by Deborah Lucy
‘I read somewhere that you were hypnotized – have you tried since?’
‘I was seven years old at the time. Some woman thought it would be a good idea to try hypnosis, it was a load of bollocks.’
‘So, what was she like, your mother?’
Temple shot her look of disdain. She persisted.
‘From what I’ve read, you were pretty neglected, she lived an itinerant, hippy lifestyle, took drugs, was a drugs mule. You hadn’t ever seen the inside of a school when you were found and …’
Temple interrupted her. The memories he had of his mother and their lifestyle were far from unhappy. He travelled in the passenger seat with her in their Land Rover, reading the maps and wherever they were, there always seemed to be music from the radio which they sang along to. She always seemed to be singing and dancing to music. Always happy. That wasn’t how the press had painted it though.
‘I might not have known the rudiments of English or maths then, but I knew a few things about life that they weren’t teaching in schools.’
‘So, what now? I could help you,’ she offered.
‘I’ve had enough therapy, thanks.’
‘No, I mean with publicity, run a piece on it, see if anyone comes forward. It was on Crimewatch, wasn’t it, years ago, as one of their first cold cases – did anything come of it?’
‘No, nothing.’ Temple didn’t want to divulge the fact that the case was his reason for joining the job – and staying in it. The need to find out who murdered his mother and why never left him. It kept him awake at nights, gnawed at him like a sickness waiting for a panacea. It would never go away or let him go until he found her killer.
‘Can we change the subject? I need to concentrate on the case I’m working on at the moment.’
Sophie eyed him. ‘The offer’s there,’ she said, wanting him to warm to her. ‘When you’re ready, let me know.’
They continued the journey in silence, Sophie happy thinking that the atmosphere between them had started to thaw.
The sat nav took them straight to the address. A tired-looking 1930s semi-detached house, it was divided into two flats. Not trusting her to not look in the glove compartment and ordering Sophie out of the car with him, Temple pushed the wooden gate, the bottom of which scraped across a red tiled pathway. At the door there were two doorbells, only one with a name on it. He rang it and it was answered by a young woman.
‘Can you tell me if Ian Turner still resides in the flat, please?’ ventured Temple.
‘I live in the ground floor flat. No one lives in the flat above. The landlord is still trying to find a tenant for it,’ the woman said.
‘Who is the landlord?’ asked Temple.
‘Mr Khan, he owns a few houses down here. He lives on the other side of town.’
‘Does he come to collect the rent?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know where Mr Khan lives?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, not offering his address.
‘Can you give me his address, please?’ asked Temple.
Reluctantly, the woman disappeared inside and came back with an address written on a piece of paper.
‘Did an Ian Turner ever live there?’ Temple said.
‘There was a man living there once, but I never knew his name. I barely saw him,’ she said.
‘No mail or anything for him then?’
‘No.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘No, I couldn’t. The flat’s been empty for months now and as I say, we didn’t even pass the time of day.’
‘Did he have a blue transit van?’
‘I don’t know, mate, sorry.’ The woman shut the door, tired of Temple’s questioning.
They got back into the car. Temple put the address into the sat nav and drove to its direction. At the destination, he pulled his car up outside and taking Sophie with him, walked up the drive of a red brick detached house. He rang the bell. Mr Khan opened the door.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Temple, Mr Khan. I apologize for the lateness of calling but I wonder if you could help me with my inquiries.’ Temple held out his warrant card for inspection.
Khan took it and after examining it, beckoned Temple inside, but kept him in the hallway.
‘You have a property in Crofton Road, a house that’s two flats. The bottom flat is occupied by a lady, the flat above she tells me is empty. I believe it was once occupied by Ian Turner, a tenant of yours?’ he said.
‘I can’t remember every one of my tenants, Mr Temple, they are just names to me. I have forty-eight houses and flats on my books. My sons help me to collect the rents,’ Khan replied.
‘I suspect Ian Turner to been involved in the death of a woman that I am investigating. I’d like to go and see the flat if at all possible. I was wondering if you would have a key and could take me there,’ said Temple.
Khan looked back at him. ‘It is rather late as you say. Are you sure this can’t be done in the morning?’
‘My inquiry is rather urgent and I really wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. Perhaps if I could just have the key and drop it back to you afterwards, would that help?’ said Temple.
‘Well, I suppose I could give you a key. Wait there.’ Khan went off into the house and returned, holding two Yale door keys on a fob with the street name and house number on it. He gave them to Temple.
‘It will save me coming out with you. One is for the front door, the other for the inside door.’
Temple drove off with Sophie back to Crofton Road. Once there, Temple got out of the car, with Sophie following.
Temple opened the door and went inside up the stairs. He opened the second door and went inside. The flat was empty. Temple put his hand out and found a light switch but there was no light bulb in the fitting. Sophie followed Temple inside and walked around the room which was lit only from an outside street lamp. Temple looked around; there was a small kitchen and bedroom off the main room, with a small bathroom back out on the landing. In the main room, a worn, creased carpet lay on the floor. Temple noticed the plug sockets with a yellowed outline imprint of the plugs that it had once held.
‘Whoever lived here must have been one hell of a smoker,’ said Sophie, her face not hiding her disgust at the smell. ‘It really stinks in here.’
Temple continued to look around, going from room to room, looking for any signs of life that may have been left behind. He opened the cupboards in the kitchen, looked under the sink, not sure what he hoped to find. His eyes suddenly caught sight of something in the corner.
‘Have you got a pin?’
‘What? What for?’
‘There’s a fag butt here. I need to pick it up.’ A waste bin had at some time been attached to the inside door of the cupboard. It had obviously got there during the process of emptying an ashtray into the bin.
‘I’ve got a safety pin, you could bend it and use that?’ she said, retrieving it from her handbag.
‘Give it here,’ Temple demanded. ‘I need something to put it in. Do me a favour, go downstairs and see if they’ve got a freezer bag or something. It has to be new, unused.’
Sophie gave Temple the safety pin and left for the flat below. Temple crouched down in front of the cupboard and reached in, impaling the cigarette butt on the pin. He held it in front of his face. If this was Turner’s, he had something to take back with him to test for DNA. He heard Sophie come back up the stairs.
‘Ta daa!’ she said, excitedly. Brandishing a roll of freezer bags, she unfurled one, tore it across the perforation and opened it. ‘Here you are, Sherlock.’ She went back down the stairs, pleased to have been of some use.
Temple put the butt in the bag and tied the corners together. It had made the trip worthwhile. After a final look around, Temple shut the door. Meeting Sophie at the bottom of the stairs, they left the flat and got back in the car. Temple put the exhibit on the back seat before driving back to Mr Khan’s to drop off the keys. Driving back to Marlborough, Sophie sensed Temple
’s mood had lightened enough for her to attempt conversation.
‘Are you married? You’re not wearing a ring,’ she said.
‘Technically,’ he replied.
‘I don’t mind, if you don’t. You can come back to mine if you like,’ she said. ‘You could tell me about the case.’
Temple glanced across at her.
‘I rent a place at Upavon,’ she said.
‘I’ll drop you off at Marlborough Station, where I found you,’ said Temple. ‘I’ll have to go back in the office to see my colleague and get the exhibit processed. I need to see if I can get any DNA from it.’
Undeterred by his refusal, for the rest of the journey, Temple bore the unsubtle onslaught of Sophie’s attempts to warm their relationship. By the time they arrived back at Marlborough, she knew she still had some work to do but the challenge merely served to make her more determined to make a conquest of him.
‘Call me.’ Sophie put a piece of paper with her mobile number into Temple’s jacket pocket before getting out of his car. He intrigued her and she wanted to get his story.
He went into the station and up to the office where he found Kelly, her eyes glued to her computer screen. He gave her a run-down of his trip to Croydon and told her to get the exhibit over to forensics in the morning. Pleased with the outcome of his visit, Temple suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to go back to Wedwellow House.
Although it was late and dark, Temple went downstairs into a redundant cell area to where the exhibits for the case were held. Searching through, he found a sealed bag with the keys to Greta’s Porsche which had been seized when Marcus Hussain had been arrested. He examined them through the plastic; they contained a door key. He took them back upstairs to Kelly and asked her to witness him breaking the seal to the bag to get the keys. They both went off to Ramsbury.
Once inside Wedwellow House, they went straight upstairs to Greta’s bedroom. Kelly shivered involuntarily.
‘Feels a bit spooky,’ she said.
Temple found the light switch on the wall and switched on a central chandelier, which showered the room in bright light.
‘That’s better. I don’t know what I’m hoping to see but just coming back in here makes me feel as though there’s something here for me to find. Something I’m missing,’ said Temple. The last time he was there, he was distracted by Sloper and the room was busy with the pathologist and Jackie Newly. He needed to take another look around, take his time.
Temple walked slowly around the room. He opened the wardrobe; on the top shelf in rows were all the expensive handbags that Maxwell had mentioned. On the racks were the designer shoes, pairs and pairs of them. Kelly was in awe at the collection.
He studied Greta’s photographs again. He went into the ensuite bathroom. He picked through the various bottles that stood on a shelf; shampoo, perfume, aftershave. He went back into the bedroom. There was something in there, something he’d overlooked, he felt. He couldn’t explain the feeling. Whatever it was, it eluded him. Maybe it was all starting to get to him, he thought. Maybe this was what happened to you when you were sleep deprived. Maybe I’m going mad, he thought. Maybe Harker was right. They left.
CHAPTER 36
IN THE MORNING, Kelly sent the cigarette butt off to forensics and then went off to Newbury to see Caroline Black. She met her at her home, a Victorian terraced house near the town centre. It was light and airy, with a fashionably modern open plan kitchen/sitting area looking out onto a courtyard garden area. In contrast to how Kelly had last seen her, in her BA uniform, Caroline was casually dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants.
‘I just wanted to see if you could help us clear up some points that have come out of our inquiries,’ explained Kelly.
‘Of course, anything I can do to help you.’
‘Things have moved on since I made our appointment. Are you aware that James Ashton-Jones died yesterday?’ asked Kelly, carefully.
‘Yes, yes, Brett Forrester rang me last night. It’s just terrible, it’s one thing after another. The poor lad, whatever possessed him to take an overdose, do you know?’ said Caroline.
‘I interviewed a friend of his who told us that James and Greta were having a sexual relationship …’
Caroline stared back. ‘No! No way, no way! How can you be sure the friend isn’t lying?’
‘I’m afraid we have other evidence …’
‘I don’t believe it, you’ve got it wrong.’ Caroline shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t do that.’
‘Did you know that Greta was pregnant?’
‘No, no I didn’t …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘But she wanted to tell me something, she said she wanted to tell me something and perhaps that was it. Christ!’
‘You didn’t mention that before when we spoke.’
‘No, I remembered it afterwards. The last time we spoke, she said when she had more time, she needed my advice, wanted to tell me something,’ said Caroline.
‘Did she give any indication of her relationship with James?’
‘Well, no, but now you tell me that, when I think back, perhaps there were telltale signs. They were very tactile with each other, loving, which I just took …’ Her voice trailed off again. She hit the side of her head with the palm of her hand. ‘I’m so stupid! Now you say it, she was dreamy eyed around him. Oh God, she loved him! I thought there was someone else, just didn’t realize it was James. That’s why he took an overdose. Christ! What was she thinking of? Maxwell’s son.’
‘Did you know Olivia Ashton-Jones?’
‘No, only of her, as Maxwell’s wife, who had died. There were people at work who still talked about her death, so I knew she drowned in Riyadh. It was before my time with the organization.’
‘Did you hear any rumours about Olivia and Jonathan Silvester?’
‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me, given his behaviour with Greta,’ replied Caroline.
‘It appears that James was in fact Jonathan’s son and not Maxwell’s. Do you think Greta would have known this?’
‘Christ! No, well, if she did, she didn’t tell me. How did you guys find this out?’ Caroline sat down as the revelations about Greta left her shocked.
‘From DNA testing. The scientists drew familial DNA between the samples given by James and Jonathan. The child that Greta was having was James’s. The reason I’m telling you all this is to try and discover who knew what. You see, we are interested in Jonathan’s involvement with Olivia and you told us about his involvement with Greta and the nature of their relationship. Your account is slightly different to what Jonathan says, but the fact that both women are dead, having both had affairs with him, means we are seeing parallels in each case. Jonathan Silvester doesn’t deny his relationship with Greta but says that it ended some time ago.’
‘No, that’s a lie. He’s lying. She definitely saw him in the last few months because I asked her to come over to me one night and she said she couldn’t that evening because she had to deal with Jonathan. That’s how she put it, that she had to ‘deal’ with him. As I said before, it would make me angry that she allowed herself to be used like that by him but she said that he would tell Maxwell about them if she didn’t go along with it. She knew I didn’t like what she did so she stopped telling me. I wanted to shake her, get her to see sense and stop it.’
‘Are you absolutely sure he would at least have seen her in the last few months?’
‘That’s what she told me. It wasn’t over.’
CHAPTER 37
TEMPLE DROVE HIS car into Melksham Crematorium for Chris Rees’s funeral. The car park was full and cars were abandoned on the deep grass verges that followed a snaking one-way system around the site. A popular man in the force, detectives had taken a break from the Swindon abduction and murder to pay their respects to a man whose absence was keenly felt in that inquiry. Others came from around the county. Temple had to double park in order to be in time to stand with a hundred or so other officers outside the building, as inside it was full to
capacity. Large speakers had been erected in anticipation of the turnout due to Rees’s popularity and allowed those outside to hear the assistant chief constable eulogizing Rees’s police career.
The irony of this was not lost on his colleagues; a few weeks before, still angry from the exchange, Rees had regaled the CID office of the nose-to-nose shouting match he’d had with the same ACC after his last case went west at Crown Court. Having told Rees only weeks earlier that he was a fucking liability and he was considering discipline action against him, those who had heard of the exchange wondered now how ACC Buller had the brass neck to stand and look at the coffin, much less give the eulogy. Temple heard their muffled whispers accuse him of contributing to Rees’s heart attack. In death, Rees was described as ‘a fine, outstanding officer …’
After paying respects to Rees’s grieving widow, Temple went onto The Wheatsheaf at Seend, Chris’s local, where a traditional wake had been organized. The pub would be packed, but all he had to do was avoid Harker. Temple slipped inside. The previously sombre mood of the crematorium had now manifested itself as respectful relief. There was an optimistic buzz of steady conversation. Temple spotted DC Paul Wright getting served at the bar. Temple had joined the job with Wright and they had remained close friends.
‘Hello, mate, how are you? You look rough,’ said Paul Wright, pleased to see his friend and referring to Temple’s heavy lidded eyes and pallor. ‘Still, you look better than poor old Reesy. That poor bastard’s already spinning in his grave from having old Billy Bullshit trotting out that load of bollocks about him. Funny how you have to be dead before the bastards say anything decent about you. He wasn’t calling Reesy an officer of outstanding ability the last time he spoke to him. Senior officers make me puke. What have you been doing to look that rough?’
‘Harker gave me the murder over at Ramsbury. Skeleton staff, long hours, you know what it’s like. It’s been a bit tiring,’ said Temple, managing a half smile and starting to feel less tense than he had in a while. It was good to see Wright.
‘I was going to ring you; I’ve got some news.’ Wright was taking hold of a plastic basket of chips.