by Nick Louth
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Gillard replied.
Quoroshi loaded the two bags into the van. He then pulled down his hood, revealing trickles of sweat on his shaven, nut-brown forehead. ‘Analysis of this lot is going to take some time. As well as the desktop PC there is a tablet computer and an old laptop. From Mrs Knight’s office there’s a desktop and laptop. Debby did a quick scoot around upstairs, but everything looks in order.’ Yaz pulled down his glove to look at his watch. ‘We’ve got a kebab shop stabbing scene to examine in Woking today, so we’re not doing dabs or blood searches here at this stage, if that’s okay.’ He pointed to the van. ‘We’ve bagged up and labelled hairbrushes, combs and toothbrushes for DNA should they be needed. And we’ve got the household financial paperwork you asked for.’
‘Good. Any sign of Mrs Knight’s diary? She supposedly keeps it in her office.’
‘No. Nothing there.’
DS Mulholland had joined them at the van. ‘Craig, the LSE has called. Professor Knight has taken compassionate leave for five days, apparently.’
‘When?’
‘Sent an email to the departmental secretary’s number just a few minutes ago. The secretary says he has a regular Wednesday afternoon departmental meeting. He sounded well miffed that Knight hadn’t called to apologize for dropping them in it.’
Gillard sighed. The professor wouldn’t return official police calls, but had the nerve to message his employer. He turned to Quoroshi. ‘Did you find his passport?’
‘Hers, yes. Not his.’
‘Well, we’ve got ports and airports looking out for him and his car.’ In truth, this was Gillard’s biggest worry. That Professor Knight was doing a runner.
‘I want to know where he was when he sent that email, Claire. There’s every reason why he might want compassionate leave, but I smell a rat. I hope we can get CSI to finish off here tomorrow. We’ll need Oliver’s and the daughter’s swabs for elimination, of course. Check the local crime database for any previous incidents linked to this address. I’m taking the son up to Croydon to look at the rental houses. Get on to Rob Townsend to make sure we get every cell tower Knight’s phone has pinged, plus verbatim texts and all the ANPR. I also want to know exactly where his car is.’
Gillard left Claire talking to Quoroshi and returned to the doorway, where Oliver was showing something to the PC on the doorstep. ‘These are the family photographs Detective Sergeant Mulholland asked for,’ he said to Gillard. Professor Knight looked every bit the patrician: firm-featured, with a good head of salt-and-pepper hair, a solid nose and piercing eyes. The beard was light and not quite well-trimmed enough to be trendy. But there was a presence, to be sure. Something of Hemingway about him: a solidity and a swagger. Oliver said his father was about five ten and weighed just under 15 stone. The pictures of Liz were taken at her birthday party in August and were something of a shock to Gillard. The smile he remembered so well was still there, falteringly, but the dimples were lost in a fleshier face. Her neck looked thicker, and the cheeky little chin he recalled was now a double. Liz’s brown eyes, so alive in his memory, looked less sure, less confident, and were partially obscured by large thick-framed spectacles that made her look even older. Did she somehow fear she was going to be killed, or was it just him projecting that fear onto her?
Oliver Knight seemed anxious to excuse his mother’s physical deterioration. ‘Things went a bit downhill for her in the last 12 months,’ he said. ‘She never had to wear glasses before, and she’s been diagnosed with arthritis in her leg, and the drug she was taking caused her to put on weight. I’ve got some better pictures you might prefer.’
As Claire rejoined them, Oliver brought out two, showing a much slimmer, more attractive, and self-assured Liz, sitting at a sunny table near a beach. It was more the woman that Craig had expected she would become in middle age. ‘How old are these?’ Claire asked.
‘Two or three years,’ Oliver said. ‘These are the ones Mum would have chosen if she was here. Do you want to use them?’
Craig, still mesmerized by the pictures in his hands, hesitated, but Mulholland jumped straight in. ‘No, we can’t. It’s important we use the most recent pictures that reflect what she looks like now, whether they are unflattering or not.’
Craig knew she was right. In the age of social media it happened all the time. Relatives of the missing seemed to think they were assembling a model portfolio, when what you needed to do was stand a chance of recognizing the person as she was now. Poor Liz, thought Gillard. He never would have guessed that, 30 years on, he would now be thinking about where her lifeless body might be buried.
* * *
It was gone five when DS Claire Mulholland parked in Marlpit Close and surveyed the 1930s semi-detached houses which made up the secluded and leafy street. Just a mile from the Knights’ own home, these were well-to-do, solid middle-class homes where you could imagine the soft chimes of a grandfather clock and the clink of bone china cups. The front gardens were well-tended and extensive: no tendency here to pave them over to provide off-street parking.
Claire climbed the granite steps to the wooden front door and rang the bell. She heard no ring, but a small dog began barking. A white West Highland terrier ran to the door, where she could see through the lead-lighted panel that its tail was wagging.
A few moments later a tall figure in mustard-yellow corduroys and a brick-red shirt opened the door.
‘Mr Bishopsford? I’m Detective Sergeant Claire Mulholland. We spoke on the phone.’
‘Do come in. Geraldine is just making tea.’ Tom Bishopsford was a tall but slightly stooped fellow of perhaps 80, with snowy hair. As she followed him in, the dog fussing around her ankles, she noticed how the careful combing of the front third of his hair did not extend to the back, where baby-soft white strands stood out at wild angles, like the stuffing from an old settee. ‘Do take a seat in the parlour.’ He showed her through to a rather untidy lounge, overshadowed by dark sideboards and glass-fronted cabinets. He pointed to an old-fashioned three-piece suite, one chair of which was clearly claimed by the dog, whose hair-flecked bed occupied it. Half the settee was buried under newspapers and periodicals and some knitting. The final, heavily used, chair looked like it had collapsed. There was no TV in the room, but she heard from another room the faint sound of posh vowels from a radio.
Mrs Bishopsford came in with a tea tray and set it down on a magazine-cluttered coffee table. ‘Make yourself at home, dear,’ she said. She was a rounded, matronly woman in twinset and pearls, with long dyed brown hair, held in places by seemingly random oriental wooden pins, bows and clips. She poured a cup of strong tea into a large slightly chipped mug which bore the face of a West Highland terrier. ‘I’ve given you Westie because it holds more. You’re probably gagging after the day you’ve had.’
Claire sat down on the sofa, setting off an avalanche of copies of the Daily Telegraph and Radio Times. The dog tried to jump on her lap, and after she pushed it off, Tom chided it with a wagging finger. ‘Naughty boy, Aristotle. She doesn’t want to talk to you.’
‘Have you found our daughter yet?’ Geraldine asked, smiling.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Oh dear. She always has been such a headstrong girl. She’s bound to be down at Great Wickings. She’s always loved it there,’ she said.
‘They told us she wasn’t there, dear,’ Tom said gently. ‘This morning, remember?’
‘Oh yes. You’ve spoken to Oliver, I hear. And Chloe rang this morning.’
‘When did you last see your daughter?’ Claire asked.
‘A week last Sunday,’ Geraldine said. ‘She normally comes around for tea. Last Sunday of course, she was down in Great Wickings, painting.’
‘You should know,’ Tom said gently. ‘That Elizabeth has always had her “moments”, times when things get a little too much for her.’
‘It started when she was a teenager. After BBC Young Musician of the Year. She was runner-up,
but had worked so hard to do better,’ Geraldine said. ‘But then the piano is so competitive.’
‘We do know that she had depression on a number of occasions, and I believe was a voluntary in-patient at a psychiatric hospital,’ Mulholland said. ‘We’ve got a request in for her medical records.’
‘Yes, well my guess would be that she’s just gone off somewhere to get away from everybody. That would be why she isn’t returning telephone calls.’
Claire could now hear discordant classical music drifting in from the kitchen.
‘Not a fan of Hindemith, then?’ Tom asked, seeing the expression on Claire’s face.
She smiled it away. ‘Has Elizabeth ever threatened to kill herself, do you know? Has she ever confided in you that she was unhappy enough to do that?’
‘No,’ said Tom firmly. ‘She’s a very private and a very resourceful person. If she has a problem she just works it out. Do you know that she represented England’s women at a chess Olympiad in 1983?’
‘It was 1984, in Budapest, actually,’ Geraldine corrected. ‘And since she gave that up she has become an extraordinarily good bridge player.’
‘She and her friend Helen have a rubber or two with the humans most Sundays,’ added Geraldine. Catching the look of confusion on Claire’s face, she grinned. ‘Moira and Simon Hewman,’ she said, spelling the surname.
‘Does Martin play too?’
‘Gosh, no. He’s much too important!’ laughed Geraldine. ‘All that work for the Home Office. No, he doesn’t play games. In fact he hated it when Elizabeth beat him blindfold in chess all those years ago. He used to play chess for Middlesex when he was a boy, but he never played her again.’
‘It sounds like they had some rivalry, then?’
‘No,’ said Geraldine, inclining her head. ‘No, it wasn’t quite like that. They were both very busy with their academic lives in the early years, and like all families they had to make decisions, compromises. Of course Elizabeth gave a little ground because she was going to be a mother. That’s natural, isn’t it?’
Claire suppressed the urge to disagree. ‘Did they ever have violent arguments or rows?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Tom said. ‘Elizabeth wasn’t the kind to shout or make a scene. Never.’
‘Decorum,’ intoned Geraldine. ‘It’s very important, you know. Of course today, nobody gives a hoot about it. But we always brought her up to be a good girl.’
‘Did her husband ever assault her, do you know?’
‘My goodness, what a question!’ retorted Geraldine. ‘Martin’s a professor. At the London School of Economics. For goodness’ sake!’ she turned to her husband, as if to say: Where do they get these policewomen?
‘Martin is a man of words and ideas,’ Tom said. ‘If you want to see his pugilistic side, read what he writes. His pen is definitely mightier than any sword. He would never have laid a hand on our daughter, we’re confident of that.’
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time Gillard had completed his tour of the rental properties. Oliver told Gillard that his mother had bought the first one about six or seven years ago, and seemed to be quite astute in her choice of property. ‘It always takes me by surprise how many things she’s been good at,’ Oliver said.
The terraced Victorian house in Purley was occupied by a Carl and Leanne Dawkins, a young couple with two kids. Leanne, a short woman with pink hair and studs up one ear said none of them had seen Mrs Knight for a month. It wasn’t usual to see her unless there was a problem, and the rent was paid by standing order. At the converted house in Thornton Heath, less than five miles north, Oliver Knight showed Gillard into the hall and stairway. The tenant of the upper flat was Aleksander Horvat. ‘He’s an electrician, and is always out early. I can let you into the flat if you want – I do have a key, as did Mum,’ Oliver said.
‘I think we can leave that. I’d prefer to have his permission at this stage.’
Oliver then let Gillard into the empty downstairs flat. The detective donned a fresh pair of latex gloves and shoe covers and asked Oliver to wait while he looked around. It was a one-bedroom place, reasonably light and airy. It smelled of air-freshener and stale cooking, which went well with the scuffed woodwork and white, not-quite-woodchip wallpaper.
‘How long has this been empty?’
‘About three months. The last tenant stayed 18 months. She was a middle-aged divorcee who worked at Sainsbury’s at night, and as a cleaner in the mornings. A real hard grafter. She was from Guyana originally, but I think she now lives somewhere in north-west London.’
Gillard picked up a big pile of mail, mostly bills and official brown envelopes, some addressed to Horvat, some to a Mrs Aruna Edun, and a couple to a Mrs P.M. Jones. ‘Was Mrs Edun the most recent tenant?’
‘Yes. Pam was a bit more trouble. A widow from the Midlands and a bit fond of the bottle, apparently. Mum was always on to her about rent arrears. She gave her notice in the end.’
Oliver nodded and held out his hand. Gillard passed the post across and then said, ‘I’m going to ask you to give me your keys to this flat, and to the rental house, just for now. With luck it will only be for a few days.’
Gillard drove Oliver the short distance back to his legal office, Barker Caynes Tipping, part of a national conveyancing and family law chain. The office was closed, but Oliver let him in and ushered him to an interview room while he searched for the tenancy paperwork. He returned with a couple of thin files and pulled up a chair. ‘Okay, fire away.’
‘We’re just interested in basic background at the moment. Were you aware of anyone who might want to harm either of your parents?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
‘What about debts? Did either of them have any financial problems?’
‘Quite the reverse. Dad inherited quite a bit of money when his mother died. They’ve invested it in Spanish holiday property.’
‘But no disputes? Nothing like that?’
‘I would have known if there had been. I do a lot of the legal work.’ Oliver radiated a certain annoying smugness. Gillard decided to change tack.
‘Perhaps you can help fill in a bit of family history. Were either of them married or in a partnership before?’
‘No. It was first love for both of them. I’ve heard endless stories about it.’
First love. Gillard felt a stab as he wrote it down. ‘Did either of them have any affairs, to your knowledge?’
Oliver Knight’s right hand rubbed across his mouth. ‘Well.’ He looked out of the window and sighed. ‘My mother accused Dad of having an affair several years ago. I had just come down from Oxford, and there was an almighty row that evening. Chloe was really upset, and actually ran away from home for three days.’
‘Was it true?’
‘I have no idea. We never talked about it, I mean afterwards. Mum is very good. Loyalty is a great strength. She never tried to get me or Chloe onside, so to speak, by talking about her suspicions. For good or ill, I think she compartmentalizes her life. However, I think it was instrumental in Mum’s depression, which came back with a vengeance. That’s when she spent time in hospital in Epsom.’
‘A psychiatric hospital?’
‘Yes. It was voluntary. She was never sectioned or anything.’
‘She’d had previous occurrences?’
‘Yes. You’d have to look at her medical records. Have you spoken to Kathy?’
Gillard consulted his notes. ‘Kathy Parkinson?’
‘Yes. She’s Mum’s best friend and confidante. She can give you chapter and verse, I’m sure.’
‘We’ll interview Ms Parkinson tomorrow.’
‘Have you seen Mum’s parents yet?’ Oliver asked.
‘DS Mulholland saw them earlier.’
‘I rang them this morning, and they are terribly shocked,’ Oliver said. ‘If anything should happen to Mum they would be finished off. I mean it would be the end.’
‘Claire Mulholland is very diplom
atic, I assure you.’
‘It’s not that. Mum had a little brother who died when he was less than a year old. Andrew was hit by a car, right in front of her. She was only five.’
‘I never knew that.’ The words slipped out before Gillard could control them.
‘Well, of course,’ Oliver said, opening his hands. ‘There’s no reason why you would have done. Anyway, my grandparents have basically tried to wrap her up in cotton wool ever since. They were overprotective, I suppose, but one could understand why.’
Gillard said nothing. He recalled how reluctant Liz had been to introduce him to her father, particularly. He had always had to say goodbye to her at the end of the road.
‘But you can’t keep someone in cotton wool their whole life can you?’ Oliver asked. ‘Life is out there and has to be lived.’
* * *
Gillard was just walking down the stairs when his phone went. It was the RIO, Rob Townsend, and he said he’d got Knight’s mobile phone records. ‘Go ahead, Rob.’
‘The professor’s phone’s been switched off since Tuesday night when you spoke to him, except for the email to LSE which was sent from Dungeness. There are plenty of incoming texts and call records held on the server, but no outgoing. The cell site analysis up until that point confirms his own story. Tuesday afternoon, down on the train from York to King’s Cross, Victoria Line, then Victoria to Coulsdon South. Half an hour later, he was driving down on the A23 while making a long call. The ANPR camera cross-references his BMW at roughly the right time.’
‘Hmm. Any criminal record?’ Gillard asked.
‘He’s got a public order offence in Oxford from student days. Drunk and disorderly. She’s got a driving without due care and attention from 2007. Nothing else.’
‘Okay. Would you do the same for their kids? I think we’ve got details on file. Claire will be bringing in details of Mrs Knight’s tenants. I suppose we should check the cleaner too, just to be exhaustive. She comes on a Thursday morning, and might have seen Mrs Knight last Thursday.’ Gillard paused. ‘Rob, I’ve just been told that there was some substantial money changing hands in the family in the last year, from an inheritance. Given that both parents are missing, I think we have to take a closer look at Oliver Knight. Can you arrange for a warrant for the removal and analysis of his computers and phones from his home and office?’