A Question of Identity (Simon Serrailler 7)

by Susan Hill

  ‘Hang on.’ An overweight man with a shaven head almost knocked over his chair as he jumped up. ‘Anthony Tredwell, Olive Tredwell’s grandson. Before you start blinding us with talk about police manning and giving us the sob story about being under-resourced, I don’t think you realise just how angry everyone is. You’ve been let off lightly up to now, people have even asked how they can help you. How we can help you? And I heard what you just said about not knowing stuff. But it’s your job to find it out, not wait to be told. Christ Almighty! I want to know exactly what is being done, line by line, and why these other murders have been allowed to happen under your noses, why this monster, as the lady rightly called him, is still roaming the streets killing innocent old people . . . I want to know why you’ve failed so far. Because you have failed, make no mistake, and if something isn’t done, there’ll be more. So never mind about us helping, I’ve got one word for you and that’s S-U-E – sue. We’ll be suing you for every penny, see what that does to your bloody “resources”.’

  There was a murmur among the others, though Simon found it hard to tell who was in agreement, who sympathetic to him, but as they were all leaving, Karen Fletcher stood back for a moment.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said very quietly. ‘And for arranging this. I know you’re doing your best, you’re doing your jobs. I shouldn’t have rung you and spoke the way I did this morning. I wouldn’t like to guess how many late nights you’re working.’

  Simon shook her hand. ‘Thank you. And they will pay off. We’ll get this man, Mrs Fletcher.’

  ‘Well done, Simon – they’re onside now, I think. They listened. And forget the bluff. Nobody’s going to sue.’

  ‘He needed to get it out of his system. I was surprised there wasn’t more anger in the room actually.’

  ‘Grief takes some funny forms. Now – this builders’ yard. It’s a pretty long shot and I’m never keen on entrapment.’

  Simon took a deep breath. ‘It’s hardly that, ma’am, and frankly, at this point . . .’

  ‘I trust you know what you’re doing.’ The Chief stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it but don’t keep me guessing on this one. And it goes without saying that the press mustn’t get a whisper.’

  Simon waited until he heard her footsteps go smartly down the corridor before he swore. Sometimes, the Chief could make him feel like a first-timer still wet behind the ears.

  Sixty

  THE CARDS WENT up on pinboards and were stuck in shop windows all over Lafferton. Simon hoped they wouldn’t have to extend to Bevham. The local free paper had a small ad under TRADES VACANCIES which appeared at the top of a column in bold. The paper came out twice a week and it would appear in both editions.

  Simon left his car some distance away from Nelson Street and walked round to the garage. He wore jeans, dirty trainers and a faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt under a denim jacket – dressed as unsuitably for the cold weather as most of the males in the area. He had rejected a baseball cap, which looked so wrong that it gave him away, and just gelled his hair back. He had not shaved for the past twenty-four hours. He wasn’t going to do more than hang about the yard, listening, on standby, but he couldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

  If this had been a bit of TV filming instead of part of a major murder inquiry, he thought as he slouched in through the gates, it would have been fun.

  The empty, long-disused repair garage had been transformed into a small, scruffy but fully functioning builders’ yard. A pickup lorry and a small truck were parked up, both with ‘Cliff Hendry & Son, Building Contractors’ on the side. The back of the lorry had been let down and roped-together planks of 4 x 2 were half loaded, with more stacked against the back wall. The rear windows of the van had an ancient Bevham Wanderers sticker, and the doors were held together with string.

  Cement mixers, a portable generator, ladders and some random scaffolding, a broken bath and toilet, a couple of stools and a skip half full of rubble had been placed about, and some shavings and general dirt were underfoot. There were also small piles of stones, aggregate and sand, various buckets and spades and bags of cement. At the far end, assorted kindling and wood chippings and an industrial wheelbarrow were available to feed the wood burner in the covered shed area.

  Leading off that was the office, built out of old doors and window frames. Behind that, a small area with a rickety sofa and chair, and a notice on the half-open door: ‘Waiting Room’. Old trade magazines and the free newspaper going back several weeks were on a bamboo table, together with a sad-looking plant, two ashtrays and a No Smoking sign. On the wall, a couple of Page 3 calendars, and a reproduction of Annigoni’s formal portrait of the Queen.

  It looked, felt, even smelled like a small builders’ yard. It might well have been ‘Est. 1950’ as was painted, then almost rubbed out, on the front gate.

  ‘Morning, guv.’

  Simon shook his head.

  Gerry Rathbone grinned. He was one of the old CID, in place before Simon, a sergeant and happy to remain so, hard-working, reliable, imaginative and quicker on the uptake than most. He had four years left in the force and he would hate to go. He relished the job, and in particular he relished a challenge, getting his hands dirty, getting out of the station. He had done some minor undercover work on drugs ops and fitted into the scene perfectly. Simon had told him he could have been an actor in a TV crime series. ‘More fun when it’s real though.’

  Behind the office a small Portakabin stood against the wall. It had no visible door, no windows, was cramped and dimly lit. It contained two straight chairs, a table on which was a mike system, and what looked like CCTV but which relayed live images from the yard itself, the gates and the road immediately outside the gates. There was another console showing close-ups inside the office. Everywhere had been miked; concealed cameras were in place.

  The two CID in the small back room each had a laptop, showing the identikit projections of the man they wanted, like a series of postage stamps. Clicking on any one brought it into full-screen. Both men had earpieces to communicate with everyone else on the site.

  Serrailler went into the office and sat down on a swivel chair whose polystyrene filler was puffing out of various torn spots like emerging mushrooms.

  ‘Press the grey switch, everyone should hear you. I’ve tested.’

  Simon pressed and looked out of the dirty window into the yard. He could see the gate and a section to the side with the lorry and white van. One of the DCs was lounging against the van smoking, another seemed to be in the driver’s cab.

  ‘Listen up, everybody. Gerry will go live on the mobile number in fifteen minutes. We’ll also unlock the gate. We’ll start booking them in for appointments every thirty minutes, assuming anybody’s interested. Cross your fingers. You know the drill, you’ve had the acting class, I’ve no worries. Message, basically, is don’t overdo it. If we think we’ve got our man, chances are we’ll know when he walks through the gate, but whenever we suspect anyone, Doug sends the Morse code alert to everybody so listen out for the beeps. Pete and Lee will go straight to the gates on this side, Andy will drive the jeep up and block them from the outside. Rest of you stand by for orders. Don’t move until I say. We don’t want to hit on the wrong guy but, more important, we don’t want to lose the right one. He is most unlikely to be armed but, even so, we’re not taking that for granted, and we’re prepared. Armed or not, remember this is a dangerous man and he’ll be cornered. Don’t take any chances. One thing I’ve noticed . . . for a builders’ yard this place is as quiet as a cemetery. Get some noise going – general banging about, engine noises, shouting, dropping planks. We’ll start up Radio 1 in the office area but we can’t afford to drown out the intercom. OK, good luck, guys. Let’s make sure that if he does come in here, he won’t go out again of his own accord.’

  Simon clicked on one of the stamps of Alan Keyes. The ageing was subtle – ten years did not greatly change the features of a man in the prime of life but the cosmetic alterations made a
surprising and sometimes dramatic difference. Bald head. Shaven head with a three-day bristle of hair. Hair cropped short and dyed black, blond, ginger. Moustaches, large and small, dropping and straight. Glasses of various shapes changed a face significantly as did a full thick beard. A close-cut beard less so. They had given him a few off-the-wall haircuts – Mohican, ponytail, permed in tight curls, none of which was convincing, all of which made the man stick out like a sore thumb, whereas, in reality, he would want to blend in with the general crowd. Serrailler shrank the more bizarre pictures and put them in a corner as being possible but very unlikely. Keyes, aka whoever, was going to look different but in a rather vague way. He might be recognisable, close up and under careful scrutiny, but there would be things that didn’t quite fit. Change of eye colour was one of the things that deceived most easily.

  He looked up and saw Pete go to the gates and lift the bar that held them, then the bolts at the bottom, and finally put a key into the heavy padlock.

  As he did so, the phone on Gerry’s desk rang. Simon went into the cabin via the concealed door. The intercom sound was on low but reception was clear.

  ‘Hendry’s.’

  ‘Is that the builders’?’

  ‘Hendry’s, yup.’

  ‘Right. I’ve seen your advert in the free paper.’

  ‘The plumber or the stores manager?’

  ‘Plumber. I’m a plumber, only I left my last –’

  ‘Hang on, let me find a pen and paper . . .’

  The iPad was set up with a page on which the list would be made. Gerry’s fingers moved quickly about the silent keyboard as he entered name, address, phone number. There was a space for any other essentials which he did not fill in though he let the man drone on with details about his skills, past employment and references. He needed none of them.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of people enquire.’

  ‘Already? Paper’s only just out.’

  ‘Right, only jobs like this are gold.’

  ‘Give us a chance, mate. Give us an interview.’

  ‘Go on then, I had someone just cancel in actual fact. If you can come in at, hang on, what’s the time now? Right . . .’ Gerry did some muttering along the lines of ‘half past, then there’s that Polish bloke, eleven, half past . . . OK, can you get in here for one?’

  ‘One when?’

  ‘One o’clock.’

  ‘I mean what day?’

  ‘Today. Tuesday.’

  ‘Oh, fantastic, that’s terrific, thanks, mate, I’ll be there, on the dot, you won’t regret it, you –’

  ‘Cheers,’ Gerry said, putting down the phone.

  It went on like that for the next hour and a half, until he had people booked in for most of the day. At half eleven the answerphone was switched on.

  ‘Hendry’s Builders. There’s no one available to take your call. Leave us a message.’

  Simon uncramped his limbs and went out of the cabin into the yard, where he did five minutes of exercises. His long back suffered from a couple of hours spent bent on a low chair in a confined space and his legs were numb.

  It was cold but bright, and they sat about on old boxes and benches, eating packed lunches. Two went out on a tea run to the nearest cafe.

  Simon had checked through the names on Gerry’s list. Nothing out of the way, nothing that rang any bells. Several were Eastern European, which ruled them out before they arrived but the men still had to be seen. P. O’Brien could also be ruled out. Keyes would have been advised not to take an Irish, Scots or foreign name. Anything very unusual or easily twisted into a joke would also be out. If Simon had been asked to guess from the names alone, he would have picked out an N. Taylor or M. Gardener.

  The tea boys came back with their orders, plus a bag of jam doughnuts and three copies of that day’s red tops.

  In the office, Simon phoned Rachel, who was not there, then sent her a text. She was still at the hospital then, still sitting by her husband’s bedside, caring for him, looking after him, holding his hand, sponging his forehead. Loving him? He wished he knew. In many ways, he hoped that she did, whatever the present nature of that love. He had never had any relationship with a woman about which he had felt guilty. Now, he did, the more so because of Kenneth’s tacit blessing. But he could not give her up.

  Twenty minutes later everyone was back at their posts. At ten to one, the gate opened on L. Checkley, over six feet in height, burly, amiable-looking. And black.

  Gerry went out, shook the man’s hand, brought him into the office and started going through the motions.

  Simon felt guilty. How many blokes desperate for this job would come hopefully through that gate, honest, blameless, hard-working men who needed the work? All of them would be told they’d ‘hear in a couple of days’ and go off, crossing their fingers, touching wood, sending up prayers to the Virgin Mary and the saints that they’d be the one to get the job, never knowing there wasn’t one.

  The procession of applicants went on through the afternoon. A photograph was taken as they came into the yard and again as they approached the office, and the image beamed through onto every screen. Photofit software worked on trying to find any sort of match with the original picture of Alan Keyes and would send a flashing alert when there was one. But the only two alerts were wide of the mark. Serrailler scrutinised each man’s face then checked it against the postage stamps but there were no links. He stretched as much as he could but as the afternoon went on his back ached more painfully.

  Three more to go. Earlier, one had appeared without having phoned first. Word had got round about the job and he was in the area. Could they see him? They saw him. No one else had dropped in unexpectedly until ten to five when the gate opened on a bald and rather fat man.

  ‘Heads up,’ Simon said. ‘We know this guy.’

  The overweight man in his early forties walking into the yard was Anthony Tredwell.

  ‘Pete, Lee, bar the gate once he’s in here. Man is Anthony Tredwell, grandson of the last victim, Olive Tredwell. I can’t move out of here unless we have a positive, he knows me. Anyone else thinks they could be recognised, keep out of sight.’

  Gerry gave a discreet thumbs up towards the hidden screen.

  Simon looked at the monitor. The software had Tredwell’s face up and was searching for any match. Nothing. No flashing red light, no arrows. The man had a rubbery, jowly face, with a double chin, stubble, small dark eyes, thick eyebrows. He had a tattoo on his chest, just visible among the hairs sprouting in the V of his T-shirt. Keyes had had no tattoos but could easily have acquired one.

  ‘Gerry, tell him his name rings a bell, see if he mentions his grandmother.’

  Gerry gave no indication that he had heard and went on writing notes with a chipped biro taking down what Tredwell told him. ‘Right, that’s all, OK . . . thanks. You’ll guess we’ve seen quite a few but we’ll let you know either way in a day or two.’ He stood up and offered his hand. Then he said, ‘Tredwell. Your name rings a bell somehow – don’t think you’ve worked for me before, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. Oh well, it happens. Just not your everyday Smith or Jones, and as soon as you said it, I thought –’

  ‘My grandmother was ninety and she was murdered by the same sick bastard who’s been knocking off old ladies all over the fuckin’ place. Olive Tredwell. Never done any harm to a soul, kindest woman on earth. And why did it happen? Because the fuckin’ police are fuckin’ useless and he’s under their noses, been under their noses for weeks and they haven’t got him. If they’d been any use my gran would still be alive, but they do fuck all, and they know it because I’ve told them. Idle stupid fuckers. I’d like to do to that fuckin’ Chief Constable bitch what that bastard did to my grandmother, so help me.’

  He turned angrily and walked out, shoulders up, chin jutting. As he went towards the gate he shouted back across the yard, ‘So that’s where you heard my name, right?’

  The gate slammed so hard behind h
im it jumped off the latch again and swung open.

  ‘Frustrating, I know, but thanks for the good work. Tomorrow’s another day and we’re here just before eight. Not so many slots filled, but not everybody will have gone through the small ads yet or seen the notices in the shop windows. I didn’t realise there were so many out-of-work plumbers – which is a bit baffling, when you can never get one in an emergency. However . . . tomorrow or the next day, he’s going to answer this ad and come through the gate; we’ll spot him and we’ll have him. See you all bright and early.’

  These past few days I’ve been jumpy. And I’m never jumpy. I’m steady. No emotion, no fright, no panic, no being spooked. Save that for other bits of life. This bit, I’ve never been jumpy. But now I am. Ever since the one in Chalford Road. God knows why I went there. But it was building and building, I was shaking inside, I’ve never been desperate like that. I’ve read it’s like a junkie needing a fix. I can believe that, though drugs never interested me. Waste of life.

  Then ten years went by. That’s a bloody long time. TEN YEARS, without wanting to, without needing to, without it even crossing my mind.

  But then it did cross and once it had it wouldn’t go away of course, it stayed and it nagged and it woke me up and it probed into my head like a worm and then into my dreams and then I knew I needed to get back. Back to who I was. Who I had been. Whichever.

  Who am I?

  Who was I?

  The only way I could find out was start again, and when I started, I found it. I found me. Everything clicked into place. I looked into my own eyes in Elinor Sanders’s mirror and I recognised myself for the first time in all those years.

  I hadn’t meant it to go on but it had to. And then, I got the call out to 17 Chalford Road and saw her in the next-door garden. She watched me leave when I’d finished the job at 17, stood on her front step, pretending to put out milk bottles, but really, feeling lonely, wanting to watch something going on, see someone. On her own too many hours of the day, that was obvious. And the night.