An Unfamiliar Murder

by Jane Isaac

  “Not a bad thought,” he said, his eyes glancing into space.

  “Be serious!”

  “Well, borrow my car if you want, or go commando and I’ll take you tonight, it’s your choice. I’m going in on my mountain bike.”

  She could feel a hum in her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Hello!”

  “Anna, how are you?”

  “Hi, Dad. I’m fine, thank you.” She nodded to Ross, pointed to the phone and moved out into the lounge.

  “Just wanted to give you your messages.”

  “Messages?”

  “Yes, you’ve got quite a few. I guess when your friends can’t reach you on your old mobile, they’re ringing here.”

  “Oh, sorry about that. Who called?”

  She listened to her father reel off a list of her friends, work colleagues, even an ex-boyfriend who had asked after her welfare. It seemed that the news of the weekend’s events had spread like wildfire in the bush. She made a mental note to call some of them when the murderer had been apprehended and some kind of normality returned to her life. Not for one moment did she entertain the thought that the offender may not be caught. To Anna, it was just a matter of time.

  “Thanks Dad. If anyone else rings, just tell them I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “There’s another one.”

  “Oh?”

  “Robert McCafferty phoned.” His voice was tainted with anxiety.

  Anna could feel her heart beat accelerate. “Oh . . .” She tried to keep her voice calm. “Did he leave a number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you text it over to me?” She cringed as she spoke the words.

  “Sure. If that’s what you want.” He sounded dejected.

  She cringed again. This is uncomfortable. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Anna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t do anything rash, will you?”

  “What do you mean?” she said, wrinkling her nose dubiously.

  “If you decide to meet him, promise me something?”

  “What?”

  “He’s a stranger to you. Make sure you take somebody with you?”

  “Of course. I’m not a complete idiot.” Then keen to change the subject, she quickly asked, “How’s Mum?”

  “She’ll cope.” No change there then. She heard Ross coming down the stairs. “Listen, I have to go. Thanks again, Dad.”

  “OK, bye.” She clicked to end the call just as Ross walked through into the lounge in his cycling kit, rucksack on back.

  “Everything alright?”

  “Fine, thanks. That was Dad on the phone.”

  “So I heard. How are things?”

  “Mum’s still stressing, you know what she’s like.”

  “Sure,” he smiled sympathetically. “I’ll see you later then. Have a good day.” He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him briefly as he pecked her cheek and headed out. She listened as he maneuvered his bike out through the hallway, slamming the front door behind him.

  Anna stood still for a moment, then glanced at her mobile phone, still in hand. In a few moments she would receive her brother’s number. Should she call him straight away? Perhaps not, perhaps she should wait until Ross was back and call him that evening? No, if she had meant to wait for Ross she would have mentioned it to him before he left for work . . . This is something I have to do on my own.

  Anna stood under the shower for far longer than the usual perfunctory five minutes it took to shampoo and condition her hair, lather and rinse her body. Today she had time and she indulged, enjoying the spattering of water on her face, turning so that it ran down her back and through her legs until they were red raw. It seemed to be cleansing more than her skin this morning, the water penetrating beneath the surface.

  By the time she wandered out of the bathroom in Ross’ robe, hair bound in a towel which resembled a makeshift turban, she felt more relaxed than she had in days. She picked up her phone and examined it. The text message had arrived. She straightened her body, took a deep breath to steel any remaining courage, retrieved the number and pressed dial.

  Counting the rings, a habit which oddly seemed to calm her acute rush of nerves – one, two, three; she stopped suddenly when a voice answered.

  “Hello?” The male voice sounded smooth, friendly.

  “May I speak to Robert McCafferty please?”

  “Speaking.” She drew a short, sharp breath, unable to speak. “Is that Anna?” His tone was gentle.

  “Yes.” He doesn’t sound like a criminal. Anna flinched as soon as those words sprung into her mind. What was someone with a criminal record supposed to sound like?

  “I thought so. Thank you so much for calling.”

  “OK,” she answered, cringing at her unobtrusive inflection. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “How are you?”

  “Good thanks.”

  “Great. Listen, would you like to meet up?”

  “Umm . . .” She hesitated momentarily, remembering her father’s warning. Then, scolding herself inwardly for allowing the only information she had heard about her brother’s life – whether right or wrong - to color her first impression of him, she spoke quickly. “OK. When?” She had to give him the benefit of doubt. If he had, indeed, served a prison sentence, he could be a reformed character now. Innocent until proven guilty, isn’t that right?

  “Are you doing anything this afternoon?”

  “No.” She reached up to support the towel which was starting to unravel on her head.

  “Do you know Cafe Cliché on

  Feveral Street in Weston?” “Yes.”

  “Good. Would you like to meet there at, say, three o’clock?”

  “That would be good.”

  “Great, see you there.”

  She clicked the button to end the call just as the towel finally gave up and slipped down her back. It had taken less than two minutes.

  * * *

  Anna was flabbergasted at the scene she faced when she turned into

  Flax Street later that morning. She pulled in just past the corner, engine still running and surveyed the spectacle: a group of people, some with notebooks, others with cameras, stood directly outside the gap which led to her flat. The crowd of Hamptonshire press looked completely out of place in the usually desolate Flax Street, like an army of Wood Ants in the middle of a desert. She looked around her. A police car was parked in the same position on the other side of the road. Focusing on the gaps between the bodies, she could faintly see the uniform of a constable blocking the aperture between the houses which led to the entrance of her flat. Thinking quickly, she carefully reversed the car around the corner so that it was well out of sight. Grateful for Ross’ baseball cap that she had used to cover her wet hair, she pulled it down over her face and got out of his old, red escort. She briefly hesitated, considering whether or not to try the back entrance but decided against it. In daylight that could draw even more unwelcome attention.

  Anna sauntered, head down, up the street and hung at the back of the crowd. When she saw a small gap appearing she squeezed through it and gently pushed herself to the front of the group. Suddenly, just as she reached the police officer, somebody called out from behind, “Hey, who’s this?”

  Immediately, she could feel all the eyes descend upon the back of her neck as panic flooded her veins. “Hey, is that Anna Cottrell?” - another voice from behind her shouted as the crowd pushed forward. She wasn’t sure whether the police officer recognized her, or if it was the look of sheer desperation in her eyes, but suddenly things moved very quickly.

  An arm rushed forward, grabbed her shoulder and forced her into the opening between the houses, shouting, “Go!” She ran for her life, through the gap and up the stairs until she reached the entrance to 22a, her heart beating fast.

  The door was wide open and a man in blue overalls stood working on the lock. “Hi!” he smiled. He jerked his head back towards the opening. “Th
ey’re like vermin, aren’t they?” Anna didn’t answer. She pressed her lips together and pushed past him, not sure if he knew who she was or why she was here.

  Without thinking she opened the door and plunged into the lounge, stopping dead in her tracks. The last time she had walked through here the dead, bloody body of a man, now known to be her biological father, was sitting up staring at her against the sofa. She closed her eyes and saw him, eyes wide open, staring at her. Her head started to feel woozy, her feet stumbled and she lent against the wall to steady herself. Time stood still.

  Moments later there were voices behind her and the police officer appeared in the doorway. “Anna? I’m PC Cartland. Are you alright?”

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him, surprised to see that he was wearing glasses, a fact she hadn’t noticed outside. “I think so.” She looked around the room. Anna didn’t know what state she expected to find her flat in. Would the walls still be covered in blood, would her curtains be splattered, the carpet covered in bodily fluids? She was almost surprised to see that there was no blood. But it didn’t resemble her lounge room either. The walls had been washed down, the carpet cleaned. A strong smell of lemon detergent filled the air. The gold, gothic throw, usually strewn over the back of the sofa covered the whole of it, no doubt concealing blood stains. The curtains had been removed from the window and her collection of ornaments, photos and pictures had been taken down from walls and shelves and were stacked neatly in the corner.

  “Who cleaned up?” she asked finally.

  “Your landlord. Organized new locks too,” Cartland said.

  She blinked, just as if she had been disturbed from a trance, and said, “What about the press?”

  “Oh, they won’t come up here. It’s more than their life’s worth.” His smile fell as he glanced towards the door. “Getting you out of here might be a bit more of a challenge though.”

  She ignored his last comments. “I just need to get some stuff from the bedroom.” She pointed towards the door which led out of the lounge. He nodded and followed her through a small passageway which contained two doors, both of which were open. A gleaming white bath could be seen through the first doorway, a chair strewn with clothes the other. She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at the policeman at the entrance to her bedroom.

  He put his hands up. “I’ll leave you to it, Miss Cottrell. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  She waited until he had walked back through to the lounge, then crossed the threshold into her bedroom. It looked pretty much as she had left it last Friday morning: the duvet pulled roughly over the bed, an old jacket placed over the clothes on the chair in the corner. The police would have been right through it, checking everything, looking for clues, anything that may implicate her in, or connect her, to the crime. She shuddered, a feeling of violation pressing against her. If she had learned anything over the past few days it was that nothing in her life was private anymore.

  Anna moved over to the wardrobe and reached up to pull down her trolley case. Then, changing her mind, she pushed it back and instead reached for her old rucksack, the one she had used when she had traveled through Asia with a friend during their final summer holiday from uni. Fumbling through her wardrobe and into her drawers, she started packing her clothes, shoes, coat, underwear, in a haphazard manner.

  Her rucksack was like a tardis, swallowing her belongings. When she was satisfied that she had enough clothes, she threw some of her favorite books in and started looking around for her address book and iPod. She checked the bedside drawer, the bookshelf, even looked under her bed. They were nowhere to be found. Had the police taken them? She was mulling this over when a noise came from outside.

  Anna peered around the curtain edge. The group of journalists and cameramen had doubled in size, covering the width of the street, their desire for news fuelled by her presence. A car was trying to navigate through the middle of the assemblage and they were rapidly clearing a passage.

  Anna stood and watched them for a moment, concealed behind the fabric, as the car finally disappeared down the street and they regained their original position, like vultures descending on their prey. She wondered what possessed people to become reporters. How could they go through school, university, in pursuit of good grades with the idealistic attitude that they would be performing a public duty, keeping people informed; only to be reduced to badgering and harassing the good people of this world into supplying that special picture, or that all important trashy, gossipy news story?

  And were people really interested in such trash? Realization kicked her in the stomach. Even at the mere suggestion that she might have been a knife wielding murderess, then sadly they were. What a coup, what a good story this would make. If they got one odd line of a quote to put in their miserable story, a picture of her peering guiltily around the edge of the curtain, it would make their day worthwhile. The thought made her jolt her body away, so suddenly that she lost her footing, slipped and fell back onto the bed, catching an empty vase on her bedside table with her hand.

  She heard footsteps through the small passage and managed to sit up, just before the door opened. “Is everything alright?” PC Cartland asked, a look of concern upon his face.

  “Fine thanks,” she replied, stumbling as she stood, looking up with ashen cheeks. “Just an accident.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  He looked at the broken glass. “Want some help to clear that up?”

  “That would be great. There’s a dustpan and brush under the sink.” He disappeared and she stared at the floor, cursing her clumsy inclination.

  As he returned, and started to sweep the shards of glass out of the thin pile carpet, she fastened her backpack and shot another look at the window. “They’re getting restless,” she said.

  “Let them,” he replied firmly. He stood up and looked across at her. “Is there a back way out of this place?”

  “Yeah, but you have to garden hop a bit. I’ve done it a couple of times for a joke when I’ve been drunk. Never done it in daylight though.”

  “Is it visible from the road?”

  “No, you eventually reach a gate in the last garden which leads to the pathway.” She looked back at the window again. “They won’t have worked it out.”

  “Think you can do it with a rucksack on your back?”

  “I’ll give it a try. Give me ten minutes.” She hauled the pack over her shoulders and made for the door.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, the men and women of the press rushed forward as PC Cartland re-emerged from the gap between the houses to join his colleague who was keeping the crowd at bay. He held his hands up. “You all might as well go home, there’s nothing to see here.”

  Numerous necks craned, peering over his shoulder, perplexed when Anna didn’t materialize behind him.

  “What’s going on?” shouted a gruff voice from the side. “Hey, where’s Anna Cottrell?” called out another. The policeman just shrugged, sidestepped the bodies and walked down to his car, which was parked at the end of the street. He could still hear the distant cries of disbelief and disappointment as he started his engine and drove slowly away.

  * * *

  In all of the commotion nobody seemed to notice the tall, blond man with the receding hair line, standing at the back of the crowd. His pale, blue eyes bore holes through the crowd as he stood perfectly still, a rapt smile on his face. When he had seen her entering the flat earlier, adrenalin flooded his veins - just as it had the very first time he’d laid his eyes on her photograph. He took a deep breath, held it and exhaled slowly. She was even more beautiful in the flesh. Beauty that would be preserved in death like an alluring painting.

  He wasn’t surprised she had crept out the back, through the gardens. He patted his pocket gently. No matter. He had all the information he needed, for the moment.

  * * *

  The call came in just before twelve. DS Pemberton�
��s voice bounced with excitement.

  “Ma’am? A checkout assistant in the Weston One Stop Shop saw a stranger with Jim McCafferty on the day of the murder. He knew Jim, he came in weekly, but he’d never seen this man with him before.”

  “Excellent.” Helen smiled and closed her eyes. “Did you get a good description?”

  “Not great, but they also have CCTV. We’re bringing the tape back to the station now.”

  “Well done, Sergeant!” Finally . . . thought Helen.

  Chapter Twelve

  Helen watched the CCTV footage over again, trying to convince herself that she would see something different. Like when you watch a great film for the second time and you notice new backdrops, images, characters in the background. The truth of the matter was that the shop was using the same tired old tapes and re-recording over them, time and time again. The images were blurred, scratchy. She could barely make out Jim McCafferty, let alone his acquaintance. Frustrated, she switched it off, allowing her mind to wander.

  DC Rosa Dark had researched Rab’s prison record. He was right, he certainly kept himself clean, lived by the rules, a model prisoner by all accounts. Perhaps the press conference later would reveal something? Helen had principally arranged the press conference to give them a story. Rab could sit on their front page for the next couple of days, appealing for witnesses, reassuring the public that it was an isolated incident. Get them off her back, for the moment, at least. But it also served another purpose.

  She would be sitting right next to Rab and his every move, word, mannerism would be recorded, not only by the media, but also by themselves. Afterwards, she would watch the recording back, focusing on his body language, again looking for any signs that he was not being completely truthful. If unsure, an expert on non verbal communication would be brought in to view the tape. Convinced that the key to solving this murder lay close to the family, she needed to utilize every opportunity to watch them all very carefully. He may have an alibi but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t involved in some way.