Beneath the Ashes

by Jane Isaac

  “No mobile phones, iPads?”

  “Apparently they’ve gone au naturel. Reliving their youth. There were no mobile phones twenty years ago. They’re using Internet cafés to keep in touch with relatives in the main towns and cities. We’ve emailed them, asked them to get in touch urgently.”

  “Let’s make an application to examine their bank accounts, both personal and business,” Jackman said. “See if there are any large injections of cash, anything to indicate they might be involved.” He turned back to the main room. “I want Davies and Keane at the crime scene this morning to supervise the excavation. CSIs will be removing the cars before the search team move in. We want minimal damage.”

  “I’m meeting Russell at the hospital. We’ve got the victim’s sister coming for the ID, so we’ll join you there later.”

  Janus stood. “Right. Let’s keep this one tight. Everyone at the barn, make sure you wear coveralls. That’s all.”

  Jackman watched Janus rush off to her next meeting in her usual perfunctory manner and made his way back to his office. He was just gathering some papers together on his desk when Davies popped in with two coffees. She still seemed flustered. She reached out, passed him a mug.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Sorry, one of those mornings. Typical when all this has happened.”

  “John stay away?”

  “Yes. His course finishes this evening. He should be back late tonight, thank God. My mum’s away in Cyprus. We arranged for my mother-in-law to help out with the little one, but that woman’s got no sense of urgency.”

  “I take it you’ve still not found a nursery, then?”

  Davies plonked herself down in the chair opposite and blew a long sigh out of the corners of her mouth. “We’ve looked at a few.” She looked past Jackman out of the window beyond. “Oh, I don’t know. He seems so little.” She hesitated, as if the question was too difficult. “What about you. When’s Celia off to Sweden?”

  Jackman smiled. When Celia, his daughter, had been selected as one of twelve students for a six-week field trip in Sweden, a special project as part of her course, he’d been so proud. “This weekend. She’s back on Thursday to get packed up.”

  “Nice to have a couple of days together before she’s off.”

  “I’m not sure about that. She’s bringing the boyfriend home with her.”

  “Now that should be interesting.”

  ***

  Jackman sidestepped a family clogging the entrance to the lifts and made his way up the stairs to the neurology department. As soon as he stepped out into the corridor, he spotted the back of DC Kathryn Russell’s ginger hair, tied into a bun that was bobbing up and down as she nodded, a mobile phone glued to her ear. She ended the call, turned and smiled as he approached.

  “Morning, Kathryn. How’s our patient this morning?”

  “Tired. Confused. She had a CAT scan first thing, which I understand showed up nothing significant. But there’s something not quite right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s not eating.”

  “Possibly the shock.”

  “Probably. But it seems like something else. Something I can’t put my finger on. She keeps asking about Evan, understandably, then looks lost.”

  Nancy was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt. She looked up as Jackman followed Russell into the room. Her hair was tied back from a face which still looked pallid and drawn. He introduced himself.

  “You came to the farmhouse yesterday,” Nancy said.

  Jackman nodded. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Okay.” She hesitated. “Do you have an identification on the body yet?”

  “Somebody’s coming this morning. We should know more after that.”

  “Have you found Evan?” she asked, her voice brittle.

  “Not yet. Do you feel up to answering some questions?”

  She stared at him blankly as he asked her again about the night of Evan’s disappearance. He watched carefully as she repeated that she didn’t know anything, couldn’t remember. At one point she closed her eyes, as if willing her brain into action. He changed tack, asked about the barn and she repeated that she’d never been there.

  “Take your time,” Jackman said.

  But despite all the breaks, nothing new was forthcoming. A nurse pushed open the door, carrying a tray of beans on toast which she passed across to Nancy. “For the hungry patient,” she said.

  Russell smiled as she watched Nancy stare at the plate of food on her lap. “You’ll feel better if you eat something.”

  Nancy surveyed the fork for a moment before lifting it awkwardly and placing it down again. She looked as though she wanted to cry. “I’m not hungry,” she said, pushing the tray of food away.

  Realising how intimidating it might feel to have people crowding her, Jackman rose and indicated for Russell to join him. “We’ll leave you to eat,” he said. “If you remember anything, anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might seem, please give us a shout. You have our number.”

  He caught sight of a familiar face in the corridor and left the room swiftly to catch her up. “Lucy!”

  The woman turned and briefly frowned over the top of her glasses, before her mouth broke into a toothy grin. “Will. Good to see you.” She crossed the corridor and hugged him affectionately. “It’s been a while.”

  Jackman introduced Russell and the two women nodded at each other. “I thought you were at Coventry,” he said.

  “Been reorganised. I cover neurology for the two hospitals now. Bit of travelling,” she wrinkled her nose, “but I don’t mind it so much. How’s Erik?”

  “As bouncy as ever. What about yours?”

  “Still a nightmare. Keep thinking I should take her back to training classes, but I don’t think it’ll make any difference. What brings you here?”

  “On a job.” Jackman tilted his head towards Nancy’s room.

  Recognition spread across Lucy’s face.

  “Actually, you might be able to help.”

  “Well, I can’t discuss individual cases as you know. But if it’s general?”

  “Sure.”

  They all moved across and sat on the chairs opposite as Jackman ran through Nancy’s version of the events of Sunday night. “Obviously, it would help us tremendously if she remembered anything leading up to her boyfriend’s disappearance.”

  “I presume they’ve run toxicology to check for alcohol levels, presence of drugs?”

  Russell nodded. “I was with her when they gave her the results. No trace of any drugs. She admitted she’d been drinking on Sunday night, but they didn’t find excessive traces of alcohol in her system.”

  “I saw her on the Monday morning before she was admitted,” Jackman said. “She seemed pretty sober then.”

  “But she is vacant and very vague at times,” Russell said. “As if she doesn’t really know what’s going on.”

  The doctor took a deep breath. “If she’s had a CAT scan and there is no obvious damage to her brain, then it sounds like she’s suffering from temporary amnesia brought on by concussion. In such cases some patients may regain the lost memory, others may not. It depends on the extent of the damage and where the bruising is. Only time will tell, I’m afraid.”

  Jackman rolled his shoulders. “The injury to her head is at the front if that helps.”

  “There could be bruising to the frontal lobes,” she said. “In those cases it is common for some patients to experience memory loss. Sometimes their cognitive abilities are affected too.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Their ability to complete routine tasks. In extreme circumstances it can be basic hygiene – washing themselves, cleaning their teeth, getting dressed. With milder injuries it’s more likely to be intermittent, things like tying shoelaces, changing bedclothes or making a cup of tea. Often they speak perfectly coherently, then forget key processes in tasks or get the
m mixed up.”

  Jackman recalled Nancy’s bewildered face staring at the fork in front of her when she’d been served her food. “What happens in those circumstances?”

  “The specialist brain injury team are called in. They carry out a number of tests to assess the level of cognitive understanding and help them to relearn the methodology of tasks. Recovery depends on the extent of the damage.”

  “That sounds time consuming.”

  “Nothing in neurology is a quick fix I’m afraid. I thought you might understand that more than most.” Lucy touched his forearm briefly. “I need to get on. Give my love to Alice.” She stood and glanced across at Russell. “Good to meet you.”

  He watched her walk off down the corridor, grateful for the efficiency of her concern. No dramas, no awkward questions. Just a brief mention of his wife, a passing of thoughts.

  Russell’s phone rang. She moved away to take the call. Jackman sat back and ran through Nancy’s scant account of Sunday in his mind. The single bang to her head suggested whoever broke in wasn’t really interested in Nancy. She didn’t live there, so perhaps they weren’t expecting to see her. Although he couldn’t rule out the possibility that she was working with somebody to get Evan out of the way. But there was something about her, behind the eyes, that made him uneasy. It was difficult to tell whether she was telling the truth about her memory loss. Whether it was the result of a head injury, or she was using it as a ruse to mask what really happened.

  A woman of her petite frame would never be able to lift his body into the barn. Not without help. And why would she, unless she’d discovered the drugs or was involved in some way?

  Russell’s footsteps along the corridor brought him back to the present. She was holding her phone out at an angle. “That was Keane. He’s confirmed there are three shotguns still registered to the farm.”

  “Might explain a break-in,” Jackman said. “But why take Evan up to the barn? They could just as easily have killed him at the farmhouse.” He paused for a moment. “Get onto the station and have the source handlers out in the field to check with their intelligence contacts, will you? We need to find those weapons before anyone has a chance to use them.”

  Chapter Ten

  Karen, Becca’s mother, cast a look into the back of the car through the wing mirror. “You all right in the back?”

  Becca immediately turned from her seat next to her mother, craned her neck and pressed her hand on Nancy’s. “We’ll be home soon.”

  Nancy offered a weak smile. It was all she was capable of right now.

  The car pulled up at a red light. The engine sounded louder, piercing the silence as they sat stationary. Nancy turned, looked out of the window. A man in a suit rushed past, a file tucked under his arm. Two women stepped out of a café, laughing together in the sunshine. A cyclist in fluorescents slowed to a stop next to them. The people of Stratford town were going about their business, blissfully unaware that the fabric of her world was being torn apart at the seams.

  She stared at the cyclist. A satchel hung loosely from her left shoulder. Wisps of dark hair poked out from beneath her helmet as she pulled a mobile from her pocket, dialled and chatted animatedly to someone at the other end. The normality of the situation caught Nancy. At that moment she felt a longing to be the cyclist – chatting to her partner, arranging to meet a friend later, on her way to work. Not travelling back from the hospital, confused and tired, waiting to hear if her boyfriend had been killed.

  After Becca had mentioned arson yesterday, a million thoughts had reverberated around her head. Did the body in the barn die from some kind of accident, or were they killed?

  She glared out of the window, a rage building in her chest. She couldn’t understand how they could all carry on as if nothing had happened. She wanted to wind down the window and shout, “A man has died. Maybe murdered.” The thought made her recoil.

  For the last twenty-four hours, from the moment the police had told her about the body, she’d been stuck in a vortex; aware of voices going on around her, but her senses seemed to have numbed.

  The detectives had said they were waiting on an identification.

  Identification… She held onto that word. That meant they couldn’t be sure. And they hadn’t asked her to be involved which had to be a good sign.

  Don’t let it be Evan.

  She thought back to when she had lost her grandmother, three years earlier. Nothing prepared her for the hollow sense of loneliness that scoured her insides, leaving her raw for days and weeks afterwards. And the world continued around her, oblivious to her distress.

  She remembered the anger and resentment at her being taken. But this was different. Evan was in the prime of his life, soon to be making plans to settle down and have a family of his own. The very idea that someone, somewhere might have taken this away from him, from both of them, was incomprehensible.

  It can’t be Evan.

  The cyclist pocketed her phone. The lights changed. Sharp tears pricked Nancy’s eyes, blurring her vision as the car moved forward.

  ***

  Evan Baker’s sister, Sharon, was a small horsey woman with sharpened cheekbones and a sheet of dirty-blonde hair that hung down her back. She was accompanied by her husband, a softly spoken man who introduced himself as Simon and must have been well over six foot five. It’d been a long time since Jackman had looked up to speak to somebody.

  Jackman led them into the morgue waiting room. “Thanks for making the journey,” he said. “Can I offer you a tea or coffee?”

  They both shook their heads. “We were early, stopped at the services on our way up,” Simon answered.

  Jackman indicated for them to sit. “I realise this is a difficult time for you, but I do need to ask you some questions before we go in.” He paused as Simon pressed his hand on his wife’s arm. “Can you describe your brother to us?”

  Sharon looked confused. “I thought you were pretty sure it’s him?”

  “We found a wage slip at his address. But we need to be definite. Does he have any distinguishing features around the face?”

  Sharon flicked her gaze to her husband fleetingly. “I don’t know… Like I told the detective yesterday, I haven’t seen him for some years.”

  Jackman softened his tone. “The victim has been in a fire.” Sharon gasped, placed her hand over her mouth. He gave her a moment to compose herself. “Some of his body has been burnt, but his facial features remain intact. I’m going to take you into a room where you will see him and ask you to confirm whether or not he is your brother. Please only say yes if you are absolutely sure.”

  He guided them out of the room, along the corridor and through a door that led to a half-room, separated by a Perspex screen in the middle. Beyond the screen was a trolley covered in a white sheet that was crumpled around the edges of what was clearly a human shape. The room smelled clinically clean.

  Sharon turned to Jackman. “Where do we go in?”

  “We can’t, I’m afraid. The body still needs to be subjected to a full forensic examination. We have to view him through the screen to avoid any cross contamination. I’m sorry.”

  He watched her step forward. The trolley was almost within touching distance. Russell entered the outside room, dressed in white coveralls. A hood was pulled over her head, booties covered her shoes. She moved towards the trolley, glanced towards them before she lifted back the sheet to reveal the side of a green body bag, the edges of a zip undone. A white sheet was wound around the victim’s head, covering the burnt hairline, the blistered ears.

  Evan’s sister leant in closer. Her husband rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Could you confirm—”

  She whisked around, stopping him mid-flow. “No.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean no, that’s not my brother.”

  Her face hardened as Jackman registered her words. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Definitely. Evan’s got a scar that runs the length of
his forehead. He pulled a glass table down on himself as a kid when he was seven. I’ll never forget it because we spent the whole afternoon in A&E on Christmas Day.”

  “Could he have had surgery?”

  “It doesn’t even look like him,” she said. “Evan’s head is squarish, I used to tease him about it when we were young. And he’s taller.”

  Jackman indicated to Russell they were finished and led the couple back to the waiting area.

  Now seated, Sharon reached into her bag, pulled out a bottle of water and took a huge gulp, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth as she passed it to her husband. Her face had visibly paled. “What I want to know, Inspector, is what made you think that was my brother? You must have been pretty sure to have dragged me all the way here.”

  “We believe the victim was using his national insurance number. Evan’s passport was also found at his address.”

  “How did you manage to trace me?”

  “Through the national insurance number we traced the date of birth. He was the only Evan Baker born on that day – so we went through births, deaths and marriages to trace the next surviving adult. It’s routine police work.”

  She chewed the side of her lip, mulling this over.

  “When was the last time you saw your brother?” Jackman asked.

  She glanced across at Russell who had removed her notebook from her bag and opened it. “About six years ago. We’re not close.”

  “Can you remember the circumstances?”

  She averted her gaze. When she spoke, her voice was distant. “It was my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary. They had a party at their home in Southampton. He turned up late, got drunk and spewed in the lounge. It was embarrassing, but only to be expected.” She raised her eyes. “My brother was the only boy in our family, Inspector. My parents gave him everything: designer sports kits, school trips abroad, a car. It was never enough.” She smiled to herself. “My sister and I used to joke that when he had steak for tea, we’d be given burgers.”

  “Your sister?”

  Sharon was silent a moment. “Clara. She was two years younger than me. She died with my parents in a coach crash just over three years ago.”