Thicker Than Water

by Sally Spencer

  ‘And whose fault is that, you disgusting pervert?’

  ‘It’s mine. I know it’s mine. But I’ve really been trying. I haven’t been anywhere near a primary school since they let me out.’

  ‘Tell me about Melanie Danbury,’ the sergeant demanded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Melanie Danbury.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of Milliners’ Row, either.’

  ‘It’s … it’s a posh housing estate on the other side of town, isn’t it?’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘But I’ve never been there – I swear I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Turn around and put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’

  ‘I most certainly am.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ Southgate said.

  But he turned around anyway.

  The sergeant clicked the handcuffs into place. It was more than likely that Southgate was innocent on this particular occasion, he thought, but that wasn’t his call to make. He’d been told to bring the man in for questioning – just as other officers had been told to bring in other men – and that was what he was doing.

  He turned his prisoner around, and looked into his watery eyes.

  Nah, he thought, he definitely didn’t do it.

  But then he pictured his own two small daughters, and hit Southgate again, just for good measure.

  Some days you got lucky, Alfie Clayton thought, as he lay back in his armchair and stretched out his legs. Some days, you took on one big load with a delivery point of up to a hundred miles away, so you had the pleasure of a nice bit of driving, and – more importantly – you only had to hump your load onto the trailer once, and off the trailer once. But there were other days – and this had been one of them – when you got a number of short-haul jobs, so you were denied a decent drive and you ended the day with aching muscles. Still, you had to take the rough with the smooth, and it was nice being your own boss.

  His wife, Marjorie, appeared in the doorway. She had already taken off her apron, which, he knew from experience, signalled the end of her day.

  ‘Are you coming up to bed, love?’ she asked.

  Alfie checked his watch. Given the heavy morning he’d got ahead of him, he should make a move soon, he thought.

  ‘I’ll be up in a minute,’ he said, ‘as soon as the news bulletin is over.’

  Alfie liked the local news. It warmed his heart to feel part of a community. But such feelings were to be denied to him that night.

  ‘The police have issued a statement that the body of an as-yet-unnamed woman has been discovered in a house in Milliners’ Row, in the north of Whitebridge,’ the grim-faced announcer said. ‘Foul play is suspected.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ Alfie murmured to himself.

  ‘In a further statement, it has been announced that a child is missing,’ the newsreader continued.

  A picture of a small girl appeared on the screen. She had blonde fluffy hair and dimpled cheeks. Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, and she was grinning unselfconsciously at whoever was holding the camera.

  ‘Melanie Danbury is two years old,’ the newsreader continued, speaking from behind the girl’s smile. ‘She was last seen earlier today. If you have seen her – alone or with some other person – the police urge you to ring the number on the screen. They are also appealing for volunteers to help in their search for the child. If you feel able to offer assistance, please register at Whitebridge Police Headquarters tomorrow morning – the earlier the better.’

  The girl’s image faded from the screen, and was replaced with that of the newsreader.

  ‘Sport,’ the newsreader said, his expression of regret slowly melting away. ‘Harry Morgan, the manager of Whitebridge Rovers, has announced team changes for Rovers’ match against Manchester City later in the week. Striker Jim Smith will replace Terry Whalley, whose performance so far this season has been disappointing and …’

  Alfie had always been a big fan of the Rovers – had followed them faithfully through thick and thin – but he had no interest in them in that moment, and as he stood up to switch off the television, he felt a solitary tear run down his cheek.

  The brass nameplate on the gatepost of No. 9 Milliners’ Row announced that this was the residence of Colonel and Mrs Cardew, and when Beresford pressed the bell, a very military-sounding voice barked ‘Police?’ at him through the loudspeaker.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Beresford agreed.

  ‘Then you’d better come in.’

  The gate buzzed open, and Beresford and Meadows walked up the drive to the house. They were met at the front door by a bald man in his seventies, who, despite the fact it was now well after midnight, was immaculately turned out in blazer, cravat and cavalry twill trousers.

  ‘My lady wife thought we might as well go to bed, but I told her that if you knew your business – as you damn well should – you’d be paying us a call well before morning.’

  ‘That’s right, sir, we like to …’ Beresford began.

  ‘Well, you’d better come into the Mess, then,’ Cardew interrupted him, turning on his heel and striding back into the house.

  ‘Mess?’ Beresford mouthed at Meadows.

  ‘Officers’ Mess,’ Meadows mouthed back.

  The Mess turned out to be a large lounge, filled with objects which even the densest of detectives could not have failed to recognise as having been brought back from the Indian subcontinent. The room was already occupied by a woman with fluffy white hair, who was wearing a twinset and pearls.

  ‘Mrs Colonel,’ Cardew said, by way of introduction. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘No thank you, sir,’ said Meadows, who didn’t drink.

  ‘We’re on duty,’ added Beresford, who confined his drinking to best bitter, pulled by someone standing behind a bar who had had years of experience in the mystical art.

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t mind if I have one,’ Cardew said, walking over to the bar in the corner. He poured himself a stiff whisky. ‘Always used to have an orderly in attendance to pour my drinks for me, but times change, and I suppose we just have to learn to change with them.’

  ‘You know why we’re here, do you, sir?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘Yes, we heard the late news bulletin – Jane Danbury’s been murdered and little Melanie’s been kidnapped. Frightful business, but what else do you expect in a society which has turned its back on all its old values?’

  ‘Did you hear anything unusual this evening?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘From next door, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, we didn’t. But it was never likely we would, is it? The two houses are quite far apart, and there’s a garden wall between them. We never hear a sound from the Danburys’ house.’

  ‘I heard something, but I’m not sure if you’d call it unusual,’ Mrs Cardew said.

  ‘You never mentioned that to me, my dear,’ the Colonel said accusingly.

  ‘I’ve only just remembered,’ his wife replied mildly. ‘It didn’t seem very important at the time.’

  ‘What did you hear – and where were you when you heard it?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘I was out working in the front garden.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘It was around eight o’clock.’

  ‘But it was dark by then.’

  ‘That’s right, it was. That’s the best time for it.’

  ‘The best time for what?’

  ‘I’m engaged in a fight to the death with the snails,’ Mrs Cardew explained, ‘and happily, I seem to be on the winning side.’

  ‘I don’t quite see …’ Beresford admitted.

  ‘The best way to deal with snails is to wait until darkness has fallen, and then soak all your plants. Then you walk away, leave it a few minutes, and return with a torch and a plastic bag. Sometime
s I can catch as many as a hundred of the little blighters.’

  ‘So you were in the garden …’ Beresford prompted.

  ‘I was in the garden, and I heard this car drive by, slow down, and finally stop. I couldn’t swear it pulled up in front of the Danbury house, but I’m almost certain it did.’

  ‘Did you happen to see what make of car it was?’

  ‘The walls are ten feet high – it’s a community requirement. You can’t see the street from downstairs, and even from upstairs you can only just about see the opposite side of the road through the trees.’

  ‘When did the car leave again?’

  ‘I don’t know, but when I came inside at twenty-five past eight, it must still have been there.’

  Even if it was the murderer’s car – and given the timing, that was likely – it wasn’t much use if they didn’t have the make, Beresford thought.

  Alfie Clayton had switched off his bedside light ten minutes earlier, but now he turned it on again, got out of bed, and walked over to the dressing table.

  ‘What are you doing, Alfie?’ his wife asked with sleepy irritation.

  ‘I’m resetting the clock.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that little girl. I want to join the search party tomorrow.’

  ‘But you’re booked up with deliveries all day,’ Marjorie pointed out.

  It was true. And as a self-employed lorry driver, if he didn’t work, he didn’t get paid.

  ‘I want to help find Melanie,’ Alfie said.

  ‘Your customers won’t exactly be pleased at being left in the lurch like that,’ Marjorie said. ‘Some of them might even start thinking about taking their business to somebody else.’

  ‘I know,’ Alfie admitted, ‘but I want to be involved.’ And then, in fairness to his wife, he added, ‘Listen, if you tell me not to do it, I won’t.’

  ‘No, it’s the right thing to do,’ Marjorie said. ‘But you’ve still not told me what that has to do with resetting the clock.’

  ‘I want to get there early, to make certain I’m one of the ones that they choose.’

  ‘But surely, they’ll want as many volunteers as they can get.’

  ‘I don’t think it works like that,’ Alfie said. ‘If you’re searching a wood, for instance, you want a certain number of men involved in the search and no more. Get too many, and all they’re doing is barging into each other. And besides, they’ll want bobbies supervising the operation, and there’s a limited number of them.’

  ‘So what time are you setting the clock for?’ Marjorie asked.

  ‘Half-past five.’

  ‘Good God above – that’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t want to make a token offer to help, just so I can feel good about myself – I really do want to be part of it.’

  Marjorie sighed, and wished she could have given her husband the children she’d known he desperately wanted.

  ‘You’re a good man, Alfie Clayton,’ she said.

  ‘I’m a cantankerous bugger,’ Alfie contradicted her awkwardly. ‘But sometimes,’ he admitted, ‘just once in a while, I can quite surprise myself.’

  Keith Pickering had been acting chief constable of the Mid Lancs Constabulary for over a year. He had not stepped into a dead man’s shoes, as was often the case with such appointments, but rather stepped into the shoes of a man who, burdened with guilt over the part he believed that he had played in his wife’s death, had had a nervous breakdown.

  And the problem with George Baxter’s illness, Pickering often thought, was that it was much more complicated than something like cancer. The Big C was usually fatal, but if you survived, it soon became apparent whether or not you’d ever return to active duty. Mental illness was a completely different matter. George Baxter might wake up one morning and be completely cured – or, at least, cured enough to pass himself off as normal. In which case, he would want his job back – and he would bloody well get it.

  All of which made life difficult for the man deputising for him, because however exemplary he was in his role, he was never going to be confirmed in the post unless Baxter decided to opt for a disability pension. And the converse was also true – if he wasn’t quite exemplary enough, he would, without the luxury of tenure, be easy to get rid of.

  These black thoughts were his almost constant companions, and they were never blacker than in situations like this one, in which he found himself looking across his desk at DCI Monika Paniatowski and Chief Inspector Clive Barrington.

  ‘If it’s acceptable to you, sir, we thought we’d split this operation,’ Paniatowski was saying. ‘I’ll concentrate on finding Jane Danbury’s killer, and Clive will lead the search for Melanie. We will, of course, coordinate our efforts with each other.’

  Pickering nodded his acceptance. ‘Have you brought in everyone with a record for child molestation?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, we have,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘They’re all being questioned right now.’

  ‘And do you think that’s likely to provide us with a lead?’

  No, Paniatowski thought, I don’t. This doesn’t feel like that kind of case at all.

  But because Pickering had the look of a worried, expectant puppy on his face when he asked the question – and because she knew that giving him a negative answer was not the way to keep him off her back – she said, ‘I think it’s far too early to say, sir.’

  ‘We need you to authorise the overtime, sir,’ Barrington said.

  Oh God, the overtime! Pickering thought despairingly.

  ‘Do you have any idea of how much that is likely to be?’ the chief constable asked. ‘Just a global figure will do.’

  ‘It’s impossible to say,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘It all depends on how soon we find Melanie.’

  ‘So what you’re asking me for is carte blanche approval?’ Pickering asked.

  ‘I don’t see how it can be any other way,’ Paniatowski answered.

  It would play havoc with his end of year figures, Pickering thought. It would completely demolish the careful budget he had so painstakingly constructed. And it would probably all be for nothing – because the chances were that the girl was already dead.

  But what choice did he have? He didn’t want to go down in the records as the chief constable who starved a child abduction investigation of resources.

  ‘Draw on whatever manpower you need,’ he said, ‘but just bear in mind that the more money you spend now, the less you’ll have available later in the year.’

  Paniatowski and Barrington nodded, as if they really did intend to bear that in mind.

  Pickering checked his watch. It was almost one o’clock in the morning.

  ‘Thank you, Clive, you can go now,’ he said, but when he saw Paniatowski start to stand up, he added, ‘Not you, Monika. We still have some important matters to discuss.’

  ‘How did you get on with Mr and Mrs Danbury?’ Colin Beresford asked Colonel Cardew.

  ‘To tell you the truth, we didn’t have much to do with them,’ the other man replied, rather off-handedly.

  ‘You didn’t socialise?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was that your choice – or theirs?’

  ‘I remember an occasion in India, when the PMC – who was a nice chap but had no real idea of how the army should work – thought it might be a good idea to invite the SNCOs and their wives over to our mess for a social evening,’ the colonel said.

  ‘Could you run that by me again?’ Beresford said.

  ‘The PMC is the President of the Mess Committee, and the SNCOs are the Senior Non-Commissioned Officers,’ Mrs Cardew explained.

  ‘Ah,’ Beresford said.

  ‘The evening was terrible – an excruciating, embarrassing disaster – as most of us officers had realised in advance that it would be,’ the colonel continued. ‘It was like mixing chalk and cheese.’

  ‘And you regard the Danburys as the SNCOs of Milliners’ Row?’ Meadows aske
d in her usual direct call-a-spade-a-bloody-shovel way.

  ‘I suppose you could say that,’ the colonel replied.

  ‘Now you’re not being very fair to Jane there, Colonel Dear,’ Mrs Cardew said. ‘She comes from a very good background. I know her father owned a factory, but he had very little to do with running it himself, and he was a real gentleman.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Melanie?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘I believe we’ve only ever seen her once,’ Mrs Cardew replied. ‘We went round to the Danburys’ just after she was born. That was what we used to do in the old days, when one of the men who the colonel commanded had a child.’

  ‘And you never run across mother and daughter out on the street?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘On the street?’ the colonel snorted. ‘Of course not! No one from Milliners’ Row ever meets anyone else on the street. We’re not living on a council housing estate, you know.’

  ‘No one really comes along the street, except the cleaners and gardeners, who get off at the bus stop the other side of the dual carriageway and walk the rest of the way,’ Mrs Cardew explained. ‘You see, we’re a good three miles from the nearest decent shop …’

  ‘And a good four miles from a pub that any of us would consider drinking in,’ the colonel interjected.

  ‘… so whenever we leave the house, we’re always in our cars.’

  Great, Beresford thought. Really great! This was just the sort of thing a team of detectives trying to track down a murderer really needed to bloody hear.

  ‘So you won’t have seen much of Jane Danbury, either,’ he said.

  ‘Virtually nothing,’ Mrs Cardew agreed. ‘She has a car of her own, but she hardly ever uses it. Unless she goes out with William – and I think that’s a rare enough occurrence – she doesn’t really leave the house.’

  ‘I wish we could say the same about that girl they’ve got living with them,’ the colonel growled. ‘She’s forever roaring up and down the street on that noisy motorcycle of hers. She seems to be out of the house so much that I don’t know when she finds the time to complete her household duties.’

  ‘My husband doesn’t like Germans very much,’ Mrs Cardew said.