Lockyer looked at his watch, then back at Jane. DI what’s-his-name was waiting for them down at Bella’s, and he had just spent the past ten minutes with Roger trying to cram as much of the Pippa Jones case into his head as he could. He needed to get going. He dragged a hand over his chin, his stubble rough against his palm. ‘OK, what’s happened?’ Given the past few months, it could be any number of things. Her father had been ill. Her parents had moved. She was struggling with Peter’s childcare and on top of all that she was having a nightmare with her insane ex-boyfriend.
‘I had a call from my solicitor this morning.’
‘Andy?’ he asked. She nodded. So it was door number four – the crazy ex. Lockyer could see she was trying not to cry. He reached into his pocket, took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She held it under her eyes.
‘He’s claiming . . . he’s trying to say that Peter’s autism is somehow my fault.’
‘Eh?’ Lockyer said before he could stop himself.
‘He’s saying I drank and smoked weed when I was pregnant and that’s why Peter is the way he is – starved of oxygen in the womb – a polluted environment, or something. That’s actually what he said, that I had carried Peter in a polluted environment.’ A solitary tear spilt over her eyelid and ran down her face, leaving a pale line in her make-up. She shook her head. ‘I’ve got to supply hair, blood and urine for a drug screen.’
‘Jesus,’ he said, getting up and walking round his desk, sitting down on the edge of it facing her. He ignored the heads turning in the open-plan office beyond his glass door. He missed rooms, real rooms with walls and doors, but it seemed ‘modern’ meant glass – lots of glass. ‘Jane, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.’
‘Maybe, but . . .’ she said, not looking at him, ‘but what if he’s . . . what if he’s right?’
‘Is this really why you’re upset?’ Lockyer was incredulous. ‘You believe what that shit-for-brains has said?’ She shrugged. ‘Jane,’ he said, reaching forward and tipping up her chin so she was looking at him. Her fringe was stuck to her forehead in dark triangles, her skin pale beneath. ‘Did you smoke weed when you were pregnant with Peter?’ She shook her head. ‘Have you ever smoked weed?’ She shook her head again. ‘Did you drink when you were pregnant with Peter?’
‘Maybe once, at a friend’s wedding,’ she said.
‘So how could anything he said possibly be true?’
‘I know, but what if . . . what if it’s because of me . . . something I did . . . something I passed on?’
‘What the . . . ?’ He stood up and started pacing. He thought of his brother Bobby, and of their mother. He would love nothing better than to blame his brother’s condition on their useless mother. She deserved to take some responsibility. ‘I don’t know much,’ he said, ‘but I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works . . . and I know you know a lot more than me.’
‘I know, it’s just . . .’
‘You cannot let him get to you like this, Jane,’ he said. ‘I told you. These custody hearings take an age. He’s saying anything he can to discredit you. The very fact that he’s stooped this low this soon into the process shows just how desperate he is. He’s clutching at straws.’ He could see his words were having little effect. ‘What did your solicitor say?’
‘She said not to worry. She said she only told me because as my representative, she is legally bound to pass on all information.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ he said, going back to his chair and sitting down.
‘She thinks Andy will get visitation.’ She looked at him. ‘I can’t, Mike. I can’t let that bastard . . .’ She trailed off and buried her face in his handkerchief.
‘Come on,’ he said. He was no good at this. Asking what was wrong was a new skill he was learning to master. Knowing what to do with the emotional outpouring that tended to follow – he was clueless. ‘Take a breath.’ He took a breath himself and waited for Jane’s shoulders to relax. ‘Look, we’ve talked about this. You knew he’d get visitation, but you said yourself he’ll never turn up. As soon as this is over he’ll disappear into the ether again.’ He tapped his desk until she looked up at him. ‘He’s only doing this to get to you. He wants to drive you crazy. That’s all this is.’
‘Peter won’t cope . . . he won’t understand . . .’
‘He’s not going to see Peter, Jane,’ he said. ‘This has never been about Peter. His only motivation is you.’ He felt his cheeks heating before he even spoke. ‘You . . . rejected him and he’s making you pay for it.’ He saw her redden as well. They both knew she hadn’t rejected him straight away, but now was not the time to split hairs.
She took a deep breath, tipped her head back and shook her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t have time for this . . .’
‘And neither do you,’ he said, pushing back his chair and standing up, gesturing for her to do the same. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘To Somerset?’ she said, picking up her coat, her face crumpled in confusion.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ she said stammering. ‘I’ve got Peter . . .’
‘When does he break up? Next week?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘They never do anything last week of term, and I bet he’d love to see his grandparents this close to Christmas. Clevedon’s in Somerset, right?’ He knew it was. He had Googled it when he got back from seeing Roger.
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
He could see she was softening to the idea. ‘And . . .’ he said, stretching out the word, ‘it’ll give you a well-deserved break from your idiot ex.’ He could see that was the clincher.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘True.’
‘Exactly,’ he said, ushering her towards the door and giving her a gentle shove out into the office. ‘You can thank me later.’
CHAPTER SIX
10th December – Thursday
She stood at the counter in Bella’s Cafe, looking out at Lewisham High Street. The Christmas lights had been turned on and, as if by magic, it had started to snow. That should make the drive down to Somerset interesting, and there was no putting it off. Lockyer had made it clear when they left the office that they were travelling down tonight, come hell or high water – she assumed snow fell somewhere in those categories. He had gone on about not wanting to waste the ‘golden hour’. He hadn’t seemed amused when she had pointed out that the golden hour had been and gone two days earlier. ‘Not for us, Jane,’ he had said. ‘This guy Townsend’s had his golden hour – now it’s my turn.’ She knew better than to argue with him when his mind was set. She glanced over her shoulder at him and the DI from Somerset. They were sat in a booth at the back of the cafe. Lockyer had wedged himself into the red leather bench like a marionette, hinged at the waist, his legs bent and awkward beneath the table. If he had chosen their position for privacy, his discomfort was wasted. They were the only ones in here.
Townsend sat opposite and upright, his hands resting on the table. If Jane had to guess, she would say he was in his mid to late fifties; grey hair, grey skin and grey clothes. Everything about him looked washed out apart from his striking blue eyes. He had the look of a tired Phillip Schofield. ‘Sorry, can I have full-fat milk please?’ she asked, spotting the waitress picking up a carton of skimmed.
‘Of course,’ the waitress said, giving her a wide smile.
‘Can you make mine decaf,’ Lockyer called from across the cafe.
She turned back to the counter to tell the waitress about Lockyer’s amended order when the girl held up a manicured hand and said, ‘No worries, I heard him.’ She discarded one of the coffees and began preparing a fresh one. She gave Jane a knowing smile as if to say, ‘Men, who’d have ’em?’ Jane knew Lockyer came in here often. She also knew that he got table service. Not that she was bothered. The barista in Costa had asked for her phone number last month.
‘I’ll have a double espresso in mine,’ she said, annoyed by her own
peevish tone.
‘I’m with you,’ the waitress said in a conspiratorial whisper as she added the extra shot to Jane’s mug. ‘I wouldn’t get past breakfast without my coffee. Here you go.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, managing a half-smile as she picked up the first two mugs. She took them over to the table and set them down in front of Lockyer and Townsend before heading back for her own drink. When she returned she pulled over a chair and sat down at the end of the table. Both men stopped and looked at her. ‘So, where have we got to?’ she asked.
Lockyer took a slurp of his coffee. ‘Shit, that’s hot,’ he said. ‘Not far. We were waiting for you.’
‘Well, we’d better get a move on if you want to get down to Somerset tonight. It’s snowing.’
Lockyer craned his neck to see around her. ‘Is it settling?’
‘Starting to.’
‘OK, Bill,’ Lockyer said. ‘Let’s get on with it. What can you tell us?’ Jane took her notepad out of her handbag and searched for a pen. Lockyer did the same before looking at her. She passed him her pen, and searched for another.
‘Right,’ Townsend said when they were ready, pens poised. ‘Female Victim. Pippa Jones. Caucasian. 5' 8". 63 kilos. Twenty-five years of age. She had been staying with an aunt – Claudette Barker, fifty-three, divorced – in Nether Stowey, about ten miles outside Bridgwater. Pippa was working as a chef in a restaurant at Fyne Court, a National Trust property up on the Quantock Hills. She also had a part-time job at the Farmer’s Arms pub in a place called Combe Florey.’ He paused, allowing her and Lockyer to finish making their notes. Jane nodded when she was done. ‘Although she was born and brought up in Somerset the family moved to London when she was twelve – hence our desire to have the Met involved. Pippa had a flat-share in Bromley. Her previous employer was an Ashley Tanker. He owns an Italian restaurant on the Old Kent Road. The car she was driving was registered to her. It was—’
‘Sorry,’ Jane said. ‘How are you spelling that Nether what-was-it?’
‘Nether Stowey,’ Townsend said. ‘It’s got a population of about a thousand.’ He spelled out the name for her before taking a sip of his coffee. ‘Where was I?’ He rested his forefinger under his nose and hooked his thumb under his chin as if holding his face steady. It made him look studious. He didn’t wear glasses, but Jane thought he would suit them.
‘The car,’ Lockyer offered.
‘That’s right,’ Townsend said. ‘It was a 2004 Ford Focus, silver. Petrol 1.8 litre engine.’
‘And she was the registered owner?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Yes,’ Townsend said. ‘As to the circumstances – member of the public discovered the wreckage at approximately 5.30 a.m. on Tuesday morning . . . that would have been the eighth. She left work at the pub just after half ten on the Monday night, the seventh, so we’re assuming the incident happened on her way home. It’s unlikely we’ll get a time of death on this one.’ He turned his mug around in his hands before picking it up and taking a sip. His hand shook, some of his coffee slopping out onto the table.
‘Heavy night?’ Lockyer asked.
Townsend raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Something like that,’ he said, taking another drink. This time his hand remained still. ‘Her car left the road and crashed head-on into a tree. The front of the car took the brunt of the impact. An engine fire resulted in the right-hand side of the vehicle being damaged.’ His voice had dropped to a whisper.
‘And the victim?’ she asked.
Townsend’s expression was solemn. ‘The victim was still belted in as far as we can tell.’
‘Jesus,’ Lockyer said, whistling through his teeth. ‘Nasty way to go.’
‘We’re assuming she was dead long before the fire took hold,’ he said.
‘Has there been an official ID?’ Lockyer asked.
Townsend pursed his lips. ‘Yes and no,’ he said. ‘The contents of Pippa’s handbag were found on the passenger seat and in the footwell of the vehicle. Some items were undamaged . . . her passport being one of them.’
‘She carried her passport on her?’
‘Evidently,’ he said. ‘Her parents want to see her, but . . .’
‘Surely they won’t allow them to see the body?’ Jane said.
Townsend opened his hands and shrugged. ‘They will be strongly advised not to, given the circumstances, but if they are certain they want to then I won’t stop them. It can be hugely detrimental to family members if they are denied access. It does happen, but not often, and it’s certainly not recommended.’
Jane looked at Lockyer. She couldn’t imagine anything worse. She had seen her fair share of burn victims over the years, and it was an assault on the senses. The body charred, almost unrecognizable. The smell, a combination of burnt and cooked meat, coupled with something so sour it made Jane’s mouth fill with bile. And then there was the taste. The first time she had witnessed a burn victim’s post-mortem it had taken her half the day to get the stench off her clothes, but the taste had stayed with her for several days. A sort of charcoal tang at the back of her throat that seemed to burn her nasal passages each time she breathed. And that was her viewing a stranger. What would it be like for this girl’s parents? To lose their daughter, and then see her like that? Jane’s back stiffened.
‘OK, let’s move this along,’ Lockyer said. Townsend looked at him. ‘Sorry, go ahead, Bill. What else have you got?’
‘The crash investigation team are still working on it, but their initial report states that the victim’s vehicle appears to have been hit from behind at least twice, and from the back right-hand side once.’
‘Trace evidence?’ Lockyer asked.
Townsend nodded. ‘Some,’ he said. ‘We’ve got good paint residue samples from the other vehicle. They’ve gone off for analysis. Fingers crossed we can get the manufacturer if not the model of the vehicle. We’ve also got various skid marks and tyre impressions on the road and on the surrounding grassland. We can’t be sure which, if any, relate to the vehicle we’re looking for, but it’ll be good to have them in the file for comparison as and when we make an arrest.’
‘What about the fire?’ Lockyer asked.
‘They’re assuming the damage to the engine caused the fire and it then spread to the rest of the vehicle, though the left-hand side remained relatively undamaged.’
‘And the victim?’
‘As I said, she was still wearing her seatbelt and appears, according to the pathologist, to have died from a combination of head injuries and smoke inhalation. The body has been taken to Flax Bourton mortuary, where the post-mortem will be carried out by Dr Basil Reed.’
‘It hasn’t been done yet?’ Jane asked, sounding more judgemental than she intended.
‘No,’ Townsend said. ‘The body was only recovered forty-eight hours ago . . .’
‘Sorry, Bill,’ Lockyer said. ‘Jane and I have been spoilt. We’ve got a mortuary suite on site here and a resident pathologist who also happens to be a friend, so . . .’
‘That’s quite all right,’ Townsend said. ‘I assure you Basil has put this one at the top of his schedule. However, we only have three full-time pathologists and one part-time, and they cover everything from Basingstoke to Land’s End and from Bristol right down to the Isle of Wight.’
Lockyer sniffed and pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘What time were your guys on scene?’ he asked.
‘The report came in at five thirty and we were on scene by ten past six.’
‘And forensics?’
‘The same,’ Townsend said. ‘We’re all based at the new Bridgwater hub at Express Park. It’s fifteen-odd miles from the crash site. The body was removed by eleven . . . the car by mid-afternoon.’
‘That was a bit quick,’ Lockyer said.
Townsend took a second to respond. ‘I didn’t have much choice,’ he said. ‘The scene was ghoulish to say the very least.’ His eyes seemed to glaze over for a moment, but then his face cleared and he said, ‘I had the
press and locals trying to gain access. I even had people asking if they could walk through the crime scene, shouting legislation at me about rights of way for ramblers. I wasn’t prepared to risk anyone getting in there and taking a picture of the victim in situ.’
‘How did you get her out without damaging . . . without compromising any trace evidence?’ Jane asked.
‘I got the fire service to remove the driver’s seat with her still in it,’ he said. ‘The whole lot’s gone up to Flax Bourton.’
‘Wow,’ Jane said.
‘What’s been reported?’ Lockyer asked, turning the page on his notepad. Jane could count on one hand the times she had witnessed him taking notes. He had never worked that way – not in the seven years she had known him – but today, he had made more notes than she had. A lot more. Townsend was here to get them up to speed, but the detail Lockyer was going into made it feel more like a handover than a catch-up.
‘Not much so far,’ Townsend said. ‘A tweet went out on the day saying there had been a fatality involving a single vehicle and I’ve given a brief statement to the local press, but I haven’t released the name of the victim yet; although I’m sure, given the close-knit community down there, that everyone already knows.’
Lockyer nodded, and pushed his mug towards Jane. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘The lack of information released will make a big difference when we appeal for witnesses.’ He looked at Townsend’s mug and pushed it towards her, too. ‘I assume you were planning on launching an appeal?’
‘In due course,’ Townsend said.
‘Right.’ Lockyer tapped his pen on the page. ‘Can you get the same again, Jane, please?’ he asked. ‘And one for yourself, if you like. I doubt we’ll be stopping on the way down. May as well get your caffeine fix now.’
‘Sure,’ she said, getting to her feet without argument. Whatever was going on with her boss and his new efficient work ethic, she didn’t care. She was just grateful to be included – to be going to Somerset. She had already put a call in to the head at Peter’s school, who, to her surprise, had been fine about Peter missing the last week and a bit of term. There was no doubt a reason behind Mrs Hatley’s quick acquiescence, but Jane wasn’t about to go looking for trouble. Peter aside, the main reason she was happy to be here was that she hadn’t thought about Andy once since she sat down. ‘Another, DI Townsend?’
The Night Stalker (Detective Jane Bennett and Mike Lockyer series Book 4) Page 5