by Carol Wyer
‘That’s good. I might go myself if there’s time.’
‘She said she’s an early bird, so if you want to go first thing, that’d be fine.’
Robyn checked her watch. It was coming up to quarter to eight. They’d been in since eight that morning. She wanted to send them home, but she had to start on the investigation. Anna arrived, carrying Gregson’s iPhone in a plastic evidence bag. She handed it to Robyn, who examined it for a minute before returning it.
‘Make sure the tech boys get this pronto. I want to know who he was calling or texting at the time he was shot. As soon as we finish here, okay?’
Robyn wrote ‘telephone’ and ‘gun’. She replaced the cap on her pen and tapped it against her chin thoughtfully.
‘The body was discovered by a minor – Aiden Moore. His grandmother, Mrs Hannah Price, and his older brother, Kyle, are our only witnesses and they didn’t hear any gunfire. From that, I could deduce the murderer used a silencer on his weapon, but until we’ve tracked down and spoken to other possible witnesses, we won’t know. Mitz, I’ll leave it to you to trace the family who were there before Mrs Price began walking the trail. Your hashtag GruffaloSpotters idea was a good one. Anna, get anywhere with the other vehicles at the car park?’
‘Got registrations for seven vehicles. CCTV footage wasn’t much use. The family walked across the car park and out the other side. They must have been parked elsewhere – maybe along the road.’
Robyn unscrewed the cap on her pen once more. Tom shuffled towards the door, disappearing into the corridor. ‘Okay, this is how I’d like to play it: Mitz, chase up those car registration numbers. See if any of those owners caught a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. You know the drill. Matt, talk to friends, neighbours, people he knew. Anna, tomorrow morning, I’d like you to accompany me to interview Henry Gregson’s widow, followed by his sister, and then we’ll go to his place of work. Also, we need to find out as much as possible about him, see if he uses social media, and anything that might help. We need to ascertain if this was a random killing or a deliberate murder. If it’s the latter, why? Any first thoughts?’
‘Nothing new from me, guv,’ said Matt. The others shook their heads in unison.
‘We’ve got plenty to get on with,’ said Robyn. She glanced at her watch again. ‘Right, that’s it for tonight. It’s almost eight. Go home, folks.’
They shuffled towards the door, donning their coats and picking up scarves. Anna was first out, hastening down the corridor to find somebody to examine the telephone. Matt was last out. ‘You going home, guv?’ he asked.
She looked up. ‘In a mo. Just going through your notes first. See if I can work out any reason he might have been murdered.’
‘It’s certainly seems to be a premeditated murder,’ Matt replied. ‘You don’t ordinarily wander about Cannock Chase with a gun. Not unless you intend shooting someone or something. It’s full of walkers, cyclists, tourists and day-trippers.’
‘True. Have good evening.’
‘Yeah, you too, boss.’
The ringing footsteps of her officers departed down the corridor and through the fire door. As it swung shut, silence fell. She began reading the file Matt had left her. There was nothing extraordinary about Henry Gregson, a local man who lived in a small village near Stafford. On the surface, he was an upstanding citizen with no convictions, not even a parking ticket. Robyn sighed and shifted to get comfortable on her chair. She eased back her shoulders, which had stiffened up. It’d been a long day and she could do with going home too. She was drawn back to the photograph of the pleasant-faced man. Who would want him dead and why? She scribbled a note on a neon-green Post-it: Is shooting allowed on Cannock Chase? Make list of local farmers.
She stood and stretched. She might have a quick run before she showered and went to bed. The Ironman event was in June, only four months away, and she needed to keep up her training. She shuffled the files to put them away.
She shouldered her bag. As she prepared to turn off the lights, the door swung open and Tom Shearer stumbled through, a box of files in his arms, and collided with her. The box dropped onto the floor with a clatter and the files tumbled out.
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ he began. ‘Sorry, Robyn.’
As she helped him gather up his files, Shearer seemed to recover his composure. ‘Cheers. Er, don’t suppose you fancy a drink, do you? I’m parched after all this lifting and carrying.’
‘Sorry, Tom, I’ve got to get off. Another time.’ She scooped up the anemones, careful not to damage them.
‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’ He marched over to his desk and let the box land with a thump. ‘No probs. Got a load to sort out here, but it can wait. I’m off for a pint.’ He nodded at the flowers. ‘My ex-missus used to get in a right strop if I didn’t buy her a dozen roses on Valentine’s Day. Bloody expensive they were, too. Seems such a waste of money now when I think back. It would have paid for quite a few pints. Night, Robyn.’ He turned his attention back to his box.
* * *
Robyn drew up outside her house at the end of Leafy Lane. It was neither a lane nor leafy but it was a relatively quiet street with well-kept semi-detached houses. A soft glow shone from behind her kitchen blinds. The automatic timers she’d fitted had illuminated the lamps in the sitting room so she no longer came into a dark and empty house. With flowers held awkwardly under an arm, she felt in her bag for her house keys and cursed the fact the bulb above her front door had gone out again. It must be faulty. This was the third bulb in as many weeks. She’d have to get it looked at.
She dropped her bag onto the floor in the hallway and tossed the car key onto a console table before heading directly for the sitting room. She placed the flowers on the dining table, pulled out the envelope postmarked London and withdrew the photograph of Davies taken at three thirty on the fifteenth of March 2015, the very same time she was in a room in Marrakesh, being told by his superior Peter Cross that Davies had been murdered on his way to rendezvous with an informant on the other side of the Atlas Mountains.
The flowers had rattled her. Davies had been the only person who’d ever sent her anemones on Valentine’s Day…
* * *
The Jenga bricks are in a heap over the carpet. Robyn drops a grape into Davies’ mouth and he chews, eyes closed.
‘I like having a slave,’ he says.
She thumps him on the arm. ‘That’s it. I’m done with this game. Your forfeits stink.’
‘Oh, come on. You liked having your feet bathed.’
‘Yeah, that one was okay.’
She moves across to the bouquet of anemones on the table; rich crimson petals open to reveal dark stamens. She can’t describe the perfume. It’s unusual.’
Davies studies her movements and speaks. ‘It’s part of the Greek theme. They’re more romantic than roses. After jealous gods murdered her lover Adonis, Aphrodite cried tears on his grave. Those tears grew into anemone flowers. The flowers are forever linked to the forsaken, or those left behind.’
* * *
Robyn stared at the bouquet. First the photograph and now the flowers. If Davies were alive, he might have sent her both, but the question remained as to why? Why hide from her and send cryptic messages? That led her to consider other, more sinister options. Somebody was aware Davies bought her anemones each Valentine’s Day and – or – knew about the Greek myths that gave the flower the dual meanings of the arrival of spring winds and the loss of a loved one to death. Could they be sending her a veiled threat, or even a warning? Far from wondering if Davies was behind the gesture, she now wondered if she might be in danger, from somebody who either had captured Davies or was following up a vendetta against him.
She searched the anemones again for a card and found none. Sitting down with her mobile, she searched for local florists, writing down their contact details. She’d ring them when she had a chance. The arrangement had come inside a plastic bag filled with water and placed in a lined, red box. M
aybe this sort of display was particular to only one or two florists.
She stroked a silken petal gently. It was yet another mystery, one that caused a chill to run through her.
Six
THEN
* * *
Happy Hippo’s mouth opens and shuts at speed as his sister tries to capture the marbles spinning about the old, red plastic tray. He’s working Henry the blue hippo’s mouth for all its worth, and the marbles dive in all directions, clattering against the sides. There are two remaining marbles, and his sister is concentrating hard, tongue between her lips. The pink hippo grabs them and she hoots with delight. The boy shrugs. Normally he’s a dab hand at this game and can trounce her, but today, she’s won fair and square. Her eyes sparkle in jubilation.
‘Want another game?’ she asks.
He shakes his head. ‘Later maybe.’
‘Sore loser,’ she says. She puffs out her cheeks like one of the hippos they’ve been playing with and waddles around the kitchen, arms held wide by her side. ‘I’m Happy Hippo.’
‘Yeah, you’re about the size of a hippo,’ he teases.
She blows a loud raspberry in response that makes them both snigger. She pulls another face and crosses her eyes before packing up the game and taking it upstairs. He reaches for the unfinished sandwich in front of him on the table.
‘You didn’t take any money out of the jar, did you?’ His mother appears, a crease developing between her eyes. ‘I won’t be angry.’
He shakes his head, chops full of bread and jam. There had been no butter again and the bread was dry, but when he complained, his mother replied, ‘Drier where there’s none,’ as she plonked it down in front of him.
He always eats whatever he is given. Some days they have half-decent food, usually after his father gets paid. Mum will treat him to something nice. He likes fish and chips, but recently they don’t even get fish, just chips: fat, crispy chips with lots of ketchup. He smacks his lips at the thought. He’d been really hungry today and wolfed down the first sandwich as soon as he got it before his sister had insisted on a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. They’d played football at school and he’d run about like crazy, chasing after the ball and eventually scoring. One day, he’ll become a top footballer and earn so much money he’ll never have to eat dry bread and strawberry jam again. And he’ll take his mum and sister to a mansion, far away from his father and his temper that is fast spiralling out of control.
Both he and his sister have taken to hiding in their bedrooms as soon as they hear their father’s key in the door. It is best to hide, especially when he’s been drinking, which he seems to be doing more and more often. His sister hadn’t been quick enough to race upstairs last time Dad’d come in, stinking of alcohol and with a mean look on his face.
The boy hates it when his father takes his rage out on his sister. She is so little and frail, but nevertheless, each time she falls foul of his mood, the boy jams his fingers in his ears to block out her shrieks, afraid to challenge the man that is supposed to care about them. He will save them when he gets older and bigger. He’ll become a footballer and take them far away.
That reminds him – he needs another plaster from the medicine cabinet. His blood blisters are really big now and the largest burst during the match, splattering warm blood into his sock and making his foot squelchy. His football boots are too small for him and press on his feet. He’d squeezed them on again today but he’ll be in danger of breaking his toes soon. There is no way he is going to be able to get new ones, not unless he steals some.
He’d considered asking his mother for a pair of second-hand boots from one of the numerous charity shops that are in the area, but now the emergency money has gone, that isn’t likely to happen. He’ll have to work out how to steal a pair.
‘I wouldn’t take the money,’ he says finally, wiping his finger around the plate, scooping up the last of the sticky strawberry jam.
His mother shakes her head. ‘Yeah. I know you wouldn’t. I had to ask though.’ Her words are carried on a breath of air that comes from deep inside and keeps escaping. Her head and shoulders drop. It’s like she’s deflating.
He sticks the finger in his mouth, sucks at it until the final sugary residue has gone. His mother doesn’t speak again. She stares out of the window onto the street, where two women are chatting animatedly while two small girls run around the lamp post, giggling wildly. He puts his plate in the sink. He’s still hungry but it’ll be pointless to ask for more food. If the money’s gone then his father must have taken it. His mother’s been saving that money for ages – a little each week.
He pads to the small box room that serves as his bedroom, and stares out of the window onto the street below. The two girls are now further along the road and still laughing. A little dog has joined them and they’re taking it in turns to throw a ball for it. It pirouettes for the ball to be thrown and darts after it, tail high. Suddenly he spots his father rounding the corner and striding down the road, scowling like he does when he’s had a bad day, and he’s immediately aware of how miserable and dark it feels in his world. Outside is freedom. Inside is a prison he can’t escape.
Outside is another world. As far away as the moon.
Seven
DAY TWO – WEDNESDAY, 15 FEBRUARY
* * *
Lauren Gregson was still in a state of shock and her cheeks were drained of colour. She wore a delicate chain and silver heart around her slender neck, and a pale pink baggy sweater that swamped her frame. She tugged at the sleeves, pulling them over her hands so only her long fingers were visible, and looked up. Robyn had seen others wearing the same haunted look, not yet fully comprehending the enormity of what they’d learned, carrying on as normally as they could until they were suddenly side-swiped by it and crumbled. Lauren was close to the edge. The family liaison officer, Sheryl Morris, a veteran in this line of work, was making tea in the tiny cottage kitchen. Robyn heard the whine of the kettle as it boiled and the gentle tinkling of spoons against china as she prepared the drinks. She glanced towards Anna Shamash, who exuded calm and compassion – qualities required for this part of their job.
‘I keep expecting Henry to walk through the door.’ Lauren looked towards Robyn. ‘And thinking it’s all a huge mistake and you’ve identified the wrong man.’ Her voice was soft. She blinked back a tear that had formed.
The woman’s fragility was palpable. Robyn understood what she was going through. She’d experienced the same emotions and thoughts when she’d learned Davies was dead.
‘Here we go.’ Sheryl placed mugs of tea in front of Robyn and Anna and handed another to Lauren before settling down beside her on the settee. Sheryl’s presence was welcome and helped make the situation less awkward. Lauren sipped her tea, clutching the mug between her hands so tightly her knuckles turned white, and gave a nod.
‘Are you feeling up to talking to us?’ Robyn asked.
Sheryl gave the woman a smile of encouragement. ‘You’re doing really well,’ she said.
Lauren breathed in shaky, small gulps of air then nodded again.
‘I’m going to ask a few questions and if at any time you want to stop, just say the word. Okay?’
Lauren’s head moved up and down slowly as if in a daze. She looked at Sheryl, who gave another smile.
Robyn spoke again. ‘What can you tell us about yesterday, before Henry left to go out?’
‘Not much. I was a bit miffed because it was our first Valentine’s Day together in our home, and I’d taken the day off from work – I’m an estate agent – and planned on cooking us a special meal together, but he’d swapped shifts at work at the last minute without consulting me. He knew I was upset about it so he made me a special breakfast in bed to make up for it.’ She wiped away more tears that had formed. ‘He bought me this necklace. I… I…’
She fingered the chain bearing a silver heart and there was a moment of silence as Lauren struggled to regain control. ‘He texted me as soon as he got t
o work. Said he was sorry about the meal and he’d make it up to me.’
‘And that was about what time?’
‘Just before ten. His shift began at ten.’
‘You said he swapped shifts?’
Lauren bit her lip. ‘Yes, it was last minute. He swapped with Daisy.’
‘Daisy?’
‘She’s one of his colleagues. Been there a couple of years, I think. Single mum. She usually works on stock control, shelf-stacking, that sort of thing. She asked him last minute if he’d cover for her. Her childminder couldn’t have the kids as planned. That’s why he went in. To cover for Daisy.’ She paused and looked about, eyebrows raised and lowered in confusion.
‘Had Henry seemed concerned or anxious about anything at all?’
‘He was quieter than usual but that was because of personal issues. We’ve been trying for children without success. The doctor suggested we had tests to make sure everything was working normally, and Henry was pretty anxious about his results. He was convinced it was his fault, especially as mine showed I was healthy and able to conceive. Henry went to the fertility clinic in Tamworth last Friday. His results are due this week.’ Her face crumpled. ‘This can’t be happening,’ she wailed.
Sheryl patted her hand.
‘I don’t understand why Henry was found on Cannock Chase. He was at the store. He texted me saying he was at the store. He couldn’t have been on Cannock Chase.’ Her voice rose and she clutched the mug more tightly.
‘Lauren, we’re going to talk to the store manager about it. Henry might have been sent out for some reason and stopped off on the Chase,’ Robyn said.
‘Liam. Liam’s the store manager. He’s a good friend of ours too. We see a lot of him and his girlfriend, Ella. Henry is godfather to their daughter Astra. They’ll be devastated.’ The words came automatically, without true comprehension of what was being said. Finally, Lauren lifted her head to Sheryl and whispered, ‘He’s really gone, hasn’t he?’