by A J Waines
I remembered Miranda’s other term. Naïve.
‘Oh,’ she said, her finger running down the page, ‘they ran tests at the hospital when Kora was admitted and her stomach was virtually empty, which rings alarm bells, because users at the project said they remembered her having lunch that day. There was residue of diarrhoea and traces of a laxative – a pretty strong one – in her system. Her partner Sponge said they didn’t keep any such product in the flat and he didn’t believe Kora would use something over the counter like that.’
‘We’ll need to check that with her, if she… survives,’ said Fenway.
‘What was she doing the night she was attacked?’ I asked.
‘Caretaker saw her just as he started to close up at about twenty-five past nine,’ said Joanne. ‘She was getting her bike from the shed round the back. He said she was in a bit of a fluster, because she couldn’t find her helmet, but she rode off without it anyway. He checked the building and did the final lock up.’
‘No helmet – a coincidence that she was totally unprotected, or not?’ I asked of no one in particular. ‘Which way did she cycle?’
‘He said she cycled off to the right.’
‘Which isn’t the obvious route home for her,’ added DI Fenway. ‘To the right took her towards the towpath.’
‘And he said she looked like she was in a hurry,’ added Joanne.
‘Okay… so where was she going at that time of night?’ Fenway pondered.
There was a lingering silence.
‘Did the caretaker see any other vehicles in the car park or outside the gates?’ I asked.
‘He said the place was empty,’ said Joanne. ‘The cleaner had left a few minutes before.’
‘What about the missing helmet?’ I asked. ‘Did she usually keep it with her bike?’
‘Caretaker said she did, in the bike shed.’
‘Locked to her bike?’
‘No, but the shed itself is locked. Anyone from CCAP could have had access.’
‘Any CCTV?’ I asked.
DCI Wilde gave me the kind of stare that implied I’d just dropped in from another planet. ‘Community resources don’t usually stretch that far,’ he said, brushing a piece of fluff from his sleeve.
‘Was it usual for Kora to use a bike?’
‘Everyone at CCAP says she used it all the time,’ said Joanne. ‘Definite “green” type; vegetarian, into recycling, sustainability, all that.’ She gave a cautious glance in my direction, as if concerned she may have sounded dismissive.
‘You said Kora was clean, but could this be drugs related?’ I asked.
The DI wiggled his pencil between his fingers. ‘It’s an ongoing line of enquiry.’
‘Have you established whether Kora was happy?’ I interjected. ‘Whether she liked being at CCAP?’ I’d been to CCAP many times and had been impressed not only by the quality of the work on display, but by the serene ambiance of the place. I’d seen Miranda blossom into a confident and charismatic woman ever since she’d been involved. I even envied her, she seemed to have more of a social life than I did; more friends, people admiring her work, blokes queuing up to take her on dates. But, not everyone might feel that way about the place.
‘General consensus is that she was doing very well; selling her work, cheerful, friendly, her usual self,’ said Fenway.
‘What about the scene of crime report?’ I asked. ‘What was visibility like at half past nine that night? How much could Aiden have actually seen?’
Edwin Hall cleared his throat. ‘Sunset was around nine fifteen, but there were lights in the car park and street lights along the Ridgeway Bridge.’
‘Okay, so how much light are we actually talking about here?’ I asked. ‘Are we asking the impossible from this witness?’
‘No,’ said Edwin. ‘When we found Aiden, the lamp outside the boat was on. There was also a lamp clipped onto the front of Kora’s bicycle pointing directly along the towpath. Visibility is largely a subjective measurement, but at a range of up to five metres, I’d say we’re talking about seventy to eighty percent visibility, considering the conditions. Good enough for recognisable detail and Mr Blake is clearly tuned in to seeing things better than most people.’
A low hum of approval went round the table. Edwin sat back and briefly let his tongue hang out with the look of someone who had just got his first hole in one. Fenway had told me earlier that this was his first case.
‘What evidence was there at the scene?’ I asked.
‘Virtually nothing,’ said the DI. ‘The path was dry, so we have no decent footprints. There’s a wire fence between the towpath and the car park the other side, so if the attacker climbed over there won’t be fingerprints, but there could be DNA from sweat or skin flakes. We’ve picked up partials from the stairwell nearby and on Aiden’s boat near the lamp where the assailant pulled the wire away. None of the prints so far are Aiden’s. There are no matches on the database and if the attacker had any sense, he’d have been wearing gloves, so they might not be his.’ His chest swelled up and sank. ‘The problem is whoever did this didn’t get anywhere near Kora.’
‘The attacker must know the area well,’ said Joanne. ‘He knows there’s a car park beside the towpath for access; he knows where the boats are and where to tie the wire. He also knew that the towpath gates wouldn’t be shut until later.’
‘Gates?’ I queried.
‘There are security gates that close off sections of the towpath to protect the residents after dark. That section beyond Ridgeway Bridge is for visitors’ moorings – owners are issued with a key. We spoke to them to check who actually closes the security gates, and when. British Waterways have an official who comes down daily at about ten, during the summer.’
‘He showed up while we were cordoning off the scene,’ said Edwin. ‘He confirmed that he’d been closing up at ten o’clock for about four weeks. It depends on when it gets dark.’
‘So the attacker knew the area, knew how things worked,’ I mused aloud.
We sat still for a while, each of us waiting for someone else to add anything, but nothing happened. Then, that was that. DCI Wilde must have given a surreptitious sign and the team started gathering their papers together and closing their tablets.
Before he left, Wilde turned to me and delivered one final command. ‘See to it that you give this your full attention Dr Willerby, because we don’t have much to go on.’ There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘And that mustn’t go beyond this room, nor should any details of this case. None whatsoever. Understood?’
The entire room quivered as he slammed the door, followed by an aftershock of shuffling and straightening of ties. Once everyone had dispersed, I found myself in the corridor standing by the coffee machine.
‘Don’t ever, whatever you do, get a drink from this machine,’ came a voice in my ear. ‘It will either drop a clump of powdered milk in at the last minute or shoot boiling water over your hand when you reach in for the cup.’
I laughed and Fenway straightened up beside me. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck with me a fair bit over the next few days,’ he said.
‘I think I might just be able to cope with that,’ I replied, puffing out my cheeks, relieved DCI Wilde wouldn’t be the one breathing down my neck. ‘In any case, it’s only supposed to be for a week.’
‘It’s not going to be, though, is it?’ he said, with a frown. The chill in his tone unnerved me. ‘You’ve got a tough job on your hands.’
‘I’m not the only one,’ I pointed out, raising my eyebrows.
‘Listen, here’s my personal number.’ My phone beeped with his text. ‘We’ll be in daily contact, but if you need to ask me anything, anything at all, or it all gets too much, just ring. Day or night.’
Before I could answer, an officer hurtled towards us along the narrow corridor, shunting me face-forward into Fenway as he darted past. The DI was forced to take a sudden interest in my lapel until I was able to get my balance and step away.
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‘Sorry…’ we both muttered awkwardly, in unison.
As I turned to go, he held up his arm. ‘Hang on a moment,’ he said, before disappearing into a nearby office.
He returned holding a sheet of paper. ‘Here’s a list of Aiden’s main friends. We’ve made contact with most of them so far. We’ll also be talking to his college tutors and other students and raking through Facebook contacts and so on. We’re struggling to find any family at the moment.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the list from him. I fanned my face with it. ‘Anyone know how Kora is doing?’
‘Still fighting for her life in ICU. No change a couple of hours ago. There’s something incredibly ruthless, almost inhuman, isn’t there, about deliberately hanging an invisible wire across a cycle path, then waiting to see what would happen?’
‘Then creeping out to unfasten the wire, afterwards… unbelievable…’ I gasped, shaking my head. ‘It can only have been carried out by an utterly heartless individual.’
He had a way of standing with his hands in his pockets that made him look both shifty and playful all at once. ‘Call me Jeremy, by the way – it will put you one step up from all the others around here who have to call me sir.’ He looked about him to see if anyone had heard.
I laughed, feeling self-conscious. ‘Okay.’ I swung my bag over my shoulder ready to leave. ‘Likewise, I’m Sam.’
He rocked on the soles of his feet. ‘I think we’ll all be needing therapy after this,’ he said, giving me a sad shrug. His manner made me feel as if I was in safe hands; not only did he seem on the ball about this case, but realistic too. As I wandered out into the roar of the busy street, I wondered who was taking care of him once he got home.
Chapter 8
Natalie Beauvoir was wringing out a shirt in the sink and Didier, her husband, was peeling garlic when I climbed aboard that evening. Jeremy had told them I’d be in touch.
Didier was offering me a glass of red wine before my foot even touched the floor.
‘We’re French,’ he said, rolling the ‘r’ unashamedly. ‘After six o’clock, the French drink only wine.’
I accepted gratefully. It had already been a long day and it was far from over. They invited me to join them at the saloon table.
‘How long has Aiden been based here at the Limehouse moorings?’ I asked.
Natalie responded. She was strikingly pretty, around twenty-five, I guessed, with straight black hair and tiny features. She wore a white embroidered blouse that was virtually see-through, complimented by snug capri pants. I wondered if Aiden found her attractive.
‘Aiden was already here, for a year, maybe?’ she glanced across at Didier for confirmation. He nodded. ‘We came here in March.’
‘Do you get on well as neighbours?’
‘Yes,’ they both said at once. ‘Some of the boat owners keep to themselves, but the rest of us… we knit together into a little community,’ added Natalie, nudging her phone away on the table with her glass. ‘We look out for each other. It can be… how you say?... vulnerable being on a boat, you’re that much closer to the elements and there are always fears for security. But Aiden is wonderful. He feeds our cat, brings in our washing when it rains, takes in grocery deliveries.’
‘We do the same for him,’ said Didier. He was wearing shorts that revealed chunky legs the colour of mahogany, cross-hatched with thick black hair. He dangled his wine glass between his knees, staring into it.
‘He’s like a different person now,’ said Natalie, dropping her voice as if he might hear from the adjacent boat. ‘All silent and cut off from everything. You’re going to help him, the police said.’
‘I’m going to try. I work with people affected by trauma.’
‘We’ll look after him any way we can. The detective said Aiden won’t leave his boat, but he lets us in, so we can check on him.’
‘Do many people come to his boat?’
They looked at each other. ‘Now and again,’ said Didier. I listened for any undercurrent in his voice, but there was nothing.
‘He’s not one for throwing parties,’ said Natalie. ‘He’s totally focused on his art. Always with a crayon in his hand.’ She got up and came back with a framed portrait. She handed it to me with pride. ‘It’s good, no?’ Aiden had caught something startlingly sexy about Natalie as she sat, beaming at him over her shoulder.
‘He doesn’t seem interested in drawing me,’ said Didier, curling his tongue.
I smiled. They seemed a friendly, welcoming couple who obviously took an interest in Aiden.
‘When he isn’t sketching, he’s taking photographs or working with cloth. He invited us to one of his exhibitions. It was very good. He designs clothes, too. Where is that magazine, Didi?’ She looked about her, but I told her not to bother. I knew I’d be able to gather any factual information I needed about Aiden from the police or his own boat.
‘Any partner you know of? Any romance?’
‘We know he’s into girls.’ Didier stopped himself. ‘What I mean to say is, he isn’t gay, as far as we know. We’ve seen different girls staying over, but no one regular, I don’t think?’ He gave Natalie an enquiring look.
‘That’s right. No one regular and none recently. I think he’s too involved with his work to get serious.’
I finished my wine and took the last few minutes to ask how they occupied themselves. Natalie was a dancer, working temporarily in a troupe based in Islington. She invited me to a performance they were giving that week at the National Theatre. Didier said he was researching medieval documents for a PhD and spent a lot of time in the British Library. I got the impression neither of them were strapped for cash, although their boat was smaller than Aiden’s and was nowhere near as plush. I thanked them and said I’d no doubt see them soon.
Once on the pontoon, I took a couple of steps towards Aiden’s Louisa II and listened. The boats were all moored head-on to the wooden platform, so by checking from side to side, I could see that all the curtains were closed. I wondered if he’d eaten supper yet, or maybe even gone to bed. The door at the front end was closed and, for a second, I felt a shiver of concern that he might have taken off somewhere, until a puff of smoke wafted out of the chimney on the roof. I smiled to myself and headed back home to Clapham.
My suitcase was still sitting packed, looking hopeful, at my front door. I hadn’t had chance to empty it and didn’t feel like doing it now. It was late and I was running on empty. Then I realised my toothbrush was embedded inside, as was the bedside novel I was reading… and my hairbrush. I dragged the case onto a chair in my bedroom and pulled out what I needed. The rest of my belongings would have to wait until tomorrow.
I pondered for a while on what someone would make of me, if they only had the contents of my flat to go on. From the outside, the property was wedged between a former bakery on the corner and a row of tall Victorian houses with sash windows, all broken into flats. I rented a one-bedroom place on the first floor, living alongside people I had nothing in common with other than a shared front door. Mrs Willow lived upstairs, a sparky widow in her eighties. We took in each other’s parcels and I always had an ear open for the floorboards above, satisfied when I heard the familiar rhythm of creaks. I knew the others to speak to, but that was all. It wasn’t the kind of place I would ever buy; too scruffy with visible flaws, such as damp and cracks that were gradually eating into every wall and ceiling. When I moved in, it was only meant to tide me over until I ‘sorted myself out’, whatever that meant.
That was over four years ago.
I cringed when I thought of how I must look to a psychologist. A professional, attractive woman in her mid-thirties still living in ‘student-style’ accommodation with no close family, aside from a sister who needs special care and a best friend who’s moved away. The nearest I got to homely chats were with Mrs Willow. Under such scrutiny, my situation felt bleak and, frankly, embarrassing. To an outsider I probably looked like I was waiting for something, som
e event to break the stalemate. But what exactly?
As I put my passport back in a drawer, I mourned the loss of my holiday. Another area of my life that never seemed to get off the ground – literally. I felt a twist of fear tug at my stomach, warning me that if I didn’t watch out another summer was going to pass me by and I’d plunge headlong into a grim winter never having felt alive. I needed to take a long hard look at myself and work out what I really wanted, before my life turned into one extended Groundhog Day.
I didn’t have enough energy for supper other than to tip a few flakes of cereal into a bowl and flood them with cold water. I’d forgotten to pick up milk. I gave myself a moment as I crunched through them to pretend I was watching the sun go down on the beach, with the twang of Greek musicians in the distance and the waft of oysters in the air. But I wasn’t even to be allowed that luxury, because my phone rang.
There was silence at the other end, but the kind of silence when you know someone else is there. I said hello a few times and when there was no response I swiped the screen to disconnect. Then it rang again.
‘Who is this?’ I barked.
There was a tiny click followed by the chimes of a bell. No, not a bell, the tinkling notes of a musical box. It was playing ‘Love Me Tender’. I could hear the tick of the mechanism in the background and I knew exactly what it was.
‘Aiden, is that you? It’s Sam,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’
There was a short silence.
‘Has something happened?’
The tune played again.
‘Do you want me to come over?’
Silence again. ‘I’ll come over,’ I said, knowing I was never going to get any reply.
After I hung up I rang Jeremy. ‘I’m sorry it’s late.’
‘It’s okay – there’s no such thing as a sleeping policeman,’ he chuckled, but he sounded like he was fighting a yawn.
I explained what had happened.
‘Are you sure it’s Aiden?’ he said. ‘We’ve got his mobile phone.’