by Oliver Tidy
‘We found evidence of your incarceration there.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘How are you feeling, physically?’
I smiled a small one at her. ‘Better, thanks. They got the duty doctor to look at my feet. She bandaged me up. My ribs aren’t so bad, despite your attentions, but I’m missing my meds.’
I could see through the station doors that it was dark outside and probably had been for a few hours.
‘Want a lift home?’
‘I thought you weren’t a taxi service.’
‘Yes or no.’
‘Yes, please.’
She must have been leaving anyway because we went straight to her car. I waited until we were on our way before I spoke again.
‘You saved me from making a very big mistake today. Thank you. If you hadn’t come between us, I’d probably be spending the night there.’
‘And the rest. You really have got to do something about your temper. I think the DI was less than pleased with me for stopping you.’
I shook my head in the gloom of the interior at my stupidity.
‘You don’t think I had anything to do with Flashman’s death or my relatives’ deaths, do you?’
‘I’ve already told you and I haven’t seen anything to change my mind. But you’ve got to understand the police must do their job and officers like DI Sprake will consider everyone a suspect until facts and evidence make that possibility an impossibility. Just because he’s questioning you doesn’t automatically mean he’s certain you’re guilty of anything. But he’s got to do it and do it his way.’
‘I know. Look, I’m sorry about today. It won’t happen again. I know I’m innocent. I’ll just have to wait for the police to arrive at that understanding too. Are you anywhere with it?’
‘Can’t discuss it with you.’
‘Fine. I’m starving. How about you let me buy you dinner? Just as a thank you for coming to collect me this morning.’
She didn’t answer immediately. She negotiated a bit of traffic.
‘All right. What have you got in mind?’
I was made suddenly very happy.
‘A change of scenery. You know The Woolpack out at Brookland?’
She shook her head.
‘Good. Great food. Good beer. Nice old place and no one will know me.’
***
30
Tracky bottoms, stinking running trainers and an old once-white T-shirt I’d washed often with colours did not seem appropriate for the occasion. We called in at home so I could change into something a little more respectable and get my wallet.
The shop’s front door was still unlocked from the previous night. I rectified that. I felt fortunate I hadn’t had extra unwanted visitors throughout the day, helping themselves to the stock or anything else that took their fancy.
As I walked back through the shop, the boxes, full and empty, stood accusingly. That was another day I’d done nothing towards fulfilling the order. The fact that I’d had a good excuse didn’t help much.
I was glad I’d managed some rest in the cell. What with my traumatic and uncomfortable previous night and the lack of sleep that went with it I wouldn’t have been good for anything without it. As it was, I was feeling significantly less than one hundred percent. It was only the thought of spending a bit of time with Jo that was keeping me going.
Jo agreed to drive. It made sense. She was going to have to drive home afterwards anyway. That also meant I’d get to drink, which I really felt like. I didn’t intend to get steaming, but I deserved a couple of pints of good real ale after my recent ordeals and now I could indulge myself.
*
The Woolpack was quiet, which was good. We found a table for four and spread out.
Even though the weather was improving it was good to see and feel the log fire going. The evening air was still chilly and like all real fires the focus and ambience it provided was worth every glowing ember.
I ordered a guest ale. Jo had a glass of white wine. Her one and only, she said. We ordered off the specials board. Home-made steak and ale pie with all the trimmings for me. Jo had a curry. With the housekeeping out of the way we were free to sit and be uncomfortable with each other. I thought of a few things I could ask her. I settled for what was uppermost in my mind.
‘How did Flashman die?’
‘Still has to be confirmed, but it looks like his neck was broken.’
‘Like my uncle?’
She nodded. ‘He was hit over the head with something first. No signs he put up a fight.’
‘Other than his body, was the container empty?’
She gave me a long hard look over the top of her glass.
‘Come on, you know I’m nothing to do with what’s going on. I know you know. You’re going to have to trust me like I trust you.’
She breathed out heavily. She couldn’t really expect to come and have dinner with me and talk about the weather.
‘Flattery will only get you so far,’ she warned. ‘It was empty. Absolutely nothing else in there. Forensics are still analysing samples but that’s about it.’
‘Had Flashman ever been in trouble with the law?’
‘Nothing. Not even a parking ticket.’
‘Well he must have been involved in something and with some pretty nasty people.’
I sipped my beer.
‘The police are linking my relatives’ deaths and his, aren’t you?’ It seemed too obvious but I still felt the need to ask.
‘We have to consider that reasonable and likely given the time frames, the proximity and the nature of the deaths.’ That was a long way to say yes.
‘So, it’s likely my aunt and uncle were killed because of something to do with Flashman, his business or something that was going on in the yard; maybe something they saw and were caught seeing. I told you already, I’d seen stuff being moved in and out in the small hours. And that theory would make the jottings of dates and times in the desk diary more pertinent, wouldn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’ Her lack of enthusiasm was staggering ‘What about PLUTO? Mean anything to you yet?’
I shook my head. ‘Apart from the obvious, nothing at all.’
Our food came and we ate hungrily in a comfortable silence. I was already on my second beer and with that and the heat from the fire I was starting to feel like a strong candidate for an early night.
We left the investigation alone and talked a bit about each other. I was keen to find out something about the woman opposite me. She was not particularly forthcoming. Like me, she seemed not to enjoy talking about herself. She did say she hadn’t been working out of Folkestone police station long. Before that she’d been at Maidstone and before that The Isle of Sheppey – not the most cosmopolitan CV I’d ever heard of, I told her. She laughed a little at that.
She asked me about my life and work in Istanbul and I gave her an honest bare bones account. She didn’t press me about being a married man and I didn’t rave about it. My marital status wasn’t a great concern for either of us for our separate reasons.
I told her I didn’t know if and when I would be going back to Turkey. I confided in her something of my new-found wealth and joked poorly that she’d better not tell Sprake in case he saw it as another motive for me slaughtering my relatives. She asked me what I would do with the shop and the building when it was officially mine, which reminded me of the conversation I’d had with Flashman senior. I detailed that to her and she listened intently while she continued to eat.
‘Why didn’t you mention it earlier?’
‘To be honest, it wasn’t uppermost in my mind and I don’t see it’s got anything to do with anything. Do you?’
‘Not immediately, but any and every detail could be important. And it would always be best to hear something that could be pertinent volunteered rather than found out later. You understand me?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well then, try to imagine how it would look to my DI if he fo
und out in the course of his investigations that only a couple of evenings before the death of a man in the yard behind your home you were seen having a drink with his father, a man you were not on social terms with. He’s suspicious enough of you as it is. No need to hand him ammunition.’
Despite my very tired and slightly emotional state, I understood. Clearly.
‘Anything else like that?’
I shook my head and rolled out my bottom lip. ‘No.’
I paid the bill without a fight from her. I was a rich man now and she’d saved me some trouble and a probable charge, so it seemed the least I could do.
As she drove me home I reflected at more leisure on her motives for spending the evening with me socially. I’m not a complete fool. I understood that it certainly didn’t seem like a particularly wise thing for her to do, professionally at least. Police officers enjoying a good meal and a couple of drinks in a cosy out of the way pub with suspected murderers in an open investigation didn’t seem smart to me. It didn’t seem like something someone as obviously smart and savvy as Jo would do, unless, of course, she had the connivance of her seniors and even, perhaps, their encouragement.
I flattered myself that maybe it was a bit of undercover work, that I was that important. Well that would suit me on two levels at least. One, I had nothing to hide, no guilt, and if she was staying close to me she’d soon have to arrive at that conclusion if she hadn’t already. Second, her company was not something I was averse to.
I didn’t question her about these theories. I’d made enough of an idiot of myself for one day and I didn’t want to spoil what had been a pleasant enough evening for me, regardless of the foundations it had been built on.
She drove around to the car park at the back and, despite my position, health and tiredness, I experienced something of a fluttering in my stomach. I realised I was fantasising. I was going to ask her in, coffee or something equally unoriginal. I didn’t expect her to accept, but maybe I wanted to see how far she was prepared to go for work and for me. Looking back, I blame the beer.
In any case, she had other, more sensible ideas. She etched a wide curve in the loose surface of the car park as she positioned the car facing away from the property and back the way she’d come in. She didn’t kill the engine or extinguish the lights. She just waited for me to get out.
‘Thanks for dinner. I had a good evening.’
‘Thanks for the company. Look, do you fancy a coffee?’ It felt as lame as it must have sounded to her.
She smiled. ‘No thanks.’ No explanation or excuse. Just no thanks.
I tried harder. ‘To be honest, I’m a little concerned about whether there might be any uninvited guests waiting for me either outside or in. You can’t blame me for that, can you? Especially as I’ve been assaulted twice on my own property in a week?’
She heaved out a deep breath, but I sensed a glimmer of understanding and softening of her resistance. My concerns were not entirely fictional and illogical.
She gave me a hard look. ‘I’ll come in just as long as it takes to make sure there is no threat. Understand?’
I tried to hide my self-satisfied grin by fussing with my seatbelt and the door handle.
She turned off the engine and the lights, stepped out of the vehicle and got a torch out of the boot.
‘That new?’
‘Yes. You owe me for it. You ruined the last one.’
The powerful beam lit up the back. No one was hiding in the shadows. We crunched across the gravel. I unlocked and stood back to let her go first. She brushed past me and I got a whiff of her fragrance. I experienced a strong urge to reach out and touch her. But she wasn’t feeling the same, or if she was she hid it well. She had security on her mind, nothing else. I shut the door behind us and flicked on the lights. We stood inches apart facing each other in the airlock space between the inner and outer door. She was wearing her give-nothing-away expression. I wondered if they taught them that at Detective School. The moment passed and we went upstairs. Me first seemed best under the circumstances.
All was as it should have been. I was still troubled by the knowledge that there had been intruders the night before, but there was nothing to be done about that now.
I was weary and flagging and, despite a part of me that would have liked her to accept my renewed offer of a hot drink, I wasn’t devastated when she left me alone. I locked up after her and watched her across the gravel, into her car and away. There was a hint of her perfume trapped in the airlock space and I inhaled it sentimentally before hauling myself back up the stairs and to bed.
***
31
Friday again. There had been no excitement in the night, at least none I had registered. There could have been an earthquake, a meteor strike, a tsunami, or the nuclear power station at Dungeness could have exploded creating a scorching nuclear wind of death and devastation. I probably would have slept through it all. Actually, I’d probably have just died in my sleep. The best way to go.
I felt better. My feet were healing quickly. Only one cut I had sustained gave me any real discomfort. The broken skin and surrounding area of impact at the back of my scalp was still tender. My ribs ached when I tested them with a deep breath. My black eye was now an unhealthy yellow, like I’d looked through the iodined eyepiece of a joked-up telescope. The cut on the inside of my mouth had healed quickly as cuts on the inside of mouths are apt to do. All things considered, I couldn’t complain too much about the state of me. It could all have been a lot worse. And then it was.
I was looking out of the kitchen window waiting for the kettle. I was looking over the yard at the police tape surrounding everything, like some elaborate cat’s cradle fluttering in the light breeze, wondering about what had happened and why; thinking about Flashman junior being murdered and left for dead in the container, what the last minutes of his life had been like; wondering how Flashman senior would have taken the news of his son’s death, how the rest of his life would be; wondering whether he would still be interested in the place. I doubted whether it would matter much to him today or for a long while yet, if ever.
As my eyes roamed over the yellow container I noticed something on the roof of it nestled between bundles of roofer’s tile batten. It was totally out of place. It was familiar. It was a slipper. And it looked like one of my uncle’s.
I dialled Jo’s mobile number. She answered quickly with a voice that suggested she suspected trouble.
‘You need to come here. There’s something you need to see.’
‘Just me or reinforcements?’
‘Just you. No great rush. I don’t think it’s going anywhere.’
She hung up. She hadn’t asked me what ‘it’ was.
I resisted the urge to climb the fence and confirm my suspicions by retrieving it. She wouldn’t thank me for it and I didn’t want to risk the accusation that I’d contaminated anything. I was learning.
I made tea and waited. If my uncle’s slipper was on top of the container, how did it get there? If it hadn’t been in evidence on the several other times I’d stood looking out of the window waiting for the kettle to boil, then it had to have very recently been put there. Why and how?
Jo had said that apart from Flashman’s corpse the container had been completely empty. That meant that someone had probably cleaned it out. And in a hurry. Probably under cover of the same night I had been deposited in the countryside. People in a hurry, if they were careless or unconcerned, would be tempted to sling the little things that meant nothing to them anywhere out of sight. Out of sight at night was a lot different from out of sight during daylight. In all the excitement of the previous day, I must have missed it.
Despite the horrible stomach-churning conclusions that my thoughts drew, I had to confront the shocking idea that my uncle had been kept alive – a prisoner – in that container for the two days he had been missing.
The repulsiveness of the thoughts that sprouted unbidden like the fast-forwarded runners from some vir
ulent creeper to net my brain and then slowly tighten their hold made me feel physically sick. I tried not to think about it, to generate the questions that would have to be faced, but the horror of it was irresistible. How else would one of his slippers have ended up on the roof?
I had stood only yards from it, smoking, drinking whisky. The scraping of metal on metal. Oh, Christ. Could that have been him? Could he have heard someone, me, crunching through the gravel and tried to attract my attention? He would have been restrained. Bound and gagged. Cold and frightened. Frail, hungry and thirsty. My head swam with the implications, his fear, his panic, his terror and then his realisation and murder. I felt the bile rise in my throat at the images and emotions that were conjured. I leant forward and vomited loudly into the sink.
*
I had myself under control by the time Jo’s car bounced across the car park. I saw her from the kitchen window. I hadn’t left my place in case something happened, although I couldn’t have explained what I thought might happen to a single old slipper lying on top of a rusting container in a neglected builder’s yard. Her face was grim and wan through the windscreen.
I tapped on the window to her and beckoned her up. She let herself in through the unlocked door and her hard shoes beat a swift tattoo on the exposed wooden treads.
Up close she looked tired and troubled. I doubted I looked any better.
She was a little breathless. ‘You look awful. What is it?’
I pointed out of the window and she came to join me.
‘What?’
‘On top of the container Flashman was found in. The slipper.’
She took a moment. ‘You recognise it?’
‘I’m sure it’s my uncle’s.’
She let out a long breath and I smelt stale coffee.
‘I waited for you.’
‘Good. I’m glad to see you’re thinking. We need to get it down.’
‘And quickly if you want to preserve it and anything it’ll tell you. I think it’s going to rain.’