by Scott Hunter
‘I wasn’t aware that I was attracting so much attention.’
‘Now don’t be flattering yourself, Brendan. I happen to be a very observant person. It’s my nature to notice things. And I’d have thought that, as a policeman, it’d be your stock-in-trade?’
‘Not when I’m off duty, I’m afraid. I’ll tell you what I have noticed, though.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘A lady who’s not escaped her Dublin roots entirely.’
‘Oho. Very good. I thought I’d lost the accent way back.’
‘There’s a little left. It’s more the turn of phrase.’
She took a sip of wine and gave him an appraising look. ‘I take it all back. Your detection skills are beyond doubt.’
‘Thanks. The Chief Constable will be much reassured.’
Samantha laughed, an attractive musical chuckle. ‘So, are they keeping you terribly busy these days? – Oh! – I’ll bet you’re involved in this dreadful Michelle LaCroix thing?’
‘I can’t really comment, I’m sorry.’
‘You are! Wow! Of course, you can’t talk about it, but what a terrible thing to happen. And her boyfriend, the guy in that band – what’s his name?’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Neil something? He lives just by The Swan, in one of those swanky apartments, doesn’t he? Do you think he’s got anything to do with it? Oh God, sorry, there I go again.’
‘Perhaps we should move on.’ Moran suggested gently.
‘Yes, yes, we will. But you must know, the whole village is talking about it. That poor girl. And such fantastic music. Have you heard it? I bought the CD – it’s brilliant. I expect sales’ll go through the roof now she’s gone. They always do, don’t they?’
‘Not really my style, I’m afraid,’ Moran admitted. ‘It’s all very sad, of course. But you appreciate that I can’t say any more at present.’
‘Lips sealed,’ Samantha drew an invisible line across her mouth. ‘Sorry. Not another word.’
‘So, what do you get up to?’ Moran asked her. ‘Do you work in the village?’
‘On and off. Mostly off, if I’m honest. I work on reception at The Elephant a few times a week.’
‘Ah yes, I’ve been known to pop in for the odd pint. Nice place.’
‘The rooms are fantastic. It used to be The Copper Inn – they were big on the culinary front. You know, gastro-dining and so on. They’ve kept it up; food’s good, nice atmosphere too.’
Something rang a bell. Had Bola or George mentioned the hotel?
‘I’ve lost you now.’ Samantha sipped wine. Her eyes sparkled over the top of her wine glass.
‘Sorry, something rang a bell. Not sure what.’
‘Never off duty, you lot. “Never date a policeman”, my sister used to say.’
Moran felt a twinge of disappointment, until he realised she was playing him like an expert.
Caution, Brendan. Take it steady.
They were interrupted a second time by Marion, this time to introduce Moran to a local lawyer. The guy was in his sixties, on the cusp of retirement, and about as dull as they came; as he launched into a discussion of current political issues, Samantha drifted gently away. Moran followed her with his eyes until she wound up by the window. He watched her chatting to a short, balding bloke in an ill-fitting jacket and felt an unexpected frisson of jealousy run through him.
‘So, what’s your view?’ the lawyer was saying. ‘Another referendum or just get on with it?’
Moran groaned inwardly as he prepared a suitably noncommittal reply.
As it turned out, he and Samantha were the last to leave. They were about to part company when she paused under a street lamp. ‘Fancy an early walk? Half-seven, by the bridge?’
Moran was hugely tempted. He waved briefly to Marion and Joe as the front door closed, buying a few extra seconds to think. He thought of Charlie, sat in her office – he’d put money on it – desk lamp glowing, poring over the evidence, or lack of it. He thought of Geileis, alone in her remote cottage, the clock ticking quietly on the mantelpiece. He thought of what tomorrow might or might not bring, the tasks to be undertaken, how he could place himself in the best possible supporting position.
‘Maybe another time,’ he said. ‘I have to see a man about a grave.’
CHAPTER NINE
Charlie had had a bad night. Her stomach upset, or whatever it was, had not cleared up as she’d hoped. She’d had to make several unscheduled toilet visits in the wee small hours before the persistent drumming of rain on the roof had finally woken her from a fitful doze just before dawn.
Now, sitting at her desk with the hands of the wall clock approaching half past seven, she felt the effects of her sleepless night settle over her like the earlier raincloud over her maisonette. She wasn’t hungry and the coffee she’d brought in was still sitting untouched on her desk next to the open laptop.
Charlie tapped a key and opened her email. The first was a brief report from DC Julie Ashton, whom she’d tasked to check out LaCroix’s official social media accounts. Charlie scanned the email and groaned. They were all managed by the record company and consisted of a series of marketing messages and posts relating to the late singer’s album and single releases. Unusually for a young woman, and with the exception of the scheduled posts Moran had mentioned, Michelle LaCroix had not been a prolific Facebook or Twitter poster. There was little of a personal nature in the management-run accounts, and very few responses to fan posts. Perhaps when Facebook finally provided the account password there would be something in her FB Messenger trail to help, but by the time Facebook complied with their request it would probably be way too late to be of any use.
Bloody GDPR, Charlie cursed inwardly. How were you supposed to conduct an efficient investigation when all routes into a person’s online personal life were blocked by huge corporations?
Next. Charlie scrolled down, opened the message. From DC Collingworth – or DC Keen as she privately called him. Not a bad thing to be keen, but the line dividing keenness and cockiness was wafer-thin, something which Collingworth would do well to bear in mind. And, she recalled, work wasn’t the only thing he was keen on – if the look he had given Tess Martin yesterday was anything to go by.
Charlie reached for her coffee and took a tentative sip. Too hot, still. Her stomach growled, objecting even to this minor intrusion. Maybe it was a stomach ulcer? Her father had suffered from a similar condition. Was it hereditary? She opened a browser, went to Google, stopped herself. Paranoid self-diagnosis. Not a good way forward. But maybe she ought to make a GP appointment, just to be sure.
She read Collingworth’s email. The Evening Post had already created an online article and Collingworth had dutifully supplied the link. Charlie clicked, skim-read it. It was good. Not too outlandish, nor unlikely; the deceased was Goring-based, the burial at St Thomas of Canterbury church. The deceased had specifically asked to be buried with certain articles of close sentiment. No mention of value, but the implication was clear.
Charlie sat back in her chair. Would a petty thief be bright enough to pick up on it, if he happened to come across the article? Perhaps. Still, it hadn’t cost much in terms of time or resource to set up the bait – the spend on that would start this evening because she’d need to keep the graveyard under close obs in case Burke and Hare actually turned up. But who best to task with that? Charlie drummed her fingers on the desktop.
Next email. From Tess. Pawn shop owner, stable but still unconscious. Not promising. Charlie checked the time Tess had sent the email – 04.35. So she wasn’t the only insomniac on the team. Tess felt responsible, Charlie got that. She’d have done exactly the same. Knowing Tess, she’d probably have visited ICU in person rather than phoned.
Charlie closed Outlook and settled back, this time with the coffee cup, warming her hands around its comforting, rounded contours. How should she deal with Tess? She couldn’t ignore the fact that Tess had, for whatever reason, allowed the pawn shop assailant to slip by w
ithout the slightest effort to detain him. She couldn’t describe what had happened, couldn’t even offer a rough description of the guy. It was more than odd; it was worrying. Had she invented the whole thing? Maybe there hadn’t been anyone but Tess and the proprietor in the shop. In which case, what had really happened? Surely Tess wouldn’t have done the man any harm? Why would she? Unless she’d had some kind of moment, some mental disconnection, or maybe she’d thought the proprietor – Alan Milton, was it? She checked her notes; yes, Milton – intended to harm her? There’d been no sign of the weapon used to assault Milton. Should she check again, go over it with Tess, tactfully? Or just let it go?
Another stomach gripe ended Charlie’s speculation. She grabbed her smartphone to call her surgery. It was usually impossible to book an early appointment, especially with her favourite GP who was always over-subscribed, but maybe a cancellation? She waited a moment or two. Voicemail. ‘The surgery hours are eight-thirty to five-thirty. Please call back between these times, or if your condition is urgent or serious, please call–’
Charlie killed the call. They were late switching the phones on today. By now they’d be dealing with the queue outside the surgery, the hopefuls looking for exactly the same as she was – the hypochondriac’s holy grail, an appointment on the day.
Charlie got up and lifted one of the slats of her blind. The open-plan was buzzing with morning activity.
Any time now…
She’d only got half-way back to her desk when the knock came. She called over her shoulder. ‘Yep. Open for business.’
‘Morning, boss.’ Bola strode in, annoyingly bright and breezy.
‘Glad you didn’t prefix that with “good” DC Odunsi. What’s up?’
‘Update on the pawn shop, boss. Forensics have been all over. CCTV footage is gone. Money in the till untouched.’
Charlie sat heavily, rubbed her eyes. ‘Great. So whoever took the CCTV footage knows what the grave-witness looks like, and we don’t.’ She became aware that Bola was looking at her not just with curiosity, but concern. ‘What? What is it?’
‘You OK, boss? You don’t look that–’
‘I know, I know.’ Charlie waved Bola’s concern away. ‘I’m not feeling my best.’
‘This’ll cheer you up, then.’
‘What? Spit it out, Bola – I’m not in the mood for games.’
‘Neil Butterfield’s in reception. Wants to talk to you.’
‘Interview with Neil Butterfield at–’ Charlie glanced at the wall clock. ‘Nine-twenty-five, Wednesday 15th October. Present are DI Charlie Pepper, DC Bola Odunsi. Mr Butterfield has indicated that he wishes to make certain facts known to us. Mr Butterfield?’
Butterfield moistened his lips. ‘Yeah, well. I might have some info for you. I think I already mentioned him, but, y’know, I was a bit out of it at the time. Michelle was having a bit of trouble with this guy, you know?’
Bola shrugged. ‘You gave us a name, yes. But what kind of trouble?’
‘Hassling her. He was always coming on at her, even when I was around. And he got the right hump when Michelle started doing well, you know, after the record deal and that.’
‘Let’s not be shy, Mr Butterfield. Would you please name this person?’ Charlie shifted position; the interview room chairs were unforgivingly hard. Budget cuts mean buttock ruts, as George McConnell had put it.
Butterfield sniffed. ‘Yeah. I already told DC Odunsi, here. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the studio bloke. Nedwell.’
‘My officers have already spoken to Mr Nedwell. He hasn’t seen Michelle for some time. Do you have any evidence to suggest that he might not have been telling the truth?’
‘Bloke’s a lying scumbag. Don’t believe a word he says.’ Butterfield picked at his ear.
‘You seem very sure of yourself, Mr Butterfield,’ Charlie replied, ‘but that’s not evidence.’
‘You search his place. You’ll find something, I bet.’
Bola leaned forward. ‘Like what, exactly?’
‘Something to prove he did this to Michelle.’ Butterfield banged the table hard and Charlie flinched. ‘Bloody hell! Why are you all just sitting around when Michelle’s dead? Don’t you want to find out who did this?’ The chair went backwards. Butterfield was standing now, fists clenched.
‘Sit down please, Mr Butterfield,’ Bola said, ‘We all want the same thing. But we have to do it right.’
Butterfield’s face twitched as he weighed up the pros and cons of making a scene. He looked at Charlie and Bola in turn, made a brief, mocking noise in his throat and slammed himself into the chair, jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘Bloody waste of time. Knew it would be.’
‘Listen up, Mr Butterfield,’ Bola said. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. We aren’t going to get to the bottom of this by losing our rag. So, why don’t you tell us, as clearly as possible, what’s troubling you about Mr Nedwell.’
Charlie was grateful for Bola’s calming influence. Her colleague was a big guy, but he had a knack of pouring oil on troubled waters with the lightest of touches. And, from where she was sitting, Butterfield fitted right into the troubled water category.
‘All right. I heard he was planning on compiling her demos and releasing them independently.’
‘That doesn’t constitute conspiracy to murder or assisting a suicide,’ Charlie said.
‘No, but it shows you what kind of guy he is, right? I mean, I’ll bet it was him who cut off–’ Butterfield paused and bit his knuckles. After a few seconds he carried on. ‘–who mutilated her. He always liked her ring. And he always hated me. It’s just the sort of sick stunt he’d pull. Believe me, the guy’s mental. He might come over all posh and helpful, but inside he’s a… well, he’s not what he seems.’
‘We haven’t found any forensic links to suggest–’
The chair went over again. ‘You ain’t found nothing! You’re a waste of space, the lot of you.’
Butterfield was at the door. A uniformed officer appeared, raised his eyebrows in Charlie’s direction.
‘It’s all right, PC Evans. Mr Butterfield is just leaving – he’s a little overwrought.’
Butterfield exited without a backward glance, PC Evans following closely behind.
Charlie sighed, leaned on her elbow. ‘Interview terminated, nine forty-three.’ She clicked the video button to off. ‘What d’you think, Bola? Help me out here.’
‘Won’t do any harm to have another sniff around Nedwell’s studio. Guy has a motive, for sure.’
‘You thought he was OK, though?’
‘He talked a good story, absolutely.’
Charlie got up, massaged her rump, stretched. ‘The guv’s spoken to her ex-band members. They were away on a mini-tour at the time, so that’s a dead-end.’
‘Another one.’
‘Well, thanks a bunch, Mr Cheerful. Just what I need to hear.’ Charlie paced the interview room, went to the window, squinted through the pane at the never-ending traffic flow. ‘Was Nedwell the man in the pawn shop, the perpetrator in the cemetery? I don’t know.’ She paced again, returned to the table, sat on its corner, folded her arms. ‘Search the premises – thoroughly. Can’t do any harm. Make sure he’s shown the earring photo. Let’s see the reaction.’
‘We did have a good look around, boss,’ Bola said. ‘Think it’s worth it?’
‘Yes I do think, DC Odunsi.’ Charlie took a breath, winced as her stomach cramped yet again. The pain passed as quickly as it had arrived. She took another breath, held a hand up as Bola moved forward. ‘I’m all right.’
Bola looked unconvinced. ‘Doctor, boss. Soon as.’
‘I’m on it. Engaged, as usual.’
‘Keep trying. If you get sick, what’s gonna happen here?’
‘Thanks for your concern.’
‘I didn’t mean it like–’
‘I know, I know. Get over to Nedwell’s, Bola. If I die while you’re away I’m sure someone’ll let you know.’
Bol
a looked uncertain. Charlie waved him out. ‘See you later. Keep me informed.’
She sat alone for a few minutes, turning options over in her mind. Maybe Butterfield was trying to draw fire away from himself. Forensics had combed his apartment already and found zilch. Time to cast the net wider; there’d been a neighbour? Some woman George had mentioned; she might be worth a chat.
Clueless, that’s where you’re at Charlie, clueless.
She shivered. And ill.
At least there was a clearly designated path for that.
She fished out her phone, dialled again.
The first thing that struck Moran was the riot of colour. Layer upon layer of floral tribute had been laid at the gates of the cemetery, the like of which he hadn’t seen since Princess Diana’s funeral.
‘Morning, sir.’ The uniformed officer gave him a brief nod. ‘They’ve been coming in all morning, sir. Pedestrians, bikes, taxis. You name it. We’ll have to shut the road if it carries on like this.’
‘Blocked by flowers, eh? Reminds me of ’67.’
‘Sir?’
‘San Francisco? Scott McKenzie? Never mind. You had to be there. Forensics arrived yet?’
‘Yes, sir. Since seven-thirty.’
Moran thanked the PC and weaved his way between the headstones. It never hurt to have a second – or even third – look. He preferred to do this alone. Sometimes a colleague could be more distraction than asset and he wanted to allow himself the time to examine the site in a more leisurely fashion (if that was an appropriate term under the circumstances). He could hear the low murmur of conversation as the forensics officers chatted.
Moran positioned himself beneath a yew and surveyed the churchyard. How had the crime been committed? At what time? What path had the perpetrators taken through the graveyard? How many had there been? More than one, surely, with a coffin to carry and space to be made in the hard, Berkshire clay? It had been a warm summer and the ground was still dry, compacted by two months of drought. Gruffydd would confirm this, Moran was confident, if and when he turned up. He glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes before the Welshman was due to meet him.