by Scott Hunter
‘Wait.’
George and Bola turned around simultaneously.
‘There’s one guy you could talk to.’
‘He’s pretty convincing, boss. Hard to fake it like that. The guy’s in bits.’ Bola looked at George for support.
George nodded. ‘I have to agree.’
‘Does he suspect anyone?’
George sighed. ‘He was pretty out of it, boss.’ He turned to Bola for confirmation.
The big man nodded. ‘Place stank of weed. Smelled like he’d smoked a week’s worth in a day.’
‘OK, so we go back when he’s in a better frame of mind. Or we bring him here and straighten him out. We need information, and quick. Friends, associates, people who’ve been in touch recently.’
‘There was one name,’ George said. ‘Guy who runs a recording studio or some such, in Wokingham.’
‘Context?’
‘On our way out,’ Bola spoke up, ‘Butterfield mentioned that’s where he first met Michelle. Guy who owns it is a bit of a maverick, apparently. Knew Michelle well.’ Bola looked at George. ‘Might even have been an item at some point?’
‘Yep,’ George agreed. ‘It was the way Butterfield said it. Jealousy never dies.’
‘So, you’ve just told me your next move,’ Charlie said brightly. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
Charlie pursed her lips, reread Higginson’s email. So, the shadow of doubt is cast. She sighed. Eyes from on high were fixed upon her. No surprise, she’d expected it – but it meant she’d no other option. She’d damn well show them what a top DI could do to solve a high-profile case. No one was going to question her competence or label her a trigger-happy, seat-of-the-pants DI. No way…
A knock. Discreet, instantly recognisable – she didn’t have to look up.
Moran’s head appeared around the door. ‘St Swithun’s?’
‘Sure.’ Charlie smiled, tapped a key to shut down the laptop.
‘Everything all right?’
‘So far.’ She smiled again. Moran must be aware of Superintendent Higginson’s views. Everyone knew everything about everyone these days, or so it seemed to Charlie. Higginson was clamping down on his top ten vexing issues (as he’d put it to her in confidence), so there was plenty of gossip ammo floating around. Even Moran had been targeted – advised strongly, in the guv’s own words, to maintain more of an overseeing role, as ‘befitted his seniority’. Stats, paperwork, reports: not Moran’s thing, but Charlie couldn’t help but agree with Higginson that the guv had been through enough – more than enough – of late.
Which was why she was acting SIO on the LaCroix case. But naturally Moran wanted his finger on the pulse and she was more than content to oblige.
‘So far, so good, as they say. Bola and George are checking out an ex-bf in Wokingham.’
‘And we’re off among the graves.’ Moran inclined his head.
‘Yes. Your car or mine?’
‘Yours. Driving is no longer a passion.’
Charlie laughed. ‘Fine. Car park, five minutes.’
‘By the way,’ Moran said, ‘there’s a reporter in reception. Asked for you by name.’
‘He’ll have to wait.’
‘It’s a she,’ Moran said.
‘She’ll still have to wait.’
‘Patience isn’t a journalist’s strong point,’ Moran said. ‘But I expect she’ll catch up with you. When the news breaks proper, they’ll be queuing down the road.’
Charlie sighed, mussed her hair. ‘Let ‘em queue.’
‘Not exactly the last word in glamour,’ George McConnell observed as they drew into the small industrial estate tucked behind the main Wokingham road.
‘Most musicians struggle,’ Bola said. ‘It’s not all TV awards and headlining at the O2; only a select few get to do that stuff. There’s hundreds of these rehearsal studios all over the UK – the armpit of the music industry, my bro used to call them. But this is where all the dedication goes down.’
‘Your brother plays?’ George cocked his head. He wasn’t musical himself, but appreciated those who were.
‘Yeah. Drummer. He’s done OK. Sessions here and there. He played on one of Sam Smith’s early demos.’
‘No way. Really?’
‘It’s a hard path,’ Bola said. ‘But he enjoys it. You have to take the ups and downs. And you have to spend a lot of time in places like this.’ He pointed to the small warehouse over which a rectangular sign had been crudely lettered: ‘Red Ned’s Rehearsal Rooms’. And beneath the sign, a bell was labelled ‘Press loud’. George got the joke, pointed and grinned.
‘You also need a sense of humour,’ Bola said. ‘Go on then, do the honours.’
A few cars were parked in the quadrangle outside the studio. The other units comprised variously a motorbike maintenance garage, a printer and an automotive spares warehouse. As they waited for a response George could hear the thrumming of a bass guitar.
‘Try again,’ Bola advised.
As George reached for the buzzer the door opened on a waft of warm air. The noise hit him squarely in the face. A guy in his late forties was framed in the gap – bald, bearded, earringed, wearing a wide, enquiring grin.
‘Mr Nedwell?’ George shouted, showed his warrant card.
‘Always. Except on Fridays.’
‘Can we have a word please, sir?’ Bola made as if to enter but Nedwell didn’t move.
‘I’m in mid-session. What’s up?’
‘Death is up,’ George said. ‘And it’s knocking on your door for answers.’
‘What?’ Nedwell looked bemused. ‘OK, hang on a minute.’ He pushed the door to and a moment later the music stopped. He reappeared in the doorway which, George noticed, was thick with reinforced filling and several times wider than domestic standard. ‘Come in, then.’
They followed Nedwell inside. Most of the space was taken up by a mixing desk and, on the opposite side of the room, a large sofa upon which two people were reclining: a young woman, profusely tattooed, and a dreadlocked guy in his early thirties. An adjoining door swung open and another man appeared wearing a black Les Paul guitar and a perplexed expression. ‘What’s going on? I had that take down perfect.’
‘Ask them.’ Nedwell waved a hand in George’s direction.
‘It won’t take long, Mr Nedwell. If we could have a word in private?’ Bola looked pointedly at the musicians.
‘Ah, rozzers. Got you.’ The guitarist with the Les Paul wagged a finger at Nedwell. ‘Forgot to pay your parking fine again, Bill?’
‘Funny. Take a break, guys,’ Nedwell suggested. ‘Tea and coffee in the usual place – next door along.’
George and Bola waited as the three made a grumbling exit.
Nedwell spread his hands. ‘OK. So, what’s up?’
George cut to the chase. ‘Michelle LaCroix was found dead yesterday. We’d like to know when you last saw her.’
Nedwell’s face paled visibly. ‘Michelle? You’re kidding, right? She can’t be? I mean, what–?’ he reached for a packet of cigarettes, fumbled it open. His hands were shaking badly. If he was putting it on he was doing a great job. George watched him carefully.
‘When did you last see Michelle, Mr Nedwell?’ Bola’s voice was easy, but firm. ‘Recently?’
‘No, I – hell – can’t smoke inside any more. Nicotine cops’ll be after me.’ He put the cigarette back in the packet with a nervous laugh, and slumped into the high-backed chair by the mixing console. ‘What on earth happened? I can’t believe it. Not Michelle, of all people.’
‘So when?’ George probed. ‘A few weeks ago? Months?’
‘It would be, let’s see, last September. Just before she got the deal.’
‘The record deal?’
‘Yep. After that, nothing. Didn’t want to know anymore. After all the help I gave her. But listen, what the hell? It’s nuts, she can’t be dead. How did it happen?’
‘All in good time, Mr Nedwell. How close were you to Michelle?’<
br />
‘We’re pretty close. Were. Thing is, she’s a lot younger than me. It made people uncomfortable, you know?’
‘So, you’re saying you were an item?’ Bola’s notebook was out.
‘I’d like us to have been. She was beautiful. A real talent, too.’
‘Can we be clear about this, please, Mr Nedwell?’ George chipped in, irritated by Nedwell’s evasion.
‘We had a bit of a thing at first, OK; then she hooked up with a younger guy. So after that we were just friends, you know? We worked together a lot. She did all her early demos here.’ He waved a hand expansively around the tiny control room.
‘Was she moody? Depressive?’
Nedwell laughed and shook his head. ‘Up and down, like most artists. She had her moments.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, you’ve got to tell me what happened. I need to know.’
George studied Nedwell’s face. Dark shadows beneath his eyes. Pale skin. Too much time spent in a dark room, shut away with his dials and buttons. But was he a jealous lover? An embittered ex-mentor?
‘She was found in a shallow grave. In a cemetery. She’d been buried alive. Purportedly voluntarily.’ Bola provided the requested information and watched for Nedwell’s reaction.
Nedwell was silent, lost for words. Puzzlement was written all over his face.
‘I’ll need a list of her friends and acquaintances, Mr Nedwell. Can you jot down names and numbers for us?’ George looked up as the door opened and the guitarist returned, coffee in hand. He was about to wave him out again when Nedwell said ‘Hang on. Luca knows her too. And the old band members.’
‘What we talking about here?’ Luca looked pleased at his potential inclusion, but his face soon fell as Bola brought him up to date.
‘God,’ he sat heavily on the sofa, swept a hand through his long dark hair. ‘That’s unbelievable. She was just breaking big.’
‘So,’ Bola prompted again. ‘The old band members. You know where we can find them?’
‘Sure. They’re doing their own thing now. Still based in Reading, though.’
George handed him paper and pen.
They left with a handful of names and addresses, along with a promise of more to come via email.
‘What d’you reckon?’ Bola asked as they rejoined the Wokingham road traffic.
‘Not sure,’ George replied. ‘Seemed genuinely shocked.’
‘She dumped him, though,’ Bola shot back. ‘Professionally and personally. That’s a potential motive, right?’
‘Rejection? So, a girlfriend gives you the push, comes back a while later, says, ‘Hey, would you mind burying me alive? For old times’ sake?’’
Bola gave a snort. ‘Yeah. It’s crazy. Who would?’
‘Unless it wasn’t suicide at all.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Open mind, Bola. Always open.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘What’s the official title again?’ Moran whispered to Charlie as the woman scuttled from the church entrance to meet them.
‘Verger, I think.’
‘Right. Catholic background, me. I only understand priest, bishop–’
‘–Pope?’
Moran treated Charlie to what his mother would have called an old fashioned look, but the verger was approaching, a broad smile playing about her lips. ‘Hello, hello! Sorry to keep you waiting! DI Pepper?’
‘That’s me.’ Charlie smiled and showed her warrant card. ‘This is DCI Brendan Moran.’
‘Oh! A high ranker. This is all becoming very exciting.’ The verger rubbed her hands.
Moran tried to keep the exasperation out of his tone. ‘Hardly exciting. A young woman has died, Mrs–?’
‘Lockhart. Sandra Lockhart. Of course. How insensitive of me.’ She held out her hand which Moran squeezed gently. ‘We don’t get a lot of excitement around here these days,’ Lockhart explained apologetically, raising her eyes to heaven. ‘Forgive me, Father.’
Moran glanced sideways at Charlie who – wisely – avoided eye contact.
‘We’ve had all sorts asking questions,’ Lockhart continued. ‘Someone from the Local press this morning – and Tony found one of those music journalists poking around the churchyard too.’
‘Tony?’ Charlie queried.
‘Tony Trelawny, my brother-in-arms. The other verger,’ she explained.
‘This’ll be front page news tomorrow,’ Charlie told her. ‘Be prepared for a lot of attention.’
‘How exciting! I can’t–’
‘–So,’ Moran cut in. ‘The person who alerted you to the disturbed ground?’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Gruffydd? Another verger?’
‘Gruffydd? A verger? My goodness, no. He’s the burial specialist – the gravedigger. Gruffydd the Grave, we call him.’
Moran raised an eyebrow. ‘Is he about today?’
‘Gruffydd? Oh no. He’s a busy fellow. No shortage of bodies at this time of year.’ Lockhart put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh! Natural causes, I mean!’
‘Do you mean he covers more than this particular churchyard, Ms Lockhart?’ Charlie asked.
Lockhart’s brow creased. ‘Yes, he does indeed. We’ve no room here in any case, as it happens. The last two slots were filled recently. Married couple in their nineties, died within hours of each other – that’s often the case, you know.’
Moran nodded. ‘So Gruffydd found the LaCroix burial, when? First thing in the morning?’
Lockhart put a finger to her chin. ‘Yes, around eight yesterday morning. He’s not usually in that early but he’d left equipment behind and needed to collect it. He knows the layout like the back of his hand, so as soon as he saw the fresh earth he knew something was up. At first he thought it might have been another pet burial. People do, you know – they just sneak in with the dear departed canine and pop it in a shallow grave. But when Gruffydd saw the extent of the excavation he knew straight away. He called me immediately, of course. In the absence of a permanent vicar, I’m the first point of contact.’
‘OK, well, we’ll need to have a chat with Gruffydd,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you have his mobile number?’
‘Call me Sandra, please. I do think all this formality is a shame if we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other. I expect you’ll be in and out for quite a while?’
‘Gruffydd’s number?’ Moran prompted. ‘It’s important that we move the investigation on quickly, Ms Lockhart.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, of course. I’ll just pop to the office. Won’t be two ticks.’
As they watched Lockhart retrace her steps, Moran caught sight of a blue Mini pulling into the parking area by the lych gate. Lockhart hesitated briefly at the church entrance, curious perhaps as to the identity of the driver.
A young woman wearing a black top and jeans got out of the Mini. She looked purposeful, something clutched in her hand – a case? No. Moran peered. A camera.
Journalist.
Lockhart gave a startled wave and fled into the church, but not before the woman had snapped off a rapid shot. She then turned her attention to the churchyard.
‘Where’s that uniform?’ Charlie muttered. ‘He was there a minute ago.’
‘Gone for a pee, I expect,’ Moran replied. ‘She’ll have been waiting down the road for the right moment. That’s what they do.’
The woman was through the churchyard gate now, walking briskly towards them.
‘Music or tabloid?’ Charlie said, half to herself.
‘I’m betting tabloid.’ Moran hefted his stick. ‘At last, a proper use for this.’
‘Guv?’ Charlie looked askance, but relaxed when she clocked the smile on Moran’s lips.
Before she was ten metres away the newcomer opened the conversation: ‘Charlie Pepper? The SIO?’ The journalist’s tone was confident, insistent.
‘And you are?’ Charlie folded her arms.
Moran took a mental back seat and waited for the exchange to get interesting.
‘This the vicar?’ The woman cocked her h
ead at Moran.
‘This is DCI Brendan Moran. And I asked you a question.’
‘I’m Tracy Jones. Nice to meet you. I’d like to get a few shots of the grave. That OK?’
‘From?’
‘You what?’ Jones was fiddling with her camera, making adjustments.
‘Paper. Which?’ Charlie took a step to her right, blocking the path. Moran stole a glance behind them. The LaCroix grave was just visible, marked by blue tape and patrolled by two uniforms, one male, one female. Within the screened-off area a gaggle of white-suited forensic officers were on their hands and knees sifting, sampling, bagging.
Adjustments complete, Jones looked up and shot Moran, not Charlie, a brief smile. ‘Sun. If it matters.’
‘It doesn’t, actually,’ Charlie said. ‘Because you’re not going anywhere near the scene.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Jones hefted the camera with an exasperated expression. The journalist stepped forward a pace. ‘Just a quick snap of the grave, honest. The teeniest statement from you guys, and that’s it, I’m done.’
‘Sorry, I can’t have the forensic officers disturbed.’ Charlie folded her arms. From the corner of his eye Moran saw Lockhart hurrying towards them.
Jones stuck her chin out. She was pretty, in a robust kind of way, late twenties probably. Barest suggestion of make-up. Nice eyes, full figure.
‘Look,’ Jones raised her voice a fraction. ‘This is big news. You do get it, don’t you? Michelle LaCroix was gonna be massive. Her latest album is right up there with Adele’s. The British public need to know what’s going on. They have a right to know. This isn’t just your usual saddo ‘call-girl tops herself” case, is it?’
Big mouth, though. Moran anticipated Charlie’s rejoinder, which he knew would be worth the wait.
Charlie was a good inch taller than the journalist and milked the advantage. ‘Listen up, Ms Jones. Until we’ve established the facts, no one has the right to know anything. Least of all the gutter press. So, on your bike.’
‘Aw, come on. Just one shot.’ Nose to nose with Charlie, Jones held her ground.