A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

  ‘Don’t get the idea I’m some kind of saint. It was hard work at times but I never married so I relished the chance to care for somebody. For Elizabeth.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Chris Turner?’ asked Corrigan.

  She thought about it. ‘He seemed very nice although I didn’t see him often enough to get to know him. I thought how well suited they were because they were both sports mad.’

  ‘Was there anyone else, any other male in Elizabeth’s life? Anyone she mentioned around the time she disappeared?’

  Joy Williams frowned. ‘Not that I recall. During that last week she came here twice and I thought she seemed quiet, a little preoccupied. I wondered if maybe she and Chris had fallen out but then I put it down to the pressure of end-of-year exams. Elizabeth was very punctilious about that kind of thing.’

  ‘You said earlier that the last time you saw her was when she came here for Sunday tea.’

  ‘Yes. The twenty-third of June.’

  ‘She came alone?’

  ‘Yes. She arrived at around half three and stayed till about six and then she went off to see Chris.’

  Corrigan looked up at her. ‘Is that what she told you she was going to do?’

  She looked uncertain. ‘I can’t recall whether she actually said that’s where she was going. I might have assumed it.’

  Corrigan paused, knowing that Elizabeth’s mobile phone had not been recovered from her belongings. UCU had no social media information relating to the young woman about which he might question Ms Williams. A laptop had been recovered but so far there was no forensic report on it.

  Monitoring Miss Williams’ face, Corrigan asked, ‘Can you tell me about her general mood on that Sunday?’

  ‘She was a bit quiet, like I said.’ She frowned. ‘But now that I think about it, I got the impression she was excited about something. No, wait. That’s putting it too strongly. It was like she had something she had to do.’ She shook her head. ‘That makes no sense, does it? I’m not explaining it very well.’

  ‘You’re doing fine, ma’am. You have no idea what that might have been?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did she travel from her college to see you that weekend?’

  ‘By bus. At least, that’s what I assumed.’ She looked up, unsettled.

  ‘When she moved in with Jess, I asked her not to walk here. I said it was too far but she laughed. She said it was an easy walk. She was very fit as you probably know. But that wasn’t why I didn’t want her walking.’ She looked down at her hands folded in her lap. ‘I didn’t want her out there when it was getting dark.’ She wept again.

  Corrigan knew he needed to finish but he had one more question. He kept it simple. ‘Was Elizabeth wearing any jewellery when you last saw her?’

  ‘Yes. A small gold ring on her right hand.’

  ‘Was the ring a gift from someone, do you know?’

  ‘Yes. Me.’ After a few seconds she said, ‘Can I show you something if you’ve got time? It won’t take long.’

  She stood, went to a small stack of CDs, removed one and inserted it into the player. They sat in silence as the five-minute-long recording played. It showed twelve-year-old Elizabeth Williams in a slightly-too-big dress, her hair in bunches being honoured by her city, her small face glowing as she received her medal, then gazing out at the applauding audience. The recording ended. Miss Williams broke the silence.

  ‘I didn’t know about the award at the time. I’d been here about six months when Elizabeth mentioned it.’ She pointed to a framed photograph nearby, one Corrigan recognised as now on UCU’s board.

  ‘I requested that from one of the newspapers and then I got in touch with the council and they sent me the CD. My view was that what she’d done as a child needed commemorating in this house. Elizabeth was casual about it but I think she was pleased. What she did for her mother was wonderful and I told her so. All she said was that she loved her mother and there was no one else to do it.’

  Corrigan broke the silence. ‘Do you have any belongings of Elizabeth’s still?’

  ‘No. I was going to ask you about that. The police went to where she was living and took everything from it. They told me they wanted to examine it. She’d left a few items of clothing and cosmetics here after she moved out and they took those as well.’ She looked at him. ‘You’ve got your job to do but do you think I can have her things back some time?’

  ‘I’ll make sure it happens, including her ring. I’m real sorry you don’t have them but they would have been retained in the event of a development in the case.’

  She gave him an uncertain look. ‘There’s a small plastic bag upstairs. It’s got some oddments relating to Elizabeth’s college course. I showed it to the police who came here and they looked through it. It’s upstairs. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Please.’ He stood. ‘How about you tell me where it is and I’ll get it?’

  ‘No, I’ll go. I know exactly where it is.’

  Listening to her footsteps on the stairs, Corrigan looked around the room, stopping at the photograph of Elizabeth at twelve, her eyes glowing.

  He looked away.

  FOUR

  The door of The Sanctuary was opened by a pleasant-looking woman wearing a pink, short-sleeved polyester dress with white piping and a name badge: Ellen. Watts showed identification, introduced Hanson and the woman led them inside the functional building, which Hanson knew of but had never been inside before. Voices filtering to them from various directions as they followed her gave an initial impression of a busy environment run with calm efficiency.

  ‘I probably know Michael better than anybody else here.’ Ellen tutted then shook her head. ‘I’m supposed to call him Mr Myers.’

  Watts sent Hanson a meaningful look. ‘Is that what he tells you?’

  ‘No. It’s what the people who fund this place have told us.’

  She took them into a large room furnished with several easy chairs and a few low tables. ‘It’s in the guidelines we’ve got. Apparently, we’re “service providers” and he’s a “service user” and we have to show service users respect. I don’t see how calling somebody a service user is respectful. Michael and everybody who comes here is a person and that’s how we treat them.’

  She sat, tugging at the polyester dress. ‘This is their idea as well. Some of the people who come here don’t like uniforms. They’re wary of them.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Michael Myers?’ asked Watts.

  She grinned. ‘He’s a character, is what he is. He’s been coming to us most days since I started here, which is five years now.’

  ‘What’s he like when he’s here?’ Watts asked, making quick notes.

  She hesitated. ‘Is Michael in trouble?’ Watts looked up at her and she continued. ‘He’s quiet. He doesn’t make a fuss. If he’s got a problem he’ll come and find me. I tend to be the one he looks to. Don’t ask me why.’

  Looking at Ellen’s round, open face, Hanson had an idea why: Myers probably gravitated to Ellen because he perceived her as genuinely caring.

  ‘And you’re happy about that?’ Hanson asked.

  ‘Of course. It’s my job and Michael doesn’t cause any problems.’ Hanson watched comprehension dawn. ‘If you’re asking whether he bothers me in any way, the answer’s no. There’s one or two who come here I’m not so keen on and I keep my eye on them but not Michael. He’s harmless.’

  ‘What do you actually do here for people like Myers?’ asked Watts.

  Ellen shrugged. ‘We help them fill in forms, applications for benefits, that kind of thing, but mostly it’s about giving them a place where they can be with other people and chat if they want to. Or just hear a voice that isn’t coming out of a television or a radio. We offer tea and biscuits on a Friday afternoon.’ She grinned. ‘Michael’s always here for that.’

  Watts made more quick notes. ‘What do you know about him?’

  She mused briefly. ‘Not that much. Mostly wha
t I’ve pieced together from what he’s said. He told me once he was at boarding school. I think he was in care. He’s a sort of fixture here. If he didn’t turn up some time during the week it would be unusual. I’d be worried.’

  Watts gave her a direct look. ‘We’ve talked to Mr Myers. He tells us he had some health problems last June.’

  Ellen frowned then shook her head. ‘I don’t recall anything like that.’

  Watts’ eyes went to Hanson. ‘Was anything particular going on in his life around that time? We’re interested in the whole of last June.’

  Ellen gave this some thought. ‘I think it was around the middle of the month he had to move out of his accommodation because the landlord was selling the house. Effectively, he was being made homeless. It was a nightmare finding somewhere for him to go because it was the start of the holiday season, but due to his having a disability we managed to get him a new housing association place for all-male tenants.’

  Watts stopped writing. ‘His disability being?’

  ‘He’s got some learning difficulties and he’s classed as vulnerable because of how he presents to people. He doesn’t seem to get how to do it. I think he was evaluated by somebody but that was before my time here. I never saw any details. All I cared about last year was finding him somewhere so that he wasn’t on the streets.’

  ‘Did you visit him at his new place?’ he asked. Hanson watched as Ellen responded, her face relaxed.

  ‘Several times. When he first moved in, me and a couple of other staff went and cleaned it for him, arranged for his few bits of furniture to be moved there, did basic shopping and got him some ready meals he could do in the microwave. With Michael, if he’s in a place that’s neat and tidy, he’s more or less OK, but if he’s somewhere that’s already disorganised he soon goes downhill. Now that I think about it, it was the middle of June. That whole business really stressed him out.’

  ‘Ever have any problems with him when you were at his flat?’ asked Watts.

  Ellen gave him a direct look. ‘If you mean personal problems with Michael himself, no. None of us have. He’s a fairly independent person, actually, but he’s always grateful for any help we give him and he’s polite. He just likes to talk.’

  Having followed the unspoken drift of Watts’s questions, Hanson guessed that his interest in Michael Myers was growing. She recalled what Myers had told them back at the field.

  ‘Would you describe Mr Myers as reliable?’ she asked.

  Ellen laughed. ‘I’ll say! He comes here regular as clockwork.’

  Hanson reframed her question. ‘You said he likes to talk. In your experience is he reliable in what he says?’ She watched Ellen’s search for words.

  ‘Well – according to him, he’s been in the SAS and rescued two children from drowning in the reservoir. That’s another of his haunts – and he’s met most of the royal family.’ She paused, her kindly face concerned. ‘There’s no harm in him but given the things he says – I suppose the answer is no.’

  ‘You know him well, Ellen. What do you make of the stories he tells?’

  Ellen thought about this then looked at Hanson. ‘You’re a psychologist so you’ll probably have your own ideas, but I think he says those things because he’s very lonely and he wants to keep you listening.’

  ‘He likes to be out and about at night,’ said Watts.

  ‘Yes. I’ve told him to pack that in.’

  He frowned. ‘Why?’

  She sighed. ‘Not because of anything he might get up to. He’s not a threat to anybody. He’s the one that’s vulnerable. I know he still wanders about because he’s told me. According to him, he’s “on manoeuvres”.’ She shook her head. ‘Like I said, he’s lonely. In the five years I’ve been here I’ve never heard him mention any family apart from his mother, nor any friends.’ She looked at Hanson. ‘What’s this about? Is he in trouble?’

  ‘Not as far as we know,’ said Hanson, ignoring Watts’ set face.

  Ellen wasn’t about to let it go. ‘There’s a rumour going around about a body being found over by the reservoir.’ She looked at them, eyes widening. ‘You can’t think that Michael had anything to do with that!’

  Watts gave her a direct look. ‘You know about his police record?’

  ‘Yes. What about it?’

  ‘You know what it’s for?’

  ‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘That was years ago. Around the time his mum died. She was all he had. He’s talked to me about her and about getting into trouble. He told me he was looking into people’s houses because he wanted to see people, families together. If you ask me, he was pining for his mother. I don’t think he fully understood what the police said he’d done. In the years he’s been coming here, I’ve never noticed anything about him that tells me he’s got that sort of problem.’

  ‘His record is a fact,’ said Watts. ‘We operate on the facts as we know them.’ Hanson silently acknowledged that he had a point. ‘Maybe he’s good at hiding that side of himself?’ he suggested.

  Ellen reddened. ‘Maybe when the police arrested him back then he just agreed he’d done hell-and-all because he’s naïve and easily influenced!’

  Seeing Watts’s mouth clamp shut, Hanson said, ‘Is there anything else you’d like to say about Mr Myers?’

  Ellen looked at her, then back to Watts. ‘Sorry. I know you’ve got a job to do but Michael’s not what he seems from how he looks and what he says. He’s nice, a bit sad and I think he probably had a bad upbringing. He’s desperate for anybody to take an interest in him.’ She paused. ‘Do you want to see him?’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘He’s here?’ asked Hanson.

  ‘He arrived about half an hour before you did. I was busy so one of the other workers helped him with a form and then I saw him go out the back.’

  She caught their questioning looks. ‘He’s taken over a little patch of what we loosely call the garden here. The soil is rubbish but he’s managed to coax a handful of petunias from it. Shall I fetch him?’

  Ellen left and the door closed behind her.

  Watts tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘You’d better watch it, doc. Sounds like she’s got a way of working with these types. She’ll have your job off you before you know where you are.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind. What’s your plan for Myers?’

  ‘I want to hear him go through what he said last night.’ He yawned widely. ‘Make that this morning.’ He blinked at her. ‘So far, he’s given us a dodgy-sounding story about something he says he heard in that field and from what this worker’s just told us, he lied to us about what was happening to him this time last year.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Doc, you can look at me like that all you want but it’s a fact and like I said it’s the facts we’re interested in. To me, he’s on his way to being our first person of interest in this investigation. What do you think of what she said about his record?’

  ‘She’s clearly not convinced about the voyeurism. She and the other staff probably have to deal with some very challenging individuals at times. By comparison Myers probably seems harmless.’

  ‘Which doesn’t make them right about him.’

  The door swung open and the man from the field came into the room, a paper bag clasped in one hand.

  Watts stood. ‘Come on in, Mr Myers. Thanks for your time. Have a seat.’

  Myers was wearing the same jogging trousers and T-shirt they’d seen the previous night. Opening the bag he held it out to Hanson.

  ‘Want one?’ She smiled, shook her head.

  Watts’s lips compressed as he eyed him. ‘You were in a field off Genners Lane in the early hours of this morning. I spoke to you, remember?’

  Myers conveyed several cold-looking chips to his mouth. ‘Corr-ect. I never forget a face.’

  ‘Tell us again what you say you heard in that field last June.’

  Placing the greasy bag on the table, Myers wiped his fingers on his jogging pants, swallowed and leant his hea
d back.

  Watts pointed a quick index finger. ‘No. Spare us the dramatics. Just tell us the words you say you heard.’

  ‘What I did hear,’ said Myers, looking miffed.

  ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘It was like a sing-song voice. “Hello. I can see you. How are you?”’ They regarded him across the table.

  ‘That’s different to what you told us last night,’ Watts snapped.

  ‘Is it?’ said Myers, selecting another chip.

  Watts sent Hanson a weary glance. ‘Did you see anything?’

  Myers stopped chewing. ‘No. Nothing.’ He swallowed. ‘I don’t look at anything these days. If I do see anything – which I don’t, I keep on moving. “Keep on the move, Michael.”’

  Watts regarded him with renewed interest. ‘Who says that to you?’

  ‘Me. It’s my motto. You can give yourself good advice, you know.’

  Seeing Hanson’s slight smile, Watts pressed on. ‘You changed your name to Michael Myers. Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘We had a party here a few years back. It was great, that party.’ He looked at Hanson.

  ‘You’d have enjoyed it. We had sausage rolls and pumpkins with lights inside ’em and a film. Great night, it was. Afterwards, I tried to remember the names of the people in that film but I couldn’t. One of the regulars here said “Michael Myers” and I thought, “Yeah. I like that”. He said it was the name of the sheriff in the film.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything else about the night in the field when you heard the voice?’ asked Hanson.

  He nodded. ‘I just thought. There was a car.’

  Watts and Hanson exchanged quick glances.

  ‘Where?’ demanded Watts.

  ‘Parked on the road next to the field.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He went to it.’

  Watts’s colour rose. ‘Who did?’

  ‘Whoever was in the field saying the words I just told you.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  Myers shrugged. ‘Dunno. Too dark.’

  ‘Tell us about the car.’

  Myers pushed lank hair from his face, looking avid. ‘Now that’s something I can help you on. I know about cars. I’ve had a few in my time, I can tell you: a Beamer, a Porsche—’