‘You know nothing about me.’
‘Maybe that’s down to you. You’ve said little on our first three meetings.’
‘You want to know about the girl, don’t you? That’s the only reason you’re here. To winkle information out of me.’
‘It is my job, Callum. A young girl has been murdered, and so far you’re the only person with information. You seem reluctant to share it with us.’
He shook his head and got to his feet. Tara thought that was an end to it. She’d failed to help him and failed in getting him to talk. Maybe Murray’s way was the right one. Bring him down to the station and let him stew for a day, threaten to charge him for with-holding information. She rose from the uncomfortable, poorly sprung sofa.
‘Not that you care,’ he said, ‘But there’s been another killing.’ He wiped his right eye with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
‘I don’t understand.’
He lifted the fresh copy of The Daily Telegraph. It was open at the International News section and folded down to the appropriate place as he handed it to her. She read the lead-line and the few sentences printed beneath. ‘Chinese scientist drowns in Swiss lake.’ It was followed by a brief summary of Dr Zhou Jian’s background, and that he had been attending a conference in Lucerne on food safety. His body was recovered from the River Reuss, and Swiss police were investigating.
‘You knew him?’
Despite the dull hue of the living room, she saw the tears well up in his eyes. Those eyes, she thought, must have shed a pot-full in the last three years.
‘At Oxford. We studied chemistry together, worked in similar fields for our doctorates and ended up in the same department as post-docs.’
‘And you believe this is connected to the other deaths?’
Callum rubbed his forehead roughly with the palm of his right hand. He sighed deeply.
‘Jian was my friend, my closest friend at Oxford. Neither of us fitted there in quite the same way as the others. I was just a kid from Belfast via Liverpool, the first person in my family ever to make it to university, never mind Oxford. I was working class and Irish, not exactly the best foundation for life amongst England’s elite. Jian was different, too. We sort of identified with each other. I really trusted no one else until I hooked up with Tilly.’
Tara was still holding the newspaper. She briefly scanned the story again. Three separate incidents, four deaths, all connected to this sorry man living in squalor on a Liverpool housing estate. All connected to an Oxford college. So far only one of the deaths was regarded as murder.
‘Tell me about the guy who disappeared.’ She knew this was taking her to a place she should not go. Tweedy would do his nut if he ever found out that she had visited a murder suspect on her own. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he would say if he knew she was discussing outlandish conspiracy theories about deaths which had occurred a long way from Liverpool, nothing whatsoever to do with the work of his squad. She told herself she was in her own time, off duty. Her natural instinct was to be inquisitive. An Oxford college linked all the deaths, and she also was connected. She had been a student of the same college.
Callum picked up a box-file from a stack of five upon the floor. Tara recognised its battered state, the label on the side with the words ‘Mass Spectrometry Data,’ the box bursting with papers and letters. He sat down in his chair, the box open on his knee. Tara resumed her uncomfortable position on the sofa, still piled with cardboard boxes and books.
‘That’s him,’ he said, handing over the photograph she remembered seeing previously. ‘Third from the left.’
The photo wasn’t great, not the sharpest focus, but she gazed at the image of the strapping guy, broad shoulders, curly fair hair, square jaw, tight-fitting T-shirt, seated with an arm resting casually on the back of the chair next to him. Without a smile, he stared at the camera. Devoid of any emotion, it seemed to Tara. He reminded her of the rowing crew from her years at Latimer: well-built, self-assured and confident of their destiny. Recounting in her mind the brief story of his disappearance, she found it difficult to believe that this young man had such problems he couldn’t overcome that he had to run away. Such a relaxed pose, he looked the type who could have risen above any problem.
‘He looks fine there, but not as if he’s been enjoying himself.’
‘I suppose we’d all had a skin-full by the time this was taken. It was the last night of our ski trip.’
Callum came over and knelt down beside her. For a moment they could have been a couple browsing their family holiday snaps. Tara suppressed her discomfort at his odour.
‘That’s Tilly,’ he said, placing his forefinger on the image of a slight girl with short brown hair and a beamer of a smile, arms wide as if she were performing in a stage musical. She was standing beside a Chinese youth with dark-framed glasses, thin face and shoulder length hair. ‘Jian, obviously,’ he continued, moving his finger along the picture. ‘First on the left is Charlotte Babb.’ Tara noted the smiling girl with frizzy dark hair, thinking that perhaps she may be prettier in real life, the camera not having caught her in the best light. Her mouth seemed too wide for the narrow face, her cheeks rather bony. She wore a heavy sky-blue polo-neck jumper, which made it difficult to gauge her true body shape. She was seated upon the knee of a very-fair looking man sporting a lewd expression, his tongue hanging out like he was enjoying immensely having a girl sit on his lap.
‘Anthony Egerton-Hyde,’ said Callum. ‘You may have heard of him, stinking rich, somewhere in line to the throne, ninety-third or something ridiculous. He’s a junior minister now, Department of Health.’ She’d heard the name before, but didn’t think it was in either context mentioned by Callum.
She was conscious now of the improved tone in Callum’s voice. For the first time there was enthusiasm in what he said, education in his speech. He didn’t sound a raving lunatic or some head case as Murray and Wilson had described him. The massive chip on his shoulder was greatly diminished.
‘He’s married to Georgina now,’ he said, pointing to another girl standing next to Tilly in the photo. Much taller, slender, long fair hair, not an entirely pretty face, but well-tended and glamorous with it. She was dressed in tight-fitting jeans and white shirt. Even in the photo she looked expensive and yet vaguely familiar.
‘What’s her surname?’ Tara asked.
‘Maitland.’
‘The Georgina Maitland?’ Callum nodded rather proudly. ‘The one with her finger in every pie going?’
‘That’s her.’
‘She’s worth an absolute fortune. Fashion houses, beauty treatments, fitness, well-being, spas, good food guides, restaurants. She runs a whole empire.’ Tara composed a mental list of the things she possessed, derived from the world of Georgina Maitland: deodorant, perfume, a couple of dresses, and immediately she was struck by the thought that at that very moment she was wearing underwear by Georgina. The girl’s face in the photo brimmed with confidence or glee, full of poise, high cheekbones, and fair hair falling below her shoulders, although Tara recalled seeing a recent photograph in a celebrity magazine, where she sported a deep auburn page-boy style.
‘She was at Oxford with you?’
‘She and Tilly were close friends.’
Tara found herself intrigued by the connections amongst this group of people: a highly successful entrepreneur, a government minister and a famous writer. She could understand how someone of Callum’s background might have found difficulty fitting in with such a crowd.
‘That’s Peter Ramsey who was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral.’
She tried to reconcile the man’s face with the image she’d imagined from reading the reports on his killing. Didn’t look the type to be a priest. Looked more like a hippie on a road trip: long frizzed hair, a goatee and John Lennon glasses. Neither did he look as if he was enjoying himself. He stared, not at the camera, but at Egerton-Hyde, who was hosting Charlotte Babb upon his lap.
‘Who’s the guy
beside him?’
‘Ollie Rutherford. He was a school friend of Peter and Anthony’s. Eton, I think. I didn’t know him that well. There were twenty-two students on that holiday; I didn’t know all of them. I was friends with Jian and, of course, Tilly and I were just getting together about then. Georgina, Charlotte and Tilly were mates as were Peter, Ollie and Anthony. Justin had been seeing Georgina, but I think it was over before we went on the holiday. Peter was quite friendly with Charlotte, although she only had eyes for Anthony. We all sort of blended because each of us was friends with someone in the group.’
‘And where were you when all this was going on?’
He looked surprised by the question.
‘I was taking the photograph.’
Tara glanced, quite deliberately, at her watch. He noticed and took the hint, by getting to his feet. She felt it was time to leave, and yet she was truly interested in Callum’s story. She took another glance at the photo before handing it over. Three of those young people, no more than twenty-one years old at that time, were now dead. The man standing over her clearly had been devastated by the loss of his wife and since then had sought answers from a box of news clippings and holiday snaps. She’d managed to get him talking, and yet there was some way to go before she felt like trusting him.
‘Why did Justin Kingsley disappear?’
She was already on her feet to go, but her tendency to question overtook her thinking.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking down at the photograph. ‘That night, not long after this was taken, he simply walked out of the bar, and I never saw him again.’ Callum tossed the photo into the box-file.
‘Did he say anything? Was there a row? Any indication that he was intending to run away?’
Callum shook his head.
‘And the police in Austria never found anything?’
‘One minute we were all having a good time, and the next he was gone. None of us realised he had left for good till next morning at breakfast, although he had been sharing a room with Ollie.’
Tara managed to edge her way to the front door. It was getting late; she should be home. She realised she had gone too far with Callum Armour. Intrigued by his story, and the tenuous connection with her own, she now felt inclined to help him through his problems. She had been a student at Latimer four years after this group of friends had graduated but, like Callum Armour, something from her past, from her years at Oxford, at times threatened to devour her sanity and ruin her life. So far, she’d fought it off. She couldn’t help wanting to find out more about the deaths linked to Callum, and yet she knew she couldn’t begin a police investigation in another jurisdiction simply to satisfy her own curiosity.
‘I have to go now, Callum. I’ve an early start tomorrow. I hope you find some help from the contacts I gave you.’ She opened his front door, having noted previously the chain and the bar-lock.
‘The wee girl’s name was Audra.’
CHAPTER 11
Tara turned on the doorstep and glared icily at Callum. Was he playing a game with her? She may not look her age, or even like a policewoman, but did she look completely stupid?
‘Does she have a second name?’
He shrugged, staring into her face. She fought to keep her temper.
‘Is this how it’s going to be, Callum? I help you along, and as reward I get a little more information about the girl? Why not tell me all of it now?’
‘I think you’re already closer to finding the killer of the girl than I am to finding Justin Kingsley.’ She bored into his eyes, trying to be strong, to show that she was a woman in control of the situation. She was calling the shots, not him. In a flash, she could trail him back to the station and let him sit it out with Superintendent Tweedy. The empathy she’d felt this last day or so for his plight, the willingness to help him turn things around was fast running out. For goodness sake, she thought, right now I could be looking into the eyes of a killer.
‘She’s Lithuanian. Don’t know her second name. I only spoke to her a couple of times when I was out with Midgey. She used to wait by the back gate of number six. No one lives there, not all the time.’
Her large blue eyes maintained her enraged glare, insistent that he should say more, tell her everything. At last, he seemed to be getting the idea.
‘Usually, two or three men would show up in a car, and they would go inside with Audra.’
‘What type of car?’
‘I don’t know. Red. More like maroon. A saloon car, not a hatchback. Maybe Toyota or Mazda, I can’t be sure.’
‘How long would they stay?’
Another shrug. She continued her look of displeasure. He puffed air through his lips.
‘There were other girls, some older, like in their thirties or forties. They came and went. Sometimes they stayed overnight. I told you I saw bright lights in the back bedroom, and a few times I saw them carry a video camera into the house. And then for a couple of weeks there would be nothing.’
‘How many girls? And don’t say I don’t know. Think before you answer.’
‘Five, maybe, but not the same girls each time. I saw Audra on about six occasions.’
‘Is that it? You’re sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me? I can have a car here in a few minutes, and we can finish this at the station. You know, you should try trusting someone for a change. I only want to help you.’
The door slammed, ending their inflamed conversation. What a totally ignorant man. Ungrateful with it. She owed him nothing. She turned and walked down the short path, clumps of weeds running amok in the patches of garden to her left and right. A gathering of youths, resembling the group she had encountered the day before, stood around a car parked in front of her Focus. It was a small hatchback in white, lowered sports suspension, tinted windows, alloys and a spoiler at the rear far too grand for the car on which it was perched. The driver, wearing a baseball cap, sat low in his seat, windows down, chatting to the Everton shirt who’d heckled her on her previous visit. This evening he sported a bright red hoodie, baggy jeans and expensive-looking trainers. He fiddled with a mobile phone as the driver spoke to him. Another male, shaven head, blue polo shirt and shorts, revealing long gangly legs, stood astride a kid’s mountain bike, much too small for him. Two of the three girls, arms folded, leaned against the hatchback, watching as Tara crossed a patch of grass to reach her car. The third girl held onto a buggy, a toddler, a boy no more than eighteen months old sat restlessly within, battling to break free from his harness. The girl, Tara presumed to be the mother, didn’t look much older than fifteen. She had a fresh complexion, rounded face and blond hair falling to her waist but with roots needing attention. She wore a white vest and pink jogging trousers, but most striking of all was the bulging tummy of a girl late in pregnancy. None of them spoke as Tara reached her car, unlocked it and was about to climb inside. She felt their eyes upon her. Considering her agitation after an hour spent in the company of an awkward, foul smelling man, she reckoned she could handle anything these kids had to throw her way. Closing the car door again, she approached the girls.
‘I take it you know about the body of a young girl being found in the house?’
‘Yeah,’ sang one of the girls leaning on the hatchback. She, too, looked no more than fifteen, black hair, reaching her shoulders, neatly brushed as if it had just been washed, blow-dried and straightened. Tara saw the indignant look on the girl’s face. Tight eyes. It was a look she knew well, easily recognisable on the streets of Liverpool. The look of distrust. A defence mechanism that said I have already seen far too much trouble in my short life, and anything you say will not shock or frighten me. If you are aggressive I will double it and send it right back at you. Didn’t matter what part of the city you came from. The look was the same. In males it was the look also of menace. Strangers didn’t belong in a place like this. Territory was everything, and outsiders asking questions were likely to be sent on their way, with a reminder not to return. The Everton shirt
had that look also. Tara ignored him and concentrated on getting the girls to speak.
‘Her name was Audra. She was Lithuanian. Any of you girls know anything about her?’
‘We don’t bother with Liths,’ said the pregnant girl.
‘Or Poles,’ said the third girl chewing gum, an awkward looking kid with freckles, bulging thighs in grey leggings and a pink vest struggling to hold her fat tummy and breasts within it.
‘You a bizee?’ she said, looking intently at Tara’s lack of height and, what must have seemed to them, dull clothing. Tara didn’t reply to the question. From the corner of her eye she saw the Everton shirt begin to stir.
‘Nobody knows nothing, all right?’ he said. ‘Why don’t you fuck off, and give your mouth a rest?’
Tara ignored him and directed her question to the girls. ‘Have you seen anyone coming or going from the house where the girl was found?’
‘Only Poles and Liths. Nobody lives there, not for long,’ said the pregnant girl.
‘Shut up, Debbie. Tell the filth nothing, right?’
‘What is your problem?’ said Tara. She knew it was a mistake. You don’t rile these kids. They were well used to out manoeuvring the establishment. Buy and sell you and then claim harassment. But it was too late. She’d had enough of his abuse. She’d had enough of this place.
He squared up to her in a flash, except he was almost a foot taller. Her body trembled, but she didn’t want him to see it. Instead, she met his stare with equally inflamed menace.
‘No problem, luv, as long as you fuck off. Or else you’ll get my dick in your mouth.’
‘Don’t speak to her like that.’ It was Callum, standing on the pavement. The driver of the car, broad shouldered and heavy set, jumped out quickly to stand beside the Everton shirt. The boy on the bike wasn’t so keen and slowly eased himself behind the pregnant girl and the child’s buggy.
‘Piss off, Stinker. Nothing to do with you.’
An Early Grave Page 7