Beneath the Ashes

by Jane Isaac

  “Did he keep in contact after he moved out?”

  “He’d come by occasionally. Dee, my daughter was still living at home then. We knew he was mixing with a bad bunch though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Visits from the police, searching the house, poking through our drawers. Once they came in the middle of the night. He thought it was funny when we told him, kept saying they had nothing on him, but you don’t get that kind of interest without doing something wrong. And then there was the rape charge and the trial. It was all right for him, tucked away in prison.” She flinched. “We still had to go out, do our shopping, live in this community. People would stare, shout things in the street. Even after the acquittal, some people around here still don’t speak to me. I’ve lived in this area all my life. Can you imagine what that’s like? There’s no wonder his sister moved to Canada when she got the chance. She tried to persuade me to join them, but I’m too old to make a new start.”

  “When did you last see Richard?”

  “It would be around four years ago. He came to the house, called in without warning about a month after the trial ended. I remember wondering what the drama was. He rarely came around for nothing. We sat and watched a film together and he left. I was quite surprised, thought that perhaps he’d changed. Then three weeks later I heard he’d flown to Thailand, to work out there. One of my neighbours had heard somebody talking about it in the supermarket and told me. I didn’t believe it at first. But when the weeks and months passed and there was no contact… How could he go away like that and not even come and say goodbye? I haven’t seen him since.”

  Jackman could hear Davies’ pen scratch against the paper as she wrote all of this down.

  “Your son was working on a farm in Stratford-upon-Avon when he died,” Jackman said. “Do you know what connection he has with Warwickshire?”

  “I’ve no idea. I didn’t even know he was back in the country, let alone in Stratford.”

  “Has he ever used the name Evan Baker to you?”

  Audrey narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Your son was living under the assumed identity of Evan Baker. Have you ever heard that name before?”

  Audrey snorted. “Always a drama, even in death.” She took another sip of her tea.

  Jackman leant forward. “Mrs Garrett, have you ever visited Stratford-upon-Avon?”

  “Never.”

  “I’m sorry I have to ask you this, but where were you between the hours of 10pm and 3am last Sunday evening?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Jackman said. “You’re not a suspect, but I am obliged to account for everyone’s movements.”

  “I was at the bingo hall on the High Street with Carol next door,” Audrey replied. “She drove me home about 11pm.”

  “Is there anyone we can call, to come and be with you?” Davies asked as they rose to leave.

  “No. Carol, my neighbour, will help with anything if I need it. I just want to be left on my own.”

  Jackman paused by the door and pressed his card into her hand. “If you think of anything after we’ve gone, don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

  Audrey glanced at the card and looked back up at Jackman. He walked towards the car and turned at the last minute, just in time to see her swipe a tear from her cheek.

  “Something doesn’t feel right there,” Davies said as she pulled the seatbelt across her chest.

  “She said they weren’t close.”

  “He’s still her son.”

  “We’ll get the local guys to allocate a family liaison officer to visit and check on her.”

  They pulled off down the street and turned at the bottom. Jackman was aware of Davies pulling her phone out of her pocket, calling in the name of Richard’s friend and requesting background checks, but he wasn’t really listening. Meeting Richard’s mother hadn’t given him the background he’d needed. A name they could look into, but certainly not the wealth of knowledge and local contacts he’d hoped for. He couldn’t work out what made Richard Garrett so private. He dropped his foot on the accelerator as they headed towards the ring road and waited for Davies to end her call. “Get hold of Judy Carter in the press office, will you?” he said when she’d finished. “Now that we’ve told his mother, we’ll release the details to the press and put out an appeal for witnesses under the victim’s real name.”

  Davies flicked her finger over the screen. “Got to be worth a try.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Nancy’s hands still shook as she later opened the laptop. What she needed now was a diversion from everything. A little piece of normality that would give her time to think and decide what to do next. The Wi-Fi was notoriously poor in the flat and it took an age to connect to the Internet and bring up Facebook. The blue banner appeared on her screen and she logged in. There were numerous comments beside previous posts and she worked her way through, liking and responding. It was an easy way to pass the time and she felt her shoulders relax as she looked at the floral displays they’d made over the past month or so. After she’d loaded the new pictures, she moved onto the several messages outstanding. The first two were thank yous – a wedding and a conference they’d created displays for. The words were kind and personal and made her swell with pride. She hooked up to the printer and printed them out to put up on the noticeboard in the shop.

  She didn’t recognise the sender of the last message and, assuming it was someone with a new enquiry, she clicked to open. There were no words, just a link to a video. Perplexed, she clicked play. A man in a plain black sweatshirt was standing against a brick wall. The view was from his neck down. Nancy heard a rustling in the background and was just about to turn it off and dismiss it as a prank when the camera raised its level. The man was wearing a loose hood with two slits for his eyes and a gash across the bottom for his mouth.

  “This is a message for Nancy Faraday.” His words were muffled and strained, as if he was speaking through a voice box. “Debts pass down the line, Nancy. We want our money. Bring six thousand pounds in used bank notes to the underpass on Shipton Road leading to the recreational ground, at midnight tomorrow. Somebody will meet you there. If you are thinking of going to the police…”

  He lifted his hand. She could see he was holding something. Nancy leant in closer, barely believing her eyes when the gun fired. She flinched. The footage ended. Nancy swallowed hard and sat staring at the screen for several minutes. It wasn’t until she placed her hands on her face that she realised they were trembling violently.

  She checked the date on the message. It was today. But her mother said she didn’t have any new debts. Her mind raced.

  Her finger hovered over the delete button. She didn’t want Becca to see this, or Karen. She couldn’t bear to subject them to these problems.

  She rushed to the window and peered around the edge of the curtain. A woman across the road was pulling a trolley bag behind her. A teenager strolled past, checking his phone. She couldn’t see anybody watching, waiting. Although if the experience of the past few days had taught her anything it was that people like that hovered in the shadows, hoods pulled over their heads, out of sight of the everyday world.

  Nancy moved back to her laptop. A part of her felt paranoid. But the man outside the other day was real – she could still feel his breath on the back of her neck.

  Ryan’s offer of help skipped into her mind. She paused, grabbed her mobile. The call rang once, twice, three times. Nancy held her breath, willing him to pick up.

  Finally the phone connected. “Ryan, are you free now? I really need your help.”

  ***

  A broad-set man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair met Jackman and Davies in the entrance foyer of the Northampton Criminal Justice Centre. “DS Tim Hawkins,” he said. A rich Irish accent coated his voice. “You found us all right, then?”

  Jackman nodded. They’d arrived at the modern glass-
fronted building situated in the midst of the sprawling Brackmills Industrial Estate, almost twenty minutes earlier. “Had a job to find a parking space though.”

  Hawkins shook their hands. “I know. They build a brand spanking new office and don’t give us enough parking. Priceless.”

  He led them through to a small room behind the reception that housed a long rectangular table surrounded by chairs and a whiteboard. “Plenty of meeting rooms though,” he said and disappeared with a promise to find refreshments. By the time he returned, Jackman and Davies were seated around the end of the table.

  The coffees sloshed about as he placed the mugs down and settled next to them. “We went through the old rape file and tried to contact Alicia Wainwright’s family after your phone call this morning,” Hawkins said. “When we couldn’t reach any of them, we asked the local response team to call at their address. The house is all shut up. The neighbour told them it’s her mother’s 50th birthday and the family have gone away to the Dominican Republic for two weeks. Due back Friday.”

  “What about extended family, any close friends she might have had?” Jackman asked.

  “We’ll continue to make enquiries, but it seems quite a crowd of her family have gone. Alicia’s sister, parents, a few aunties and their families.”

  “Can you tell us anything about them?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. None of them have a record. No intelligence to speak of. They live in a little village just outside of town called Harlestone. It was a very sad affair. The poor girl went to pieces after the trial by all accounts. Hung herself in the woods nearby.”

  They sipped their coffees in silence a moment.

  “What can you tell us about Richard Garrett?” Jackman said.

  “Richard Garrett has been a handful ever since he was a kid,” Hawkins said. “I remember picking him up when I worked the beat in my early years. He was a youngster back then, egging cars, throwing stones at windows. His dad died when he was young and his mother couldn’t control him so he became the neighbourhood pest. They kicked him out of school as soon as they could. He went to work with a local builder, left home soon after. Last address we had for him was Provence Court, St Giles Park in Duston. That’s how he met Alicia Wainwright. She worked behind the bar in the Fox and Hounds between Duston and Harlestone. He used it as his local.”

  “Do you know much about the case?”

  “I didn’t work on it directly but I’ve read the notes. Apparently they’d been seeing each other for four or five months. The main line of defence was consent.”

  “But he was remanded in custody pending the trial?”

  “Yeah, he did eight months on the remand wing at Leicester Gartree. His defence team pressed for bail but he wouldn’t leave the girl alone. Poor thing. Sent friends to heckle her at her work. Even used his one phone call in here to reach her. Given his close proximity to her address, the harassment, coupled with the fact that he had no ties, no commitments – I think they thought he’d either threaten her or do a runner.”

  “Is that enough to change identity?” Davies asked.

  Hawkins switched his gaze to her. “Oh, he didn’t change identity because of the trial, more because of something that happened afterwards.”

  “What do you mean?” Jackman asked.

  Hawkins took another sip of his coffee. “Richard was one of those crims that, in spite of their habits, it’s a job not to like. A man of few words, but enough wit to fill every one. Clever too. We had plenty of intelligence linking him to drugs supply, yet never managed to catch him in the act. He was self-employed, an electrician by trade before he disappeared, which gave him a legitimate business income – but that didn’t pay for his BMW, his Ducati and the holidays he went on. But he was different when he came out. I ran into him a few times afterwards and he’d toughened, lost the boyhood charm. He seemed to lay low, didn’t feature for a while. When he re-emerged, he’d moved into a new game – house invasions, aggravated burglary, basically robbing other drug dealers. He led a group of lads who broke into cannabis houses and cocaine dealers’ homes, stole the money and their stash, whatever they could get. It’s not a pretty business. The people in these houses work for top guys, they know they’re going to take a beating if they let him get away with it, and don’t give in easily. Usually involves violence of some kind. We knew he was pissing a lot of big names off, but our intelligence was sketchy.”

  “Who was he working with, or for?”

  “Interesting question. He shared a cell with Jason Stalwart for a few months at Gartree. Jason’s a big name in the Leicestershire drugs scene. He was in for GBH, although he was eventually acquitted. Couldn’t make the charge stick. We think Jason was looking to extend his territory. Richard became the pawn in his game.”

  “What happened?”

  “Richard went on a raid one night and got the wrong house. Visited the brother and sister-in-law of Danny Sutton, a well-connected crim serving time for armed robbery. Smashed into their house in the middle of the night, tipped a bucket of cold water over them while they were sleeping and threatened them with a machete. As soon as he realised his mistake he left, but the damage had been done. The word spread that it was Garrett and his crew. We picked up two of the guys he was working with, but he’d done a runner. I think he finally realised that night, the gravity of the situation he’d got himself into. He’d grown overconfident, bitten off more than he could chew and did a midnight flit.”

  That explained why Audrey didn’t know, Jackman thought.

  Hawkins snorted. “No wonder he changed his identity. There’ll be a bounty on his head. He thought he was above it all, could get away with anything with protection from Stalwart.”

  Jackman explained about the cannabis cultivation beneath the barn.

  Hawkins rolled his eyes. “Sounds like Garrett. In all my time in covert intelligence, I’ve never met such a slippery little character.”

  “Is there anyone here that he would be likely to contact on his return? His mother mentioned an associate called Charlie Truman?”

  Hawkins rested back in his chair and thought for a moment. “I don’t know that name, but I doubt it,” he said. “We certainly haven’t been alerted to anything. We’ll put out some feelers though, see if there’s been any change in movement or supply recently.”

  ***

  Jackman passed the sign to Harlestone village and was instantly greeted with views of open, rolling countryside. Davies had fallen asleep next to him, her body rocking gently as they rounded the bends in the road. He turned a corner, slowed past a band of houses, cut the engine and checked his phone. A text from Carmela.

  Thanks for an interesting evening! We must catch a coffee before I leave tomorrow.

  He texted back, Sure, and was just pressing the send key when Davies lifted her head and blinked. “Sorry, drifted off for a minute back there.”

  “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

  She laughed, rubbed the side of her neck. “Where are we?”

  Jackman pocketed his phone and gestured towards a brick built house in the middle of the row. “That’s where Alicia Wainwright’s family live.”

  Davies followed his eyeline. Long arms of ivy stretched up the front of the house, curling their fingers around the porch. “I read the archive reports on file,” Davies said. “She was found in the woods by a young couple on a Sunday afternoon stroll. Her parents thought she was at work.” Davies paused, “Must have been awful, for all of them.”

  The solemn mood lay heavy in the car. Jackman wound down his window. A cow lowed in the distance.

  “I’m surprised they stayed here afterwards,” Davies said eventually.

  “She grew up here,” Jackman said. “And they have other children to think of.”

  Davies shook her head as if to disperse the bad thoughts and glanced at him. “How would you ever recover from something like that?”

  Jackman turned the key. The engine roared as it ignited. “You wouldn’t.”<
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  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jackman had just walked back into his office and switched on his laptop when Keane appeared in the doorway.

  “Nancy Faraday is downstairs, sir. She has some information. Wants to speak with you.”

  Jackman eyed him a moment. “Interesting. Maybe she’s suddenly remembered something. Bloody hope so. Get Davies to meet me downstairs, will you?”

  Nancy was seated beside a skinny man with dark hair and the shadow of an early beard in the reception area. They both stood as he approached. Jackman looked from one to another, prompting an introduction.

  “This is Ryan Hills,” Nancy said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  Jackman nodded at Ryan. “You wanted to see me?” he asked Nancy.

  “Is there somewhere more private we could go?” Nancy cast a furtive glance at a man sat close to the desk. He didn’t look up, his fingers rippling over the screen of his mobile phone.

  “Follow me.” Jackman led them both through a set of double doors, down a corridor and into an old interview room. He pushed open the door and switched on the light. It was an internal room with no windows which immediately made it feel cold. Scarcely used these days, other than for storage, the air was thick and musty.

  The metal chair legs squeaked across the floor as Jackman pulled it out. “Please, sit down.” He sat opposite them, noting the glance they exchanged, the look of anxiety in Ryan’s eyes at their surroundings. He was getting tired of games and if Nancy was about to make some kind of revelation he wanted it over with. This had better not be another time-wasting interview. He folded his hands together on the table. “Well, what can I do for you?”

  Nancy took a deep breath. “I needed to speak with you about some—”

  At that moment the door opened and Davies appeared. She nodded at Jackman and sat beside him, opening up her notebook, clicking the end of her pen loudly.