‘Will he back that up?’ he asked.
‘As long as you don’t ask him to broadcast it on the six o’clock news it shouldn’t be a problem. What do you think happened?’
‘That’s what we’re here to try and find out. It’s not looking like a robbery. Nothing valuable seems to have been taken and Eddie’s wallet, when we found it, was still stuffed with cash. And there’s no sign of a forced entry. If Eddie went out leaving Jamie at home, would he have left the door on the latch?’
‘He might have.’ She was unsure.
‘If not, we have to conclude that it was someone who knew Eddie and wanted something from him.’
‘Eddie had made a will. He told the solicitor where it was in case anything happened to him.’
Mariner nodded. ‘If he was feeling under threat from someone, he might have started to make those kinds of preparations. And it might explain why he’d begun collecting Jamie from the day centre himself, too. He could have believed that someone would try to get at him through Jamie.’
‘But who? And why?’
Mariner was beginning to formulate some ideas about that, but he wasn’t ready to share them yet. ‘It was someone who was well organised. They had a purpose and they came prepared. They apparently weren’t keen to advertise that they were here, either. There were men working on the driveway next door all weekend, so they had to wait until a Sunday night after dark, when everyone had gone home. And what we haven’t got yet is any kind of motive.’ Though, if pressed, Mariner would have laid bets on a connection with those large payments of money into Eddie Barham’s bank account.
Knox had been researching those, but so far his investigations had drawn an intriguing blank. The account wasn’t from a UK bank and so far they hadn’t even managed to identify its country of origin, let alone any other details.
Mariner didn’t imagine Anna Barham having access to an offshore bank, but the question had to be asked. So he asked it. ‘Did Eddie ever talk to you about money?’
‘No. It wasn’t something we ever discussed.’
‘So you haven’t lent him any recently?’
‘I’d be the last person Eddie would come to for money,’ she said. ‘And anyway, he wouldn’t need to. He wasn’t rolling in it, but he was solvent. His solicitor said that he left quite a large sum.’
Mariner decided to spare her the details for now. ‘He did,’ he agreed. ‘We’re currently trying to identify the source of two large payments into Eddie’s bank account in December and January.’
‘How large?’
‘Five thousand pounds each. They were paid by standing order. Any idea about where they may have come from?’
Her response was in the negative, as he’d expected and as she seemed unfazed by the line of questioning Mariner was inclined to believe her.
‘We really could do with finding Sally-Ann,’ he said. ‘If that’s her name.’
‘You really think a woman might have done it?’
‘I saw Eddie with a woman earlier on Sunday evening, they drove off together. It may have been the same woman who later made the call to the emergency services. She has disappeared and so apparently has Sally-Ann. It’s quite a coincidence. Whether or not she’s implicated, she was one of the last people to see Eddie alive.’ Mariner braced himself for what could potentially be a sensitive area. ‘In Eddie’s wallet we found a page torn out of the local newspaper.
It was the list of ads for personal services, escort agencies, that kind of thing.’ Mariner hesitated. ‘It was well used. The woman I saw him with I’m pretty sure was in that line of work.’
‘What are you getting at?’ she demanded.
‘Do you know if Eddie had ever been in the habit of using the services of a prostitute?’ he asked.
He’d shocked her. ‘Absolutely not!’
‘It could have been connected with something he was working on, of course, but we have to check out all the possibilities,’ Mariner said, to cool things down again.
‘We’re trying to recover what remained of Eddie’s computer files, too.’
‘You think it could have happened because of something he was writing?’ It was easier to bear than the alternative.
Mariner shrugged. ‘Or something he’d written in the past. People bear grudges.’ Characters like Frank Crosby did it big time.
Knox’s mobile trilled. ‘I’ll take it outside, boss,’ he said, fumbling for it. In his haste to leave the room, he tripped over the two large volumes propping open the door, sending one of them sliding across the floor. Mariner got up to retrieve it, inspecting the spine as he did so. It was a fairly dated edition of Gray’s Anatomy.
‘Was Eddie’s reading always so light, or was he thinking of going into medicine?’ he asked, turning over the book in his hand.
As Anna took the weighty tome from him, a trace of recognition registered.
‘It’s one of Dad’s old medical books,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know Eddie had kept them.’
‘Your father was a doctor?’
With a brief smile, she shook her head. ‘A frustrated doctor. He taught chemistry and biology at St Mark’s Comp. But he had his own little research projects on the go all the time, too.’
‘His autistic trait?’
‘Something like that.’
‘What was he researching?’
‘What else? Bloody autism. The bane of our lives.’
‘Trying to do what? Find the cure?’
‘Cause or cure, he thought the one would lead to the other. But above all he wanted to prove to my mother that Jamie’s condition wasn’t her fault.’
‘Was that necessary?’
‘Oh yes. Twenty years ago when my parents were first told what was wrong with Jamie, everyone thought that autism was a result of the mother’s failure to bond with her child. They called them “refrigerator mothers”.’
‘That sounds like a lorry load of antiquated Freudian crap.’
‘It does now, but at the time nobody knew anything different. So, not only did my mother have this miserable, screaming, uncommunicative child, but she had to live with the experts telling her that “Oh, and by the way, it’s your fault that he’s like that.” Never mind that she’s already got two happy, healthy children.’
‘And your father didn’t believe it?’
‘Dad never took anything at face value. He was a scientist, so all the psychological stuff was just too airy-fairy for him. Then when people began to realise that there could be other, more tangible explanations for autism it was all the encouragement he needed. Now, of course, it’s pretty much accepted that there are a whole range of biological and genetic factors at play.’ She could tell that Mariner was impressed.
‘You know a lot about this, don’t you?’ he observed.
Despite herself, Anna laughed. ‘Something must have sunk in from the endless discussions we were dragged into over Sunday lunch. Dad was obsessed. It was his little one man campaign. Looking back, I think it was his way of dealing with Jamie. Our lives were like a roller coaster, each time some new theory or therapy or medication came out there was hope or there was guilt. We were a completely dysfunctional family. Dad shut away in his study for hours on end, Jamie taking all Mum’s time and energy…’
‘And not much time for you and Eddie.’
‘It’s probably why we hated each other so much. We took out our anger on each other.’
‘Did any of your father’s work get published?’
Another sardonic smile. ‘No.’ Then a pause as something stirred in her memory. ‘Although they did print some letter he wrote to an autism journal, expounding one of his theories.
I was living away from home by then, so Mum sent me a copy. She was so proud of him. She claimed it had created quite a stir. But I was sick to the back teeth with autism. I’d left home to get away from it, so I didn’t even bother reading it. It went straight in the bin. It’s one of those stupid things I really regretted, because only a few weeks later Mum a
nd Dad were dead.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Their car skidded off an icy road and went into the canal. They were both killed outright. Dad had learnt to drive fairly late in life and he was never a very confident driver. It was a shock, of course, but in some ways we weren’t that surprised.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mariner said.
Anna shrugged, ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘How long?’ asked Mariner.
‘1985. It was a great year, 1985. My parents were killed and my marriage hit the rocks. Still, at least Mum and Dad weren’t around to say “told you so”.’ By Mariner’s calculation that would make it two years after the building society account was opened and a year before the outgoing standing orders.
Knox reappeared in the doorway, distracting them both from further morbid thoughts.
‘I’ve been called back to the shop, boss. They’re short of bodies. And that photographer at the paper has surfaced so I said that you’d be down there,’ he said. ‘I’ve arranged for you to look at the office, too.’
‘Right.’ Mariner turned to Anna. ‘We’ll leave you to it then. SOCO have done a pretty rigorous job, so forensically you can’t do any harm. PC Hunter outside will lock up when you go.’
She nodded assent. ‘Of course. It’s probably a stupid question, but I have to ask. How likely is it that you’ll find out who did this?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mariner. ‘It’s too early to tell. But I suppose this is where I say “If we get any leads, I’ll call you”.’ He drew back his mouth in an awful Humphrey Bogart impression that at least made her smile. ‘And in case you think of anything else that might be important.’ He handed her his card, office and mobile number.
Hearing the front door close behind the two policemen, and leaving her alone in the house, Anna tried hard not to feel spooked. It wasn’t just recent events that haunted her, but over thirty years’ worth of history. She climbed the stairs slowly, unwillingly. After their parents died, Eddie had moved into the master bedroom and both that and Jamie’s room had since been decorated, but her own room was almost exactly as she’d left it, two months before her eighteenth birthday. She fingered the lock that she herself had inexpertly fitted in an attempt to safeguard some privacy from her marauding younger brother. A consequence of too many days of coming home from school to find that he had pulled records off the shelves, destroyed her school project or ripped her precious pop posters from the walls. Mum and Dad had refused to secure Jamie’s room, insisting, reasonably enough it seemed now, that he wasn’t an animal to be caged. So she’d fitted a lock on hers instead, and retreated to her own safe haven at every opportunity.
Dad’s sanctuary had always been his study, the room that now housed Eddie’s computer. It was where their father had laboured night after night, the angle-poise lamp highlighting his thinning hair as he frowned with concentration over his work, barely even noticing when, in rare moments of consideration, Anna had set a mug of tea or coffee down in front of him. ‘Families’, Knox had said.
Anna couldn’t remember them ever having been a real family.
Mariner’s lack of response was significant too, virtual proof that a perfect wife and two beautiful children awaited him at home.
Jamie’s bedroom was largely untouched by the police investigation. Under the bed she found a holdall, and opening drawers, packed into it a selection of underwear, shirts, jeans and sweaters. Not too many. She wasn’t expecting to host Jamie for that long.
The phone rang, splitting the air and making her jump.
For a moment she just stood, frozen to the spot, reluctant to answer it, before chiding herself. It’s just the phone for God’s sake. She picked up the computer room extension.
‘Hello?’
A male voice responded. ‘Eddie, it’s Andrew Todd. We need to talk,’ he sounded tense, urgent.
‘Mr Todd, this is Anna Barham, I’m Eddie’s sister,’ she took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid my brother is dead. He…’
A click and the line went dead too. Anna was left suspended in mid-air. ‘Mr Todd? Hello?’
She tapped down on the cradle, punched in 1471 and was rewarded with the standard recorded message: ‘You were called today at 14.42, the caller withheld their number.’ No surprises there. But Mr Todd, whoever he was, obviously hadn’t seen the local papers.
Downstairs in the lounge, Anna sorted through the extensive video collection. There were eleven tapes labelled Countdown with various dates, others simply marked ‘Jamie’. In the kitchen there was little. She threw away the remains of a carton of milk and half a stale loaf, but took with her the multi-pack of Hula Hoops that was in the pantry. Something she was learning—you could never have enough Hula Hoops.
On her way out, Anna realised she’d forgotten Jamie’s shaver. She retraced her steps to the bathroom, where she found toothbrushes too. The only razors were disposable ones. Had Eddie wet-shaved Jamie every day? Jamie would never have managed it himself without cutting his face to shreds. It was yet another measure of Eddie’s devotion to his younger brother. She picked up a few, along with a can of shaving gel. In the bathroom cabinet, its child safety lock forced open, doubtless by the police, were more deodorants and hair gel, and beside them, a bottle of aftershave.
On impulse, Anna uncapped the lid and briefly held it to her nose. The effect was disturbing in its familiarity, as though Eddie was suddenly standing beside her in the room. Tears welled up in her eyes and she wiped them away irritably.
‘Shit!’ she spoke aloud. ‘Why did this have to happen, Eddie? What had you got into?’ Through tear-blurred vision she gathered up the rest of the things she needed and feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly claustrophobic, headed for the door.
Chapter Eight
With the revelation of Eddie Barham’s murder came a shift in the dynamics of the enquiry. This was now a criminal investigation, giving Mariner no option but to take over as Senior Investigating Officer. There were plenty of detective constables at his disposal, but he was inclined to reciprocate Knox’s generosity and keep him involved as much as he could. Knox had been in at the very beginning of the case and, other duties permitting, would want to see it through. So far they’d worked well together. Like Mariner, Knox was a pragmatist who had no interest in station politics but simply wanted to get the job done. Right now though he was hostage to the flu virus that was sweeping Granville Lane and had been called back to base. He dropped Mariner off at the Echo offices on the way.
This afternoon Mariner was directed to the basement canteen where he was told photographer Darren Smith was finishing off a late afternoon lunch break. The cafeteria was a subterranean vision in chrome and melamine, loud with clattering cutlery, with a munificently subsidised menu; a brave but unsuccessful endeavour to keep employees out of the surrounding bars.
Illness hadn’t suppressed Darren’s appetite. Mariner, who hadn’t eaten since a snatched slice of toast this morning, had to make an effort not to salivate as Darren, who looked about fifteen by Mariner’s reckoning, tucked into a particularly juicy looking medium-rare steak. The lad looked as if he could do with the nutrients. His close cropped hair and sallow complexion gave him the appearance of an Auschwitz survivor, although the scales would have probably shown a healthy reading, thanks to the extensive metalwork threaded through ears, nose and eyebrows. He made Mariner feel middle-aged and past it.
News that Eddie’s death was not after all self-inflicted had by now permeated and, though less demonstrative, Darren appeared as distressed as his chief had been. ‘I’ve been Eddie’s partner for the last three years on and off,’ he told Mariner, in his laconic Black-Country whine, and dispelling the age myth at once. ‘I can’t believe it. He was a straight-up bloke. Why would anyone want to do that to him? You don’t know—?’
Mariner shook his head in response.
‘God. And I was only with him Friday. I keep going over it, trying to think if there’s anything I shoul
d have seen.’
‘He didn’t talk to you about his plans for the weekend?
Whether he was meeting anyone?’ Mariner asked.
‘No, he never talked much about what he did after hours.’
‘It would help now if you could tell me a bit about Eddie,’ said Mariner. ‘What was he like?’
Darren shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell. Eddie was all right.’
This might be an exercise in getting blood from a stone.
‘And the two of you got on okay?’
Darren’s alibi was solid, he’d been drinking in a pub in Cradley Heath with his mates all of Sunday evening, but it was still worth posing the question. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Eddie was really good to me when I first started. We were a good team.’
‘Was there anything about his behaviour during the last few weeks or days that seemed odd or out of character?’
Darren shipped his knife and fork. ‘No. I mean, I keep going over it, trying to think. But Eddie was never a conventional sort of bloke.’
And you would know? Mariner eyed the rows of assorted rings that adorned Darren’s ears, and the studs in his left nostril. Unconsciously his finger and thumb went up to the two puncture holes remaining from his own modest youthful rebellion. The extent of Darren’s pierced bits was extravagant by comparison, but then maybe with a name like Darren Smith you had to find other outlets for self-expression.
‘What did the two of you get up to then?’ Mariner prompted in an effort to get him talking.
‘Oh, we covered local stories, the really exciting stuff,’ Darren said, meaning exactly the opposite. ‘You know, “Edna the dinner lady retires after thirty years”, “Terry the fireman cycles up Everest for charity”.’ He feigned a yawn.
‘Must have been quite a change from what Eddie had been used to,’ observed Mariner.
‘You can say that again.’
‘Did Eddie seem to mind?’
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