Beneath the Ashes

by Jane Isaac

  She stuck her head back in the room. “Bye, Carmela!”

  He heard Carmela shout back, “Oh, bye. We must catch up before I head back on Friday. It’s been too long.”

  “Definitely. Give me a call.”

  Jackman watched Janus fly down the corridor, any ounce of her earlier nerves now rescinded, and cursed under his breath. He imagined her driving back to Leamington, working out in her mind how this was going to affect her crime figures, the relations with the press, the public.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket, was just about to call Davies when he heard a voice behind him. “Okay, ready?” Carmela had now arrived at the door, flashing that same smile.

  “Sure.” He followed her down the corridor with some reluctance. This coffee had better be quick.

  ***

  For the past half hour the rain had beat the window, little needles cascading in a torrent of anger. Apart from the occasional trill of the entrance bell in the shop downstairs and the bang as the door closed, it was the only sound that filled the room.

  Nancy lay on the sofa, unfocused eyes fixed upwards. Evan was dead. Gone. She repeated it over and over in her mind, yet her subconscious blocked the words, preventing them from sinking beneath the surface. He couldn’t be dead.

  She could still see him in the Land Rover, trundling down the country lanes to feed the cattle, his blond hair flopping over his forehead and bright blue eyes staring back at her.

  The image disappeared, washed away by a wave of sadness. She hadn’t been out in the Land Rover in recent weeks, making excuses because of the wet weather, teasing him about the stench of damp cattle that his clothes carried back. Right now she’d do anything for another chance to take one of those trips. Even in the rain. She wouldn’t worry about her hair getting wet or her mascara running.

  A raindrop plunked off the window sill. Followed by another. The blocked guttering had finally given way, as it always did during heavy downpours, causing a steady staccato of blobs to bounce down.

  Her mother hadn’t called. She knew she ought to phone her, to tell her she was home, but she couldn’t face speaking to Cheryl right now.

  She allowed her eyes to wander freely around the cream walls of Becca’s lounge, floating over the gothic fringed curtains, the black rug and matching leather sofa Becca’s mother had given to her when they’d moved in here. A mock-oil painting of Becca’s childhood pet German shepherd hung above the fireplace. Coloured candles were scattered on the mantle beneath in various melted states. The lump in her throat hardened.

  Her eyes rested on a photograph on the mantelpiece. It was a holiday snap of Becca and her, the colours faded slightly, taken when they were in Corfu together last year, a trip paid for them both by Becca’s mother as her daughter’s eighteenth birthday present. In fact, when she thought about it, Becca’s mother had paid for almost everything in this room and the rest of the flat for that matter.

  Becca would often say that they were as good as family. Nancy was the sister she never had. Karen and Becca had been good to her. They’d given her a job and the opportunity to work with her beloved flowers, somewhere to live when she had nowhere to go. She was grateful for everything, but they’d never truly felt like family. In some ways she’d grown accustomed to living on the edge of other people’s lives.

  It wasn’t meant to be like this. She’d wanted to grow up, become a successful florist, have her own shop one day, get married, have children. Whatever happened she always knew she wouldn’t be like Cheryl – she’d be a good mother, take care of her children, keep them safe. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Evan had wanted the same things as her.

  If only her grandmother was still alive. More tears swelled in her aching eyes. Hazy images of life before school filled her mind: sitting at her grandmother’s Formica table in the kitchen eating her tea, cuddled up on the sofa watching the television together. Gran read her stories at bedtime, smiling at her pleas of ‘just one more page’. Abridged versions of the classics were replaced by Enid Blyton and Harry Potter as the years folded past. Her mother popped in, from time to time, but never stayed long.

  Gran blamed her daughter’s behaviour on the fact that her father had died when Cheryl was five – an industrial accident in a warehouse nearby. They’d fought a case against the company and lost, leaving them with debts which meant they’d struggled to pay the bills. In her early teens, Cheryl got in with the wrong crowd and starting drinking. Nobody even knew who Nancy’s father was, or if they did they never told her. When she questioned her gran, she’d simply said that Nancy didn’t need a dad. They had each other and that was enough.

  Her gran loved books – encouraging Nancy to read the Brontë Sisters, Charles Dickens. But her greatest love was gardening. They might have only had a small garden in the terrace they shared but from a young age, Nancy remembered the anticipation and excitement of watching the first snowdrops and bluebells in spring that kicked off months of flowering plants.

  Nancy’s mind fast-forwarded to 16 January 2012. She was sixteen. She’d woken to the sound of the birds singing in the garden out front, checked her phone like she always did. Her grandmother hadn’t woken her. It was 8.30am. She was late for school.

  She’d jumped out of bed, dressed in a flurry. She could remember now, running into her grandmother’s bedroom. The curtains were open, her bedclothes folded back, the same way they always were. Nancy had called out, shouting down the stairs, her voice disappearing into the stillness that filled the house. It wasn’t until she reached the kitchen that she discovered her grandmother’s crumpled body on the floor. Nancy remembered the fear, the anguish she’d suffered in the days that followed. If only she’d got up earlier. If only she’d used her own alarm. Maybe her grandmother would still be alive.

  Nancy’s heart sank. Evan was the only person outside Becca’s family and since her gran that had made her feel loved and special in her own right. And now he was gone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jackman locked the front door, wound the lead around his forearm and started into a jog. The rush hour was over and, apart from parked cars dotted along the curbside, Shipston Road was sleepily clear of traffic. Erik trotted along at his side, his tongue hanging loose. They passed the aperture beneath the bridge that led to the recreational ground, jogged past the numerous bed and breakfasts, and headed up the pathway into town.

  The rain had long since passed, leaving a low sun to wipe the pavements clean and light up the evening, in spite of the late hour.

  The case wormed its way into Jackman’s head. He needed to work out why the victim had taken someone else’s identity. And whether or not that had something to do with why he was killed. Evan was secretive about the barn. He must have had some connections somewhere in order to operate such a sophisticated cannabis cultivation, but so far, the drugs squad hadn’t come back with any leads.

  His mind wandered to the press conference, the meeting afterwards. He’d expected a quick cup of coffee, accompanied by tedious management talk. Instead he’d been surprised by their impromptu meeting – Carmela’s manner was open, friendly. She’d been impressed with his knowledge of policing policy (as had he, considering he avoided reading the emailed news bulletins wherever possible). One cup of coffee turned into two and before he knew it he’d invited her around to the house the following evening to run through some mock interview questions.

  He passed the garage at the end of Shipston Road, crossed the main road and quickened to a sprint over the bridge. It was a balmy Tuesday evening, the air calm and still. He slowed to cross the road as he passed the statue of Shakespeare and halted beside the Canal Basin, glancing into the water as he caught his breath. A pair of swans glided through the water, side by side, a line of cygnets at their tail. Jackman leant on the bridge and took a swig from his water bottle. Erik flopped down at his feet, clearly relieved at the break. A busker was singing a cover of ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ on nearby Bancroft Gardens, a small audience huddled around hi
m. Groups of people dotted the surrounding grassy areas.

  A man and woman strolled beside the water, hand in hand. He watched them a moment. It wasn’t long ago that he and Alice had walked into town for a meal, or a drink. This was one of the things that Jackman loved most about living in Stratford. It was a sleepy town, compared to North London where they’d lived before, yet still offered the cultural highlights of the theatre, restaurants, the river. Alice used to say their home was perfectly positioned, close to the rolling hills of the Warwickshire countryside, yet within walking distance of the town. A beautiful place to raise their daughter.

  Jackman secured his water bottle in his pocket, jogged down the side of the Basin and across the bridge towards home. At the last minute he veered off into the recreational ground, retrieved a ball from his pocket. The sight of the ball wound the dog into a frenzy and he stood there for some time throwing the ball, watching Erik retrieve it.

  Eamonn Benwell’s dark features flashed up in his mind. He had lied about being at the barn on Sunday. The search at the unit hadn’t yielded any results, but the phone and cash at the flat had given him enough to keep Eamonn in custody overnight while they applied for billing on the phone. Although the look of sheer terror on Eamonn’s face at the prospect of a night in a police cell sat uncomfortably. Somehow, somewhere in the deep corners of Jackman’s mind, the thought of Eamonn being the murderer just didn’t ring true.

  ***

  Becca had just passed Nancy a fresh cup of tea when the doorbell rang. It was late, dark outside. Nancy heard the front door click open. Becca returned almost immediately, “Ryan’s here to see you.”

  Nancy was just about to say she didn’t want to see him when Ryan’s freshly shaven face appeared in the doorway. He was wearing the Fat Face T-shirt she’d bought him last Christmas.

  “What do you want?” Nancy could feel her shoulders tense.

  Ryan put his hands in his pockets. “I heard the news, came to see how you are.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Nancy looked away. “You made it quite obvious you didn’t like Evan.”

  “I came to see you, to check if you were all right.”

  “Well, I’m not. So now you’ve seen me you can go.” Nancy clenched her teeth in an effort to stop herself from crying.

  Ryan was hovering in the doorway, his shoulder leant against the frame. He wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense. His parents owned a garage on the Birmingham Road. He’d gone to work with his dad on an apprenticeship as soon as he left school and his lanky body was nearly always smeared with oil stains of some sort. A number two haircut complete with cowlick framed a skinny face. But there was something infectious in the way he carried himself that had drawn her to him, and his easy manner coupled with his sense of humour had made the pain of parting earlier that year all the more difficult to bear.

  They’d been through so much together – he’d been there, many a time, when she’d had to help her mother into bed after a sleepless night worrying where she was. Nancy had stayed at his house on numerous occasions when things were bad at home after her gran died. It was Ryan who finally persuaded her to move out.

  He was the first man she’d had sex with. The first man she’d truly loved.

  “I still care about you, Nance. Six years is a long time. You can’t switch off feelings like that.”

  “You didn’t care when you decided you wanted your life back. When you said you were too young to be tied down.”

  “We were young.”

  “We’re still young. I never asked anything of you. No commitment. You just wanted to go off and shag half of Stratford, then come back and pick up where you left off.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Not fair?” Nancy was on her feet now. She could feel the anger pulsing through her veins.

  Ryan shifted uncomfortably. “Come on, Nance. We’re still friends.”

  “You hated that I’d found a new boyfriend, didn’t you?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it. I just—”

  “You just what? Thought you’d come and gloat? I should think you’re pretty glad he’s gone.”

  “I didn’t wish him dead.”

  Nancy could feel the burst of energy draining away at the mention of the word ‘dead’. The finality of it, spoken aloud, made it so terrifying real. She swallowed back the fresh tears threatening to fall. She couldn’t cry in front of Ryan. She wouldn’t.

  “Don’t be like this Nance, I just wanted to see if I could do anything. You know, to help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  He hesitated. “Okay. You’ve got my number. Call me if you need anything, anything at all.” He hovered for another few seconds before leaving.

  As soon as the front door clicked shut, Becca emerged from her bedroom. Just in time to see Nancy collapse back down onto the sofa, throw her head in her hands and sob. Becca rushed to her side, cradling Nancy in her arms. The tears dripped through her fingers as she cried hard and fast, harder than she had done so in days.

  Slowly, her breathing started to ease. Becca pulled back, passed her a box of tissues. “It will get easier you know. In time. I promise you it will.”

  Nancy looked up at her. “You didn’t like Evan either, did you?”

  “Oh, Nance. Don’t say that. I didn’t really get a chance to get to know him.”

  Nancy held her head in her hands. “Why me? Isn’t it enough that I don’t have a family to care about me? Why take him too?”

  Becca hugged her close. “You do have family. You have us.”

  “I have you, but no one else.”

  “You have Mum, too.” They sat in silence for a moment. “Ryan was only trying to help, you know?” Becca said eventually as she moved back and sat on the floor beside the chair. “I didn’t call him. He heard about the fire on the news, came here because he wanted to.”

  Nancy sniffed, wiped her nose. That sounded just like something her gran would say. But right now the wounds were too raw. And the last person that she felt like talking about Evan to was Ryan.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Layers of paper money juddered about inside the exhibit bag as Jackman held it up. “Mr Benwell. Why do you feel the need to keep cash under your floorboards?”

  Dark rings hung beneath the eyes that stared back at Jackman. Eamonn scratched the layer of stubble coating his chin before he answered. “My wife does the company books. I have to keep something back, she’s taking everything.”

  “Does she have keys to your flat?”

  “No.”

  “Then why hide it?”

  Eamonn let out a long sigh. “My kids stay over sometimes. I found my youngest searching through my bedside drawer a month ago. When I asked him why, he clammed up. An hour or so later he burst into tears, saying his mum told him to look for money.” He placed a hand over his eyes. “She’s bleeding me dry.”

  His solicitor looked up from her notes, switched her eyes from one to another. “Do you have something else, Inspector?”

  Jackman ignored her. “Your raw products – the steel sheeting, tubing. Your business records suggest you buy a lot from China and the Far East. Why not source them in this country, or from Europe?”

  “It’s cheaper.”

  “How are they transported?”

  “By sea.”

  “In shipping containers?”

  “It’s not a crime to save money.”

  Eamonn’s solicitor leant back. “Do you have anything relevant to the crime to ask my client?”

  Jackman narrowed his eyes. Pulled an exhibit bag out of the folder on his desk. A mobile phone sat in the bottom. “Would you like to tell us why you keep this under your floorboards?”

  Eamonn cast a sidelong glance at his solicitor. “It’s for personal calls.”

  “We know that. We’re examining the call records right now. Why?”

  He smacked his lips together. “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”
<
br />   Eamonn buried his eyes in the table.

  “We will continue our investigation into your income and if we find that it is funded by illicit means, you will be charged and your assets seized. Are you sure there’s nothing else you’d like to tell us?”

  Eamonn shook his head wearily.

  His solicitor made a play of checking her watch. “Right, Inspector. As far as I see it you have no direct evidence to link my client to the murder, which I believe is what he was brought here for in the first place?” She widened her eyes, started gathering her papers. “I think it’s time you let him go.”

  “We’ll take a break,” Jackman said. They turned off the tapes and Jackman left the room with Davies on his heels.

  “What do you think?” she asked as the interview room door closed behind them.

  “He’s living beyond his means, no doubt about that. It’s possible he’s been sourcing his materials in the Far East so that he could bring other stuff in. If he is involved in the cannabis chain, he might be into other drugs too. We could pass that onto the drugs squad. But his brief is right, we haven’t got enough evidence to link him to the murder.”

  “What was on the phone?” Davies asked as they made their way down the corridor and climbed the back stairs.

  “Looks like he only uses it to contact one number. The techies are having a problem tracing the source.”

  “Anything back from the labs?” Jackman called out as they entered the incident room.

  A plethora of heads looked up from desks and shook in unison.

  “What about the farm owners?”

  “Not yet.” Keane slammed a drawer shut as he spoke. “We’ve been in touch with their daughter. She thinks they’re currently between Adelaide and Perth. It’s a long stretch to drive.”

  Jackman was starting to feel itches of irritation beneath his skin. “Could we send them another email please? With a cannabis cultivation on their property, they are potentially involved in criminal activity. If we don’t hear anything back from them soon, we’ll have to get onto the Australian police to see if they can track them down. What about local skip companies or builders? Somebody must have arranged for that room to be put beneath the floor in the barn.”