by Jane Isaac
Helen wandered over to see Campbell who was speaking into his mobile phone, his voice loud. “Get him here as soon as possible.”
She arched her forehead and flashed her badge as he ended the call, “Helen Lavery.”
He shook her proffered hand. “James Campbell.”
“What can you tell me?” she asked.
“We think the fire started around eight o’clock. We got here around eight thirty. It took us about half an hour to get it under control.”
“I understand you are treating it as suspicious?”
“Yes, judging by how quickly it spread and how difficult it was to get under control, I’m pretty sure there’s been an accelerant used.”
“What about the resident?”
“Can’t get in there to check at the moment.” Campbell shook his head seriously. “Having said that,” his eyes grew grave, “if he was there he wouldn’t have survived.”
Helen nodded. “How long before we know?”
“Terrace houses have a timber roof structure which has collapsed. It’s not safe for my guys to go in at the moment. I was just on the phone to a building structural engineering company we deal with and they’re sending somebody straight out. He’ll be able to advise on safety and help us search the debris.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll have much more news for you before the morning.”
* * *
Townsend felt deeply disappointed. Despite leaving home at five this morning, a jack-knifed lorry on the M6 had meant tailbacks which delayed his journey to the West Country considerably. It was nine o’clock before he arrived at the small market town of Ripley. He cursed bad drivers, lorry drivers in particular. Surely spending day and night in a truck would teach you how to handle it properly? Now, most working folk would have left home on their journey to the office, the shop, the bank, the school – whatever their occupation. So much for the early bird . . .
He sipped his coffee and tucked into the fried bacon, eggs and tomatoes on his plate, the yolk oozing out of his egg as soon as the knife caught it, spilling across the plate. Somehow now the time didn’t seem to matter so much. And he needed to eat didn’t he? Placing the last mouthful of bacon in his mouth, he grabbed the corner of buttered bread he had saved until last and mopped his plate with it.
When he finished, he wiped his fingers on his napkin and leant back in his chair. The waitress was leaning over to clean the table opposite, her black trousers stretched across tight buttocks. Nice, he thought. She moved away and he glanced at his mobile phone. There was a missed call from the station. He could live with that. Right now he wanted to concentrate on the task in hand, to make sure that he could find something that would back up his gut feeling. The DCI had said that she thought the clue to solving this murder lay close to the family. Well, he felt sure that the answer was within the family and he was about to do everything he could to prove that.
Since the Detective Support Officer had highlighted the name change in Kathleen’s history he had worked hard, applying for address details from the Department of Work and Pensions, searching through Birth, Deaths and Marriages in the Ripley area. It was laborious work, usually carried out by support staff, but he didn’t want anyone else involved. Not yet.
He licked the last of the tomato ketchup from his lips and narrowed his eyes smugly as he stared at his mobile phone. Yes, he would find the key to this murder. Then the snooty DCI would have to admit what a good detective he was. Maybe he would get a commendation, maybe even promotion? That would teach her.
* * *
Anna could feel strong beams of light across her forehead. She tossed her head from side to side and scrunched up her closed eyes. Leave me alone, she thought. But the light persisted, forcing her to raise her arm to cover her face.
She was awake now and suddenly aware that her nostrils felt raw, compelling her thoughts to return to the night before. The night before . . . Every muscle in her body ached with a mixture of fatigue and anguish at the thought.
She remembered the feel of the cold, leather seat in the police car, as she sat next to the uniformed officer, feeding him details of Ross’ friends, his family. Anyone Ross may have visited that evening. She had sat, head in hands whilst the officer made call after call: to Ross’ parents; his brother, Phil; his best friend and colleague from school, Mart; each one a negative result. Ross hadn’t been there, they hadn’t seen him for several hours, days, weeks in some cases. Nobody would know for sure until many hours later if Ross had died in the fire, the flames had still been far too virulent for the fire fighters to penetrate and check. So she clung onto hope, like a baby with a comfort blanket, knowing that it was highly likely that his charred body lay amongst the remains of his broken home.
Anna lifted her arm just enough to allow her eyes to open slightly, resting it behind her forehead. As her pupils focused she realized that she was back in her bedroom at her parents’ house. The flickers of light she felt were those battling to break through a tiny gap where the curtains weren’t drawn together properly at the top. She blinked several times and frowned. She had no idea how she had got there.
Maybe it was all a bad dream. Cold now, she tucked her stray arm back underneath the covers and suddenly jolted, every organ in her body feeling displaced by the shock. She was fully dressed, still wearing her jeans and Ross’ top from the night before.
Anna sat up in bed, pushed back the duvet and lifted the blue Helly Hanson sweat top to her nose. She could smell Ross, his Armani Pour Homme after shave. But there was another smell, battling to drown out all the others. The unmistakable, strong smell of smoke.
She heard the ring tone of her mobile, the same plain standard ring that she hadn’t changed, hadn’t amended because it was only temporary. But being only temporary meant that few people had the number – Ross! She reached over and grabbed the phone, her heart immediately descending as she looked at the illuminated screen.
She clicked to answer, raising the phone to ear. “Hello.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Anna? Is that you?”
“It’s me, Rab.”
“Sorry, for a moment there I thought I’d dialed the wrong number. It didn’t sound like you.”
It’s not a good time. But she couldn’t afford to shut him out now. What was that saying? ‘Blood is thicker than water’ - even if he was practically a stranger. “I’m sorry, Rab, something bad has happened.”
“Oh . . .” A silence followed, as if he was unsure what to say next. “Umm . . . Can I help?” His light hearted, friendly tone was replaced with a tight, serious inflection. Anna didn’t know what to say, where to start.
“Anna, are you still there?”
“I’m still here.” She took a deep breath. Come on, spit it out – he’ll find out soon enough anyway. “There was a fire last night.” There she had said it. She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily through her mouth.
“I heard about it on the local News. Other side of town. Someone you know?”
“It was my boyfriend’s house. I’ve been staying with him since . . .” Her voice faltered.
“Oh my God! Anna? Are you OK?”
“I’m not hurt. I was out at the time.”
“That’s a relief . . . I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“How could you have done?”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing, thank you. There is nothing anyone can do.”
“Your boyfriend . . .” He broke off, as if he were afraid of continuing.
“Ross.” He had a name and for some reason it seemed important to use it. It still made him real. “I don’t know yet . . . I’m still waiting to hear . . .”
“I’m so sorry!” Silence again. “Where are you now?”
“Back at my parents, for the moment anyway.”
“Would it help if I came over?”
“I’m not sure they’d appreciate it.” She flinched the moment the words left her mouth. “Sorry, I mean . . . Well, as much as I’d love t
o see you, it’s all a bit awkward isn’t it?”
“I guess so.” He sounded dejected.
“It’s early days. We’ll get together soon. Somehow.”
“I want to help.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate that. Just stay in touch for now. OK?”
“Whatever you want. Call me anytime.”
“Sure, bye.”
A lump rose in her throat as she ended the call. Talking about it, smelling it and remembering last nights events made it all seem so real. Right at this moment she had never felt so alone.
* * *
Back in her office, Helen read the email marked ‘urgent priority’ over again. Fire officers had assessed heat damage, burn patterns, and their sniffer dog had found traces of petrol at
Castrell Street. The fire was started deliberately. They worked through the night sorting through the debris, but no body was found. No body. For the present, the incident was being investigated separately by Area CID. DS Strenson had launched a missing person’s enquiry and promised to keep her updated. But she knew that their enquiries would be limited. Ross was a grown man, not a minor, or a vulnerable member of society. If he had wanted to take off for a few days – and people did occasionally without telling friends or colleagues – then so be it. Many a missing persons or ‘MISP’ enquiry had cost the police gravely in terms of resources and time, only to find the person, whether due to relationship, financial, work or other pressures, returns in a few days. And these days the police had to prioritize. Budgets were tighter than ever.
The only information they had so far was that a neighbor of Ross’ had seen him leave the house with a man around seven twenty the previous evening. The description at the end of the email was brief: excessively tall, around 6 ft 3ins with thin, white blonde hair combed back from his face and blue/grey eyes.
But where was Ross now? Ross’ disappearance had to be linked with the murder investigation. She was convinced of it.
Helen picked up the phone and dialed urgently.
“DS Strenson?”
“Alison, this is Helen Lavery.”
“Oh, hello there. Did you get my email?”
“Yes, thank you. Could you do me a favor?”
“What are you after?”
“Can you get an e-fit done of the man seen with Ross last night please? It’s possible there is a link to my murder enquiry.” Helen had learnt about e-fits on a recent training course and whilst it was being rolled out throughout the UK, not all forces including Hamptonshire currently had the relevant technology. It was much quicker and cheaper than obtaining an artists impression, and astonishingly more accurate in most cases.
“I didn’t think we had the resources for that, ma’am.”
“We don’t, but Berkshire do. If you phone this direct number,” she scrabbled around in her briefcase for her notebook and read off a number, “and ask for DS Shaw, he’ll sort you out. We have an agreement with them for this sort of thing. Tell him to mark it priority.”
“Certainly, ma’am. Umm . . .”
“What is it Sergeant?”
“What about the cost?”
Helen sighed. Why did finances always have to get in the way? “I would have thought that tracing this man would have been crucial to your investigation. It’s also possible that there is a link to my murder inquiry.” The line went silent. “Who’s your Inspector?”
“DI Wilden.” Now Helen understood. Paul Wilden was renowned for being tight with his budget.
“Any problems, get him to ring me.”
“Fine.” She sounded relieved. “I’ll get onto it right away.”
There was a knock at the door as she replaced the receiver. “Come in!”
Jessica Keen bit her lip as she walked into Helen’s office. Although she had worked as a support officer for the homicide team on many occasions she had rarely been into a DCI’s office. And she hardly knew this one.
Helen looked up. “What is it, Jessica?”
“DS Pemberton said you were asking about the checks into Kathleen Cottrell’s background?” She spoke nervously, the words rushing out of her mouth.
Helen sat back in her seat and smiled kindly. “Sit down.” She gestured at the chair opposite.
Jessica sat down with her hands in her lap, folding them together time and time again, as if she were ringing out wet washing.
Helen watched her for a brief moment. “Don’t worry Jessica. You are not in any trouble,” she reassured her.
“Oh. OK. Well, I was carrying out the background checks on Anna’s parents and discovered that Kathleen changed her surname.”
“What, before she got married?”
“Yes, she was born Gravell, but changed her name to Gardner when she was seven.”
“I didn’t know that. Did you inform DS Carter and the Holmes team collators, so that they could cross reference the information and get the right checks done?”
Jessica chewed the side of her lip now. “No. Well you see, Inspector Townsend told me not to. Said it might be nothing. That he would look into it personally and then come to you direct if there was anything in it.”
That explains everything. Townsend had not been present at the morning briefing and when Helen asked Pemberton where he was, he’d said that he was on enquiry in the West Country and would be back later. Nobody seemed to know any details about the enquiry.
“I see. Thank you for letting me know.” So that was why he hadn’t responded to her call. If there was one thing Helen hated, it was covert by-investigations and secrecy. Whatever the results, they always ended in tears.
* * *
Townsend rapped the door hard for the second time and sighed heavily. Why didn’t people invest in doorbells or proper knockers? His enquiries were proving fruitless, having spent the last ten minutes banging on the doors of empty houses. He had tried number
16 Harwell Street, where the Gravells had lived, then the adjacent houses, before expanding his search. He was desperate now to find somebody at home, let alone somebody that remembered the Gravell family. He sucked his teeth loudly and cursed the lorry driver again. As he turned and walked back down the path he saw an elderly man struggling with three bags of shopping. The old man didn’t look at him, but concentrated on heaving his groceries. Wisps of grey hair, from beneath his tweed cap, blew gently in the wind.
“Excuse me?”
The old man looked up, visibly startled by the size of Townsend. But instead of answering he bent his head downwards and ambled along.
“Hey. I’m talking to you.” Still no response came. “Please, I’m the police.” He was walking behind him now, amazed at the pace that he had suddenly managed to find. Townsend was ferreting through his pocket for his warrant card, finding it as he caught up with the man who didn’t even reach his shoulder, and stepped in front of him, waving it.
The man looked up with fear in his eyes. “I can’t help you,” he said gruffly and made to walk on.
“Please?” Townsend moved in front of him, blocking his path.
The old man dumped his shopping down now, anger clouding his face. “I haven’t done anything and I don’t know anything,” he said sharply.
“You’re out early to do your shopping,” Townsend said in what he hoped was a friendly tone. “The shops have barely been open an hour.”
“That’s the way it is around here, as if you didn’t know it. You have to get up early, before they wake up.”
“Who?” he asked, not sure whether or not he really wanted to know the answer.
As he stared up at Townsend his angry expression turned to confusion. “Your accent isn’t from these parts is it?”
“No, I’m just here on some enquiries. Before who wake up?” He lowered his tone to place an emphasis on the word ‘who’.
“The yobs. Lazy beggars. Can’t be bothered to work. They don’t need to when they can live off the State, do they? And if they need a little extra, they hound us.” You can’t tell me it isn’t the sa
me where you come from? You’ll see none of my kind out here in the afternoons.”
“You should tell someone. Things can be done about this sort of thing you know.”
“Hmph! Things can be done? You’re definitely not from round here. Half of them have got ASBOs and it makes absolutely no difference. Even the local Bobbies turn a blind eye. ASBOs! Not worth the paper they’re written on.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m not from around here,” Townsend said, as gently as he could. “I’m from the midlands. I’ve come over to trace an old family that used to leave at number 16?”
“Number 16? You’ll be lucky. The world and his wife have lived there over the years. Never known a house change hands so much. Wouldn’t be surprised to hear that it’s haunted or something.”
“You’ve lived here a long time?”
“Fifty three years. Too long. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to be getting back.” As he bent down and gathered his bags, his hands shook violently.
“The Gravell family,” Townsend said quickly. It was worth a try. If he had lived here all that time maybe, just maybe, he might remember something.
“Never heard of them!” His voice rasped as he started to make off down the street.
Townsend watched after him and sighed deeply. His day was rapidly moving from bad to worse.
Then, just as he reached the corner the old man stopped and jerked his head back round to face Townsend. Without putting his bags down he shouted, “You could try Lucy Walker at number 18. She’s lived here forever.”
Townsend’s shoulders drooped. “Tried that. No answer. But thanks anyway.”
He was just making a mental note to call back later when the man shouted again, “You have to bang really hard. She’s almost deaf.” And with that he scuttled off around the corner.
It had started to rain, heavy drops falling from the dark sky. Townsend turned up his collar. Maybe he should just give it one more try? It would only take a couple of minutes. What did he have to lose?
Townsend retraced his footsteps back to number 18. The front garden of the grey semi-detached house was surprisingly well kept. A square patch of lawn was flanked by borders, well stocked with low maintenance shrubs: Lavender, Potentilla, Broom. He thought how pretty it would look in spring and summer.