘I have a few. It’s a sideline. Money left me by my mother. The yacht business can be precarious so I invested in bricks and mortar.’

  ‘Where is the cottage exactly?’ Ryan asked her.

  ‘Not very far from here. It’s just outside Little Woodfalls near Fordingbridge.’

  Weir got up then and moved to the fire. He stood with his back to it, warming the palms of his hands. ‘Cold day,’ he said.

  ‘The wind comes in off the water.’

  He nodded. ‘Was she on her own that weekend, Mrs Holt?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so.’

  ‘Did you go ever there at all?’

  ‘While she was there?’ Mrs Holt shook her head. ‘No reason to. The cottage is self-contained. The key is kept with a neighbour. I only go over after to change the bedding and towels.’

  ‘So you never saw her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you have seen her. I mean you recognised her from the picture.’

  ‘I recognised the name actually. But yes, I have seen her. The last time she was down here.’

  ‘Was she on her own then?’

  ‘No. There was a man with her. I went over on Saturday. There was a problem with the water.’

  ‘The man,’ Ryan said. ‘Her husband?’

  ‘I presume so. She didn’t introduce him.’

  ‘You’ve seen him before?’

  ‘No. Only the one time. December last year.’

  ‘Would you recognise him again?’

  She smiled then and shook her head. ‘I was only there for a moment.’

  Weir nodded and scratched his head. ‘This is delicate, Mrs Holt. We have reason to believe that she was there with somebody. A man. Not her husband. He was playing rugby in Ireland. He had no idea she was away.’

  She looked between them then. ‘I see.’

  ‘Would the neighbours have said anything?’

  She glanced up at Weir. ‘You mean did they? Not to me.’

  ‘The house,’ Ryan said. ‘It’s detached?’

  ‘All my properties are detached, Sergeant.’

  ‘Stands on its own does it?’

  She nodded. ‘Hedges all round it. Pretty place really.’

  ‘We’d like to see it now if that’s all right,’ Weir said.

  They followed her Landrover Discovery along the B road toward Fordingbridge. This part of the forest was bare, moorland stretching flat on either side of the road. Ponies chewed at weak grass, their winter coats fluffed into rolls by the wind.

  Mrs Holt led them almost to the village of little Woodfalls and then indicated left before pulling up the driveway of a two-storey house just off the road. Weir turned in behind her and parked. Ryan got out. The drive was long enough to house three cars and the Discovery was fronting a garage with twin wooden doors. The garden was wide and laid to lawn with a hedgerow separating it from its neighbour. Mrs Holt came round the front of the Landrover jangling a set of keys in her hand.

  The front door opened straight into a low-ceilinged lounge with a wood burner standing in the open fireplace. The house smelled of leather, two armchairs thrown over with white cotton cloths. A dresser stood against the far wall and freshly cut wood was stacked in the hearth.

  ‘Feel free to look around,’ she told them.

  The lounge had a stripped pine door which opened into a narrow, beamed hallway which led off to the right. A door on the left opened into a study which smelled faintly of damp. To the right of the study the stairs climbed in a wooden sweep to the first floor. At the far end of the hall an open-plan kitchen was accessed by an arch.

  Ryan climbed the stairs and found three bedrooms, two spacious and one box room. A bathroom on the left with a scrubbed suite and sloping ceiling. None of the beds were made up.

  ‘She was the last person to rent it?’ Weir said.

  Mrs Holt looked at him and nodded.

  ‘You strip everything?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Weir glanced at Ryan. ‘The sheets,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t look for stains, Inspector.’

  ‘No. Of course you don’t.’

  She pointed through the open bedroom to the chimney pot of the house next door. ‘You can speak to the neighbours if you want. They’re retired. Almost always at home.’

  Weir nodded to Ryan, who went back down the stairs. Weir looked back at Mrs Holt once more. ‘I might want some people to look the house over.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Ryan met them both in the driveway. Mrs Holt locked the door and turned back to her car. Ryan nodded to Weir and they got back in his Scorpio.

  ‘Neighbours clocked a car, Guv. Blue saloon. That’s all they could tell me.’

  ‘They didn’t see a body?’

  ‘Not a male one. Jessica collected the key. One thing though. They said she looked a bit shaken.’

  ‘Shaken?’ Weir studied his face. ‘How shaken?’

  ‘Just a bit stirred up. They asked her if she was okay and she shrugged it off. They didn’t speak to her again until she dropped the key on Sunday night. She was happy as a pig in shit by then.’

  ‘But they did see a car?’ Weir backed out into the road and waved to Mrs Holt as she drove off ahead of them.

  ‘Yeah. Saturday morning there were two cars in the drive. The neighbours went shopping and clocked them.’

  They headed back towards the M27 and Weir took gum from his pocket, rolled it and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘You still want a Lab team down here?’

  Weir nodded. ‘Its scrubbed cleaner than a swimming pool but you never know.’

  ‘Local or ours?’

  ‘Ours. I don’t want anyone else involved.’

  Ryan took the mobile phone from his belt and called the incident room in Hendon.

  Eilish McCauley sat in front of her dressing table, legs crossed over the padded pink stool, and brushed her long red hair. Newly washed, newly dried, she could still smell the heat in it. From the table before her she took crimson lipstick and spread it across her lips. She eased them back over her teeth, pressed them together and pouted. Her mouth was red now, bright against the pale height of her cheekbones. Taking powder she brushed at the hollows of her cheeks until they coloured a fraction, accentuating the line of her face. As she bent forward to replace the powder one black lacy strap fell from her shoulder and her breast pushed against the material of her chemise. She saw her brother framed behind her in the mirror.

  ‘Always creeping about, James.’

  ‘I’m not creeping about.’

  She looked back at him, a taunt on her mouth. The silent walker of landings. How many years had he done that? As if he knew what she was thinking, colour burned in his face and he pressed his gaze to the carpet. She laughed.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, Eilish.’

  She held up one hand. ‘Sorry,’ she grinned. ‘I’m sorry.’

  They looked at one another then and a lifetime passed between them. Brother and sister, each guessing at the other’s thoughts as they had always done.

  ‘Are you going out again tonight?’ he asked her.

  ‘Again, James?’ She repeated the word with a downward sweep of her mouth. ‘Yes, I’m going out again.’ She looked at him as the muscles stiffened against the skin of his face.

  ‘You weren’t going anywhere were you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I can can’t I.’

  ‘The children like it better when you’re in. They like to know you’re there.’

  ‘The children are asleep, James. It’s neither here nor there.’

  ‘They notice.’

  She sighed then, placing her palms on her th
ighs. ‘They don’t notice.’

  ‘How do you know? You’re not here when they wake up.’

  ‘I’m allowed a life, James.’

  ‘Yeah. And so are they.’

  She got up then and rolled black stockings over the cream of her thighs. He sat on the bed and watched her.

  ‘Which one is it tonight then?’

  ‘What?’ She rested a fist on her hip.

  ‘Fatty or skinny, Eilish? Does Stepper-Nap know you sleep with Young Young?’

  She shook her head at him. ‘You know one of these days you’ll get a life of your own instead of criticising mine.’

  ‘I might,’ he said. ‘Then what would you do for a babysitter?’

  He sat down on the edge of her bed and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Eilish sat a moment then got up and lifted her green Chinese dress from where it lay on the bed beside him. She ruffled the dark of his hair with pointed fingers. ‘Don’t let’s fight, love eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eilish. I just worry about the girls.’ He wrapped his arms about her waist then, like a child would its mother, and she smoothed his hair against her.

  ‘You ought to get out, James. You know you really should. What about a girlfriend? Isn’t it time you got one?’

  ‘I know. I know’ He let go of her then as if her sudden proximity disturbed him. ‘Dole cheques don’t get you very far though do they.’

  She bent to him then and rested the flat of her arms on his knees. ‘I’ve got money if you need it.’

  He stood up and went to the window. Street lamps bled yellow on the pavement. ‘I don’t want your money, Eilish. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.’ He turned to face her again. ‘You’re right. We shouldn’t fight. We’re all that we have aren’t we.’

  ‘Yes, James. We are.’

  The past clouded between them, each witnessing its dark reflection in the eye of the other. For a short moment they stared. Then, as if the knowledge was too deep, too painful, they both looked away. Eilish pulled her dress over her head and turned her back to him. ‘Zip me up will you?’

  He zipped her dress to the neck and fastened the tie. She stood before the mirror and smoothed hands over the flat of her stomach. ‘Ready,’ she said to her reflection.

  ‘Eilish.’

  She turned again and saw the light all at once in his eye.

  ‘What?’

  ‘D’you ever think about Tommy?’

  For a second or so she stared. ‘Of course I think about Tommy.’

  Six

  SHE SAT WITH STEPPER-NAP in the restaurant. He sipped white wine from a long-stemmed glass, incongruous in his chubby fingers. Eilish took his other hand and he paused, glass halfway to his lips. She smiled as he glanced at the other diners, such a big tough Daddy whom she could still embarrass when she wanted to. She turned his hand over in hers, the paleness of the palm contrasting with the thick brown skin on the back. His fingers, stuffed with rings, were well manicured; the nails clipped, cuticles pushed right back into the quick. He took the hand back, wiggled it and the heavy gold band slipped back over his wrist.

  ‘Romantic tonight ain’t you?’

  She sat back and smiled at him. ‘Candlelit dinner for two. I feel romantic’

  ‘I got a wife, babe. Three kids by her.’

  ‘And another wife and two kids by her and God knows how many more. You’re here with me and we’ve got no kids and I know how to please you the best.’ She touched her teeth with her tongue.

  He sat forward then and pushed his plate away. He put down the glass and rested his chin on his fists. ‘We got business, first, baby. There’s gear arriving. When you gonna do your stuff?’

  ‘Whenever.’ She sat well back in her seat, hands in the fold of her lap.

  ‘Not whenever. When? That’s a hole we got in the market, Eilish. Hole that I can fill.’

  He leaned forward then and his flat face was serious. ‘I need to fill the hole. Got to re-establish myself.’

  ‘Pretty Boy?’

  He nodded. ‘Asshole thinks he’s the man now. What he don’t know is I’m three steps ahead of him.’ He looked at her then. ‘But I need you for that.’

  She shook her head, leaned an elbow on the table and cupped her cheek with a palm. ‘You really think it’s that simple, don’t you?’

  His face clouded then, eyes very small in their sockets.

  ‘Stepper, lover. How many others like you d’you think are out there.’

  ‘There’s none with contacts like I got.’

  ‘You stupid black bastard.’

  His eyes thinned into slits. ‘Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s what you are.’

  He stared at her then and reached for her hand. He took it, looked in her eyes and squeezed her fingers together. Her skin pinched and she tried to pull away. He squeezed all the more tightly. ‘You’re a good fuck, Eilish. And I like white flesh. But there’s plenty more like you.’

  He let her go then and she rubbed her fingers with her other hand. ‘You hurt me.’

  ‘Did I?’ He shook his head. ‘You dis’ me, babe. Then you’ll know I hurt you.’

  She stared at her plate for a moment then gathered herself and lifting her stockinged foot from her shoe she placed it between his legs under the table. ‘You should learn to take a joke.’

  His eyes glazed as slowly she began to massage him with her toes. ‘You should chill out, Stepper. You’re too wired these days.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Eilish.’

  She did not say anything, just pressed a little harder with her toes. She could see the muscles tighten across his face, and moved forward in the seat to release him.

  ‘Pay the bill,’ she said.

  Ryan sat with Alec Turner in his office. Turner behind his desk, computer screen between them. They stared at one another.

  Ryan made a short gesture with one hand. ‘She was seeing someone, Alec. I’m sorry.’

  For a moment Turner stared at him. ‘You don’t know that.’

  Ryan nodded. ‘We do. She rented the cottage three times. Each time somebody was with her. Where were you on the weekends?’

  Turner looked blank.

  ‘Check your diary, mate. A monkey says you were away.’

  Turner looked at the screen between them and slowly chewed his lip. ‘Did anyone actually see her?’

  Again Ryan nodded. ‘The couple who live next door. They only saw the car this time but in December the woman she rented it from saw a man with her.’ He scratched his jaw. ‘It’s a bummer, Alec. But you had to know.’

  Turner sucked an audible breath, a rasping sound like sandpaper in his throat. His eyes puffed and he bit down on his lip.

  ‘We need to find out who he is, Alec. He must know what’s happened by now and he hasn’t come forward. D’you have any ideas?’ He took out a packet of Camels and shook two out. Lighting them both he handed one to Turner who drew heavily on it. He exhaled and looked at the glowing end. ‘Non-smoking office,’ he muttered. He looked sharply at Ryan then. ‘Why hasn’t he come forward?’

  Ryan opened his hands. ‘That’s what we need to find out.’

  ‘You think he killed her?’

  ‘Maybe, although I don’t know why he’d wait till she got back to London.’ He shook his head. ‘More likely he’s married. Got kids.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘Why mess up his life?’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Probably.’ He paused. ‘Who could he be, Alec?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about work? Most affairs happen at work.’

  Turner sighed then. ‘This is a shock, Ryan. You’ll have to give me some time.’

  ‘Friends, Alec’ Ryan stood up. ‘Acquaintances. Mutual friends maybe. People at work she talked about a lot. Names coming up in conversation more often than others. Think about it will you? Bell me. You’ve got the number.’

  Back at the incident room Tony Rob came up to him. ‘
How’d he take it?’

  ‘How would you take it if your wife was playing away?’

  ‘Not married, Slips.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Ryan looked down at the pile of messages on his desk. ‘We need to visit her workplace again, Tony. Talk to all the male colleagues she worked with. Married ones, I reckon. Kids maybe.’

  ‘Right.’

  Glancing up, Ryan saw Morrison sitting with Weir in the Investigating Officer’s room. Weir had his hands on his head and chewed gum like a cow at the cud. He beckoned Ryan through.

  ‘You see him, Sid?’

  Ryan nodded.

  ‘Any joy?’

  ‘He’s thinking about it, Guv’nor. Bit of a shock for him.’ Ryan sat down and glanced at Morrison. ‘He’s going to bell me with a list of possibles. In the meantime we’ll look at the married ones she works with.’

  ‘Married?’ Morrison looked at him.

  ‘Yes, Sir. I reckon whoever it is must be married. Why else wouldn’t he come forward?’

  Morrison nodded. ‘He’s also a suspect, Ryan.’

  ‘Of course he is, Sir.’

  Weir got up and poured coffee from the pot behind him. ‘There’s something else, Sid.’

  ‘What’s that, Guv’nor?’

  Morrison looked at him. ‘We had a phonecall this morning. A man from Fordingbridge. Apparently he saw Jessica Turner on his way home from work on Friday night. He’s very keen to talk to us.’

  Weir handed them each a cup of coffee and Ryan stirred sugar. ‘He’s on his way in here now,’ Weir went on. ‘Photocopier engineer, works for a dealer in Camberley.’

  ‘What’s he got to tell us?’

  Weir shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Said he was in London so he’d come down. Talk to us in person.’

  The caller arrived at two that afternoon. Weir and Ryan put on their jackets and met him downstairs. They took him to the canteen which was all but empty. Ryan bought tea from Eileen at the counter and carried the tray over. The man’s name was Case. Michael Case. Ryan put him at about forty, medium build with a bit of a paunch developing over his belt. His hair was long and thin, edging a pinched, pockmarked face. ‘Good of you to come, Mr Case.’ Weir passed him his tea.

  ‘I was in London.’ Case unwrapped a packet of sugar and tipped it into his tea. His manner was easy, relaxed.