by Carol Wyer
His mother yanks on the arm again. His father flicks her away and she crashes against the kitchen table, lets out a loud groan and flops to the floor like a rag doll. He turns his attention back to the boy, a sneer on his face, eyes mere slits, narrowed by cruelty. He lifts the belt again; the shining buckle in the shape of a skull glints menacingly and the boy shrinks into the smallest ball he can make. This is going to hurt even more than the strap.
‘Stand up, you little shit. Behave like a man.’ His father’s voice is flat, emotionless, and his words slurred by the alcohol he’s consumed.
‘I’m sorry,’ says the boy, hoping his words will end this torture.
‘No, you’re not sorry… yet,’ replies his father, ‘but you soon will be.’
The boy pulls his arms over his head. It’ll soon be over. His father’s rage will cease as it has started. He’ll go to bed and sleep off the effects of his latest drinking spree and tomorrow it’ll be like none of this ever happened, apart from the marks and bruises. Mum will put ointment on them, kiss him, hold him tightly in her arms, and cradle him until he stops crying, her eyes warning him to keep the secret. Above all else he must remain silent and keep the secret. In the morning, she’ll disguise her own bruises then apply thick concealer to the purple mark on his cheekbone. She’ll walk him and his eight-year-old sister to school while their father will whistle along to a song on the radio and behave as if he’s done nothing wrong.
His mother lets out a moan of despair. His sister, hiding under the kitchen table, now crawls towards their mother, tugs at her torn sleeve and is scooped up in her arm. He wishes he could join them, but he can’t. It’s his turn to be singled out and he has to take the punishment. If he doesn’t, his sister will be next. His sister is watching him with huge eyes; an unspoken understanding passes between them. He gives her a brave smile to let her know she’ll be okay.
Four
DAY ONE – TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, EVENING
* * *
Hannah Price was in her early sixties, but the deep frown lines and thin face made her seem older. She eased onto a kitchen chair next to a pine table, on which stood a mug of tea, her inhaler and a romance novel.
‘Poor little mite,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Aiden’s your younger grandson?’ Robyn asked.
Hannah smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing. ‘He is. Kyle’s older. He’s totally different to Aiden. He suffers from a mild form of autism so he can be a bit of a handful at times. Kyle shot off as soon as we got on that trail. I ought to have known. I thought it’d be a nice, easy walk, but it was bitterly cold in the wind, and I couldn’t keep up with the pair of them jumping and racing about. I told them they could go on ahead if they stayed within sight. I wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened to either of them.’ She gave a small shudder. ‘Kyle went off like a rocket, but I could still see Aiden. He turned and waved at me, and I shouted for him to wait up, but he continued. I hurried up the path after him, but I had to stop to take my inhaler. Once I start getting breathing difficulties, I need to stop for a minute. Anyhow, I heard a noise – a high-pitched howl – then Kyle came bounding back and asked where Aiden was. I panicked, which made my asthma worse. I didn’t know what to do. I grabbed Kyle’s hand and told him to stay beside me and we both started shouting Aiden’s name. We called out five or six times and he suddenly appeared, near some trees. His face was so white I knew something dreadful had happened. I asked him what was wrong and he wouldn’t answer. Then Kyle told him he was an idiot to rush off and Aiden began to cry. He said there was a scary man in a car like his mum’s. I asked him if the man had touched him or spoken to him, and he shook his head. I began to wonder if he’d been mistaken. Little boys can have vivid imaginations at times. Then, I spotted a glimpse of red through the bushes. I pushed through them into a clearing and saw the car. From where I was standing I could see exactly what had frightened Aiden. I dialled nine-nine-nine immediately and reported it.’
‘You didn’t move closer to the vehicle, Mrs Price?’
The woman shuddered. ‘Absolutely not. I walked the boys back to the café at the beginning of the trail and told a member of the staff what I’d seen. She phoned her manager. It all went crazy after that. Within a few minutes the police arrived. I wanted to get the boys back home as soon as possible. I made a statement and Aiden was asked some questions but to be honest he wasn’t up to answering them. The officer agreed it was best for us to leave.’
‘Did you notice anyone else near or around the car at the time?’ Robyn asked.
Hannah rubbed her lips together in concentration. ‘The police asked me that, and since then I’ve been racking my brains, but I didn’t see anyone. I was anxious about Kyle and Aiden so I didn’t really look as hard as maybe I ought to have. Do you think the killer was still about?’
Robyn shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I think they’d already left. Were there many people on the trail with you?’
‘There was a mother and three children, but they were on the way back to the car park when we met them. They were taking photographs at the first marker. I didn’t see anyone else at all,’ Hannah answered. ‘I shouldn’t have taken the boys. The weather wasn’t good. Emma, that’s their mum, wasn’t keen for them to go and yet I insisted. I should have listened to her and gone on a different day.’
‘What time did you arrive at Cannock Chase, Mrs Price?’ asked Robyn.
‘We were later than I’d hoped. Had trouble getting Kyle ready and then traffic was bad. There was a broken-down vehicle on a roundabout coming out of Stafford, and to cap it all I couldn’t find the right entrance to the trail. The Chase is so big. I went to the wrong car park at first. We got there about one fifteen. By the time we had lunch, collected the activity packs from the café and headed off on the trail, it was one forty-five.’
‘I don’t suppose you heard anything like gunfire or a car exhaust backfiring at any time, did you?’
Hannah breathed in, lips pressed together, and thought. Eventually, she replied. ‘No. I didn’t. I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear anything.’
‘And finally, could you tell me what time it was when Aiden discovered the car?’ Robyn asked.
‘I can’t be certain. I’d guess sometime between two and two-fifteen.’
* * *
As they drove back in the direction of Stafford, Robyn was already assimilating what she’d learned. The pathologist had put Henry Gregson’s death at between one and three. Hannah Price’s statement had corroborated that he was dead at about 2 p.m. and she hadn’t heard any gunshot while in the vicinity. Based on that information, Henry Gregson had been murdered sometime before 2 p.m. Robyn needed to know who was on the Chase before that time. Not only did she want to talk to Aiden, she wanted to interview the family of three who were returning to the car park when Hannah and her grandchildren were beginning the Gruffalo Trail. She called Anna.
‘Nobody knew who they were,’ said Anna. ‘They came into the café at twelve thirty, bought some drinks, paid in cash and left. They didn’t get an activity pack. The staff at the café didn’t see them leave either, or their vehicle. I’m about to check the security camera footage to see if we can spot their car in the car park.’
Robyn let out a soft huff of annoyance. It would have been easier to trace the family if they’d used a card as payment. ‘Okay, keep me informed.’
Mitz spoke without shifting his gaze from the road. ‘That family were taking pictures at the first marker point, which must mean they were using the Gruffalo Spotter application. Those photos will have been automatically added to the device’s gallery and can be shared via social media using the hashtag GruffaloSpotters. If we search recent additions on Instagram or Twitter, we might stand a chance of finding them.’
‘Good thinking, Mitz. Can you look into that further?’ She was interrupted by her mobile. ‘Robyn Carter.’
‘I’ve left all the information I could find on Henry Gregson on your desk. He was
squeaky clean. Worked in the local convenience store in Lichfield. Is there anything else you need from me tonight, only I’ve got a table booked…’ David Marker’s voice trailed off.
‘No, David. You get off. See you in the morning.’
Five
As Robyn bundled into the station with Mitz in tow, she spotted one of Shearer’s men ahead of them, dragging a chair down the corridor, and sighed. There’d be little peace in her office for the next few days or weeks, or however long it took to find somewhere to house Tom and his team. She hoped her patience would hold out.
The anemones displayed elegantly in a red, plastic-lined box on her desk served to remind her of why she was feeling less than her usual feisty self. She ought to be pleased that someone was showering her with affection and generous gestures but her heart ached and her mind was in turmoil. She hadn’t the foggiest who’d sent them. There was one possibility, but she didn’t dare consider it. In spite of her efforts, she was overwhelmed by a memory that refused to be quashed, of her and Davies’s last Valentine’s Day together…
* * *
The house is in darkness when she returns from her shift. She’s had a tough few days and today has been no different. She’s struggling to find sufficient evidence linking a pair of suspects to a burglary. She’s had to admit failure and now the case will go in front of a jury. She slots her key into the lock, heart heavy and with an ache in between her shoulders. As she opens the door, she’s met by silence. She shouts Davies’s name but there’s no reply. She drops her bag, along with her keys, onto the table, slips off her shoes and pads towards the sitting room, wondering if he’s been called away at the last minute.
She pushes open the door and is met with a sight that makes her mouth drop open. Before her, dressed in a toga and sandals, is Davies. He bows to her then lifts a child’s plastic recorder to his lips and plays a terrible rendition of the theme tune to Love Story. She can’t stop the grin spreading across her face.
‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ he says after murdering the tune.
‘What’s all this? Why the sheet and whistle?’
He fakes indignation. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a Greek god – Pan. And this “whistle” is supposed to represent his pipes. After all, Valentine’s Day originated in Greece. I’m staying true to the original idea, and getting into character. Come on, I’ve got a costume for you too.’ He holds out a hand and drags her towards the settee where he’s laid out a simple tunic purchased from a fancy dress shop.
‘You’ll have to disrobe completely, of course,’ he says, giving her a wink. ‘And then I’ll feed you grapes – well, a glass of wine – and we’ll amuse ourselves with romantic Greek games.’
‘What games would they be?’ she asks, slipping out of her shirt and pulling the tunic over her head.
He points towards the large set of wooden blocks stacked in one corner of the room. ‘Love Jenga,’ he says with satisfaction. ‘Each block has a love command on it. If you pull a block out and the others tumble, you have to pay the forfeit written on the block.’
She marvels at how he comes up with such innovative ideas. ‘They’d better be good forfeits or I’m not playing. None of them involve you playing that recorder again, do they? My eardrums can’t take another song.’
He gives her a cheeky grin and suddenly she doesn’t feel so weary.
* * *
Robyn gently rubbed the band of the engagement ring that she still wore and thought about what was really troubling her. For three weeks, she’d been trying to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding her fiancé Davies’ death. She’d always believed he’d been murdered in an ambush, in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. That was until she’d received a photograph that contradicted everything she’d been told, and as she rubbed her ring, she wondered for the umpteenth time if he was still alive, and if it had been him who’d sent the photograph to absolve her of her guilt.
Davies had been an intelligence officer, although to all who knew him he worked for a company specialising in microchip technology. His secret life was very much that, and Robyn had always been kept in the dark about any missions. It was for both their safety. That last fateful trip had broken the rules. She had joined him at his request. He’d insisted it wasn’t a covert or dangerous mission. He’d been sent to Marrakesh purely to meet with an informant, and there was every chance the man wouldn’t show. It had been his suggestion she come along, convinced there was nothing to worry about.
At first, Robyn had refused, but Davies was a persuasive man and wheedled and cajoled until she agreed to accompany him. As he reasoned, he wouldn’t have asked her if there had been any risk at all.
Having recently discovered she was pregnant, Robyn had decided to break the news during this impromptu short break in Marrakesh, a city that had always fascinated her.
On the second day of the trip, Davies had been instructed to meet the informant, and set out on the three-hour drive to the meeting point, except he never made it. His vehicle had been involved in an ambush. From that day, she’d carried a mountain of guilt, convinced she had drawn attention to him through her presence. It was because of her that his vehicle had been targeted and bombed.
The photograph had landed on her desk just over three weeks ago, while she was in the middle of a serious murder case, and she’d therefore been unable to fully consider its implications. Since then, her attempts to check its validity and work out why she’d received it, had been hampered by work. She was hoping to grab a few days’ leave so she could hunt down Davies’ superior at the time of his death, Peter Cross, and tackle him about it. She’d had no luck locating him to date and was keen to talk to him. For the moment, though, she had to concentrate on police work and it was proving difficult.
She squared her shoulders. It was still her office, after all, and she wasn’t going to let Tom Shearer get too comfortable there.
Tom and his men had already made themselves at home, and the office was filled with furniture, computers and boxes, arranged in a higgledy-piggledy fashion. To the far side of the room, four desks had been arranged in offset rows, facing the whiteboard at the front of the room. Matt looked up from his own desk that was wedged in the corner next to the coffee machine and grinned. He pointed to the machine and gave a thumbs up to Mitz. Robyn clambered over PC Gareth Murray, an exuberant youngster who’d joined Tom’s team three months earlier, now on his knees, searching for sockets.
The young man leapt up to attention. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, as Robyn slid into her seat, trying hard to ignore the fact it had been moved extremely close to both Anna’s and Mitz’s desks, to make room for the new arrivals. The bouquet of anemones was still on it. She shifted it aside.
‘PC Murray, if you’re going to be sharing this office with us for a while, please refrain from calling me ma’am.’
‘Understood,’ he replied, almost clicking his heels together and standing straighter.
Tom appeared, a box of files in his arms. He nodded at Robyn. ‘It’s okay if we squash in over there, isn’t it? I know it’s in front of the window, but there wasn’t much choice.’ He dropped the box onto his desk and began sorting through it. ‘Gareth, make sure those tech guys are on their way to set up the computers, will you? I’m getting way behind with investigations thanks to this farce. You’d have thought Flint would have got somebody in to help us move. I don’t recall seeing the words “removal man” on my last CV. You got enough space, DI Carter?’ He spotted the irritated look on Robyn’s face and studied her, head cocked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘I could get Gareth to sit on my knee if you’d like some more.’
She didn’t respond with a smile and instead shrugged. ‘It’s fine. We’ll get by, but I need the whiteboard.’
Tom sniffed. ‘Suits me. I don’t use those old things any more myself. Bit antiquated.’
Robyn bit her tongue. She had her methods and it had no bearing if they were regarded as antiquated or otherwise by the likes of Tom
Shearer. They worked for her and for her team. Mitz didn’t need to be asked to collect it. He knew the routine. Robyn would want to thrash out what they’d uncovered before deciding how best to approach the investigation. He dragged the board across to their section of the room and stood it beside Robyn’s desk. It acted as a small screen, shielding her slightly from Tom, who was now grumbling on the phone. She wrote down a few words and then stood, marker pen in hand.
‘This is what we have so far – murder victim is thirty-three-year-old Henry Gregson, currently living in rented accommodation in Alford Lane, Brocton. Married to Lauren Gregson, an estate agent. Mrs Gregson has been informed. Police officers say she reacted very badly to the news and a doctor had to be called out to sedate her. She’s not in a fit state to talk to anyone else tonight. Officers say she had no idea Gregson wasn’t at work. He’d texted her that morning from MiniMarkt Convenience Store in Lichfield, where he works. Matt, what else did you find?’
Matt rummaged through his notes, cleared his throat and spoke. ‘There’s nothing about him on our databases. Ergo, no previous convictions. Born 30 March 1983 in Stoke-on-Trent. His sister, Libby, and their mother still live there. He left school in 1998 with a handful of GCSEs. Not got anything on employment record up until more recently. Worked for a large chain of supermarkets in a variety of roles: shelf-stacker, checkout operative and team leader. Studied and passed his Level 3 NVQ Diploma in Management a couple of years ago. No idea why he might have been targeted as yet, guv. His sister, Libby, cares for their mother, who’s suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. She can’t travel without making arrangements for her mother, so I told her we’d go over and speak to her tomorrow.’