She smiled again and paused.
‘They were talking as they walked down the path. Jeremy always locked his door even if he was cutting the grass but he didn’t lock it this time.’
She stopped and shook her head.
‘That’s why I thought it was strange when Jeremy got to the van. Why hadn’t he locked his door if he was going somewhere?’
Sam nodded an encouraging smile of her own.
Jayne was talking more quickly now, her voice getting high with excitement.
‘The distinguished chap was behind him, the van doors were already open, and when Jeremy looked inside the man pushed him in. Then the doors were slammed, the distinguished chap rushed to the driver’s seat and they were off.’
Jayne took a breath and stared into the mug. ‘That was it.’
‘Can you remember which way they drove off?’ Sam asked.
‘Left.’
‘Did you see any other men Jayne?’
‘Just that one with Jeremy.’
‘What about any other neighbours in the street?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Jayne’s eyes looked glazed. ‘Will they find him? Jeremy?’
Sam left the question unanswered and glanced at Ed.
They drank their tea in the heat and the silence and had just passed a ‘time-to-go’ nod when Jayne spoke again.
‘I’ve seen him before you know. The distinguished chap.’
Sam and Ed stared at her.
‘Do you know who he is Jayne?’ Sam asked.
‘No, but I know him. He used to be on the television.’
‘An actor?’ Sam said.
‘No, on the news I think. Ask Johnny. He’ll know.’
Sam told her not to get up when they said their thanks and goodbyes.
‘He was a fine looking man you know?’
‘Who was?’ Sam said, pausing at the sitting room door.
‘My father.’
‘What do you think?’ Ed asked when they were back in the car, engine running and heater turned up full.
‘Jayne? Lovely woman but as a credible witness...’
Sam and Ed both knew Jayne Cully would never be allowed anywhere near a witness box.
‘And yet,’ Sam said now. ‘I don’t think she’s making anything up. I think she saw something, or at least she believes she saw something. We just can’t be certain what or when.’
Sam lit a cigarette, opened the window a fraction, and inhaled deeply.
‘As for the here and now, the white transit can be a line of inquiry but on the back burner. We need someone else to have seen it. Then Jayne’s distinguished chap shortens in the betting.’
The tap on the passenger window made them both jump.
Darius Simpson, the reporter from the Seaton Post, was bent down with his face almost touching the glass.
‘Hi Sam. What’s happening?’
She was relieved to see Darius was alone. No snapper to record her cigarette.
‘There might be a press con tomorrow. The press office will give you a heads up.’
Darius looked hurt.
‘Come on Sam. There are SOCOs up at O’Grady’s garage, SOCOs in that house,’ he nodded towards Jeremy Scott’s, ‘and uniform knocking on doors in the street. Something’s going on. I just want an early heads up. Get started for tomorrow’s edition.’
Sam knew Darius and knew the press. They had space to fill and would always find a way. Stonewall them and you had no control over what ended up in the headlines.
‘I’ll get something sorted and put it on the voice bank,’ Sam told him. ‘It’s only going to be a holding statement for now though, so don’t go building your hopes up.’
Darius ran his hand through his blond mop. He would need more and the voice bank, the rolling update of incidents pushed out by the police press office, gave him nothing every other journo couldn’t share. The Holy Grail was always an exclusive.
‘It’s a body or a missing kid,’ he told Sam. ‘What else would you be here for? Kidnapping maybe? Are the house and the garage linked?’
Sam shook her head. Darius Simpson was still shaking his when she and Ed drove away.
The Snooty Fox was about ten miles south-west of Seaton St George. Julius pulled onto the car park of the country inn, famed, the billboard promised, for its home cooking and craft ales.
‘A friend of mine owns this,’ he said.
Adam walked towards the pub, white walls, window-frames painted eggshell blue, a large fox on the swinging illuminated sign dressed in waistcoat, breeches and black riding boots.
‘First port of call for the Boxing Day hunt,’ Julius said, following Adam’s eyes and flipping open a soft pack of Marlboro.
‘Bet the ‘save the fox’ brigade love this place,’ Adam thought aloud, still staring at the sign.
Julius lit a Marlboro. ‘Let’s just say there’s been a couple of minor skirmishes over the years but nothing a quick clip with a riding stick can’t remedy. Scum just wanting to spoil people’s fun. Nothing to do with the damned fox. All about class and envy.’
They were standing by the entrance porch, a terracotta plant pot by the door, cigarette ends overflowing from it.
‘You hunt then?’ Adam asked.
‘Man and boy. Not just foxes now.’ Julius laughed, an exaggerated laugh, contrived, the type loud-mouthed bores have an annoying habit of making.
He flicked the barely smoked cigarette into the plant pot. ‘Come on. Let’s get a drink. Hope you’re a real ale man, not one of those lager louts.’
Adam followed Julius and imagined him as a young boy at his first kill, cheeks covered in fox blood.
The pub had a stone floor, mahogany bar, and low-beamed ceiling. The single frosted pump for the Heineken Extra Cold looked as out of place as granny knickers on a street prostitute.
‘Two pints of your finest landlord,’ Julius shouted, as the door swung shut. ‘Cornelius, this is Adam.’
The stocky, ginger haired barman thrust out his thick forearm towards Adam and shook hands.
‘Cornelius’ family have owned this pub for over a hundred years,’ Julius said. ‘Used to own all the land around it too, before his great-grandfather had to sell up. Preferred chasing skirt to working the farm. Stand in here long enough you’ll count more gingers than you can throw a stick at.’
Cue more too-loud laughter.
‘Nice place,’ Adam said, as he raised the glass to his lips and contemplated names. He didn’t think he’d ever met a Julius before and he was rock solid certain his path had never crossed a Cornelius. These two would have had it every day if they’d gone to his comprehensive.
Adam would have preferred the lager but didn’t want to offend Julius.
There were two other customers, sat at opposite ends of the bar, and neither seemed thrilled to see Julius.
Adam tried not to stare; it was like a ginger’s day out.
‘James, Steve,’ Julius said.
Both guys at the bar turned, said ‘Julius’ in unison, and went back to their pints.
‘Let’s grab a seat Adam.’
Satisfied there were no CCTV cameras, Adam removed his cap as they walked to a copper-topped table in the corner of the room. Christ even the tabletops have a touch of ginger.
‘So,’ Julius said, raising his glass. ‘Do you work?’
‘Hardly. I was a tennis coach all my life. What job will I get?’
‘Hence the trainers.’ He nodded towards Adam’s shoes.
Adam looked down. ‘Yeah Stan Smith was my hero back in the day. Most people who wear them now don’t know who Stan Smith was. Bloody tragedy. What a player.’
‘About jobs,’ Julius said, leaning closer. ‘I may be able to help you out there. It won’t pay much but it will be cash in hand and won’t screw up whatever benefits you get. My associates and I will just say you are volunteering.’
Adam pushed himself into the back of the bench seat, his nose rebelling at Julius’ sickly sweet aftershave.
‘Volunteering for what exactly?’
‘We run a five-a-side league, under 11s to under 13s.’ When he smiled Adam noticed his uneven teeth. ‘You don’t need me to draw you pictures.’
Adam didn’t respond immediately, didn’t want to appear too keen. ‘What kind of league?’
‘Six until nine every Thursday on those floodlit Astroturf pitches,’ Julius told him. ‘We hire the whole place. Shots and Saves.’
‘Sounds expensive.’
Adam grimaced as he sipped the pint...no head, no bubbles, and a taste like something a tramp had washed his feet in.
His father had always told him there was no such thing as a bad pint of beer, just that some were better than others. Well ‘King of the Others’ was lurking in his glass.
‘It’s very cheap actually,’ Julius was telling him. ‘We know the owner.’
Adam stared at Julius over the rim of his pint glass.
‘And I would do what exactly?’
‘Help out, referee, sort out results. We have about eight teams most Thursdays.’
‘What about DBS checks?’ Adam asked.
Disclosure and Barring Service checks were now mandatory for a whole host of things. Volunteering with children was one of them.
Gingers one, two and three looked their way as Julius launched another laugh.
‘Seriously?’ He shook his head. ‘We get kids coming from the sink estates, parents who don’t give a shit about them, parents who can at least pretend someone is taking an interest in their offspring while they piss their money up the wall. They don’t give a toss about DBS. Anyway, you said you didn’t go to court.’
‘I didn’t.’ Adam sipped more beer. He didn’t want anybody doing any checks on him. ‘So what about you? What do you do?’
Julius told him he was a web designer who worked from home and volunteered at a hospice a couple of times a week, helping with fundraising.
‘Well you must be DBS checked,’ Adam said
‘I am and I’m clear, which is how I expect to stay,’ Julius told him. ‘Solid upstanding citizen.’
‘So why involve me?’
‘I knew what you were,’ Julius said. ‘We are always looking to recruit new members, because let’s face it we can all learn through experience, and you may have different experiences to the rest of us.’
Julius got to his feet. ‘Drink up then.’
‘Why?’ Adam’s face creased with unease. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Just a call on a friend,’ Julius said. ‘May as well drop by and introduce you to him before I go home.’
‘And what’s at home?’ Adam asked.
The smile showed the crooked teeth.
‘A wife and two kids.’
Chapter Eleven
Sam and Ed were sat in her office, empty crisp and sandwich packets on the desk, the fluorescent strip lighting bright against the early evening darkness outside.
‘I hate this time of year,’ Sam said. ‘I really think there’s something in this SAD.’
‘What?’
‘Seasonal Affective Disorder.’
Ed rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus does everything have to have a fancy title these days? Just this week I’ve read about Waste Management and Disposal Technicians, bin men in my day, and a Transparency Enhancement Facilitator. Do you know what that is?’
Sam’s eyes were as wide as her smile. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘A bloody window cleaner.’
Sam burst out laughing. ‘Shut up you old goat.’
Paul Adams, the newest member of the team, came into the office. ‘You wanted to see me boss?’
Sam briefed Paul on Jeremy Scott.
‘Ring Hampshire and see if they’ve got anything,’ she told him. ‘I know it’s late and Force Intelligence’s probably shut, but see what you can find out. Try the media down there as well. See how you can access the archives.’
Paul was watching and listening, nodding occasionally.
‘I want to know everything there is to know about our Jeremy Scott,’ Sam told him. ‘Always remember the old adage Paul. The more we know about the victim, the more we know about the killer.’
‘Leave it with me boss.’ He turned and walked away.
Sam watched him go then turned to Ed.
‘I want to see Curtis Brown again. He had piano lessons off someone in The Avenue. What if his teacher was Jeremy Scott?’
‘Hans, this is Adam’, Julius said.
Hans van Dijk was standing in the doorway of a 1920’s three storey terraced house; the huge front door looking like a fresh coat of black gloss was applied every time someone went out.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Adam fought down a laugh. The guy should have been called Rupert. He followed the bright yellow cords and red jumper and their 60ish owner down the tiled hallway.
‘I’ve got some decent Malt,’ van Dijk said.
There was no trace of an accent, but Adam presumed the university professor look-alike must be Dutch or maybe South African.
The living room was large, three plugged-in air fresheners locked in battle with stale pipe smoke, the lavender just getting the better of the cherry-flavoured tobacco.
White floor to ceiling bookshelves, crammed with books, filled every alcove. The carpet was probably older than Hans. The five armchairs, an eclectic mix of fabrics and colours, were around a large wooden coffee table, its thick carved legs drawing the eye to the stronger, less worn colours of the carpet underneath the table. That table hasn’t been moved in years, Adam thought, and there’s no settee. Does that mean he doesn’t like people getting too close, physically or emotionally? That he valued his personal space?
Hans looked the type of guy, intelligent, studious even, to know the answers to those kind of questions.
Whisky tumblers filled and passed around, Hans placed an old Johnny Walker pot jug with water in it on the table. ‘Help yourself gentlemen.’
Adam poured a splash of water into his drink and took in the old TV and video recorder, museum pieces in the flat-screen age.
‘Hans’ family originate from Utrecht, but he’s been over here for decades,’ Julius said. ‘Lectures at the university.’
‘What’s your specialist subject?’ Hans stared at Adam, one leg crossed over the other, holding the glass which was perched on his knee.
‘Tennis, or at least it used to be.’
‘Interesting,’ Hans said. ‘Adam would you excuse us a moment. There’s something I need to show Julius in the kitchen.’
Hans followed Julius from the room and across a short hall and closed the kitchen door behind them.
‘Who the hell is he?’ Hans demanded, face burning red, his backside leaning against the wooden bench.
Julius shook his head in wonderment at the gleaming Belfast sink in the corner, the whole room spotless.
‘Something smells nice. What is it? I can definitely smell garlic.’
‘Italian,’ Hans muttered. ‘Never mind that. Who is he?’
‘Calm down,’ Julius smiled. ‘He’s kosher. He sits in the park every day watching the little lovelies. What do you think he does that for?’
Hans brought the crystal to his lips and downed the drink, saying nothing.
‘You’re paranoid, that’s your trouble,’ Julius said. ‘I approached him. He’s a tennis coach who got arrested but didn’t go to court. Young boys.’
‘So you just embrace him do you?’ Hans broke his silence. ‘Bring him into the inner circle so to speak.’
‘Just like I did with you all those years ago,’ Julius was still smiling. ‘Now come on, let’s get back to our guest. He’s got a sporting pedigree that could come in useful, especially in the summer. He could teach the boys tennis.’
Adam was studying the bookshelves when the two men walked back into the room.
‘So Adam,’ Hans said pouring another whisky. ‘Julius tells me you’re into young boys.’
Adam stood motionless, not even a flicker from
his eyes.
He watched as Hans walked to the TV unit, opened the rosewood drawer and selected a tape.
He looked over his shoulder and waved the cassette.
‘Home movie,’ Hans said. ‘Nothing too heavy, just a guy with a young boy. Ancient now, but still watchable.’
He put the tape in the player, turned on the TV, and watched the snow blizzard static quickly replaced by a grainy film.
‘Thought we might get to know each other a bit better,’ Hans said. ‘As we are all friends together it seems...’
‘Bloody hell Hans,’ Julius shook his head.
Hans stepped away from the screen and unfastened his belt.
‘It’s okay,’ Adam said, ‘I understand. You can’t be too careful. I’d love to, really, but I’m at that age when some of us have problems and I haven’t got any, err, assistance with me right now. Sorry.’
‘Pity,’ Hans grunted, stomping to the video player and turning the film off.
Ed pulled the steering wheel to the right, veered across the road and came to a screeching halt outside a general dealer’s store. He pressed the button for the electric windows, damp evening air filling the car.
‘Get in Curtis.’
Curtis Brown, cigarette gripped between his lips, bent down and peered into the car.
Ed returned the stare. If the eyes were the gateway to the soul, Curtis’ were the doors to nowhere.
‘It’s DS Whelan,’ Ed said. ‘We spoke at the police station this morning.’
Bloody hell was that just this morning?
A flicker of recognition; Curtis opened the back door and climbed inside.
Ed left his window open despite the chill. Sam opened hers all the way but a diffuser the size of a phone box and a gallon of Chanel No5 wouldn’t have won a fight with the ripe aroma.
Ed pulled away.
‘Where we going?’ Curtis said.
‘I just need to ask a couple of questions Curtis,’ Ed told him. ‘We were on the way to your squat when we spotted you at the shop.’
Ed glanced in the rear-view mirror.
‘By the way I saw your mam. She sends her love. I didn’t realise you played the piano.’
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 71