by Sarah Ward
As he left the central square, the town fell silent again, and there was no one to disturb Sadler’s reverie. At the end of the road, he had two choices. Turn right, and he would pass Connie’s flat in the converted mill and walk along the canal path towards his small terraced house. If he took the road on the left, this would lead him directly past Providence Villa, where Kat Gray lived. Neither route appealed. On balance though, he thought Connie would show more displeasure if she happened to bump into him. He turned left.
The streetlights were already off by the time he made his way down Waverley Road, and the only light there was leaked out of the windows of the houses he passed. Peering up, Sadler could see that some of the larger properties had been turned into flats. Small kitchens filled what had once been box rooms, making a strange juxtaposition of living arrangements. The final house in the row, Providence Villa, was in complete darkness. It was around half eleven. Kat Gray must have gone to bed.
To the right of him was Heanor Park, a kidney-shaped recreation ground that still had a touch of Victorian grandeur to it. It might have been because of the small bandstand sitting proudly in one corner. He’d never seen it used. The park was locked at night, which deprived him of a short cut to his house. A wave of weariness washed over him. He was now in a hurry to get home. A small movement made him stop. He turned around but could see nothing in the street behind him except a cat sniffing a wall.
He instinctively looked towards Kat’s house. Nothing untoward but he couldn’t get rid of the impression that he was being watched. He turned towards the park. All looked well. He carried on walking, and the clouds moved so that moonlight was thrown down onto the street. Sitting on one of the benches was a hunched figure. Staring straight at him.
Sadler stopped. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked through the railings.
The figure unfolded itself, and, for a moment, Sadler felt the thud of fear but the person was anxious to get away. He started into a sprint, shouting over his shoulder, ‘She’s not there.’ Sadler stared after the boy in astonishment, then looked up at the empty house.
48
Kat woke up in Mark’s uncomfortable spare bedroom. After their conversation about Lena, Kat had pleaded a headache and had gone upstairs to bed. Charlie followed her and settled on her blankets. The cat had made himself comfortable in Mark’s house, and she could hear him purring contentedly as she stirred awake.
If Mark had made an effort with the rest of the house, he hadn’t bothered here. The walls were bare. Thin, cheaply made curtains hardly blocked out any light. But it was warm, probably from the water tank in the airing cupboard. Kat stretched out her legs and reached into her bag for the novel she was reading. It wasn’t there. She must have left it in the living room. She checked the time on her phone. Half eight and, unless she was imagining it, she’d slept straight through the night. She pulled on her woollen jumper over her pyjamas and headed downstairs.
From the living room she could hear men’s voices, muted, and then a chuckle of laughter that wasn’t Mark’s. She turned on the kettle and watched it boil, wondering whether to alert them to her presence. How would Mark explain the fact that she was in his house?
A man came into the kitchen, a mug in his hand, and started when he saw her. Then smiled. ‘You’re Kat? I’m Brian.’ He held out his hand, a curiously old-fashioned gesture. She took it. His palms were calloused. He saw her looking. ‘I was a mechanic. In the army. Tanks are harder on the skin than cars.’
‘That’s how you know—’
‘Mark. Yes.’
The unspoken question hung between them. ‘He told me about the gun. It must have been a shock. It’s better you’re staying here. He can keep an eye on you.’
‘It was a shock.’ She didn’t know what else to say. She marvelled at the wider world’s acceptance of her presence in Mark’s house.
Brian walked over to the sink, rinsed the mug and tipped it upside down onto the draining board. Mark came into the kitchen, and she slid past him. ‘I’d best get dressed. I didn’t realise you had visitors.’
He smiled after her. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet. We’ll wait for you in the front room.’
Kat hadn’t brought enough clothes and searched through her bag for the last pair of trousers. She’d need to go back to Providence Villa to pick up some clean stuff. The thought of doing her dirty laundry in front of Mark didn’t appeal. She dressed hurriedly and went back downstairs.
In the living room sat a man so resembling Father Christmas that Kat did a double take. He was in his sixties with cropped white hair and a long beard. He was rifling through what looked like a set of black-and-white photographs.
Mark did the introductions. ‘This is James Plower. I wanted you to meet him. He’s from the university in Manchester, but he lives in Bampton and is a friend of Brian’s. There’s a couple of things I want him to talk to you about.’
James didn’t stand up but gave her a welcoming nod. ‘I’ve brought some pictures of the old place. Taken two years ago, admittedly, but the building hasn’t changed much.’
Kat joined him on the sofa and took the first image out of his hand. It was a well-produced shot. The black earth and white sky were dominated by a huge chunk of grey slab. ‘Where’s this?’
‘It’s Hale’s End. The old mortuary. Where your brother-in-law was found dead.’
Mark was on the chair opposite, assessing her. ‘You don’t recognise it at all?’
Kat took the rest of the photos from the bearded man and looked through them. The place was incredible. Frightening and yet majestic in its beauty. The love and care that must have gone into building it. She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen this place before in my life. I knew about it. It’s common knowledge around here. But why the hell would I want to visit an old morgue stuck out in the middle of nowhere? It has absolutely no interest for me whatsoever.’
‘That’s a shame.’ James didn’t appear too offended but took the photographs back from her. ‘Mark thought you might want to see me, nevertheless. Not just about Hale’s End.’
She looked across at Mark.
‘Brian’s the one who told me, in the pub, about the boy,’ said Mark. ‘He lives in the same street as James and they got talking about Hale’s End and the murder there. In the course of the conversation something interesting emerged. So Brian rang me this morning to ask who I was trying to help. He thought it important that you hear this.’
At the thought of the teenager, Kat swallowed.
‘Are you sure you want me to tell you about the place?’ asked James. ‘If you’re not interested in its history?’ There was a wry glint in his eye.
‘I didn’t mean to be rude. Andrew was murdered there. That’s literally all I know about it.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry, but from a historian’s point of view it does add an extra layer to an already fascinating story.’
‘Glad to add extra drama.’
James touched her lightly on the arm. ‘I think you should hear the story. I can do my five-minute spiel, no problem. So this place, as you probably already know, was built when the Canadian regiment was stationed in Bampton. There was a main hospital off Bampton High Street which was demolished in the sixties. Then there was a subsidiary infirmary about two hundred metres from here. Records suggest it was for the more severe cases, including contagious diseases.’
‘And the mortuary was built for those who didn’t make it.’
‘Well, quite. It stayed open until 1919 and then was abandoned. That it hasn’t fallen into more disrepair is largely, I think, due to its isolated location. It’s been forgotten about.’
‘Until a few weeks ago. When Andrew turns up dead there.’
Mark was shaking his head. ‘I don’t think so, Kat. We’ve already spoken about this. Are you sure that Lena never mentioned this place? Or perhaps your parents?’
‘My parents? Good God. My mother and father were busy GPs. We hardly saw them when we were growing up. They had
no time to come out hunting for old buildings. There’s nothing that connects us to the First World War.’
‘You must have had a relative that served in the war,’ said Mark. ‘Most of us have. It was tales of my great-grandfather’s exploits that made me want to join the army.’
Kat shook her head. ‘Not in my family. Or, if there was, no one ever talked about it.’
‘I knew your father, you know.’ James was putting the photos back into a brown envelope.
‘Dad? How did you know him?’
‘He was my GP when I first came to Bampton. I remember both your parents well. Especially your mother. But I saw your father a few times too. They were GPs of the old kind. They physically examined you. I went to my doctor recently complaining about a sore chest and he never even got out of his chair.’
‘Do you know what? I haven’t thought about him in weeks. It’s Mum I’ve been thinking about. With everything that’s happened with Lena. What she might have said. She had such a strong personality. Dad . . . well, he was just there.’
‘As well as being a good doctor, he was also a very interesting man. We would swap stories and one of them, in particular, I think will interest you.’
‘Story? What story?’
James hesitated.
Mark motioned for him to carry on. ‘Tell her.’
49
Saturday, 17 October 1987
Lena sat in front of her father, whose face was flushed from the exertion of shutting the sash window in his surgery. It was a warm day, and the room felt stuffy. He was wearing his tweed jacket, one of the two he’d alternated since her childhood. She’d never seen him wear anything else over the checked shirts he bought from Dunne’s, the men’s outfitters on Bampton High Street.
‘This can’t go on.’
‘Are you speaking as my father or doctor?’
He sighed. ‘Of course I’m not speaking as your doctor. I’m not your GP for goodness’ sake.’ He saw Lena look around the room. ‘I’m talking to you here because I don’t want Kat to overhear us at home. She’s suspicious enough as it is and rightly so.’
Lena looked at the floor. Her father relented. ‘I’ve got something I want you to have.’
He reached into a drawer, pulled out a cloth parcel and unwrapped it. He picked up the gun and seemed to hesitate. ‘I don’t approve of guns. You know this. But I did learn to shoot when I was doing my National Service.’
‘Are you going to show me?’
‘No! This is an antique. I have no idea if it works or not. I’m letting you have it because your mum thinks it’ll give you reassurance. I trust you not to go waving it about in Bampton.’
‘If you’re not going to show me how to use it, what’s the point of giving it to me?’
‘Because guns are scary things and I think it’ll make you feel safer. Sleeping with it. And don’t go looking for ammunition.’
Lena looked down and weighed the gun in her hand.
50
‘Remind me again why we’re focusing on Stephanie Alton’s suicide when we’ve got the murderer of two dead men to find?’
‘Is that a serious question or have you got the hump about something?’ Connie frowned across the room at Palmer, who was looking intently into the computer.
Palmer smirked into the screen. ‘You’ve established that Lena Gray and Stephanie knew each other as teenagers. So what? Sadler knew Andrew Fisher. It’s the way things are in small towns. Remember? Everyone knows each other. It’s why you and I can go out and enjoy ourselves in the evenings. We didn’t grow up here.’
‘I grew up in Matlock.’
‘But not Bampton. It’s not the same thing, is it?’
‘So you think it’s coincidence that the real Andrew Fisher is shot, Lena disappears, and her teenage friend kills herself?’
He smiled across the room at her. ‘Coincidence. Very occasionally happens in real life, you know.’
Connie stood up and walked across to his desk. ‘It does and I am bearing it in mind. But don’t you think it’s strange? That Stephanie kills herself now? I’ve been through her past history with Julia Miles at Shallowford House. It’s grim but nothing compared to some of the stuff we’ve heard. Something’s not right. Not only with her past, but with the fact she decided to kill herself. I mean, why now?’ Palmer wasn’t listening. ‘Hello. Am I talking to myself?’
Palmer was squinting at the screen. ‘I think I’ve got something, Con.’
She frowned at the shortened use of her name. It was his fault that she was known as Connie rather than by her last name, which was the norm around here. Other female detectives didn’t have a problem getting men to refer to them by their last names. The problem was that when she had first arrived in CID, Palmer had spotted a rival and had promptly called her Connie. Probably to put her in her place. And the team had picked up on it. At least it was better than her full name, Constance, an old-fashioned moniker which she couldn’t bring herself to dislike because it was also the name of her beloved grandmother. Now Palmer was trying to call her Con. She’d have ignored him if she could. She looked over his shoulder.
‘Philip Staley is coming up on the computer. He’s not got a record, but he was arrested for assault. We nearly missed it because some idiot typed in his first name with two “l”s. So he’s in here as a Phillip Staley.’
‘Don’t we check dates of birth and stuff like that?’
Palmer looked smug. ‘It’s because I’m checking the date of birth that I’ve noticed it. Anyway, he was arrested for assault in June 1998.’
‘Does it say what kind of assault? Maybe Julia Miles was wrong when she said Stephanie Alton hadn’t been battered by Staley.’
‘There’s mention of a nightclub but the charges were dropped. I would guess by the accuser. It’s common enough. You know that as well as me. I’ve got the alleged victim’s name. A Rebecca Hardy. She’s probably traceable, even though it was a long time ago.’ He looked down at the keyboard. ‘We’ll need to do this together.’
*
Rebecca Hardy was easy to find, but when Connie called her she hadn’t wanted to meet them in her home. Nothing particularly suspicious about that, although it was slightly unusual. Women often preferred the comfort of home territory when dealing with the police.
Palmer had suggested a local coffee shop. Not Café Aroma, their preferred refuge for a decent cup of coffee. He instinctively realised that the hard plastic seating and abrupt service might not be congenial for a woman who had made a report of abuse. Instead, they were in one of the tourist cafés with wooden tables and a laminated menu. Palmer took one sip of his coffee and pushed it to one side.
Rebecca Hardy was about late thirties with pale, naturally blonde hair pulled back with a silver clip. Her freckled face was make-up free but she didn’t need it, thought Palmer. She was attractive. He looked down and saw she was wearing a wedding ring, a simple band next to an engagement ring with a pip of a diamond in it.
He let Connie take the lead. The woman barely glanced at him. He clearly made her uncomfortable. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come.
Connie was checking her notes. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, we wanted to ask you a few questions about a complaint you made against Philip Staley in 1998. You said that he assaulted you at a nightclub?’
Rebecca spread her hands out over the table. ‘It was a Saturday night. A group of us girls used to go out to a pub, Ups ’n’ Downs. It would stay open until about two in the morning. After midnight there would be a DJ, a bit of dancing. Nothing special but the only thing going on here.’
‘I can imagine.’ Connie smiled. ‘I grew up near here. Not much more there either.’
Rebecca smiled back. ‘It was a regular thing. A group of us who’d gone to school together. Well, occasionally one of us would meet a guy. To be honest, it wasn’t really the reason we were clubbing. We were just letting our hair down on a Saturday night. We were young, single. You know how it is.’
‘Of cours
e. You met this Philip Staley there?’
Palmer frowned. That wasn’t good. Connie should let the witness bring up the accused man. He glanced at her, but she was ignoring his look.
‘Yes. I met him there. He was medium height, with curly hair. Good-looking, I suppose. We got chatting. Danced a bit. You know.’ She looked at Connie for reassurance, who nodded. ‘Well, the thing is, towards the end of the evening, when it was getting late, my friends came to find me to say they were taking a taxi home. That’s how it worked. We looked after each other, even if we’d met someone in the course of the evening. None of us would leave until we’d checked the others were okay.’
Connie nodded again. Palmer could feel weariness washing over him. He could see where this was going.
‘Anyway, Philip said he’d get me a taxi if I wanted to stay on a bit with him. The club wasn’t due to shut for an hour or so. So I agreed. It’d happened before. Not very often, but occasionally.’ She shot Palmer a glance. Seeing if he was judging her. He kept his face neutral. She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway. At the end, we went outside. Occasionally there would be a taxi waiting there but this evening, nothing. Philip said he had a car.’
‘He told you his name was Philip.’ Connie’s voice was gentle.
Rebecca nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t find out his last name until after I went to the police. I didn’t think he would have given his real name. I mean, given what he did to me. But he had. I just knew his name was Philip, and police told me later his last name was Staley.’
‘Okay. I was just checking. Sorry I interrupted you. Carry on.’
‘Well, I went with him in his car. Stupid now when I think of it. I have two daughters. The thought of them doing what I did gives me the shivers. But I was nineteen.’
‘And what happened?’
Palmer sat still. He really shouldn’t have come. He might as well not be here.