"Take all the time you need," Tom said.
Beaty soon looked more settled, taking a deep breath and putting his head back. His right leg remained outstretched. "I tell you, this doesn't get easier," he said, reaching for a blister pack of tablets and popping one. He put it in his mouth and swallowed it with a mouthful of water. Tom raised his eyebrows in query, not wishing to ask the same question twice for fear of intrusion. Beaty realised, breathing easier. "War wound," he said, eyeing his own leg.
"I didn't realise you served," Tom said.
He shook his head. "I didn't. Not in that sense." Beaty waved a hand in Cassie's direction. "That there is my service." Tom crossed the room to join Cassie, perusing the pictures. On closer inspection he found artistic shots of local areas he recognised, but many of the photographs were taken overseas in military theatre. By the look of the terrain and the paint chosen for the armoured vehicles and uniforms, most likely Iraq or Afghanistan. Seeing the mountainous terrain in several, Tom looked back over his shoulder at Beaty.
"Afghanistan?"
He nodded. "Most of them."
"What about these," Cassie said, pointing to a couple taken in a jungle setting.
"A brief spell with the Colombian military and a US special task force; counter-narcotics. Those were the days! I hated the jungle; hot, damp, and it never went to sleep – always something alive and picking at you. The jungle will eat you alive; literally. I'd love to be able to do it all again, though."
"You were injured in Afghanistan?"
"Unfortunately," Beaty said, sighing and glancing out of the window as rain lashed against it. "The Scimitar I was riding in lost an argument with a roadside IED." He grimaced again, only this time with a mock smile. "Attached to the ISAF Quick Reaction Force at the time; I was chuffed to land it – I could see the award ceremonies already – little did I know." He tapped his leg. "Nine surgeries and at least a dozen associated procedures … and the bloody thing still doesn't work properly."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Tom said. Beaty acknowledged the sentiment with a brief smile. Tom looked along the line of images, finding some shots of his hometown, Sheringham. There were children playing; by the haircuts and clothing they were not recent and leaning in he saw several shops that he knew were no longer there. He found a class photo of a year group towards the far end, recognising the school crest. He pointed to it, smiling. "Is this where you went to school?"
"Yeah," Beaty said, sipping at his glass of water. "Why do you ask?"
"I went there myself. I didn't realise you were from Sheringham."
"Ah, a long time ago," he said. "I left shortly after that photo was taken; went to live with my dad in London for a bit before coming back to north Norfolk, but not Sheringham. When I finished school, I followed in his footsteps."
"He was a photographer too?" Tom asked, coming to sit down on the sofa opposite their host.
"Yes." Beaty nodded. "Not a war correspondent, mind you. He was more into the natural world, wildlife photography. He did a lot of stuff for the BBC." He sniffed, taking on a faraway look. "A long time ago. He retired out here and – after all of this – I came back too." Tom looked around, half expecting Beaty's father to appear. "He passed away a couple of years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"That's okay. He got to see me pick up a lifetime achievement award from the Press Photographers' Association. I know he approved of my work, if not where I chose to do it."
"And now you've turned your hand to writing, we understand?"
"That's right. I can't run around dodging gunfire and mortar rounds anymore, so I had to do something else."
"Is it something you'd always wanted to do?" Cassie asked, sitting down next to Tom.
Beaty laughed. It was a dry sound, one without much genuine humour. "No, it never entered my head. All I've ever wanted was to be behind a camera." He turned in his chair, reaching behind and stretching for a picture in a frame. Tom felt like he should help but refrained from offering just as Beaty's fingers curled around what he was after. Turning around, he passed the frame to Tom. It was a picture of a man, whom Tom presumed was his son, looking around eight years old, clutching a camera with a massive grin on his face. "Me and my dad. That's my first camera; on my ninth birthday. I never looked back. I always had a camera with me pretty much from that day onward. I guess photography was in my blood from birth."
"You know why we're here?" Tom asked.
Beaty nodded. "Yes, the woman told me on the phone earlier. It's a shame. Gavin struck me as a good guy."
"Can I ask you about your interview with him?" Beaty nodded. "He interviewed you a while back."
"Yes, back in early summer. My book was proving successful and the local press wanted to run a feature."
"And he came back to see you now because …?"
"Routine follow-up," Beaty said, shrugging. "Check nothing had changed, that sort of thing."
"Did it bother you that they hadn't already run the article?"
Beaty waved the notion away. "Nah. A few extra eyes on my book from around here won't make it a success or a failure but, I must admit, a little hometown recognition would be nice, I'm sure. Besides, I have a follow-up ready to go soon, so it's played out well. Not that I expect they'll run the piece now anyway."
"Why not?"
He shrugged. "Good point. They can publish it posthumously, I suppose."
"Have you read it?"
"Yes, of course. Gavin was very open with me about it. Look, I'll level with you," Beaty said, sitting upright with obvious discomfort in the movement, "the article isn't very interesting. He – Gavin – could have played up my photography but that isn't the angle they were looking for. I think they liked the crippled guy writing a best-seller. It's no secret that the author lives in these parts, but no one really knows it's me." He sighed, then smiled. "But," he glanced around as if worried someone would overhear him," I was kind of looking forward to people finding out that T.C. Boyd isn't a sixty-something woman, but me, a crippled thirty-something!" He sat back again, the smile widening.
"Why the pen name?" Tom asked.
"I already had a couple of non-fiction works out there; collections of my photographic work, you know? I was advised not to confuse things. I sort of wish I'd used my own name now but that's just the vanity in me." His brow furrowed momentarily before his expression lightened. "I'm only human, after all."
"And can you confirm when Gavin Felgate was last here?"
His eyebrows knitted, sucking on his lower lip. "I want to say Thursday of last week but… it may have been Wednesday." He raised a hand apologetically. "The days tend to be meaningless for me at the moment. Nothing really changes. I don't sleep… I get up, wander around a bit, take a few painkillers – repeat." He shrugged. "It's not rock and roll, but it's the way it is."
"And how did he seem to you when he was here?"
"Fine, I guess," Beaty said, casually. "It was only the second time I'd met him though and I think we spoke on the phone a couple of times to check details and for me to give him feedback on the piece. But those conversations were short. I didn't really know him."
Tom nodded solemnly. He took out one of his contact cards and passed it across, Beaty took it, glancing at it before putting it on the table next to his chair. "If anything comes to mind you think might be useful."
"I'll be sure to call, Inspector."
They saw themselves out. Beaty's movements were restricted and Tom wondered whether he had been asleep when they first called. Beaty's hair was greasy and uncared for, his personal hygiene was entirely questionable. The routine management of day-to-day tasks everyone else took for granted must be quite challenging.
"What a change that guy's had to deal with," Cassie said as they briskly walked back to the car, thankful the passing rainstorm was easing. "I know he was a pro photographer but you'd have to get some sort of a buzz from the adrenalin rush of being on the front lines of war zones otherwise you couldn't do it, surely?"
"Yes, I'd say so." Tom unlocked the car, tasting the salt spray in the air on his lips before getting in and shutting the door, the deafening roar of the wind suddenly muted. "Credit to him, though, for finding a new challenge."
"Whilst still dealing with the last one." She looked over at him. "I don't know about you, but I don't feel like we're getting anywhere." Pensively, Tom nodded his agreement. "Where to now then?"
Chapter Fourteen
Tom took out his mobile and called Eric. The detective constable answered swiftly.
"Are you having any luck with Felgate's computer?"
"No, not really," Eric said. "I have a support call with tech services in a little bit. Hopefully, they can help me get into it. How did it go with Beaty and Fysh?"
"Open and forthcoming … but no smoking gun, so to speak. Maybe we'll try a different approach. Ciaran Haverson, can you send me his next of kin details." Tom's mobile beeped to notify him of another incoming call. He glanced at the screen. It was Alice. "Hang on a second, Eric." He switched between calls. "Hi Alice, everything all right?" he knew she was already at work, the second night of her evening shift roster.
Her voice was strained. "I've just had a call from Mum. She can't collect Saffy from school today; she feels ill … or something and doesn't want to drive."
"She seemed okay yesterday evening."
"Yes …" she hesitated and he heard voices in the background as people passed by her. "Tom, I can't collect her. I would, you know I would—"
"I'll sort it," Tom said, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. It was approaching two o'clock. Saffy finished school at ten past three. He could feel her relief.
"Thanks, Tom. I–I'll make it up to you."
Tom's eyes flicked across to Cassie who was attempting to look as if she couldn't hear what was being said, casually watching the world go by.
"No need. Do you think – and I might be going out on a limb here – your mum is trying to tell us something?"
"I had the same thought. But she sure can pick her moments. Why she can't have a conversation about it like normal people, I'll never know."
"We'll talk about it later," Tom said. "I'll let you know when I've got her."
He ended the call, holding the mobile in his hand and staring at it. Cassie looked over. "Relatives, huh?"
"You heard?"
"Alice is great, you know?" she said, turning to look out of the window again. "But she's loud."
Tom laughed. "True. The result of needing to be heard over Cbeebies and YouTube running simultaneously in the background."
"Hah! You have to love Saffy. The girl's going places." Tom smiled. "So …?" she raised her eyebrows and nodded at his mobile.
"What?" he asked.
"Eric?"
Tom tutted; he'd completely forgotten Eric was on hold. "Sorry, Eric. That was Alice. I wanted to go and speak to Ciaran Haverson's parents, but it looks like I'm on the school run this afternoon."
"To pick up Saffy? Becca could help."
Tom was momentarily puzzled but then remembered Becca was a teacher at Saffy's school. "Do you think she'd mind giving her a lift over—"
"No, I'm sure it'd be fine. Becca's coming to pick me up from the station this afternoon anyway. You'll have to call the school and give them permission though."
"I'll do that, Eric." Eric was on light duties, and restricted hours. Both Tamara and Tom were committed to ensuring he didn't push himself so soon upon his return to work. "Do you have Ciaran's parents' address?"
"Just the father. There's another son as well but he's not on the electoral roll. I'll text you the address and then I'll call Becca."
Tom's screen blinked into life with a text from Eric. Ian Haverson lived in Ingoldisthorpe, a small village located between Dersingham and Snettisham on the edge of the Sandringham estate. They should be able to get across to speak to him and back to the station before Becca arrived with Saffy in tow.
"Let's go and see what Ian Haverson makes of all this," Tom said to Cassie.
* * *
The house was a nondescript semi-detached, opposite a T-junction at the end of a quiet lane. A large hedgerow spanned the frontage lining the road, stretching across the adjoining house as well. An old caravan was parked on the small patch of lawn to the front of the house, blocking the window, but it looked like it hadn't moved in years. The tyres were flat and green moss grew on the walls, roof and windows. Cassie peered through them, shaking her head to indicate there was nothing of note. A car was parked down the side of the house underneath the overhang of established trees on the boundary with next door. Tom rang the doorbell, hearing the muffled tune inside. The curtains were closed. Tom checked his watch. It was quarter past two in the afternoon. He rang again.
"All right!" someone shouted from inside.
Tom and Cassie exchanged a look. "Sounds like he's in a good mood," Cassie whispered. The door was hauled open to reveal a man in a pair of jogging bottoms and a dressing gown, which he hastily drew about him as soon as he felt the cold breeze on his bare chest. He was a tall skinny man, pale with a drawn face and dark beady eyes. His nose appeared to be offset to the left of his face and Tom wondered if it'd been broken years earlier.
"Mr Haverson?" Tom said. The man squinted at him, stifling a yawn.
"Who wants to know?" he asked, looking away from Tom at Cassie and then beyond her towards the road. The question wasn't asked aggressively, more like he was uninterested.
"Detective Inspector Janssen," Tom said, indicating Cassie with a flick of his hand. She brandished her warrant card as well. He gave both of them a cursory examination. "Can we please have a word?"
"About what?"
"May we come inside?" Tom asked, feeling spots of rain on his face.
Haverson looked nonplussed but he acquiesced, stepping back and beckoning them in. The house had a strange odour to it, stale air and a hint of damp which wasn't unusual in old houses like these. Haverson showed them through to the front room, pulling open the curtains to allow in what little light there was from an overcast and showery winter afternoon. One of the curtain hooks stuck in the runner and despite several shakes it wouldn't budge. Haverson gave up, leaving it swaying back and forth and turned to face them. The caravan didn't help matters. Rubbing at his cheeks, Haverson yawned, making no attempt to shield his mouth.
"Sorry," he said, "but you woke me up."
"Afternoon nap?" Cassie asked.
"I work nights," he said, sinking down into an armchair next to the window and reaching for a packet of cigarettes on the table alongside him.
"Ah, right," Cassie said. "What is it that you do, Mr Haverson?"
"Driving."
"I'm sorry to have woken you," Tom said. Haverson didn't reply, he was too busy searching for a lighter, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he did so. Cassie saw the lighter on the mantelpiece above the open fireplace and picked it up.
"Here," she said. Haverson looked up, smiled – still with the cigarette in his mouth – and deftly caught the lighter as she tossed it to him.
"What's this all about?" he asked, sparking the lighter and taking a steep draw on the cigarette, exhaling away from Tom and Cassie.
"I appreciate this might be difficult for you but we wanted to speak to you about your son."
"Ah … bloody hell! I knew it. What's he been up to now?"
"Excuse me?" Tom asked.
"Jimmy. What's he done?"
"No, I'm sorry. I should have been clear; it's Ciaran we wanted to talk about."
Haverson stared at Tom for a moment, unflinching. After a moment passed, he licked the outside of his lower lip and inhaled another drag on the cigarette.
"Well, I'm sure Ciaran hasn't done anything wrong," he said, dryly. "What's going on?"
"Two days ago, a man was found on Roydon Common," Tom said. Haverson watched him intently. "The man was found dead, most likely murdered. This happened at the same place where your son was found."
Hav
erson's eyes drifted to a photograph hanging on the wall. Tom followed his gaze. It was a family photo; two adults with their children who couldn't have been more than six or seven years of age.
"That's … very sad. Murdered, you say?"
Tom nodded. "We believe so."
"And what's that got to do with Ciaran? He … he died eighteen years ago."
"You must be aware of the date," Haverson nodded, holding Tom's eye, "and there was a," Tom hesitated, "noose hanging from the tree. It seems too coincidental to ignore the possibility of a link to your son's passing."
Haverson looked at the floor, the smoke gently curling up from the end of the cigarette in his hand. "Who was it – the dead man – what was his name?"
"Gavin Felgate. He was a local journalist."
Haverson slowly shook his head, slowly releasing a cloud of secondary smoke from his nose. "I don't know him."
"Might he have known your son? I know it is going back some years."
"Never heard of him," Haverson said, looking up. "What was he doing out at Ciaran's tree?"
"His tree?"
"Yeah," he said softly, staring straight ahead and chewing on the thumbnail of his free hand, gently rocking back and forth in his chair. "That's what I call it, Ciaran's Tree. He chose it, after all." His eyes lifted to Tom. "That's the last place he decided to be, where he chose to leave this world. It deserved marking; wouldn't you say?"
Tom inclined his head. "I'm sorry for having to bring all of this back to you."
"It's all right. I live it every day, you know. Have done for years."
A Dark Sin: Hidden Norfolk - Book 8 Page 10