by Tana Collins
‘Teenager’s name?’ asked Bingham.
‘Jordan Hunter,’ said Watson. ‘Detective Sergeant Harris, Dougie, attended.’
‘What came of the complaint?’
‘Dougie spoke to both parties involved. No evidence was found that the tyres were slashed by Jordan Hunter. We threatened to charge the boy with breach of the peace. The abuse was overheard by another neighbour, Mrs Walker. As it was a first offence he got a verbal warning.’
Bingham scanned the room. ‘Where’s Harris?’
‘On holiday, abroad. Be back at work tomorrow,’ said Fletcher.
‘Good work, Watson.’
Watson beamed, showing her dimples.
Fletcher cursed under her breath. One–nil to Watson.
‘Did you speak to the Hunters during the door-to-door yesterday?’ Bingham directed his question to Watson.
She pulled a face. ‘No. I wasn’t there. I believe Andie attended.’
All eyes on Fletcher. She was biting her lip, aware of Carruthers’ steely gaze. She studiously avoided eye contact. ‘They weren’t at home. I’ve made that a priority for today.’
‘OK, let’s crack on,’ said Bingham. ‘You all know what you’ve got to do. Get someone to ID the body. We need a request for information printed up –distribute to local shops; pubs and community notice boards. Jim, I want you to get a team set up to sift through Fraser’s paperwork. Start with interviewing this boy, Jordan, again. Find out where he was at the time of the murder. And we also need to speak with the media.’ Superintendent Bingham turned to Carruthers. ‘Just do what it takes to keep that scrawny little Yorkshire man off my back, will you.’
‘You mean Chief Superintendent Greenwood, sir?’
‘How many other scrawny little Yorkshire men do you know living in Fife, Carruthers?’
Turning to the windows he made an exasperated clicking noise with his tongue and drew in a deep breath. ‘Need to do something about that condensation.’
Carruthers followed Bingham’s gaze, noticing the pooling on the windowsills.
Bingham turned his attention to Fletcher. ‘Get on to the cleaners, will you? Make sure they mop up.’
‘It’s not my—’ she bit her lip in a bid to remain silent. She was aware of Carruthers taking a keen interest in her. Not just Carruthers. Watson as well. Too early in the investigation to be disobeying orders. What had she been thinking excluding Watson from the door-to-door? She glanced over at her. If she was going to stay ahead she’d just have to outsmart her and show Carruthers she was indispensable. Damn the bloody woman. Why did she feel like this? Why did her return to work make her feel so insecure? In the last couple of weeks before her return she’d been champing at the bit to get back to the fray. Now she was back she was riddled with anxiety. She swallowed hard trying to push the heavy sick feeling away from the pit of her stomach.
‘I’ll get on to it,’ she said.
‘Good girl,’ replied Bingham.
Carruthers followed Fletcher out of the incident room. Catching up with her, he took her arm and guided her out of hearing. Turning to face her he said, ‘I’m heading over to Cellardyke to interview the Hunters. I’m sorely tempted to ask Gayle to accompany me after the stunt you pulled yesterday. What the hell was that all about?’
She hung her head. ‘Don’t ask her. I’m more than up to the job.’ She snapped her head up. ‘By the way, how long’s she staying at the station? We don’t need another DS.’
‘It’s not just whether you’re up to the job, Andie. I need to know the team’s going to pull together– forget the petty squabbles, the jealousies. We’ve got a murder to solve. You can’t let your personal feelings about DS Watson get in the way of the investigation. Just out of interest who did you take with you if it wasn’t Gayle?’
There was silence from Fletcher who seemed to be staring at a spot beyond Carruthers.
He exploded. ‘Jesus Christ, Andie, don’t tell me you went on your own? It’s against procedure. You know that. Whatever made you do it?’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know. I can’t talk about it right now. I’ll see you in the car park,’ she said and strode away before Carruthers was able to say anything else.
The police station was on the outskirts of the historic town of Castletown, six miles from Anstruther. The sun was shining and the Fife fields and farms that dotted the countryside lay under a thin covering of snow and ice. Ice crystals glittered in the sun. Carruthers turned to Fletcher. ‘You’ve lost your confidence, haven’t you?’ he said as they climbed into the pool car. ‘That’s why you went to conduct the interviews alone. And you feel threatened by having another female DS here who stepped in for you when you were off work.’
‘If you’re done psychoanalysing me.’
‘You’re a good cop. Don’t overthink it,’ he said. ‘But don’t ever flout procedure like that again. Next time, I won’t cover your back.’
Fletcher stared straight ahead of her but the look on her face wasn’t lost on Carruthers. He knew he’d hit home.
The door was opened by a woman in her early fifties with ash-blonde shoulder-length hair and eyes the colour of cornflowers. She was wearing a pale blue cardigan and a multi-coloured print dress over black leggings.
The two officers produced their ID. ‘Mrs Hunter?’ said Carruthers.
‘Yes.’
Carruthers noted that she didn’t seem surprised to see them.
‘You’d better come in.’
As Carruthers and Fletcher entered the hall Carruthers noticed a dark-haired teenage boy skulking on the stairs. He looked watchful, sullen. He didn’t move, but followed them with his eyes.
‘This is my son, Jordan.’
The boy mumbled something. Carruthers didn’t catch it.
‘You’ll be here about Mr Fraser’s disappearance,’ she said.
‘Why do you think he’s disappeared?’ asked Carruthers.
‘One of my neighbours told me. Funny, you never think of anything like that happening to someone you know, least of all your neighbour.’ The woman suddenly shivered as she said this. She wrapped her cardigan protectively around herself.
Taking them in to the lounge, she shut the door. Jordan had still been rooted on the stairs. Carruthers wondered if he would creep down and eavesdrop. He wouldn’t blame him if he did.
‘What do you know about Ruiridh Fraser?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Must be late seventies, early eighties. Not over friendly. Please have a seat. Would either of you like tea? Coffee?’ They both declined, although looking at Fletcher’s pale face and watery eyes Carruthers bet she wouldn’t have minded a Lemsip.
‘Do you know if he had any family?’ asked Carruthers. ‘A son perhaps?’
‘Never seen him with family. A son? No. Don’t think so. Why?’
Suddenly the door was flung wide open and a young girl of about fifteen wearing headphones burst in. ‘Mum, have they found the old paedo yet?’ She stopped short as she caught sight of Carruthers and Fletcher and took the headphones off in surprise. She had the same blonde hair as her mother and was wearing a short skirt and T-shirt. The contour of her young breasts was just visible through the top. Carruthers did a double take, he couldn’t help himself. The girl was going to be a stunner. Mrs Hunter drew in a sharp breath.
‘Don’t talk about Mr Fraser like that, please.’ She turned to Carruthers and Fletcher. ‘Sorry. This is my daughter, Rachael.’ She caught the girl by the shoulders, held her close stroking her silky-looking hair.
‘Why did you call him a paedo, Rachael?’ asked Carruthers.
‘It’s what Jordan calls him.’
‘You know what teens are like, inspector. They call everyone a paedo. It doesn’t mean anything. Have you never watched The Inbetweeners?’
Carruthers hadn’t heard of The Inbetweeners. He didn’t watch much TV – just Newsnight, sport and the occasional Bond movie on DVD.
‘Were you aware Mr Fraser had a break-in last week?’ continued Carruthers.
<
br /> ‘Yes, we heard from Mrs Walker. It was her who told us about his disappearance.’
‘It’s actually your son, Jordan, we’d like to speak with, if you can call him in?’ said Carruthers.
‘Why? Jordan hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Well, then he hasn’t got anything to worry about, has he?’ Carruthers grabbed his mobile out of his coat pocket and put it on silent.
Fletcher addressed her next comment to Mrs Hunter. ‘We know there was some trouble a few months back involving your son.’ She read from her notebook. ‘On the 18th September Mr Fraser reported Jordan for slashing his tyres.’
‘Now just a minute. He never got charged. There was no proof it was him. You’re not telling me you think my son’s responsible for his disappearance?’
‘This is just a routine enquiry, Mrs Hunter,’ said Carruthers. ‘Can we see him please? Now. We can do this here or down at the station.’
‘If you really need to speak to him, I’ll go and get him.’
A few minutes went by then the door opened and in walked Mrs Hunter. Jordan slipped in behind her a few seconds later like a shadow. He stood hovering by the couch. His eyes shifted from his mother to the two detectives with very little movement of head. His gaze eventually settled on Fletcher’s chest. She folded her arms.
‘Jordan, where were you between the hours of 6pm and 9pm Monday night?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Here.’ He looked surprised.
‘Why do you want to know that?’ asked Mrs Hunter.
‘What were you doing?’ asked Carruthers.
Jordan tore his gaze away from Fletcher and glanced over at his mother who had taken a seat opposite.
‘Don’t look at your mother. I asked you the question,’ said Carruthers.
‘I was in my room.’ Jordan was looking down at his feet, not making eye contact.
‘Doing what?’ said Carruthers.
‘Playing computer games.’
‘For three hours?’ said Fletcher.
Jordan shrugged. ‘I had my tea, too. Downstairs.’
‘What time do you eat tea?’ Carruthers addressed the question to Anne Hunter.
‘About seven.’
‘Did Jordan eat with you?’ said Fletcher.
‘Yes, he was here all evening.’
Carruthers turned to Fletcher, ‘When do we think the old man got broken into?’
‘Last Friday between 4pm and 7pm, according to the neighbour.’
‘Well, it couldn’t have been Jordan. He was abroad on a school trip. You can check,’ said Mrs Hunter.
Rachael had crept back into the room.
‘Why did you call Mr Fraser a paedo? Your sister said you called him a paedo,’ said Carruthers, glancing at the girl.
‘Because he was one.’
Fletcher studied Jordan as he answered her question.
‘Jordan,’ cried his mother.
Rachael looked on the verge of crying.
‘Mr Fraser told police that on September 18th last year, you slashed his tyres,’ said Fletcher.
‘I never!’
‘He also alleged the week after, that you shouted abuse at him in the street. I believe you got a verbal warning?’ she continued.
‘I might have shouted at him, but I never let his tyres down … or broke into his house. I was playing football when his tyres got slashed. I told the police that at the time.’
‘Why did you shout at him?’ said Carruthers.
‘He’s a perv. He—’ Just as Jordan opened his mouth to answer, the door flew open and in walked Mr Hunter. He threw his briefcase on the couch followed by a packet of Camel cigarettes and strode over to his son. He put a protective arm round him. ‘Don’t answer any more questions until we get my lawyer. What are you accusing him of now?’
Jordan’s sister started to cry. Her mother rushed to her side. ‘Now look what you’ve done. She’s only thirteen and easily upset. I want you to leave. Now.’
Carruthers eyeballed the dark-haired man, judging him to be in his late forties, early fifties. He couldn’t help but notice the pronounced scar on his chin. ‘I need to know why Jordan called Mr Fraser a paedo.’
‘You’re upsetting my family. I want you to leave.’ Mr Hunter stood, hands on hips.
Carruthers looked at Jordan who had a scowl that resembled a storm brewing sky. He had his hands shoved so far in his jeans pockets that it looked like he might go through the fabric at any minute. He was scuffing the carpet with the heel of his right shoe over and over again looking very much like a teenage nightmare – all mood, attitude and hormones.
‘I asked your son a question and I’d like an answer,’ said Carruthers.
‘And I asked you to leave my house,’ said Mr Hunter.
Carruthers signalled for Fletcher to get up. ‘Right, we’ll see ourselves out.’ He addressed Mrs Hunter. ‘I’m sorry if you feel we came across heavy-handed with your son, but we’re just doing our job. One final question before we leave, Mr Hunter. Do you know if Jordan was in between the hours of 6pm and 9pm Monday night?’
‘I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t get back from work till 10pm.’ He looked over at his wife. ‘Was he in?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘There’s your answer. Now get out. You know where the door is.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Carruthers as they walked away from the house.
‘Pretty obvious Mrs Hunter phoned her husband whilst she went to fetch Jordan. All I can say is he must have been damn close by to get here that quickly. Well, the boy’s got an alibi for the murder, although it’s pretty weak. Plenty of mothers would lie for their sons. Says he’s also got one for the housebreaking.’
‘Get that checked out, will you?’
Fletcher nodded. She turned to Carruthers. ‘His mother could have lied for him. And the father couldn’t vouch for him being at home.’
‘What does he do again?’
‘Works for a pharmaceutical company. Jim, did you notice how protective Mr Hunter was of his son?’
‘Hardly surprising. Parental instinct,’ said Carruthers.
Fletcher turned to him, ‘Jordan could’ve nipped out whilst his mother’s back was turned. She might’ve assumed he was in his room.’
‘Bit more than nipping out. Braidwood Nature Reserve is miles away. Anyhow, how would Jordan have got him there? He’s too young to drive.’
‘So are half the joyriders we’ve nicked,’ said Fletcher.
‘True. However, his alibi about being at the football when Fraser’s tyres got slashed checked out. It’s in the earlier report.’
‘Well, it’ll be interesting to see if he’s got a solid alibi for the housebreaking. See if Jordan was on this school trip.’
‘We’re still no further forward knowing anything about Ruiridh Fraser – our mystery man,’ said Fletcher.
‘We’re talking to the wrong people, Andie. We need to find people who can shed light on what sort of man he was. People who were close to him. Friends, former work colleagues…’
‘If they’re not all dead.’
‘Why would they be?’
Fletcher snorted. ‘This is Scotland we’re talking about. Lower life expectancy than most of the countries in Europe.’
‘Even so, they’re not all going to be dead. Anyway, you’re making a big assumption that all his friends are going to be his own age. He might run around with a younger set.’
Fletcher raised an eyebrow. ‘Unlikely. After all, according to neighbours, this is the man who hardly ever left his house. And I don’t really see him running anywhere at his age.’
‘Don’t take that literally. You know what I mean. There’s got to be somebody. We just have to find them.’
As they approached the car Carruthers frowned. There had obviously been escalating issues with Jordan Hunter, but could they have ended in an old man’s murder? Was the Hunter boy even capable of murder? The fact was someone had killed the old man. If not the boy, t
hen who? As Fletcher opened the driver door and climbed in to the car Carruthers pulled his mobile out of his jacket pocket and finally rang his mother.
‘Andie, can I have a word?’ Fletcher swung round to face DS Gayle Watson.
Fletcher appraised the other woman as she spoke. Wearing one of her trademark suits the DS was powerfully built. She had the sort of broad shoulders better suited to a prop forward, in Andie’s opinion, and short cropped spiky hair. She had kindly hazel eyes and a mouth that dimpled when she smiled which made her very attractive. Her smile wasn’t in evidence now.
‘What’s the big idea?’ said Watson.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘This murder case. Ruiridh Fraser? You’re shutting me out.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Aye, you are. I’ve just found out we were supposed to have conducted yesterday’s interviews together. Brown told me. Overheard you talking to Jim.’
Inwardly cursing, Fletcher shook her head, grabbed her handbag and walked off.
Watson caught up with her. Grabbed her arm. ‘Have you got a problem with me?’
Shrugging her arm off, Fletcher said, ‘Of course not.’
‘Then, like I said, what’s the big idea?’The silence stretched. ‘You don’t want me here, do you?’
Fletcher sighed. Kept walking. Shouted over her shoulder, ‘It’s nothing personal.’
‘So what is it?’
‘I can’t do this now.’ Fletcher pulled open the front door of the police station and walked out in to the cold air. Watson strode after her, catching the door as it swung back.
‘I heard about your miscarriage. And I’m sorry. But I’m here to do a job. Let me do it,’ she said.
Andie Fletcher walked on without looking back. She heard Watson cursing. Language, in Fletcher’s view, better suited to a naval dockyard.
She threw her handbag on to the back seat of her green Beetle. The light had already faded and she’d missed the pink hues of the sunset that often follow a bright sunny winter’s day. Feeling as if someone had tied weights to her legs and arms, she climbed in to the driver’s seat, started the engine and switched her headlights on. The bright beams pierced the gloomy darkness. Letting out a deep sigh she drove out of Castletown Police Station to the sound of the wheels crunching on spitting gravel.