by A. J. Cross
He pointed at names. ‘All the more reason to stay focused on Turner and Vickers.’ She sighed. ‘True.’
Feeling at odds with the case, unsure where she was with it, she reached for her notebook and opened it. In the easy silence she read every note she’d made over several days: descriptions of places, people, their words verbatim, details of the bits of paper which had once belonged to Elizabeth: the two receipts, the indented marks on the internship form. Ren. Bill.
She glanced up at the screen a few times to check the accuracy of what she’d written, once or twice going to it to bring up information and check it, hearing the deep cadences of Corrigan’s voice as he spoke on the phone, then Watts coming through the door.
Corrigan replaced the phone. ‘I got to thinking about that field and who might own it. I just talked to a guy at the city planning authority.’
‘Don’t tell me. Some investment company doing nothing with it, hoping it’ll triple in value?’ said Watts.
‘No. It’s still in local authority ownership.’
‘And?’
‘A few companies have lodged development plans over the last decade or so. He’s sending us the details.’
Hearing a signal he said, ‘We’ve got mail.’
They watched the names and details appear on the board, all of them building companies except for one.
They read the single word, exchanged glances, read it again.
Renfrew.
Corrigan googled the name. ‘It’s a conservation set-up with offices in Calthorpe Road. Been there around twelve years. There’s a phone number.’
Hanson waited, cautioning herself against reading anything into so small an amount of information. She looked up as Corrigan finished the call.
‘I just spoke to an Aiden Malahide. He’s one of two partners who own the business. He’s agreed to a visit tomorrow afternoon at four. They’ve got a big meeting there until that time.’
He glanced at Watts. ‘Can you go? I’m giving taser training.’
Watts nodded. ‘How about you, doc?’
‘I’ll see you there.’
FIFTEEN
Watts was already there, parked half on the pavement as Hanson slid to a halt behind the Range Rover, her eyes on the white, late-Georgian house. Like so many in this area it was now converted into offices, a garage with double doors to one side. Originally a coach house, judging by its height. The parking area immediately in front of the building was filled with cars and 4x4 vehicles. Watts lowered himself into her car with his usual grunts of discomfort.
‘Looks like the meeting Corrigan mentioned is still going on. Conservation’s big business. These firms are springing up like mushrooms.’
Hanson grinned. ‘Conserved mushrooms?’
‘Smart Alec. When we see this Malahide we keep it simple. We say nothing about the reference to “Ren” in Elizabeth Williams’s papers, right?’
She nodded. ‘You’re the boss.’
He looked across at the building and reached for the door handle. She followed his gaze. The glossy black front door was now open and people were streaming down the steps, all male and of mixed appearance, some in suits, most in work clothes and boots. The flow gradually dwindled.
‘Let’s go,’ said Watts.
Inside the building’s cool-tiled reception hall Watts introduced himself and Hanson to a woman seated at a desk.
‘Mr Malahide’s expecting us.’
She smiled at him as she stood. ‘Wait here. I’ll tell Aiden you’re—’
A heavyset, fiftyish man had suddenly materialised behind her in the hallway.
‘Oh, Aiden, your four o’clock has arrived.’
‘Thank you, Dee.’ He gave Watts and Hanson a cheerful smile. ‘Would you follow me?’
Watts and Hanson followed him into a sparsely furnished room, its windows looking out over the building’s extensive rear grounds. Hanson gave them a brief glance then turned her attention to the room and its hardwood flooring. What there was of furniture was functional. She looked at Malahide who was round-faced and plump at his middle, dressed in a loose-fitting cream linen suit and soft brown suede shoes. He looked like someone who might favour comfort, rather than this hard-surfaced interior. Right now he was looking warm.
He talked as he shook their hands. Hanson noted that his was soft. ‘Apologies for the lateness but we’ve had a big meeting here.’
Watts gave a genial nod. ‘I didn’t get the impression Renfrew is such a big concern.’
Malahide looked rueful. ‘It isn’t. Most of the people who attended are our subcontractors. We don’t employ workers on a permanent basis. It would be too expensive and demand for our services varies depending on how many projects we have up and running. We employ them on a contract basis as and when required.’ He waved them to a couple of chairs then crossed to a sash window which slid easily upwards.
‘Coffee? Tea?’
They declined and Malahide sat and gazed good-naturedly across the glass top table which appeared to serve as a desk, judging by the files and writing implements on it.
‘We don’t get many detectives here. To be honest, I don’t recall any. I’m curious to know what this is about. I wasn’t told during the phone call but if it’s to do with any problems relating to our projects you really need to speak with Hugh, my business partner.’
Watts regarded him steadily. ‘What kind of problems might they be?’
Malahide looked uncertain. ‘Well, I can’t actually think of any which would interest the police but whatever you do these days if it involves land use or change, somebody has a view on it and probably won’t like it.’
Watts slow nodded. ‘We’re investigating the murder of a young woman.’
Malahide’s eyes widened in his plump face. ‘Good heavens!’
Hanson’s attention was on him as Watts gave him Elizabeth Williams’ name. She saw no hint of recognition.
‘Maybe you’ve seen recent reports about her in the papers or on television?’ Watts suggested.
Malahide looked from him to Hanson. ‘Actually, no. I work fairly long hours here.’
She listened as Watts gave a purposely meagre outline of their case.
‘Elizabeth Williams was a student at a college in Bartley Green. At the time she was killed she was looking for an internship with a local firm.’ Getting no response, he gave a verbal prod. ‘We were hoping your firm might know something about that.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Malahide, his smooth brow creasing.
Hanson said, ‘We thought you might be able to clarify if Miss Williams ever approached Renfrew for an internship – a work experience placement.’
Malahide’s face cleared. ‘Oh, I see. If the American officer who rang had mentioned this on the phone I could have saved you a wasted journey.’ He shook his head. ‘We don’t offer them.’
Hanson and Watts exchanged a quick glance. ‘At all?’ Watts asked.
‘No.’
‘Has Renfrew ever made exceptions?’ asked Hanson.
Malahide gave a vehement head shake. ‘Impossible. The sort of work our contractors do involves heavy plant, excavation, reclamation which could place a young person at risk of serious injury. The insurance implications for us would be massive.’ He shook his head again. ‘Out of the question.’
Watts slid a photograph across the glass. ‘This is Elizabeth Williams. Does she look familiar at all?’
Malahide looked at it briefly then shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’ve never seen her.’
Watts tapped the photograph. ‘The place where her body was found is about a mile or so from the Bartley Green Reservoir. She was buried in a field.’
‘I see,’ said Malahide politely.
‘Your company has some kind of involvement or interest in that field.’
Malahide’s brows shot up. ‘Where did you say this field was?’
‘Bartley Green. Off Genners Lane.’
Looking mystified he stood and went to a serie
s of Ordnance Survey maps on a nearby wall, running his hand over a couple of them. It stopped and he returned to his seat.
‘I know the location you’re referring to. We were never involved in any real sense. We’d seen its geographical location and surroundings from maps. We expressed an interest to the local council about conserving it then turning it over to local people to protect and maintain. There was some initial interest, but by then the economic downturn had started. We’re a charity. We rely on grants and the support of people who think long-term and believe in what we do here. When we learned later that several building companies were keen on developing the land we knew our proposal didn’t stand a chance. We didn’t pursue it further.’
Hanson watched Watts absorb this, wondering how he was going to move the conversation on.
‘Elizabeth Williams was aware of your company prior to her disappearance,’ he said, tapping the photograph.
Malahide frowned and pursed his full lips. ‘Really? Well – I don’t know what I can say about that. Are you sure it’s us? There are other conservation firms in the city you know.’
Watts eyed him. ‘In the year since she went missing Elizabeth Williams’ body has been in that field which we’ve established your firm had a link to. That’s why we’re here.’
Malahide’s genial face looked troubled. He glanced at the photograph again. ‘I’m sorry, I hear what you’re saying but I’ve explained our minimal involvement with that land and I don’t recognise her.’
‘What about your business partner?’ suggested Watts. ‘Maybe he can help us.’
‘I don’t see how. He only knows what I know about the land you’ve mentioned.’
‘We’d still like a word with him if he’s around. What’s his full name?’
‘Hugh Downey. But he’s not here. This is our busiest time and Hugh’s been working ten to twelve hour days so he’s taken a couple of days off.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘Tomorrow possibly. He has a lot of claims on his time.’
‘So have we,’ said Watts. ‘Give me his contact number, please.’ He wrote it down then turned his attention to the maps on the wall.
‘Can you give us some idea of what your company does?’
‘Of course. As a conservation company we improve and protect areas of vacant land. We also advise on management to landowners or voluntary groups. We promote environmental issues relating to specific areas.’
Watts made notes. ‘How, exactly?’
Malahide stood. ‘If you follow me I can show you.’
He led them out of the room, down a long central corridor to the back of the house, his suede shoes almost soundless. Emerging through a door Hanson and Watts found themselves in the extensive grounds she had seen through the office window. Malahide waved his hands across the verdant space, traffic noise from the distant Hagley Road muffled by the surrounding trees.
‘We initiate all kinds of projects but they all have conservation at their heart. Some of them generate a lot of income, others very little. We regard all of them as of equal importance. These grounds are a micro-example of our work. Most of our clients know exactly what they want but on those occasions when they don’t we show them out here. It can help generate more or larger-scale ideas. We waste nothing. See the hives way over there? We’ve made this whole area bee-friendly. Each plant and shrub has been selected to encourage them.’
‘What about that?’ asked Hanson, pointing to a small wooden building with a tiled roof, its windows blank, what looked like a stockpile of timber beyond it.
‘The summer house belongs to Hugh. He bought it for his wife to use as a studio but she found it too hot to work in so he brought it here. Dee, our secretary, fancied working out here during the summer but she had the same problem. Now it sits there looking attractive but we don’t mind that. No harm in things looking nice even if they aren’t productive.’ He gestured to them to follow.
‘Come and have a look at this.’
He led them a few metres away to a small natural-looking pond concealed by tall grasses of various types.
He pointed out various features, his face intent. ‘All these plants attract life. We get newts and frogs in the breeding season and those plants over there were selected to attract butterflies. The world is teeming with life. If that’s going to continue, we have to protect it.’
‘You’re very enthusiastic about what you do,’ observed Hanson.
Smiling faintly he looked around the grounds. ‘That would amuse Hugh if he was here. I’m the accountant. I organise the labour side and leave all the physical work to him. But I know about conservation. It’s how we met. We both worked for the Forestry Commission.’ They followed him back inside the cool building.
‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything about this girl,’ he said, frowning as he brushed bits of grass from his trousers, tutting at others on his shoes. He looked up as the faint sound of a car’s remote being activated drifted into the hallway.
‘You’re in luck. That’s Hugh.’
Following his gaze through a window to one side of the front door, Hanson caught a glimpse of a slim-built man. He disappeared from view momentarily then the front door swung open and he came inside.
‘How did the meeting go?’ he asked Malahide, giving them a brief nod.
‘No problems. This is Detective Sergeant Watts and Dr Kate Hanson.’
Downey extended his hand. Hanson guessed he was in his mid-to-late forties. She glanced at his clothes: leather sandals on bare feet, worn jeans, and a long-sleeved sweatshirt unravelling slightly at the neck.
Picking up Hanson’s glance he raised his hands either side. ‘Excuse my appearance. I’m having a couple of days at home. This is unexpected. We don’t attract much police interest here.’
Malahide nodded. ‘That’s what I said. They’re asking questions about a woman whose body has been found.’
Downey’s face lost its smile. ‘Oh?’
Watts repeated what he’d said to Malahide about Elizabeth Williams’s awareness of Renfrew, her disappearance the previous year and the discovery of her body. Downey looked mystified as he walked with them into the office they’d been in earlier. Malahide passed Elizabeth’s photograph to Downey who looked at it.
‘You say she was a student?’
‘Yes. Sports science, at the college in Bartley Green.’
Downey looked at the photograph again then at Malahide. ‘I’ve never seen her. She’s not been here, has she, Aiden?’ Malahide shook his head.
‘She was looking for an internship,’ said Watts.
Hanson saw sudden comprehension arrive on Downey’s face. ‘We don’t offer anything like that.’
Malahide nodded again. ‘I’ve explained our position on work experience.’
Downey handed the photograph back to Watts. ‘Sorry.’
Watts took it. ‘You know the area of land where she was found.’
Downey went to the wall maps as Malahide had done and ran his hand over one of them, pointing. ‘This is it but we had no actual involvement with the land. We learned of its existence from maps like this one and approached the local authority with a proposal, one that would benefit the land and give the local people a stake in it.’ He shook his head. ‘The need for housing won out.’
‘There’s still nothing on that land,’ said Hanson
Downey raised his shoulders. ‘What can I say? It demonstrates what we’re often up against. People need homes and everybody has plans and then there’s an economic downturn or a change at the council and the land stays as it is and we get frustrated.’
The sound of the doorbell echoed through the nearby hall. Malahide was on his feet.
‘Our secretary will have gone now so I need to get that. It’s our five o’clock.’ He glanced at Downey.
‘Are you staying, Hugh?’ He got a nod. ‘How’s Nan?’
‘Not now, Aiden,’ said Downey, his tone brusque.
‘I’ll get the door.’
Malahide went silently from the room.
Hanson’s attention was back on Downey, recalling what they’d been told about his recent hard work. He did look tired.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier,’ he said, holding out a business card to Watts. ‘If you need to see us again just ring me on that mobile number and we’ll sort something out. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be at this meeting.’
They left Renfrew and stood together at the roadside.
‘What do you think?’ asked Hanson.
Watts gazed at the building’s façade then turned away. ‘Not a lot. How about you?’
She pushed her fingers through her hair. ‘I thought we were onto something but it looks like I was wrong.’
‘This is a first.’
‘What is?’ she snapped.
‘You accepting what people say.’
She gave him a weary look. ‘I don’t distrust every single person I meet.’ She got into her car.
He leant down to look at her. ‘You look like your tail’s dragging, doc.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Don’t let this setback worry you.’
‘I’m not worried.’
Washing potatoes ready for baking, Hanson cast fleeting glances at Maisie who was at the table eating ice cream. Preoccupied with what Celia had said earlier, she hadn’t made an issue of the pre-dinner snack. Celia was right. She should have told Maisie the truth years ago. That the man Maisie believed was her grandfather, Hanson’s father, was not a blood-relative of either of them.
Hanson gave one of the potatoes a vigorous scrub. Maisie had rarely met him and it was unlikely she remembered him, but she regarded him as a significant figure in her life. How might it affect her, just into her teens to learn that he wasn’t actually related to her? Hanson didn’t need any psychological theory to answer that. Like everyone else she had direct knowledge of the importance of identity during the teenage years. Was this really the time to tell her? She dropped the potato into water and stared out at Mugger performing a perfect balancing act on the distant back fence. Here you go again. Talking yourself into putting it off.