Detective Mike Croft Series Box Set

by Jane Adams

  Even more strange, perhaps, was the reaction of Theo’s doctor. He’d been informed of her death, of course, but when Mike called him he professed ignorance of Theo’s condition. So concerned was he that his memory might be failing him that he had checked through Theo’s record.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to say dementia isn’t setting in. Theodora Howard has seen me only three times in the past year. Once for a sprained ankle. Once for a throat infection, oh, and the third time I told her that she had a rather virulent influenza virus. That one was a call out. She’d been up all night with sickness and a high temperature and someone had got worried. I’ve a note here that I was called out by her lodger. Would that make sense?’

  But surely, Mike had asked, she must have been in pain. She must have been diagnosed. She must have known.

  The doctor had just shaken his head. ‘I’ve not seen Miss Howard in the last six months,’ he said. ‘If she knew, if she was receiving medication, well, it wasn’t from me.’

  Mike had spoken to John Tynan a couple of hours before, filling him in on the bare facts, aware that waiting for news was putting a great strain on the older man. He was glad that Maria was there.

  Fact number three, Theo must have started drinking from the moment she had walked through the door. A neighbour had seen her come home at about five o’clock. She had parked her car easily enough in the small space left in front of the house, so it seemed a fair bet that she was still sober. Davy claimed to have found the body at about twenty to eight. The boy had been seen running away about thirty minutes before. All in all, Theo must have died some time between five and, say, seven thirty.

  The pathologist’s estimate based on body temperature couldn’t put it much more accurately than that, the best guess being about seven o’clock. And that made sense. She’d need time to have drunk so much.

  Arriving at John’s house he cut the car engine, sitting back in his seat for a few moments to gather his thoughts before going inside. Maria was right, he thought. He would have to change his old car. He’d just been putting it off for far too long. Driving hers was a sheer delight and one less thing to worry about. Twice now, his had died on him. Once at a set of traffic lights when he’d already been late for a meeting and once in the middle of nowhere. He’d had to get it towed to a garage.

  He got out of the car, aware that the front door was open and John was waving to him.

  ‘Phone call for you,’ John shouted.

  ‘Oh God, what now?’

  He hurried into the hall, pausing to kiss Maria on the cheek as he passed her by.

  ‘Croft.’ He listened in silence, then thanked the speaker and put the receiver down.

  ‘Well?’ Maria asked him.

  ‘That was Price. There’s been an odd development in the Theo Howard case.’

  ‘One you haven’t told us yet?’ John said gruffly. ‘I thought we’d had enough surprises for one night.’

  ‘So did I. Price has just got off the phone with a Detective Inspector Charles Morrow. Based at Devizes in Wiltshire.’

  ‘Wiltshire, what’s that got to do with Theo?’

  ‘That’s just it, we don’t know. But it seems he’s been heading up a murder enquiry. The body’s only just been identified and Morrow was going through the woman’s effects. Theo Howard’s telephone number was among them.’

  9 p.m.

  It had taken a lot of ringing around and more than a few threats, but Phil Myers had finally got the location of the party his daughter was supposed to be going to.

  Paula Myers was outraged. ‘She told me she was going to the pictures and staying over at her friend’s afterwards.’ She looked at her husband, anxiety replacing anger. ‘You don’t seriously think she’ll turn up there, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. But her friends must be able to tell me something.’ He paused, then got up and resumed his earlier pacing around the room like a trapped animal. ‘I can’t believe she’d go off like this. Just go. I mean, if she had problems I could understand it, but . . . why couldn’t she just talk to us?’

  Paula’s eyes focused on him and she shook her head. ‘When was the last time either of us could talk to you without getting our heads bitten off?’ she said. ‘You’ve built a wall so high round yourself we can’t even see you these days, never mind try to talk.’

  She could see him bristling with anger, ready to resume the fight that had raged off and on all night and most of the day. Paula didn’t think she could take any more of it. Instead, she shook her head, lifting tired hands to rub her face as though scrubbing it clean.

  ‘No, no. It wasn’t just you. Neither of us really asked her anything, did we? It was always “How was school, Sarah? Do you have any homework, Sarah? Do you really think you can make up good enough grades at that ordinary school, Sarah?” My God, I’d listen to us sometimes and I’d want to switch off too. No wonder she didn’t talk to us.’

  ‘We weren’t that bad!’ He crossed to the table and sat down opposite. For a moment she thought that he would reach across and take her hand, but he didn’t.

  He said, ‘We care about her, that’s all. Is that so wrong?’

  ‘No, of course not, but — I don’t know, maybe we were so busy trying to get it right we forgot why we were doing it?’

  He got up and went through to the hall. She could hear him, visualize him taking his coat from the hook and looking in the hall mirror to straighten his tie. Then she heard the front door slam.

  Chapter Sixteen

  9.10 p.m.

  The Parishes had gone away for the weekend leaving their two teenage sons behind. The oldest was nineteen and the youngest in the same year as his Sarah. Phillip Myers had worked this out from the assorted bits and pieces of information he had gleaned from Sarah’s friends.

  The Parishes’ house was a nineteen-thirties bay-fronted semi at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. He had not been able to find out the number. The kids he’d talked to knew where it was, but not unimportant details like addresses. He had hoped there would be evidence of a party going on, remembering, with a guilty start, the parties of his late teenage years. The complaints of neighbours. The desperate efforts to clean up before parents got back. The housewarming when he’d moved into his first bedsit flat and, long before independence, that one, humiliating time when the police had been called to a friend’s place because of the noise and someone hadn’t been smart enough to flush their stash down the toilet in time. He still remembered the horror of having to explain to his folks why he hadn’t been home all night.

  ‘But I was older,’ he told himself. ‘I was a student then.’

  And yes, he had been, all of two years Sarah’s senior. Somehow, in the drive over to the Parishes’ house, that two years had ceased to be such a great divide. Now all he wanted was to get his daughter back.

  The cul-de-sac was so quiet he thought he had to be mistaken, or that his informants had deliberately misled him. He drove slowly to the end of the road. Two houses stood together. No car in the drive of one, and lights on in the front room and the front bedroom. The other house appeared to be in darkness.

  He got out of the car and looked around. The cul-de-sac was empty. The rain had ceased to fall and now the wind was rising, blowing the clouds across the moon. Lights glowed behind closed curtains, television pictures flickered across uncurtained glass. Phillip began to walk towards the semi at the end. Dimly through the thickly curtained bay window of the house, he could hear music.

  His footsteps were loud on the gravel of the drive. Phillip stood for a moment in front of the wooden door. What if she wasn’t here? Was it really likely that she would be?

  He raised his fist and began to hammer on the door.

  Phillip Myers had lost his temper. Lost it in a big way and even by the time Price arrived had not yet fully recovered it.

  Phillip had not bothered with introductions. As soon as the door opened, he had pushed his way into the house, marched into the front room from which th
e music was escaping and turned off the CD player.

  The silence was absolute within seconds. Then broken as the protests began.

  ‘Oh come on, man, we weren’t making that much noise.’

  ‘I’m here to find my daughter,’ Phillip announced loudly. ‘Some of you, one of you has got to know where she is and you’re going to tell me. You’re going to tell me now.’

  Graham, the eldest Parish son, stepped forward, still sober enough to put two and two together and not wanting anything to spoil his show. He tried to be placatory.

  ‘You must be Sarah’s dad. Look, I’m sorry, mate, but she’s not here.’

  Phillip turned on his heel and walked from the room, calling Sarah’s name.

  ‘Look, we told you, she ain’t here.’

  ‘Sarah!’

  Phillip pushed into the kitchen, opening doors, shouting loudly as he did so.

  ‘Sarah. I know you’re here, Sarah!’

  He stormed up the stairs, shoving anyone aside who got in his way.

  ‘She isn’t here! Look, mate, if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call the police.’

  Graham raced up the stairs after him. He grabbed Phillip’s arm as he reached the top of the stairs preparing to search the bedrooms, the bathroom, even the attic if there was a chance Sarah might be hiding there.

  As Graham reached out and touched Phillip’s sleeve the man turned on him, jerking his arm aside, hitting out reflexively with his other fist. He missed the young man by a mile, but his fist made contact with the landing window. Glass shattered, breaking the silence outside.

  Thrown aside by Phillip’s sudden movement, Graham lost balance. Arms flailing, he toppled backwards down the stairs.

  A girl began to scream. People were dashing in all directions. Some to help Graham, some scattering away from Phillip Myers and others leaping forward to try to restrain him. Amidst the chaos, someone had the presence of mind to call the police.

  Price was not amused. He had been about to go home when he was told Phillip Myers had been arrested.

  He was even less amused now, an hour and a half later having seen Myers’ hand patched up by the duty surgeon and spent a further forty minutes with him in the interview room getting his version of what was going on.

  ‘Look, Mr Myers,’ he said at last. ‘We’re all sympathetic. We all know what you must be going through, but if you had information you should have passed it on. Then we could have checked out this party, made sure your daughter wasn’t there without all this unpleasantness.’

  Phillip Myers looked at him, a cold anger in his eyes. ‘I want to find my daughter, Sergeant. I want her back home safe and, frankly, I don’t give a damn who I upset or how much “unpleasantness” I cause doing it. And as to calling you lot in, one thing I have learnt, Sergeant Price, is just how bloody little use that would be.’

  He stood up and began to move towards the door. ‘I’m leaving now. I’ve got more important things to do.’ Price got to his feet also, the officer sitting near the door moving to block Myers’ exit.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Myers. I said, sit down.’ Reluctantly, his gaze drifting from one to the other of the two men, Myers sat.

  ‘Now listen to me. You were brought here on an assault charge. If you keep pushing we’ll add breach of the peace to that and you’ll be spending the night in the cells, and with the crowd we’ve got in here tonight, you’ll be spending it up to your armpits in piss and puke. I have had about two hours’ sleep in the last two days and, frankly, the sympathy angle is wearing just a little thin. As it happens, Graham Parish hasn’t said yet that he wants to press charges. He’s being understanding, which, in his position, is a darn sight more than I would be. You want to think yourself lucky that Mr Parish bounced or you’d find yourself up in court on Monday morning with a count of GBH on your record.’

  He paused to draw breath, and, seeing that Myers was about to start again, held up a hand to silence him.

  ‘That’s enough. Now get off home. If we or Graham Parish, or his parents for that matter, decide to press charges then we know where to find you, don’t we?’ Phillip stood up and walked stiffly towards the door. ‘My car?’ he said.

  ‘Is where you left it. I suggest you take a cab.’

  Price sat for several minutes after Myers left. He was thinking deeply. Myers had never really explained the scratch marks on his face and he had shown tonight that he was capable of violence.

  He shook his head. It was hardly the same. A flailing attack against a young man who’d got him riled was hardly the same as deliberate sexual assaults on girls as young as his own daughter.

  Price gave that some more thought. Sexual violence? Was that why Sarah had run away . . . ? It was worth following up. At this point in time, anything seemed worth following up.

  11.30 p.m.

  The woman had dark hair and deep blue eyes. He’d been with her before, many times, and always there had been a pleasing simplicity to their lovemaking.

  She had a good body, strong and supple and infinitely satisfying. Her mouth and hands soft and warm, and what she might be lacking in skill she made up for in familiarity and a willingness to please.

  ‘Will you be gone again when I wake up?’ Her voice sleepy and content.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll stay.’

  She smiled then and stretched luxuriously, turning on her side before going to sleep.

  There had been only two women in his life who had ever behaved that way, been so relaxed and fearless in his presence. So unconcerned and unworried about appearance. And the other was dead now.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and switched on the television set. The hotel had satellite and he flicked aimlessly through the channels. He kept the sound turned down, the woman’s soft breathing the only noise in the room.

  He found himself listening closely to the sound. Hearing her every breath, in and out, slower and deeper, deeper. He found himself breathing in time with her, matching her rhythm, his own breath slow and deep, a sleeping, dying breath.

  What if it stopped, what if he slowed his own breathing, caught her rhythm, made it his own and then made it stop?

  It never ceased to fascinate, this fine line between what was living and what was not.

  This woman lived; the other one did not. There had been that final moment when the breath was no longer breath and the something that set her apart from death was gone for ever.

  He sat for a minute longer, watching the woman sleep, waiting for the moment when he might decide if she should live or she should die.

  Then he sighed, gave up the game and began to dress. He took his cheque book from the inside pocket of his coat and wrote a cheque, leaving it on the dressing-table weighted down by the glass ashtray.

  He left so silently the woman would not wake.

  Walking swiftly down the hall.

  Remembering to breathe.

  Chapter Seventeen

  11.40 p.m.

  Jake had returned home and gone straight down to the basement. He could hear the man crying as he went through the second room. He’d been struggling to free himself and had fallen off the bed. He had stayed where he fell, lying at an awkward angle with his face pressed against the bare floor.

  Jake had not had time to change for the benefit of the camera this time. He was dressed casually in jeans and open-necked white shirt. But he took time to don the ski mask before dragging his victim by pinioned arms and dumping him back on to the bed. The man screamed in agony as he hauled already cramped and swollen limbs back against the joints.

  ‘Where did you think you could get to?’ Jake asked him gently. ‘No one leaves here walking, you know, my friend. No one.’

  ‘Please. Let me go. I don’t know who you are. I haven’t even seen your face. I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not a soul. I swear it, on my mother’s life, I swear it. I haven’t even seen your face . . .’

  For a moment Jake paused, bending over him, smiling behind the mask
. Then slowly, and with infinite care, he pulled the tape from the man’s eyes. They struggled open, lashes fighting the adhesive left from the tape and the sudden blinding brightness. Jake stepped back out of shot and removed his mask.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunday, 18 December, 9 a.m.

  Mike put the phone down and returned to the breakfast table. ‘That was Price,’ he said. ‘Checking in before he leaves for Devizes. He’s dropping in on the Myers on the way out. It seems they called demanding to see him. He’s going straight from there.’

  ‘Anything new?’ John enquired.

  ‘Beyond the fact that David Martin appears to have done a moonlight, no.’

  ‘David? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean he’s left the hotel. He left a cheque in his room for payment of the bill and phoned them this morning to say he’d checked out. They called us. Apparently, he slipped out through the back way at some point last night.’ He paused. ‘It doesn’t look good, John.’

  Tynan sighed. ‘Stupid fool,’ he said. ‘No, you’re right. It’s hardly a good way to proclaim his innocence. But I still find it hard to believe he could have harmed Theo. It just doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘What’s this, cop instinct?’ Maria asked. She smiled. ‘I know, John. Maybe he’ll come to his senses and turn himself in.’

  The morning papers crashed through the letter box. Mike was closest to the door and went to get them. He scanned the front page as he walked back into the kitchen. Two stories competed for front-page space: an update on the sex attacker following the printing of the letters and the report on Sarah’s disappearance from the leisure centre. The report kept to the broad lines of the release put out by the police press office. It was accompanied by photographs of the missing girl and an appeal by Mrs Myers for her daughter to come home. ‘There’s nothing we can’t sort out,’ the woman said. ‘Nothing that can’t be put right.’