by Jane Isaac
“So, to your knowledge, there wasn’t anything else stored there?”
“No. Why should there be?”
“Did you and Evan ever argue?”
Eamonn shook his head in disbelief. “We had crossed words a couple of times, yes.”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t always available when I wanted to use my cars, refused to give me a key.”
Jackman narrowed his eyes. “What were the racks in the corner of the barn used for?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never saw anything there? What about on Sunday?”
Eamonn stared back at him blankly.
“You do realise we can enhance the image to show exactly who was driving the car?”
“I was at work.”
“May I remind you we are investigating an arson and a murder? If something comes to light at a later date that you failed to mention…”
Eamonn stood. “That’s it. I want a solicitor.”
Chapter Thirteen
Nancy watched the officer peel back the sheet. She held her breath, pressed her palms to the glass.
“Is this the man you knew as Evan Baker?”
Nancy swallowed hard, suppressing the tiny wail fighting to rise within her. The longer she kept it inside the longer she could refuse to believe. But the more she stared at the strong cheekbones, the familiar jawline, the eyes gently shut, the more the tears pushed through. Her fingers curled in despair. With the white sheet wrapped around him, Evan looked like he was sleeping.
Voices in the background merged together. She was stuck in a trance, almost like a dream. She needed to break through the screen, to get to him, to save him.
A banging in the distance. Somebody was creating a furore, wailing, giving voice to her distress. She blocked it out, her mind focused. Pain shot through her body. The tug of a heavy weight, a bracing hold. She could hardly breathe.
As she was pulled back, Nancy blinked back to the present. Her knuckles were red raw and burning. She looked down at them and suddenly became aware that it had been her own fists banging at the screen, her own screams filling the room. Strong arms guided her across to a chair in the corner.
The hard plastic was cold through her jeans. She stuck her head between her knees and obeyed the detective’s words, encouraging her to take deep breaths in and out. When the dizziness subsided, she lifted her head. But the dead figure of her boyfriend through the screen did nothing to curb her rattled nerves.
The room started to spin again. Bile rose in her throat. She looked at the officer talking to Becca, back at the corpse, jumped up and fled from the room.
Nancy raced down the corridor, only just reaching the toilet in time for the contents of her stomach to meet the empty pan. She laid back on the cold tiles. She was aware of the door flapping open, heard her name being called, but couldn’t answer.
Finally, when she felt strong enough, she moved forward and rinsed her hands and mouth in the cubicle sink. She looked up and stared at her reflection in the small mirror. Her face was white, her mind torn into two pieces – one side of her consumed with the loss of her boyfriend, the other side befuddled at how little she knew of him.
***
“What do you think?” Davies asked. They were back in the incident room, Jackman relaying the relevant points of his interview with Eamonn Benwell to his team.
“That he has good reason to lie. His debts give him a motive for starting the fire. They, alongside his divorce and child support, also give reason for him to find another source of income.”
“Like cannabis.”
“Maybe he thinks it was destroyed in the fire. Or maybe he thinks we won’t find it. Either way, he’s not going to admit to being party to a cannabis cultivation. The trouble is we have nothing, apart from his car on camera to put him nearby. We need something else.” Jackman placed his hands behind his neck, stretched his shoulders back. “What about Nancy?”
Russell explained what had happened at the morgue. “I took her home afterwards. Poor kid was distraught. We won’t get any more out of her today.”
“That leaves us with an unknown victim using the identity of Evan Baker. So where is the real Evan Baker? His sister last saw him six years ago, says he left for Thailand some time afterwards. What happened to him and how has the victim come to use Evan’s identity?” Jackman looked across at Keane who was sat at a desk making notes while shoving the end of a bread roll into his mouth. “Andrew, can you get onto the Passport Agency? See if you can find out if an Evan Baker has ever reported a passport lost, when he last left the country, and if he ever returned. Anything more from the pub, his associations on the farm?” Jackman asked.
Keane wiped the crumbs from his mouth; they fell softly onto his yellow tie. “I have spoken to the other farm workers, but they weren’t able to give me much at all. It seems that nobody goes to the barn and nobody really knows Evan very well.”
“What about Sheila Buckton?”
“Hopeless cause.” Keane rolled his eyes. “She’s more interested in how the investigation is going than helping us with any more sightings of the victim in the past few weeks. Kept me there for almost an hour too.”
“Okay, let’s give Nancy some time to work it through. Keep an eye on her, Kathryn, and see if you can get her in for more questioning tomorrow. At the moment she’s the closest person to our victim. Interview her as a key and significant witness, rather than a suspect, in one of the less formal rooms. Might encourage her to be a little more open.”
Jackman rubbed his chin. “The car puts Benwell at the barn on Sunday, which he initially denied. Should give us enough to get a warrant to search his flat. Mac is pretty sure that whoever put the body into that barn had struck him over the head with some kind of blunt instrument beforehand. We could do with finding that weapon. The barn keys are still missing too. Any news on the missing firearms?”
Heads shook around the room.
“Let’s get that warrant and search Benwell’s flat and business premises. We need those guns out of circulation.”
“Davies glanced at her watch. We’d have to be quick. It’s after three.”
“Shouldn’t take too long. There are some benefits to sharing a building with the magistrate’s court.”
***
Eamonn Benwell’s flat was on the first floor of a block of modern fixtures on St Peter’s Way, close to Stratford town centre. Jackman stepped over the post that littered the black-and-white mock-tiled flooring in the hallway, past an array of jackets and coats hung over the top of one another, and moved into a long room at the back of the flat. The combination of minimal furniture – television, sofa and small corner coffee table – with the patio doors gave it a light and airy feel. Jackman could almost see Eamonn Benwell languishing on the sofa after a heavy day at work, working through the channels, remote in hand.
He wondered how Davies was getting on. The warrant had given them permission to search both Eamonn’s business and home address. They’d organised two separate teams, taken one each, to avoid any chance of cross-contamination. For some reason, Jackman felt Davies was more likely to find whatever they were looking for at the business unit.
He moved to the end of the sofa, knelt down and looked through the plethora of magazines scattered at the side, which appeared to be vintage car magazines of varying ages. He stood, pulled back the net curtain and peered through the double glazed doors. House roofs peeked in the distance; a towel hung over the balustrade outside. It must have cost a fortune to keep this two-bedroomed flat so close to Stratford centre, Jackman thought, especially on top of maintaining his family. He could hear the search team pulling open drawers in the bedrooms, banging them closed as he wandered around. The kitchen was an assault on the senses. Although the slim window at the end allowed limited lighting, the cupboards and fittings were all finished in chrome, with sparkling white splashback tiling that made it dazzlingly bright. Jackman opened a few cupboards. Most were empty, apart
from one containing a white dinner service that looked like it had never been used and another with a few tins of baked beans, half a loaf of bread and an onion sprouting shoots. It seemed that Eamonn Benwell didn’t eat at home a lot.
“Sir!” The sound of Keane’s voice turned his attention to the bedroom at the front. The room smelled musty, as if it needed a good airing, although the bed was made and there was a folded pile of navy overalls on the chair beside the wardrobe. Keane was kneeling down in the far corner.
“What is it?” Jackman asked.
“Looks like the carpet here has been disturbed recently,” he said.
Jackman watched him a moment. He picked at the edge, tugged at the fibres. The carpet loosened from its gripper rod beneath.
Jackman was itching to get in closer, take a look for himself, but Keane’s paunch filled the area between the bedside table and the window wall. “What’s there?” he asked.
Keane shuffled back a little. “Doesn’t look like anything.” He ran a gloved hand over the chipboard beneath, moved back further and tugged on the carpet until the whole corner was exposed. “Well, well, well,” he said.
Jackman peered over Keane’s shoulder. There was a cut in the floorboard that looked like it had been done with an electric saw, almost a perfect circle. Keane curled a nail around the edge, pulled back. It lifted slightly and dropped. He snapped his hand back and sucked his finger, a pained expression on his face. “We need a screwdriver, or something to catch the edge,” he said, heaving himself up.
As he left the room, Jackman picked up the photo on the bedside table. It was a girl and boy sitting on a beach next to a sandcastle. She was smiling through a squint, but his face was taut as if he had been told to pose for the camera and didn’t feel like it. Neither of them looked more than ten years old. He was just replacing it when Keane returned with a palate knife. He held it up and grinned. “Only the best in our toolbox.”
Jackman watched as he worked the knife around the edge of the circle, loosening the wood. It lifted as he dragged it back, just enough for him to slide a finger underneath and pull it away. They both moved forward. Loose wires ran along the cavity beneath the floor, but apart from that it was empty. Keane shot Jackman a puzzled look, retrieved his torch and shone it in the gap, leaning down and looking in from different angles.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why go to so much trouble?”
He dug his gloved hand in further, beneath the boards, scrabbled around a moment, and pulled out an orange carrier bag. He opened it up to reveal two large bundles of cash and a mobile phone.
“Get the CSIs in to run a check over the area, will you?” Jackman said to Keane. “See if they can pick anything up.” He moved out of the bedroom, pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled Davies. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “How’s it going there?”
“Slow.” Davies gave a heavy sigh. “It’s a working factory and he’s not the tidiest of people.”
Jackman relayed their findings.
“What do you think that means?”
“Not sure yet. We need to get the phone examined. In the meantime, make sure you check every nook and cranny for any more compartments. And get the drugs/firearms dog out to run over the premises. He obviously has something to hide.”
Chapter Fourteen
Jackman became aware of Superintendent Janus’ knee juddering next to him. Most people suffered nerves at press conferences. The media weren’t just looking to report to the public, they were looking for some nugget of information to sensationalise, make it entertaining; the police only released what was essential to drive an investigation forward. It was like an unhappy marriage, they both needed each other for different reasons. But it never ceased to amaze him how it rattled the usually calm and collected Superintendent.
A light flashed in the distance. Jackman blinked as he stared out to the audience in front of him. “May I reiterate that we are looking to speak to anyone who was in the vicinity of Upton Grange Farm and anyone who visited The Fish pub that night? You might not think you’ve seen anything, or have anything to add, but please come forward, even if it’s just to enable us to eliminate you from our enquiries.”
A voice came from the back of the room. “Can the Superintendent tell us why the excavators were at the site of the barn this morning?”
The room fell silent. Anyone that had been fiddling with phones and making notes before looked up. A glimmer of fresh interest shone in the eyes that faced them. Janus folded and unfolded her hands on the table in front of them. When it was obvious she wasn’t about to respond, Jackman leant forward and gave the journalist his full attention. “Elise Stenson, isn’t it? From the Stratford Mail?”
She gave him a sly smile. “Indeed, Detective. Now are you going to answer the question?”
Jackman gave a cool smile back and paused before he spoke. The room was silent, as if there were only the two of them present. “This is a murder investigation. Our priority here is to the victim and their bereaved family and to the people of Stratford. We need to find out what happened and track down the killer. Time is of the essence. And we are asking for the help of the people of Stratford to be able to do that. The work carried out at the barn is routine police work to help with this investigation.”
“But—”
“I repeat, our priority is to catch the killer. And it would be helpful if the press would respect our cordons in future. We don’t want any cross-contamination of potential evidence.”
“Do you even know the identity of the body yet, Inspector?”
Jackman watched her curl her top lip. “We are waiting for a full identification.”
“So you have a lead?”
Jackman sighed inwardly. “I can confirm that there is a man helping us with our enquiries.” He ignored her scowl as he stood. “Thank you, everyone.” More cameras flashed as he exited the room, closely followed by Janus.
They moved down the corridor in awkward silence. Jackman’s step quickened. He was keen to get back to the incident room to see if anything had come back from the drugs squad, informants, or the public appeals.
“Thank you, Will,” Janus said as they climbed the stairs.
“For what?”
“Bloody Elise Stenson. She’s the one who broke through the cordon this morning, isn’t she? I’ll bet she’s seen something. She knows damn well that targeting drug-related crime is a current priority. We’d better keep a close eye on what is reported. She’ll do anything to sex up the situation, score some points.”
Jackman didn’t answer. The discovery of the cannabis farm hadn’t been released to the public and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible, to focus the public on looking for sightings of the victim. He wasn’t about to get bogged down with the wider politics of policing right now.
At the top of the stairs she paused and caught his arm. “Did you speak to Carmela yesterday?”
Jackman looked at the ceiling and back at her. “Haven’t had a chance yet.”
“Really? Look, Will, you’re a good detective. But if you want to get through this promotion board you’re going to need to play the game. I didn’t support your application to watch you fail.” She glanced at her watch and marched off down the corridor in the opposite direction to the incident room calling, “Come on,” over her shoulder.
Jackman gave a heavy sigh as he followed. “I really don’t think—”
“She should be finishing up for the day now,” Janus interrupted. “If we hurry we’ll just catch her.”
She paused outside an open door. The room was laid out like a training room, an array of chairs arranged in an arc in front of a wide screen. A slim woman in a dark trouser suit was gathering papers in the corner. She looked up as they entered, immediately placed the papers down and grinned a welcome. “Alison, it’s good to see you.” She rushed forward, touched Janus’ shoulder who smiled back.
“Carmela, this is Will Jackman,” Janus said, moving aside. “Th
e DI I was telling you about.”
Jackman extended his hand and was surprised when the shake was accompanied with a smile that lit up her whole face.
“So you want to join Thames Valley?” Carmela asked. “Good move.”
He caught Janus throw her a look. “If you can spare a moment to help him prepare for his board next week, give that extra polish to his answers, he’d really appreciate it.”
“Sure.” She glanced around the room. “We could have a quick coffee now, if you want?”
“I’ve got a briefing—”
“I’m sure you can delegate,” Janus said. “You’ll need to do lots more of that if you get your promotion.” She turned her back on him. “That sounds great, thank you, Carmela.”
Carmela looked from one to another, sensing the tension. “Um… okay. Well, just give me a few minutes to finish up here and I’ll be with you.”
Janus looked pleased with herself as they moved out into the corridor. “Make time for this, Will,” she said. “If anyone can help with interview preparation, Carmela can.” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Right, what’s next on the case?”
Jackman stared at her in disbelief before he answered. “We’re searching the premises of Eamonn Benwell and working through his business records. We’re also waiting for the DNA on the victim, working through the results of the public appeal and hopefully preliminary forensics should come through any time. And, of course, waiting on any intelligence from the source handlers and the drugs squad. Somebody is going to miss that crop.”
“Right. Make sure you check and double-check every connection with the drugs community. I don’t want any review team coming in at a later date and discovering we’ve missed something, especially with Elise Stenson on our back. God only knows how far the press are going to push this one. And check on any intelligence for those guns, surely somebody’ll know something.”