Backlash

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Yeah, he was told she’d moved out.’

  ‘Okay. Just ask if he knew the address or location of any of the new places Fidelis was going to view. Did she use a letting agent, look in the papers or online, Time Out, Gumtree or whatever, then you’ll have to check back and see if she contacted any of them.’

  ‘Oh right, will do.’

  Andrew Markham’s garden centre was hard to find. It was not far from Cobham in Surrey, but the entrance was on a curve in the road, so easily missed. It had a barred gate with a notice to please make sure the gate was always closed. Only a small sign indicated that it was also a garden design company. Anna opened the gate and drove a few feet before she returned and heaved it shut. She found herself on a dirt track with big cart ruts and deep puddles. On one side was an open field; the other had a large barn with private property notices fixed to the side. The lane went on for about a quarter of a mile before a green-painted sign read MARKHAM’S GARDEN DESIGNS.

  A big red arrow pointed to a high barred gate, which was standing open enough for Anna to drive in.

  The garden centre had about an acre of land. Scattered around were modern greenhouses and there was another large barn, full of tractors, vans with the company logo, and a Range Rover. There was a trailer-cum-caravan with ‘Office’ printed on a card on the door. Anna knocked and waited, but there was no answer. She tried the door, but it was locked.

  Now she wished she’d put her wellington boots in the car as it was very muddy, forcing her to hop over two deep puddles as she headed for the first greenhouse. Plants grew in profusion, every shelf creaking with different varieties of flora. It was very well heated and irrigated, but it was also empty.

  ‘Hello? Anyone here?’ she called out.

  There was no reply so she made her way towards the second greenhouse. Outside were hundreds of clay pots of every size and a few stone statues. Anna could see more plants and inside this greenhouse the sprinklers were turned on. They gave a fine spray, making the windows steam up.

  Anna looked around the yard. The last building was the barn, and she plodded through the mud to get to it. The old wooden door was ajar and through it she could hear the sound of a tinny radio playing Bruce Springsteen.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’

  She peered inside: it was huge. Both sides were stacked with sacks of peat and soil reaching the ceiling. Then her gaze fell on a mass of gardening equipment – rakes and brushes and shovels – all piled in a square wooden pen. Wheelbarrows were propped against each other in a row and beyond them was a stable. A horse’s head stuck out, chewing straw, and the closer Anna got the more she could smell the overpowering stench of manure. A large second pen held bales of straw and sacks of horse feed. Propped above an old carpenter’s bench were saddles and riding equipment, and hard hats balanced on pegs.

  The second stall was empty but Anna was drawn by the sound of water and clanging buckets.

  ‘Hello?’ she called.

  There was a girl wearing jodhpurs, a green padded jacket and a cloth cap. She had rubber riding boots on and was using a hose to wash down the walls.

  ‘Excuse me. Hello,’ Anna tried again.

  The girl turned and gasped with shock as Anna had surprised her. She pulled out an earphone.

  ‘Christ, you scared the hell out of me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been calling out for ages.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Anna showed her ID and the girl pulled off a thick padded leather glove.

  ‘Shit, this isn’t that bloody farmer having a go at us again, is it?’

  ‘No, but if you could spare me a few minutes I’d like to talk to you. I am Detective Anna Travis.’

  ‘I’m Mari. Here, take the keys and go into the caravan and I’ll finish in here. Only the other horse will be back any minute and I want it clean before he’s here.’

  Anna opened up the caravan and got into the warmth. An old Calor gas heater made it feel like an oven. There was a decrepit floral sofa with the stuffing hanging out, two equally old armchairs, a large desk, and filing cabinets that were new and covered one wall. There was also a small kitchen with rows of chipped mugs and instant coffee jars and boxes of tea bags with names taped to them.

  It was about fifteen minutes before Mari banged into the caravan, making it shake.

  ‘That man is making our lives a nightmare. We are not allowed to put up a decent sign on the road, so we don’t get any passing customers – not that we really need them – but it’s a constant battle. I hope to Christ you shut the gate when you came in.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, because God forbid it’s left open. That bastard comes down the lane like something out of a Gothic nightmare. Trouble is, Andrew was left this patch of land by his father and he, the so-called farmer, wants him to sell up, which Andy refuses to do unless he’s paid a good price. He just wants his bloody cows to use our path.’

  Mari took off her cloth cap and a cascade of wild golden ringlets came loose. She was an exceedingly pretty woman. Devoid of any make-up, her skin was like a young child’s with ruddy cheeks and she had freckles dotted over her small neat nose.

  ‘So what’s this all about then?’

  She plonked herself down on one of the worn armchairs, indicating for Anna to sit in the other.

  ‘Well my full title is DCI Anna Travis from the Met murder team.’

  ‘Wow. Well my full name, believe it or not, is Marigold Summers – bane of my life. My sisters are also named after flowers; theirs are Daisy and Violet. Hippy parents, obviously, but everyone calls me Mari.’

  Anna smiled. Mari was a character, albeit it a very attractive one, with her skinny frame beneath an old man’s shirt, jodhpurs and rubber riding boots. She also had tiny slender hands.

  ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Mind if I make a roll-up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why are you here? I think Daisy said she took a call from some detective about contacting Andy, but he’s in Thailand, due back this weekend.’

  Anna watched as Mari fished in her pockets and took out a small square tin, pinched some tobacco out of it and very professionally rolled a thin cigarette. Licking the paper and twisting the end tightly, Mari then got up and fetched a lighter from the desk.

  ‘So what is this all about then?’

  She sucked at the thin roll-up and flicked the lighter on a couple of times before the tobacco caught.

  ‘It’s about a missing teenager; a girl called Rebekka Jordan.’

  Mari gave no reaction to the name as she leaned forwards to listen.

  ‘Mr Markham did some work on a property in Hammersmith for a Mr and Mrs Jordan. It’d be over five years ago.’

  There was still no reaction from Mari as she puffed at her roll-up.

  ‘Do you have documents here that could give me a list of the people Mr Markham employed on that specific job?’

  ‘I can have a look. I wasn’t around then. His filing system is a bit of a mess, his accountant goes mad, he’s always behind, but half the time it’s not his fault. You’d be surprised how late people pay their bills. The posher and richer they are, the worse they are. He’s forever sending off invoice after invoice.’

  Mari began to pull open drawers in one of the filing cabinets and turned to Anna.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten what I’m looking for?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Jordan from Hammersmith.’

  Mari banged open one drawer after another.

  ‘It’d be a help if he put them in alphabetical order.’

  ‘Tell me about Mr Markham?’

  Mari turned and grinned.

  ‘He’s fabulous. I adore him. I was in love with him from the age of seven as he knows my parents. I was always obsessed with horses and he used to be part of the local hunt. In fact the two hunters we’ve got are sort of a charity case as they’re ancient, but he won’t let them be sent off to the glue factory. We
give the local kids riding lessons and—’

  ‘Is he married?’

  Mari was now sitting on the floor with a stack of folders, skimming them and putting them to one side.

  ‘He has been twice, but with him working all hours here they didn’t last. He lives in his mother’s house now, but you’ll often find him kipping on that old sofa. Ah! Hang on . . .’

  Mari had a thick file filled with papers and drawings and pictures of greenhouses cut from magazines. She carried it to her chair and sat balancing it on her knee.

  ‘I think this is it. Gosh, it was quite a big job. There’s loads of invoices. What do you want to see?’

  ‘Did he use regular workers? Can you see if there is a list of people he employed to do the job?’

  Mari skipped through the pages and then passed the file over to Anna.

  ‘I can’t really tell you. It was quite a long time ago. He used to work part-time at Kew until he got this place up and running.’

  Anna smiled as she tried to sort through the mess of documents.

  ‘How many people work for him on a permanent basis?’

  ‘Well there’s me, my sister Daisy, two old blokes that he uses for the heavy lifting, and William who does the deliveries and buys any plants we don’t grow here.’

  ‘Have you ever seen this man before?’

  Anna passed Henry Oates’s photograph to her. She looked and wrinkled her nose.

  ‘No, don’t know him.’

  ‘When Mr Markham does a big job, say like the Jordans’, does he bring in extra help?’

  ‘Yeah, if he needs to. I mean the two old guys live locally and they don’t go out on jobs as they’ve got their work cut out here. William sometimes helps out, and me and Daisy, but the commissioned work is always handled by Andy. If he needs muscle he’ll get self-employed casual labour.’

  ‘Cash in hand, would that be?’

  ‘Yes, always is for part-timers. I think he’s got a group of guys he uses on a regular basis when they are needed.’

  ‘Do you have their names?’

  Mari chewed her lip and then picked up the lighter, sticking her roll-up in the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Now, they may be in his address book. He’s mind-blowing cos he uses a big old leather thing from years ago. We buy him new ones, but he likes to keep the old moth-eaten one cos he can’t be bothered to transfer all the names and addresses.’

  Mari was now looking over the desk, moving stuff aside and opening drawers.

  ‘What about a computer?’

  ‘He uses a laptop all the time, carries it with him. It will probably be at his house.’

  ‘Would he have a record of employees on his computer?’

  ‘Yeah, he might have.’

  Anna was getting frustrated. The Jordans’ file contained invoices, a list of plants, costings for the removal of a small fishpond and plans for a new garden layout and large new pond. There were photographs of the back of the Jordans’ house, showing the trees and shrubs that required removal. Amongst the papers were more diagrams of the brick wall that was to be replaced, the fences and then many samples of materials for the extension and proposed garden changes. It was almost impossible to find anything about how many people would be required to do the job, but it confirmed her belief that it would have been impossible for one man to do the clearance. She knew from the builders that Markham had excavated areas of the garden so the footings and foundations could be laid for the extension. From the dates on the invoices she calculated that Markham started the clearance work at the end of June 2006 and it probably took about two weeks to complete.

  Mari dumped a thick leather-bound diary onto the desk. Page after page was covered with Post-it notes, stuck with Sellotape to some pages, and at the back were names and addresses, hundreds of them. There were so many scribbled notes and crossings-out, it was difficult to decipher anything, but Anna began to sift through it anyway.

  ‘When did this girl go missing?’

  Anna looked up as Mari began rolling another cigarette.

  ‘Five years ago.’

  ‘Oh wow, long time. How come you are asking questions about it now?’

  ‘We have a suspect.’

  ‘Wow, that’s interesting. And you think he might have worked for Andy?’

  Anna looked up, surprised that Mari had worked it out.

  ‘Yes, it’s possible, but I really need to talk to Mr Markham.’

  The sounds of a horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbled stones outside made Mari yank open the caravan door.

  ‘Daisy, I’m in here! I washed down the stall so you can give him his feed!’ she yelled, then shut the door and pointed to a black-and-white photograph pinned on a noticeboard.

  ‘That’s him, he’s such a dozy lovable nag. He’s seventeen hands and twenty years old now.’

  Anna smiled as she glanced at the photograph. Mari lit her second roll-up.

  ‘Is that Mr Markham riding?’

  ‘No, that was his father. Do you want a coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  DS Paul Barolli had a fear of horses – in fact it was almost a phobia. He’d been given one lesson, aged seven, and the horse had trodden on him and injured his foot. He hated the smell of the manure, his stomach churned and he wanted to pinch his nose. The stables were very busy with young children having lessons in the manège area, the horses’ hooves throwing up sand as the instructor shouted for her pupils to sit up straight and gather in the reins for a trot. There were youngsters and adults mucking out stables, grooming horses and buffing up leather saddles. Barolli, not paying attention to where he was going, found himself stepping in a fresh mound of horse muck.

  The stable manager’s assistant, Kelly, a young girl in jodhpurs and thick polo-neck sweater, was removing her boots when Barolli was ushered into the reception office. He attempted to explain the reason for his visit, but was constantly interrupted as another girl answered the telephone, arranging rides and lessons and asking Kelly for timetables. It was hard for him to concentrate as he was sweating profusely, but he began to ease up when Kelly suggested they use an adjoining small office where they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Barolli showed Kelly the photograph of their suspect.

  ‘We are interested to know if there is anyone working here who recalls seeing this man. He may have worked part-time and used the name Henry Oates.’

  ‘Five or six years ago?’ Kelly said, looking at the photograph.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the girl that went missing, but you do know the whole stables have moved as it’s a much bigger organization now and we also have an equestrian training ring and large indoor—’

  He interrupted her. ‘Yes, yes, we are aware of that, but would you know if there are any employees still working here from the old stables?’

  ‘It’s likely, though I wouldn’t know, to be honest, I’ve only been here eighteen months, but I can get someone to find out for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Kelly returned to the larger office and Barolli could hear her asking if it was possible to run a check on the computer for a Henry Oates. She came back in and explained that they had a big turnover of people at weekends and that they also had a lot of trainers and owners coming through as they stabled privately owned horses.

  ‘It’s more likely this person worked mucking out. I doubt if he would have owned or ridden a horse, just been part-time labour,’ Paul told her.

  ‘What happened to the girl?’

  ‘Her name was Rebekka Jordan. It has been an ongoing investigation, but we’ve had a couple of new leads so they have to be looked into.’

  ‘But you don’t know what happened to her?’

  ‘No we don’t.’

  Kelly glanced at her wristwatch and apologized, saying she only had another few minutes before she was due to teach a lesson in the indoor arena.

  ‘I can walk you round the stables if you like. I presume you’ll want t
o show everyone this photograph.’

  ‘I’d like to wait to see if there is anyone from five years ago and then talk to them in here. I’m allergic to hay, I get hay fever.’

  It took Anna over an hour to read through the whole of Markham’s diary and finish checking the files for the job at the Jordans’. Mari had returned now and again to top up her mug of coffee. By the time Anna left she felt it had been a lot of time wasted and she still had no connection between Andrew Markham and Henry Oates. She had found some memos listing cash payments for part-time labour, but no names had been mentioned. She had made a copy of the dates and times Markham had worked for the Jordans, but his payments for the clearance had been settled by the builders. The fee for his work on the redesign of their garden, after the extension had been completed, was paid directly to his company account. Markham had finished working at the Jordans almost six months before Rebekka went missing.

  It turned out that the head groom and one of the riding instructors had been employed as young stable hands at the old yard when Rebekka went missing, but neither of them were able to identify Henry Oates. They remembered Rebekka, particularly as both had been questioned by Langton’s team. They did recall that often part-time labour would be used when the stables were being repaired. The previous owners used to hire from a job centre, but they were often youngsters. Barolli had heard enough, and couldn’t wait to get back to the station.

  Barolli and Anna arrived back at the incident room at the same time.

  ‘Got nothing new from the stables,’ he said. ‘There were two blokes who’d worked there for over five years and they’d also been questioned by Langton’s team and cleared, but they didn’t recognize Oates as ever being seen around there.’

  ‘I didn’t get much luck either.’ Anna wrote up her section of the board, underlining that Andrew Markham was still to be questioned on his return from Thailand.

  ‘What’s he doing there?’ Barolli asked.

  ‘Holiday.’

  ‘Ah, likes the young girls there, I bet. That’s why most blokes go there. They throw themselves at you.’

  ‘Really? Well, we’ll see what he says, but according to this girl Marigold Summers, he buys up a lot of artefacts there and gets them shipped here for his garden displays.’