by Carole Pitt
After the night’s unholy racket the silence seemed unnatural. Now all she could hear were birds singing and the wind rustling the trees. She sipped the strong coffee, wondering whether to ring Eldridge. Since their disastrous fling, they'd barely spoken and at times, she'd considered asking for a transfer. That was before the rumour he was leaving had circulated. She wasn't convinced; DC Wayne Eldridge liked to big himself up as an innovative games designer headed for success. He'd boasted for months about this job offer, now he was telling everyone he was giving two months notice. Why DCS Daly put up with his antics was a mystery, even DI Jewell struggled to cope with Eldridge’s work attitude, yet he'd still hung on to his job. She had to make a decision soon; if he left then she would stay. She'd worked hard to get into CID and had ambitions. A transfer might set her back months and she loved the new building and didn't fancy the idea of working in another old run down police station.
Other sounds coming from the traveller's site broke her concentration. Katie wondered if the eviction would ever go ahead. If it didn't Lillian Fowler would be better off moving out until after it happened. Visit one of her relatives perhaps, but definitely go somewhere with plenty of people around. During her more lucid moments between sleeping Katie had tried to suggest options open to her, but Lillian Fowler was a stubborn woman who probably enjoyed wallowing in self-pity. She struck Katie as someone who would never be happy, whatever her situation.
What I'd give, she thought, for a place like this, even if it feels haunted. She reflected on her nervousness in the night. Any house this old had seen its share of unhappiness. The extension to the main house incorporating the kitchen, dining room and garage added much later. In the dark, lying awake she'd sensed an atmosphere of profound sadness echoing around the building. The Walker case couldn't have helped; thinking about the missing family had pushed Katie from a mild anxiety into a palpable fear. The idea of ghosts had never worried her, but the moment she heard the first vague noise from the corridor outside her bedroom she became illogical. She wanted to get out of bed and open the door in case Lillian Fowler had decided to go to bed; she knew instinctively she would have heard the dog thundering past. He must have heard the same sound so why hadn't he barked. It happened again as dawn broke but by then she was so exhausted she had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Now in broad daylight, she required an explanation for her irrational fear. Yes, she admitted to being over imaginative and on edge, but at the time it had felt very real.
A noise behind her interrupted Katie's thoughts. She turned quickly to see Lillian Fowler leaning up against the French doors dressed in the same shapeless nightdress. Her eyes were bloodshot, her feet bare and as Katie moved towards her the woman stumbled.
'Let me take you inside, you need to sit down,'
Lillian's voice was hoarse when she spoke. 'I need a drink, my throat is sore.'
'You need food too,' Katie insisted. 'I'll make you some tea and toast.'
'I'll be sick if I eat,' Lillian replied.
Although the house was warm, Lillian Fowler shivered as if she had developed a fever. Katie ran upstairs, dragged the duvet off the bed and took it downstairs.
Lillian's appearance worried her. She had deteriorated since last night and Katie considered calling the surgery.
'You won't leave me on my own, I don't want to be left on my own,' Lillian said. 'Last night I had terrible nightmares.'
'Excessive alcohol will often do that. You're going to have one hell of a hangover and feel depressed. Once you've eaten you can take two painkillers.’
'Promise you'll stay until I pull myself together.'
Katie thought about her work schedule then felt guilty. 'I can't stay all day but I can organise one of my colleagues to take over. 'Shall I call your GP?'
Lillian shook her head. 'He's fed up with me and won’t thank you for ringing.'
'Why’s that?' Katie asked kneeling down beside her.
'He says I'm emotionally unstable. I take too many tranquillisers and drink too much. I refuse to help myself.'
Katie's heart went out to her. In her youth Lillian Fowler must have been a beautiful woman.'
'Did you hear them in the night?' she asked Katie.
For a few seconds Katie wasn't sure she'd heard properly. 'Do you mean the noises?'
'They've come back again.'
'I thought I heard a disturbance and put it down to what was going on outside,' Katie said. 'Who's come back?'
'The Walker family, they disappeared from here years ago. They come back periodically. I don't hear them for months and months, then when something awful happens, they come back.'
Had she not spent the night in the house Katie would have thought Lillian Fowler was delusional. 'Do you see the Walkers as well?' She asked.
'Good God no, I'd have a heart attack, just hear the noises.'
'I don't suppose you know what they looked like?'
‘When the builders dug the foundations for the kitchen they unearthed all sorts of rubbish. Calvin sorted through it all hoping he'd find an antique or two, but he didn't. Then later that year, around September the builders pulled down the old annexe to make way for the garage they discovered an old battered suitcase. It was locked but Calvin forced it open, inside we found a couple of old carrier bags full of photos.'
'Do you still have them?' Katie asked.
'They're somewhere in the house, I can't say exactly where though.'
'Who’s in these old photos?'
Lillian concentrated. 'There's a lot taken up in the village, looks like a summer fete. The others are mainly of the house and the paddock. The travellers had horses in those days.'
'Why didn't you give them to the police?'
'What was the point? The police had closed the case years before,' Lillian said and looked away. 'I didn't deliberately hide them, if that's what you're thinking. This house had been empty for a while and we wanted to do it up quickly. Looking back, Calvin and I were stupid. We had no choice but to tolerate them, they had historic squatting rights. We bought the house fully aware of the situation but Calvin promised me he could get rid of them quickly, otherwise I wouldn't have gone ahead. For a top lawyer he was certainly naive. Look where his stupidity got us.'
‘Didn't you ask how he intended to get rid of them bearing in mind it had to be a legal process?'
'I didn't want to know. Calvin mixed with powerful people, Judges, a few MP's, that's how these things get sorted.'
'How many times was the house sold between the Walkers and you buying it?'
'God knows, I don’t think any of them stayed long. Before Arthur Carstairs got the job, old Wilfred was the lock keeper. He knew everyone's business and told me none of the buyers could afford all the renovations, so they sold. I think people bought it thinking they'd make a killing, but financially they couldn't handle it. We paid out more on the extensions than we did for the original house.'
'So no one ever mentioned the house might be haunted?'
'Lillian began to tremble again. 'If you were selling your house would you admit it was haunted and put off prospective buyers?'
'Listen Lillian, I need to borrow those photos. They might help us with the current case.'
'You mean the woman in the culvert. How would that help?'
'Old photos sometimes do, or give us inspiration. Don't worry, the police aren't interested in ghostly goings-on, they deal in facts.'
'If you stay I’ll try to find them,' Lillian said, struggling to her feet.
Katie knew this was the deal. If she refused, the photos wouldn't materialise. 'Okay, as long as you eat first.'
Lillian started to cry. 'That poor man, I can't stop thinking about him. I don't want to live here anymore.'
'Don't think about it right now.'
'He was a strange man but whenever he saw me he would stop and listen to my problems.’ I think he was psychic, on occasions he could read my thoughts.'
'That's interesting,' Katie said.
'I
just want to leave this place now. When Calvin said he was leaving I told him he'd never get me out of here, now it won't only be the Walkers who’ll haunt this place, Jez Moore will too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sunday 23rd March Nine-thirty
Someone was knocking on the front door. Elizabeth rolled over and pretended she was dreaming but after a brief pause, it started again, forcing her out of bed. She’d overslept and her lower back ached as she struggled to her feet. She made her way downstairs cursing the untimely visitor. Before finally falling asleep, she had unplugged the landline and left her mobile in the spare bedroom. Her back pain, she decided, after her initial panic was due to lying in the same position and not her illness. Wrapping her dressing gown belt tightly around her waist she went into the sitting room and opened the curtains. The slightly angled window looked over the garden path so if she stood in the right position she could see who was at the door. Patterson stood on the step peering through the stained glass panes. He knocked again, this time with more force, the loud echo from the hall made her jump.
'I'm coming,' she shouted.
After the Lily Jerome murder, she had updated her security and now had two heavy Chubb locks and two bolts. Patterson had leant his back against the half-glazed door, she yanked it open and he fell into the hall.
'What took you so long?’He asked.
Elizabeth was still groggy and could barely string a short sentence together. She grunted instead and padded into the kitchen.
Patterson followed. 'I guess you're mute as well as deaf,' he said.
Elizabeth nodded as she reached the kettle. 'Coffee first,’ she said wiping the sleep from her eyes.
'We were supposed to be at work before eight, remember. Now it's nearly ten.'
Elizabeth yawned, grabbed a couple of mugs and spooned instant coffee into them. She heard her slightly slurred response. 'Well that's just bloody unfortunate Sergeant.'
She felt strangely relaxed as if she didn't have a care in the world. The one advantage of having no pharmaceutical addictions, when she did take drugs they had the maximum effect.
'I suppose you're in a foul mood,' Patterson stated.
'I've just woken up. You'd be in a bad mood if I'd try to break your door down. As I remember the few times you slept on my sofa, you were a nightmare to try to wake up.'
‘Daly rang, he's pissed off we didn't turn up. I got back to him a few minutes ago to say you were out.'
'I believe I am allowed to sleep every so often. What else did he moan about?'
'Jessica emailed him Moore's autopsy results, he's not happy. In fact he's not happy about anything.'
'I spoke to her last night. She's fast tracking the toxicology results.'
'I still don’t see how Moore’s killer had time to drug him?' Patterson said.
'Nor do I Tony, my brain's not functioning yet. Give me a few minutes to come round. I needn't have answered the door and one of these days I'll break the habit and won’t.’
Patterson gulped his drink. 'Any biscuits?'
'You know where they are.'
Elizabeth sipped her coffee and watched as he demolished half a packet of Jaffa Cakes in less than five minutes. 'Where's Eldridge today?'
'Got the day off to meet that jerk he does the games with. I think Daly's bribing him to stay by letting him have time off whenever he wants. I wasn't going to come over, but I thought you should know Carstairs has taken off somewhere. That bloke, Owen Howell opened the cottage door. I asked for Carstairs and Howell said he'd had a phone call from him asking if he’d stay in the cottage while he went somewhere. The good weather’s brought the narrow boat enthusiasts out. Carstairs needed him to operate the lock.'
'Did he say where he'd gone?' Elizabeth said suddenly alert.
'No. Howell didn't seem to have any idea.'
'Might be worth calling in at the pub, the locals might know.'
'Where is it?' Patterson asked.
'Not far from the cottage. I saw him hike across the fields so I drove around the lanes and saw him go in. It's not looking good him disappearing straight after Moore's murder.'
Patterson stood up. 'Howell did mention Carstairs was due to retire soon and he was going to apply for his job, sounded to me like it was a done deal.'
'I'm interested in Carstairs's background. We know very little about him. Considering he found the first victim, that's a big oversight on our part. It's where to begin as no one else knows much about him. I presume British Waterways or the Environment Agency employ him. We can start there.'
'Carstairs is a loner, keeps himself to himself, that's certain.'
'Give me ten minutes to get changed,' Elizabeth said. She was about to go upstairs when Patterson's mobile went off.
‘Is it Daly?’ She mouthed at Patterson.
Patterson ended the call. 'We've been summoned to his new residence; he’d like to talk privately.'
Elizabeth had an optimistic moment. 'That's nice. I've been looking forward to meeting the puppy.'
*
Daly's cottage impressed her, particularly the setting. The winter might prove problematic but that was a small inconvenience to pay for the idyllic spot. While they waited for him to open up, she estimated how much land surrounded the cottage.
'How on earth will he cope with all this?' she said to Patterson.
'You know the answer. He won't.'
'He won't what?' Daly said, peering around the door.
'We were admiring your garden,' Elizabeth replied, 'and wondering if it was a tad too big for you.'
'I don't think about it. There's enough to do in the house. Come in, I don’t have all day.'
Elizabeth wanted to ask why they were here instead of at Cordover Street, but seeing his dour expression stopped her. 'It's a very pretty place, you've made an excellent choice,' she remarked, aware that his wife deserved all of the credit. As long as she'd known him if he had a comfortable chair, a television and central heating, he was happy. Jean Daly would be the one to transform this lovely old cottage.
Daly led them into a sitting room where the first stage of the renovation was in progress. The builders had knocked down what looked like an old lathe and plaster wall, exposing another room.
'Jean wants to open it all up, turn it into one of those 'Grand Designs’, type places,' Daly grumbled.
'Worth a fortune Sir, when it's all done up,' Patterson said.
Daly turned his head away and stared at the inglenook fireplace containing a few blackened logs.
Elizabeth knew he was stalling, whatever had brought them here wasn't good news, but she was reluctant to pressure him.
'Want a coffee?' He asked.
'Definitely,' Patterson said. 'Can I see the kitchen?’
The kitchen however was still original nineteen sixties fittings and fixtures, chipped Formica worktops and institutional green cupboards.
'We're having it extended,' Daly said, as if to apologise for any disappointment, 'then fitted out with those rustic wood units.'
He poured water into a large coffee pot and told them to go back into the sitting room. Elizabeth followed Patterson, instinct made her turn around. Day had opened a drawer and taken out a pair of latex gloves. A first she thought it odd, but the utility room door was open, leaking faint super glue fumes. Scattered across the worn terracotta tiles she spotted a broken vase. God help him, she thought, when Jean gets back.
Daly brought the coffee into the sitting room and sat down. He reached into his trouser pocket and removed a white envelope. He held it up between his forefinger and thumb. 'A letter, sent here,' he announced.
'What's so special about it?' Elizabeth asked.
'For a start it's anonymous. Reading between the lines, it implies knowledge of the killer, without naming names.'
'Are you telling us someone has sent you a poison pen letter?' Elizabeth asked and held out her hand. 'Let me see it.'
Daly’s reflexes reminded her of a little boy trying to st
op the school bully snatching his sweets.
'Hang on a minute,' he shouted. 'I'm not finished. It's probably a scam, you know, like that Sunderland bloke nicknamed Wearside Jack who sent two tapes to the Assistant Chief Constable of West Yorkshire.’
‘You’re referring to the Yorkshire Ripper case?’ Elizabeth said.
Daly nodded. ‘The ACC was heading up the investigation just like I am. That Jack bloke taunted them, said they’d never identify him. We all know what happened next, it distracted the investigation, and the team changed focus allowing that bastard Sutcliffe to kill again.'
'Studied it in College, but I've forgotten how they got him,' Patterson said.
Elizabeth answered, 'He sent the tapes in sturdy envelopes. They traced him through DNA. Everyone knows you can extract DNA from saliva. Back then, you had to lick the stamp as well. No perp is stupid enough to do that now.’
Daly pointed. ‘This is a self adhesive envelope.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘We’ll glean a lot more under a microscope. Let's say the person who wrote to you didn't wear gloves. Let's also assume this person isn't aware we can lift fingerprints from paper, from the skin oils deposited.’
'Extracting DNA from prints is tricky,’ Daly said.
'But not impossible,' said Patterson.
'Okay, we'll see. All these years a cop and never once had a letter from a perp. It's bloody unnerving when it lands on your doormat.'
'Didn't the Victorian Ripper send letters?' Patterson asked.
Elizabeth turned realised her sergeant appeared unfazed by Daly's predicament. 'I believe so. Going back to DNA, even if the perp wore gloves, we might get some sloughed off cells.' She turned to Daly. 'I hope you've kept the envelope upright.'
'I'm not an idiot Jewell. What I can't understand,' Daly added, 'with all that social networking going on, Twitter, facebook, plus all those forums where everyone spouts anonymously, why send me this? Cranks are always posting about murders, claiming they have vital information. Then when you've wasted valuable time, tracking the sods down, it turns out a big laugh. Whoever did this should have posted on some sleuths site, instead of dumping it on me.'