by Carol Wyer
As Robyn walked away from the house, she glanced over at the farmhouse that overlooked it, and a movement caught her eye. She looked up at the house in time to see a figure retreat from the top window. She decided to try her luck, wandered next door and rapped on the farmhouse door.
Eugene McNamara, Ella’s landlord, with impossibly dark hair given his age, was thin-faced and slim-bodied.
‘Good afternoon. How can I help you?’ He threw Robyn a wide smile, causing creases to form around his twinkling eyes.
Robyn showed her ID.
He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Trouble, Detective? Surely not in a quiet neighbourhood like this? Will you come in?’
Robyn declined and kept her conversation brief and formal. Mr McNamara beamed the entire time she spoke.
‘I’m looking for witnesses who might have spotted a red Kia outside the house next door, or in the vicinity, on Tuesday the fourteenth, at about ten in the morning.’
McNamara shook his head. ‘I can’t help you there. I was in London all day – attended a charity gala at the Grosvenor House Hotel. I didn’t return until Wednesday morning.’
‘Did you know Henry and Lauren Gregson, Liam and Ella’s friends?’ She described the couple for him.
‘I’ve seen them on a few occasions when I’ve been outside, but only spoken to them once or twice. Just in passing. They were next door when I went around to collect the rent one time. Why?’
‘I’m afraid Henry was murdered on Tuesday.’
‘Here?’
‘No, sir. On Cannock Chase.’
‘Poor Ella. What a shock. And for Liam. I’ll pop around and see how they both are later.’
Not wishing to detain him any longer, and wanting to walk the route Liam took the day Gregson was murdered, she withdrew from the doorstep. As she left the house, she turned back and caught McNamara still observing her. He raised a hand before closing the door, and Robyn returned to her car under the impression there was something strange about him.
She drove to the nearest pub in the centre of the village, leaving her Golf in the car park. As she’d left the house, she’d spotted Liam’s slippers by the front door. She’d no way of knowing their size by glancing at them, but it reminded her his alibi had yet to be confirmed and, at present, she wasn’t completely convinced it was airtight.
She turned her thoughts back to his statement. Several semi-detached, modern houses overlooked the play area, and in one of them, a witness had observed the pair playing at about 12 p.m. From there, Carrington had walked to the butcher’s at the bottom of Hadley Street where it joined the A515. Robyn followed the path in that direction, noting it took only five minutes to reach the shop. From this position, it would only be a fifteen-minute walk back to his house.
Having completed the circuit, she deduced Liam could easily have walked through the village, made sure he was seen in the butcher’s shop, and then travelled to a meeting with Henry on Cannock Chase. The only fly in the ointment was that he’d been at home when Ella returned. However, Ella might be covering for him, which would explain her reactions to Robyn’s questioning. For the moment, this was only guesswork on her part. All she knew for certain was she had to find answers quickly.
* * *
Darkness was falling as Robyn drove into Stafford and back to the station. She’d called ahead and sent her team home. They needed time with families and friends. She couldn’t keep pushing them to their limits.
She shoved open the office door and flicked the switch. The overhead light spluttered into life, illuminating the chaos that was her office. She sighed and threw her bag onto her desk, ambled to the coffee machine that hadn’t been turned off and pressed the button for a black coffee.
No sooner had it bubbled into her cup than a familiar figure appeared.
‘Couldn’t make that two cups, could you?’ Shearer said.
‘Do I look like a barista?’
‘Nice one!’ He managed a grin. ‘I’ll get it myself.’
‘Go on. I’ll do it for you. Bad day?’
‘Aren’t they all? I’ve got one of those “copper” feelings. You know, when you suspect something isn’t quite right. It’s that bloke who died on the golf course this morning.’
‘Not suspicious?’
He shook his head. ‘No. He had a heart attack. Can’t help but think it’s weird he was alone on the golf course. Who plays golf alone on a Saturday morning in February?’
‘A keen golfer?’
Shearer pulled a face. ‘Nah. His golfing shoes had hardly been worn, his clubs were brand new and unused, and he still had the price tag attached to his jumper. He was definitely new to this. Brocton Golf Club said he’s not been a member for long – less than a month.’
Robyn sipped her coffee. The light strip hummed quietly above them. Henry Gregson had lived in Brocton. This man had died in Brocton. Was that a coincidence?
‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
‘Hawkins. Anthony Hawkins.’
Juliet had mentioned that one of her teammates called Anthony lived near Stafford. Brocton was near Stafford. Could it be him? She voiced her thoughts to Shearer and told him briefly about the two cases she’d been investigating.
Shearer listened quietly, his keen eyes on her all the time until she finished. ‘You think the deaths might be linked?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. It seems a curious coincidence that Hawkins might know both of my victims, that’s all. There’s only one way to find out for sure. Establish if he was one of the quiz team and if he knew Henry Gregson. Then take it from there.’
Shearer paced the floor of the office. Outside was so dark and silent. It was as if they were the only two existing in the world.
‘I think we should take this to DCI Flint. If these three deaths are connected, we could be dealing with a real threat – a serial killer.’
‘We can’t know that for sure, Tom. Your man has died of natural causes. We can’t leap about making wild claims until we have all the facts.’
‘Facts or not, I have a bad feeling about this, Robyn. If you won’t tell Flint, I will.’
The look on his face was one of determination. Robyn understood why he’d want to report the findings but she was anxious they didn’t have enough evidence. Anthony Hawkins might not have any connection to either Henry or Tessa. She needed time to establish that first before running to Flint.
‘I’m going to put him in the picture. You can be in on it, or not, but either way that’s how I’m going to play it.’
Robyn sighed. ‘Give me half an hour to try and prove a connection first. Got a photograph of Hawkins? I need to describe him to Juliet Fallows, who was on the quiz team. Make yourself useful while I’m doing it and find out what you can about the man.’
Thirty-Three
THEN
* * *
‘Gi’s it.’ The lad with the spiky hair and earring scowls at him and holds out his hand. The boy passes the tablet over. Spiky checks it, rolls it over in his palm and nods, before he passes the money back, flips the yellow tablet engraved with a smiley face into his mouth and chugs from a bottle of water. Then he checks his reflection in the cracked mirror and grins, runs his fingers through his hair and swaggers off to join his mates.
The chain flushes and Johnny Hounslow comes out of the toilet cubicle and winks at him. He passes the notes over and Johnny thumbs through them, lips moving as he counts. He’s filled out, with wide shoulders and an even wider stomach. No one crosses Johnny Hounslow. Not because he’s a nasty, foul-tempered son of a bitch but because he has a mate who’d sooner stick a blade into someone as look at them. Johnny wasn’t the only one who’d changed. He had too. Nothing like having a father in prison and a pervert of a lodger to toughen up a boy, although he doesn’t ever talk about Clark. He left their house once the boy began to mature. If ever the boy comes across that man again, he’s going to slice him into pieces. He hawks a spitball and gobs it onto the floor, pretending Clar
k is its recipient, and pats the knife in his pocket for reassurance.
The boy feels camaraderie with Johnny. Johnny’s dad left his mum at about the same time as his own dad got banged up in jail, and Johnny became an out-and-out rebel overnight, hanging out on the streets, getting into fights and now doling out E tablets or cocaine to anyone who’ll pay him. It’s a good little earner, and who’d suspect a fifteen-year-old kid? Johnny is worth knowing, and he’s taken a shine to his schoolmate who knows how to look after himself and is handy with his fists. Together they make a solid team. It had been Johnny’s idea to sell drugs at school and it’s easy money.
‘Nice,’ says Johnny, shoving the notes into his pocket. ‘Let’s go before any of the teachers wake up to what we’re doing here.’
They slip back along the corridor and past the classrooms. Lunchtime is coming to an end and they have lessons. He’s got a maths test but he isn’t bothered about it. He’s really good at maths and doesn’t need to revise. It’s about the only subject he is good at, other than sport.
He and Johnny part company, and as he bounds up the staircase, he sees his sister descending. She’s with some stupid-looking boy with glasses who’s at least two years older than her. She spots him staring and pulls a face.
He can’t help himself – he accidentally bumps into the nerd she’s with. ‘Sorry,’ he says, not meaning it. He draws to a halt and stares at Speccy. His sister could do a lot better than this.
‘Leave it,’ she hisses.
He shrugs, raises his hands and heads off to the lesson, whistling as he goes. He’s got enough money to buy a decent bottle or two of vodka and some smokes for later. He’ll go round to Johnny’s for the evening. No point in going home. He’ll only get grief from his mother and sister. He might even be able to flog some alcohol or E to the youngsters that hang about the park. Could be a profitable evening. He calculates how much money he’s made and smiles then saunters into the classroom, ready for his test.
Thirty-Four
DAY FIVE – SATURDAY, 18 FEBRUARY, LATE EVENING
* * *
DCI Flint stared solemnly from one to the other and back again, fingers pressed together to form a perfect triangle. His round face was, as always, flushed, and his jowls hung over his shirt collar along with an angry red lump, a boil, on the neckline, that looked ripe for eruption.
Robyn had accompanied Shearer to Flint’s office, where they now both stood over his desk. She’d been unable to convince Shearer they had insufficient evidence and was now hoping to dissuade Flint from intervening.
Shearer’s hairy hands, splayed like giant white spiders, rested on top of the paperwork on the desk. ‘For what it’s worth, I think we’ve reasonable grounds to think these seemingly unconnected incidents are related,’ he said.
Flint bounced his fingers together lightly, the speed increasing until they performed a final tap that resounded in the silent room. He pushed himself back from the desk and strode to the bookcase filled with binders, tracing the back of each with a finger before speaking. ‘You’re positive, Tom, there’s a connection between these deaths, even though Hawkins died of natural causes?’
‘Yes. I think if we dig deep enough, we’ll find a connection. I know I’m going out on a limb, but Hawkins’ death is suspicious. I know it is. I can’t prove it yet, but I will. And once I’ve done that, we’ll have a solid connection between him and the other two victims.’
‘I’m not convinced, Tom. This is complete supposition.’ Flint continued to stare at the binders.
‘I admit it’s a hunch, sir, but surely it’s worth following up? I don’t think we should gloss over Hawkins’ death.’
Robyn had had enough. Tom had taken her idea to heart and was pushing too hard. They were wasting time discussing the matter. ‘I admit it’s strange the victims are connected in some way, in fact, I pointed it out to Tom, but that connection is tenuous at best. Juliet Fallows confirmed Anthony Hawkins was one of their fellow quizzers and knew Tessa Hall. Henry Gregson wasn’t anything to do with the team, but lived in Brocton, was acquainted with Anthony Hawkins and maybe knew Tessa Hall from the clinic at Tamworth. I’m a little concerned it’s not enough. I’ve been pursuing different angles and we’re searching for Tessa Hall’s boyfriend, who hasn’t come forward. He’s a prime suspect at the moment in that case. I’m looking closer to home for Henry Gregson. Although there are grounds to be suspicious, I don’t think we should be trying to join dots between these people without more evidence. It would be folly to give up chasing other avenues to focus on this.’
Shearer interrupted. ‘Gregson was found dead on Tuesday, Tessa Hall on Thursday and Hawkins on Saturday. That’s three murders in a period of only five days. That’s no coincidence.’
Flint held up a hand to quieten Shearer. ‘Now, let me explain my dilemma here. You both have excellent instincts, but sorry, Tom, you haven’t provided sufficient evidence to substantiate your claims. We have no reason to believe Gregson’s death is in any way linked to the other two deaths unless we can turn up something, and we have no reason to believe Anthony Hawkins was murdered.’
Robyn nodded in agreement and was about to call an end to the pointless meeting. Flint continued before she could vocalise her thoughts.
‘However, as I said, you both have excellent instincts, so I’ll let you pursue the Hawkins case for the moment. That leaves me with the question of which one of you ought to handle it.’
Shearer spoke up. ‘I’d hoped you’d let us work on it together, sir. We can pool our information and crack on quicker that way.’
Flint refused with a gesture of his hand and a click of his tongue.
‘Then I think Robyn’s in the best position to take this on. She’s already spent valuable man-hours on the Gregson and Hall cases. I’m more than happy to assist if she needs me,’ said Shearer.
‘You in agreement, Robyn? Can you handle this on top of the other cases?’
Unwilling to hand over her current investigations to Shearer, she was quick to answer. ‘I am.’
‘It’s all yours, Robyn, but it goes without saying that I want to hear a cohesive argument backed up by evidence on this matter. Also, we must keep any findings away from the press at the moment. They’ve already been issued information on Henry Gregson and Tessa Hall, but I don’t want anything else to get out for now. Nobody is to speak about any of the cases to anyone, is that clear?’
‘Sir.’ Both spoke at the same time.
Flint’s mouth twitched slightly as he commented, ‘Putting you together in the same office has helped improve relations. Glad to see you working so well.’
‘About that matter,’ said Shearer. ‘Any news on when we can be rehomed?’
‘A week or so. I’m sure you can cope for a little longer. Right, Tom, there’s been an arson attack on a shop in Longdon. Owner lives above the shop and maintains whoever did it was trying to murder his family. I was going to ask Jackson to take it on, but now you’re free of the Hawkins case, will you look into it?’ He ran a finger between his collar and his neck and winced. ‘And, Robyn, I want to know the second there’s any news.’
Back outside the office, Robyn’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. ‘I hope you’re not wrong on this.’
‘Nah, not a chance,’ replied Shearer. ‘I know I’m right. There has to be an explanation for Hawkins’ death too. Maybe someone scared him to death. Given I’m off the case, I’m going to have to let you take the credit for my genius.’
‘Cheers for that.’
He gave a lazy grin then looked over her shoulder. ‘Ah, there’s DI Brown. I want a quick word with him.’ He meandered off, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, loose-limbed with assured footsteps. Robyn watched him as he departed and wondered if he had a hidden agenda.
Her instincts were on full alert. Shearer wasn’t renowned for his helpfulness. Why had he insisted they tell Flint about their findings before they’d unearthed more evidence, and why was he being unusu
ally nice to her? A loud laugh made her turn back. Shearer fist-bumped DI Brown and walked away. The nagging suspicion he was deliberately setting her up for a fall had just been planted. With an exasperated huff, she hurtled back to the office. She had work to do and no time for office politics.
Robyn pumped her fists, her anxieties about Shearer’s motives for handing over the case now overshadowing everything.
She drew a deep breath and focused on Hawkins. All the signs had pointed to a massive heart attack. Until she had the pathologist’s report, she couldn’t treat this as murder. It was, for the time being, a coincidence – one with which she wasn’t comfortable, but a coincidence nevertheless.
She checked her watch. It was after ten. She needed to rest. She’d not be able to function properly if she didn’t go back home and try to sleep.
* * *
Back home, as Robyn prepared for bed, she studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. A few stray grey hairs had appeared. Her face was changing, a little more each day. She wasn’t the same woman Davies had fallen in love with. And Davies. Was he alive? If so, how much had he changed? She blinked away such thoughts.
She again considered the possibility Shearer had deliberately manipulated the situation so she’d take over the Hawkins case and hit the buffers with it. Everybody at the station knew he was keen to get promoted. Dumping the Hawkins case to take on a new investigation that might yield quick results would be one way of improving his crime success rate. Would he stoop so low? She hoped not. If Hawkins had died of natural causes, Robyn would have wasted valuable man-hours on the case and tied herself further in knots trying to establish connections between him and Tessa Hall. Is that what he hoped for? That she’d become so entangled in the cases she’d fail to find either murderer?