“Thanks, Julian,” Calladine said. “That means those bones do belong to Millie Reed.” He saw the look — Julian had more to say.
“Not necessarily. All it really proves, Tom, is that Millie’s blood got on to that skirt, not that the bones are hers.”
Calladine had had enough. Was nothing straightforward anymore? “Can’t you test the bones themselves in that case? Surely you can get DNA from them?”
“Yes, but it would be expensive and take time. When they were originally found along with the other items, it was presumed that on the balance of probability they did belong to the girl. Foul play might have been suspected but there was no one to charge, the grandmother was dead. And unlike now, we didn’t have any of the Reed girl’s DNA for a comparison, so things were left as they stood.”
Calladine was thinking hard, trying to work out if it was important to know now. His instincts told him it was, but he wasn’t sure why. But was a hunch, a feeling in his gut, good-enough reason to authorize the expensive tests?
“Do the tests, Julian,” he decided. “Find out if the DNA you got from the PE bag is a match for those bones.”
“Will Greco be okay with the expense?” Julian asked.
“We’ll keep it to ourselves for now.”
Chapter Thirty
Greco and Ruth were back in the car and about to drive off when Ruth got a call from Alice. “A lead on the second shooting victim, Darren Heap,” Ruth told Greco. “A young woman has reported him missing. We should talk to her, see what he told her about the drug business on the Hobfield. She works in the greengrocer’s in Lowermill, Alice is texting the address.”
“Lowermill?” Greco asked.
“Through Leesdon, up the hill and then take the right-hand fork.”
He nodded. “I think we looked at a house there.”
“You’re thinking of leaving Oldston?” Ruth asked.
“It would make sense. It’s not far but the traffic at peak times is dreadful.”
Ruth nodded. “Provided Grace is happy to move, you should go for it.”
“What d’you think about the forensics Julian’s turned up?” he asked her.
“Calladine’s convinced the cases aren’t linked and I tend to agree with him. They are too different — one a beating, the other shootings — and they were killed for different reasons. Becca O’Brien’s murder is only loosely connected to drugs. Maybe she annoyed her dealer so much he thumped her one, who knows?” Ruth said. “And then there’s the mystery of the word ‘sorry’ written on her wall.”
“Different cases then, as we thought,” Greco agreed. “But that doesn’t explain Julian’s forensics.”
“Those trees are a puzzle. The berry juice suggests that whoever the killer is, they were up in the woods soon before the killings.”
“Could someone be camping out up there?” Greco asked.
“It’s possible, but the weather’s not the greatest at the moment,” she said. “And if there were two different killers, why would they both be there?”
“Can you walk from the hillside down to the Hobfield?” Greco asked.
“Yes, there’s a pathway on to the road, then you take the canal towpath to the back of the estate beyond the fence,” she said.
“Fence?”
“It’s not difficult to get over and there are gaps in places where the kids have taken the metal to weigh in. If that’s what happened, it does suggest a killer who knows the area well,” Ruth said.
“Organize for Julian’s people to take a look along the towpath and pay particular attention to the fence and a gap someone might have used,” Greco said.
It was market day in Lowermill and half of Leesworth was out shopping. She heard Greco tut at the slow-moving traffic and his fingers tapped on the dash. A man who was easily irritated. She wondered how he coped with a houseful of small children. He and Grace had an infant. Then there were Grace’s daughter Holly and Greco’s Matilda. Ruth was driving and the High Street was busy, but she knew exactly where to find a parking space.
She pointed to a row of shops. “The greengrocer’s is just over there. We’ll stick the car round the back.”
“Let’s make this quick,” Greco said. “I have a photo for her to look at. We get a positive ID, ask a few questions, then go on to the victim’s family. They should be told what’s happened.”
Josie Hardwick was serving behind the counter when they entered the shop. She took one look at the detectives and her face turned pale.
“We’re here about your friend,” Greco said.
“What friend? What’s happened?”
“Darren,” he said quietly.
She folded her arms and looked away. “What’s he been up to now? You’re not ordinary coppers, you’re plain clothes — CID — and that means trouble.”
The customer she’d been serving went out, leaving the shop empty. Ruth took the liberty of shutting the door and putting up the closed sign.
Greco held out his mobile so she could look at the image. “Is this him, Ms Hardwick?”
The girl gave it a glance and nodded.
“We’re very sorry, Josie,” Ruth said. “Darren has been killed, murdered. Are you up to helping us by answering a few questions?”
The girl burst into tears. “Poor Darren. I warned him. I was always telling him not to get involved with those losers.”
“Who d’you mean?” Ruth asked.
“Johnno Higgs and Billy. They’re not really bad, just can’t get anything right. I knew there’d be trouble when Billy said he’d been told there was new people on the estate trying to take over. Word was the man running the new outfit wanted the three of them to work for him, but Johnno said they should ignore the offer, carry on as they always had. He told Darren not to worry, that he’d sort him out.”
“Very brave of him,” Ruth said. “D’you know what this new boss is called?”
She shook her head. “Darren never told me his name, just that he was foreign. I’m not sure that he knew. Johnno told them everything would be fine so long as they didn’t attract too much attention or try to muscle in on the new guy’s customers.”
“They were selling drugs?” Greco asked.
“Johnno’s been selling drugs for as long as I can remember. He always has someone different to help him. He’s an idiot, all he’s good for is pissing folk off.”
“This new man, are you sure you don’t know who he is?”
“No, but he threatened the three of them, told them to back off, leave the dealing in Leesworth to him or there’d be trouble.”
“I take it they didn’t comply,” Greco said.
“I’ve no idea. I didn’t get involved, but I did warn Darren.”
“Does Darren have any family?” Ruth asked.
“No, he lives with me. His dad did one when he was a kid, and his mother died a few years back.”
“Thanks, Josie, you’ve been very helpful,” Ruth said.
“What’ll happen — you know, about the funeral and such?”
Ruth shook her head. “He doesn’t have relatives, so . . .’
“I’ll sort it,” Josie said at once. “I’ve got some savings and I want to.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure it’s you the morgue liaises with.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“You take the car and go back to the station,” Calladine told Rocco. “I’ll go on foot, have a think, clear my head.”
He left the Duggan and took the back road along the narrow lane that led towards the park and on into Leesdon centre. He strode on briskly for a good ten minutes, thinking of nothing in particular. The weak autumn sun peeked out from behind the clouds and felt warm on the back of his neck. It cheered him. Perhaps Ruth had something when she suggested a holiday. He heard someone call out to him. It was Kitty.
She leaned out of her car window. “I ring, you don’t answer. I go round to your address but you’re never there. Are you avoiding me?”
“Course not, it’s jus
t work,” he said. “We’ve got a tricky case and it’s taking all our resources and some. A policeman’s lot isn’t easy, you know.”
“Hang on, I’ll leave the car here and walk with you.”
“Make sure you lock it,” he said. “The Hobfield is just over there.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” She hopped out of her car and took hold of his hand. “We’ll walk through the park and get a coffee at that little hut. Then we’ll sit on a bench and watch the world go by. When you feel better, you can return to work. I’ll come back for my car later, then I’ll go to my flat and cook dinner for you.”
A generous offer. “You don’t have to, really. I can get by, you know.”
“I can imagine. I know what men living alone are like.” She rolled her eyes.
Calladine didn’t argue. He liked Kitty. Having a meal with her later would be no hardship at all.
Leesdon park was busy. School was over for the day and the kids were enjoying the pleasant weather while it lasted. Calladine sat down on a bench while Kitty went to get the drinks.
“I’ve got some brandy in my bag.” She winked. “Fancy a drop in your coffee?”
He nodded and smiled. “But not a word. I’m still on duty.”
She snuggled up close. “D’you have to go back? Wouldn’t you rather come back with me, put your feet up?”
“I wish I could, but I’ve got too much to do. I’ll see you later though, about 8 p.m.?”
“I suppose that’s what I get for dating a detective. Tell me about your case,” she asked. “What’s making it so difficult?”
“A murdered woman, beaten to death, two lads shot in the head. Very different methods used, but we’ve found some forensic evidence to link them. Trouble is, I can’t for the life of me understand it.”
She smiled at him. “What a fascinating world you live in. What sort of forensic evidence?”
Calladine shook his head. “I can’t discuss it. It’s not public knowledge yet, hasn’t been released to anyone outside the team.”
Kitty pulled a face. “If you let me in, I might be able to help.”
But Calladine wasn’t listening. He was watching the steady stream of walkers entering and leaving the park via the gate that led on to the canal towpath. It was a well-trodden route — towpath, park and across the spare ground to the Hobfield. From the towpath you could walk all over Leesworth and up on to the hillside with no need to go near a road or a CCTV camera.
Kitty nudged him. “It’s not good for you to be so preoccupied.”
“I should go,” he said. “I need to get some work done if I’m seeing you later.”
“Okay, but try and shake the mood before tonight.”
* * *
While Calladine was sitting on a park bench with Kitty, Greco and Ruth were in his office, deep in conversation. They were still talking when Calladine returned.
“Rocco back?” he asked Alice.
“No, he rang in, he’s gone along the towpath with Julian’s team,” she said. “I’ve had a bit of luck,” She handed him a sheet of paper. “Sarah Hammond, the third girl with Millie and Jade. I’ve found her.”
“Great stuff,” Calladine said. “Where’s she living?”
“Well, she’s not on the Hobfield any longer, far from it, and she’s no longer a Hammond. She’s called Sarah Cromwell, and lives in one of those new detached jobs in Hopecross, near Eve’s place.”
“So she’s Eve’s neighbour. That’s a good place to start, chances are she knows her,” he smiled. “It’s a fairly close-knit community up there — money sticks together. And my mother knows all the gossip.”
Eve Buckley was Tom Calladine’s birth mother, though she hadn’t raised him. That job had fallen to Freda, his father Frank Calladine’s wife, and in Calladine’s opinion, she’d made a good job of it and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
“Has Ruth told you what she and Greco found out?”
“Not really, just that they still don’t know where Lazarov is. He’s not with his girlfriend in Fallowfield and no one’s seen him.”
It was time to call it a day. One last visit and then he’d go home. “Tell anyone who asks that I’m on the trail of Sarah Hammond and I’ll see them tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Eve Buckley ushered Calladine into her sitting room. “How come I only see you when it has something to do with work?”
Calladine kissed her cheek. “You know how it is, never lets up.”
“Want to stay for some food?”
“I’ve made arrangements,” he said. “But I will come for a proper visit once this case is sorted — me, Zoe and the infant.”
“Little Maisie. I’m not sure what I think of that name, but I suppose it’s not my place.”
“Mine neither,” he said. “It’s Zoe’s child and she can do as she sees fit. I don’t even know if she’s told Julian.”
“You said on the phone that you wanted to know about the young woman up the road, Sarah Cromwell.”
“I’m going to pay her a visit shortly and wondered what you knew about her. Her maiden name was Hammond, and when she was a kid she lived on the Hobfield. It’s odd. Alice checked the records and couldn’t find a Sarah Hammond or Cromwell in the marriage register.”
“She’s a cagey one. I was told that she changed her name. She’s from a bad family on the Hobfield and can’t bear to be reminded of it. She left the area in her teens. She’s on the snooty side these days and trying very hard to put her past behind her.”
“Any reason for the name change? Were her family villains?”
“Not really, it’s just the Hobfield, Tom, simple as that. For a while she and Jack, her husband, lived in London but then his job brought him back here. Sarah wasn’t at all happy about it at first.”
“He’s local too?” Calladine asked.
“Yes, but not from the Hobfield. His family lived in Lowermill.”
“So, what’s she hiding? What should I know about?”
Eve looked at him as if she knew something. “Well, rumour has it that she was involved with a bad bunch in her youth — drug dealers and the like — although she was very young at the time, still at school.”
“D’you recall the Reed case?” he asked.
“The bones found up at Gorse House? Yes, of course I do. I knew Agnes Reed — well as much as anyone could know her. She was a strange one, that granddaughter of hers too. There was an incident, after which neither of them was ever seen again. Agnes had the stroke, of course, but I’ve no idea what became of the girl.” She stared at her son accusingly. “I always wondered why you lot never bothered to investigate. She might have been a bit weird, but Millie was young, she went missing and no one gave her a second thought.”
“It wasn’t quite like that. We were led to believe she was staying with some relative. We still don’t know what really happened,” he said.
“I doubt Sarah will tell you even if she remembers — too protective of her reputation. She wouldn’t want to become the subject of village gossip.”
A problem he’d deal with when he met her. “What were they like, the Reeds?”
“Odd. Insular, the girl particularly. She had a hellish temper — I do remember that. She lost it once on the bus coming back from Oldston and went berserk. The pair were asked to get off. It was such a shame . . . she was a clever girl. Pretty, too, in spite of that mole on her cheek.”
Calladine got to his feet. The day was fast disappearing, and he had a lot to do. “Thanks, that’s been helpful.”
She smiled. “I’ll ring you to make arrangements for a proper meal. And I won’t tolerate any excuses. Got that?”
* * *
He drove a little further up the hill to the Cromwell house. It was large — the entrance was protected by a heavy metal gate and the garden surrounded by trees. Calladine parked in the lane and walked round to a side gate. He could see a woman in the garden.
“Mrs Cromwell?” he call
ed out.
She looked at him and frowned. “Who are you?”
“DI Calladine, Leesdon police.” He showed her his warrant card. “If you’ve got a few minutes, I’d like a chat.”
She came and unlocked the gate for him. “I can’t see what I can possibly help you with,” she said.
“It’s not a recent matter,” he said. “It’s about what happened up at Gorse House that day.”
“What day? What are talking about?”
“The incident with Millie Reed and Jade O’Brien.”
“Oh that. It was years ago, but it was no big deal,” she said. “Millie invited us back after school—”
“And was never seen again,” he said.
She turned away. “I don’t know anything about that. It was just an ordinary visit. Millie showed us round the place and then we left.”
“That’s not what happened at all, is it, Mrs Cromwell? You see, I remember speaking to you at the time. You were scared, and I know that Jade O’Brien got injured.”
She looked at him and narrowed her eyes. “You’re that young detective, aren’t you, the one who spoke to me.”
“Yes. A rather green young detective, Mrs Cromwell.”
“It was such a long time ago,” she flustered. “You can’t expect me to recall exactly what went on.”
“You must have heard about the bones found up at the house?” he said.
“Yes, but they could belong to anyone.”
“We don’t think so,” he said. “Currently the clever money is on them being Millie Reed’s. There was a murder in Leesdon this week that has certain similarities, hence my interest in the Reed girl.”
“Well, I can’t help you. I have never harmed anyone, and anyway, it was all in the distant past. I can barely recall what happened.”
She eyed him coldly. He wasn’t going to get anything useful today. Calladine decided to leave it for now, but he’d speak to her again. His instinct told him Sarah Cromwell knew a lot more than she was saying, but he could only guess at her reasons for holding back.
DEAD SORRY a totally addictive crime thriller with a huge twist (Calladine & Bayliss Mystery Book 11) Page 12