A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

  ‘Anything you wish to add, Mr Hollis?’ asked Corrigan.

  He shook his head. ‘No. That’s it. We spoke for about five minutes, if that.’

  The two officers stood and Hollis did the same. ‘We appreciate you coming in,’ said Watts. ‘Got a contact number? We’ll need to get back to you for a statement.’

  Hollis took the notepad from him and wrote down the details. ‘This is my parents’ place but I’m flying back to Austin next week.’

  ‘In that case we’ll take your statement now.’

  ‘How’s the soccer going?’ asked Corrigan.

  He grinned. ‘Great. I’m on a five-year contract.’

  Corrigan nodded. ‘Good man. How are you finding the Texan summers?’

  Hollis shook his head. ‘Jeez, they’re murder.’

  They watched him leave, then returned to UCU.

  ‘What do you think of him, Corrigan?’

  ‘Straight arrow.’

  Watts pointed to the board. ‘Five Ways. Renfrew’s near there but it isn’t the only conservation set up. The doc’s checked out some but got nothing. I want to spread the net wider but you know what’ll happen if we do.’

  Corrigan nodded. ‘A lot of yelling by the chief and Nuttall about costs.’

  Watts read the notes he’d made from Hollis’s visit. ‘This soccer business. Is it the one with the shoulder pads where they move a yard every half hour?’

  He laughed. ‘No. US soccer is English football. What you’ve described is American football.’

  ‘Sorry I asked.’

  Watts transferred his attention to the board. ‘Hollis’s information is a help because it confirms what we already know. According to him, he saw her at around two thirty and she was planning to visit a relative and we know that’s what she did. The aunt confirmed that she stayed until around six. Thanks to Hollis we now know that after that she had an appointment connected to this internship she was looking for. Which fits with what Hanson has said about her getting her suit cleaned.’

  He turned from the board, his face grim. ‘And sometime after six o’clock on that Sunday she dropped off the radar. Until a few local kids found what was left of her.’ He turned to Corrigan.

  ‘Before we move on to any net-spreading, we give some more attention to what we already know.’ He circled a name on the screen.

  Renfrew.

  Watts gave Hanson the information they’d gained from Hollis.

  ‘Renfrew needs a further look before we go any further,’ he said.

  She gazed at the name circled on the board. ‘I saw Hugh Downey very recently. I didn’t pick up any more than we got from the other visit.’

  Corrigan’s eyes were also fixed on the board. ‘We can’t ignore the other conservation setups in the city. How about we focus on the one or two in the Five Ways area? What do you say, Red?’

  She thought about it. ‘Renfrew’s name was imprinted on Elizabeth’s application form and her body was hidden on land Renfrew once took an interest in. Tenuous links, but we need to be sure we’ve fully explored them.’

  ‘Very tenuous. Possibly coincidental. I don’t like coincidences.’ Watts glanced at Corrigan. ‘You won’t know about a case down south around ten years ago. A nurse was arrested on suspicion of killing three infants because those deaths and several emergencies happened when she was on duty. She was jailed. Three years later her conviction was overturned for lack of evidence. A year after that another hospital employee was arrested and sent to prison for the deaths.’ He looked at Hanson. ‘You remember it.’

  She nodded, searching information on the board. ‘I reference it when I lecture on confirmation bias: coincidental factors pointing to guilt. What we have on Renfrew isn’t much and it may be coincidental. We have nothing which confirms that either Hugh Downey or Aiden Malahide has any knowledge of Elizabeth Williams.’

  She turned from the board. ‘I’ve just realised something. Downey and Malahide aren’t the whole company.’

  ‘Who else is there?’ asked Watts.

  She pointed at the board. ‘Remember our first visit? The meeting they were having? Renfrew subcontracts its manual work. How many people did we see leaving that day after the meeting? A dozen? More? All male. We need to talk to all of them, show them Elizabeth’s photograph. See if anyone recognises her.’

  Watts reached for the phone. ‘I’ll get on to Renfrew. I want the subcontractors’ details.’

  As Watts’s spoke into the phone, Hanson went to the board and added a couple of words. She turned to Corrigan. ‘Talking of coincidences, I wouldn’t want to estimate how many pale cream rugs there are there in a city of this size, but I saw one recently. In Aiden Malahide’s office.’

  Watts ended the call. ‘The secretary’s told me that both Downey and Malahide are out of the office now and not in tomorrow either. Chatty sort, isn’t she? I’ve told her I’ll pop in there in the morning. I haven’t mentioned the subcontractors details to her. I don’t want her phoning either of them to square it. The sooner we get that information, the sooner we start talking to these contractors and checking them out.’

  Hanson stood and gathered her belongings with a glance at Corrigan. ‘You look tired.’

  He stretched his long arms. ‘I was here at six a.m. Taser training.’

  She caught herself wishing he was just a detective. But if he was, it was unlikely he would be in the UK at all.

  And what exactly is it to do with you what he does?

  At close to midnight Hanson was on her way to bed when she heard the familiar creak of her study door. She detoured, knowing it was a fatal move. Once inside she got drawn into work.

  Going to her desk she switched on the lamp, trying to recall exactly what Hugh Downey had said about the contractors Renfrew used. She went through her notes, finding very little, flinching at a series of soft but insistent nudges against the side of the house and scribbled a quick note in her office diary: find tree surgeon.

  She stopped at a place in her notebook and what Dee, Renfrew’s secretary, had said about a current project the company had next to Sarehole Mill. She tried to remember what Maisie had told her about her school visit there. Something about the writer Tolkien. Switching on the desktop she entered the mill’s name. Chin on fist, she read the search result. It was the last surviving watermill in Birmingham. Built in the sixteenth century, now restored. J.R.R. Tolkien had lived in the area at one time, knew the mill and was said to have gained inspiration from it and the surrounding area for ‘Middle Earth’.

  She looked at the picture but couldn’t see the open land on which Dee had said the contractors were working. She’d take a look tomorrow after her morning lecture.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Nice coffee, this,’ said Watts.

  Dee gave him a warm smile. ‘You’re welcome. If it wasn’t for you coming in I’d have been on my own.’

  He drank more coffee, thinking about women. He didn’t know many. His wife’s friends had gradually drifted away, which was all right by him. He thought of work. Chong and Hanson were two of a kind in some ways: all work. He gave a mental headshake. That wasn’t all they were about. Both were conscientious and exacting and headquarters was lucky to have them but neither had time for socialising. He was the same. Except for when it looked like it might pay off work-wise. He glanced at the secretary.

  ‘Does it get lonely here?’

  ‘No. There’s always people in and out and Aiden’s here most days. He’s booked a couple of days off to take his mother out.’

  He nodded. From what Myers and Amy Bennett had said, the man UCU was looking for had had a lot to say on the subject of ‘mother’. His own? Somebody else’s? Watts still wasn’t setting too much store by anything Myers said.

  ‘These people who are in and out. Are they the subcontractors?’

  She nodded. ‘A lot of them have worked for Renfrew for a while.’

  ‘What are they like?’ Watts asked. ‘A rough lot?’

  �
��Actually, some of them are really nice. Polite. Easy to talk to. But there’s quite a few of them, so I’d say they’re a mixed bunch.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I generally finish here at around four. I used to leave pens in my desk drawer, the occasional packet of biscuits. The next morning they’d be gone. I gave them a ticking off, told them to keep out of my desk but they all pleaded innocence. I told Aiden about it but he didn’t do anything. Too laid back, you see.’

  Watts nodded. ‘People taking your stuff is annoying. There wouldn’t be any more of that coffee?’ She took his cup.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘How about you run me off a list of these subcontractors? It might be a big help to us in our investigation.’

  She came back with the coffee and a hesitant look. ‘Oh, go on then. If we can’t trust the police, who can we trust?’

  He grinned at her and raised his cup. ‘Very nice.’

  Watts was on the phone inside his vehicle, working his way down an alphabetical list of twenty-five names. He’d reached ‘G’.

  In the absence of Julian, he’d had Whittaker make a data search. Whittaker’s voice was back in his ear. ‘Found something for you, sarge.’

  ‘Good lad. Read it to me.’

  ‘Sean Gill. The full name and the date of birth is the same as you’ve got.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Grievous Bodily Harm with Intent.’

  ‘Date?’

  ‘2001.’

  Watts’s eyes narrowed. ‘Give me the victim details.’

  ‘Female. Age: twenty-three. After he was arrested for attacking her, he claimed she was his girlfriend and that they’d had a bit of a domestic. According to her, she wasn’t. She said he tried to start a conversation with her late one night in the area where she lived and wouldn’t leave her alone.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Bristol. He beat her up. He claimed she came on to him.’

  ‘What did he get?’

  ‘Six years, reduced to four-point-five on appeal on the basis of his previous good character. This looks like his only offence.’

  ‘The only one we know about, more likely. We’ll be seeing Mr Sean Gill.’

  Shielding her eyes against the sun, Hanson gazed at the area beyond Sarehole Mill. It looked deserted. She checked her watch. Maybe they were having an early lunch? She removed her jacket, threw it into her car and started in its direction, hoping to find at least one or two subcontractors at work.

  She found the wide access path in the perimeter hedge and followed it onto the sweep of undulating land, hearing the low rumble of voices. Some way off a digger started up. She watched its jaws rise, slowly lower and bite into tough-looking grass, scraping it from the chestnut coloured earth. Looking beyond it she counted seven or eight male figures moving to and fro, all wearing yellow hard hats. She walked several metres to the nearest one.

  ‘Hello?’ He turned to her.

  ‘I need to speak to whoever’s in charge here. I think a Mr Downey?’

  The man gazed at her, his face flushed and slick with sweat. ‘I’ve not seen Downey today. You want Sean. Hang on.’

  He turned from her, placing his hands either side of his mouth. ‘Sean! Sean!’

  A man appeared in the doorway of a wooden hut some distance away.

  ‘The lady here wants to talk to you!’

  The man covered the wooden steps in a single stride, moving purposefully towards her, hard hat in hand. Watching him move, Hanson’s impression was of a man with a large physique. As he neared she revised that impression. He was solidly built but of barely average height. He neared, his amiable face creased into a smile.

  ‘Sean Gill. What can I do for you?’

  She picked up the slight West Country accent. She would start with him. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your work for Renfrew.’

  He was now standing next to her. Close enough for her to feel his heat. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Were you working for the company this time last year?’

  He gave an easy nod. ‘Possibly. Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m part of a West Midlands Police investigation.’

  In the harsh sunlight she got a fleeting impression of a change in his face then decided she was mistaken. He was still smiling.

  ‘Bright out here isn’t it? Come into the site hut. We can talk there.’

  Hanson walked with him, aware of the eyes of the other men on her as she passed. One of them called to him. ‘Hey, Sean! We’re still having trouble with the digger.’

  Gill turned to her. ‘Hang on here a minute.’

  She watched him retrace the few steps to the large machine, throw the engine cover open and look inside it. After a short interval she heard him shout. ‘Try that!’

  The digger’s engine restarted and its jaws rose again.

  He walked back to Hanson and they continued on to the hut. He raised a hand, indicating for her to go inside. She felt the wooden floor vibrate as he followed her inside then turned to pull the door closed after him.

  ‘Can’t hear yourself think out there,’ he said.

  Her vision adjusting to the dim interior, she looked around. There was a table covered in heavily-stained mugs, used plates and what Hanson thought were probably rolls of plans. Around it were several canvas chairs, a sagging sofa along one wall, newspapers abandoned on the floor near it. The hut appeared to function as a combination site office, eating area and a place for workers to relax. It smelled of wood, stale smoke and sweat. Gill quickly cleared a space at the table and pulled out a chair for her.

  ‘Here. Have a seat. It’s nearly lunchtime. The lads will be in for their break soon.’

  She sat, looking up at him. He was still standing. Still smiling.

  ‘Were you working for Renfrew in June last year?’

  ‘Yes I was. Why?’

  ‘Do you recall any mention of plans around that time for Renfrew to create a work experience placement for a young woman?’

  The smile disappeared. ‘Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘Or, maybe a young woman who phoned or visited a site you were working on with a similar request?’

  He folded his arms. Beyond the door the site had fallen quiet. Hanson waited.

  ‘A young woman, you say?’ He stroked his chin, looking thoughtful but saying nothing.

  ‘Were you or any of the other workers approached like that?’ she prompted.

  ‘Last year, you said? I’ve got to think about this. Got any details on her?’

  ‘Tall, dark-haired, late teens.’ She watched his head turn slowly towards the door then back again.

  ‘I’ll have to give this some thought. I’ll ask my lads. I’ve worked with them on and off for the last eighteen months. Like I said, they should be in soon.’

  She listened, hearing nothing from the land beyond the door.

  ‘Do you remember which sites you worked on during that time?’

  He drew in a breath through his teeth. ‘Now that’s really hard to say without looking at our records and they’re all at the office. Next time I drop in, I’ll check. How do I contact you?’

  Hanson reached into her trouser pocket, took out a card and held it towards him. ‘I’d like to speak to the other workers while I’m here. They might recall something relevant.’

  He was studying the details she’d given him. He looked up at her, his gaze steady. ‘How does a doctor come to get mixed up with the police?’

  ‘I’m a forensic psychologist.’

  Again she got a fleeting impression of something changing within his face.

  ‘You don’t say?’ he whispered. ‘That must be interesting.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I thought they worked in prisons.’

  ‘Some do.’

  ‘A mate of mine had a bit of legal bother and he met one of them.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hanson for want of something to say. Deciding that he wasn’t about to give her anything useful, she stood and took a few ste
ps towards the door.

  ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr Gill. If you do recall anything, perhaps you’d ring me.’

  ‘Hang on. What’s the rush? Tell me more about this young woman you’re looking for.’

  Hanson was now weighing his limited responses, the tone of his questions, the smile which wasn’t reaching his eyes. She had a sudden need to be outside.

  ‘I don’t think you have the information I’m looking for, Mr Gill.’

  He raised his brows. ‘Come on. Give us a chance. A young woman you said?’ He grew silent, his eyes on hers. ‘No. You’re probably right. I don’t remember the bosses at Renfrew ever mentioning anybody like that.’ He smiled. ‘I can’t see a young woman fitting in here with this hairy-arsed lot I’ve got working for me. Can you?’

  She met his gaze. ‘Probably not.’

  Gill was studying her. ‘And that makes me wonder if Downey and that creep, Malahide sent you here to check up on things.’

  Hanson was moving to the door. ‘I already told you I’m with the police.’

  ‘That’s right! You did. Thanks for reminding me because now I can tell you something. I follow the news. I read the papers from front to back. Not like the rest of them here: straight to the sport.’

  Inside this makeshift building, in the middle of a prosaic Birmingham suburb in daylight, with its houses and pub close by, Hanson knew that her situation was all wrong. She glanced at the door’s latch. A single pull to the left would release it.

  ‘This is my newspaper here. See?’

  She looked back at him. His flat eyes were fixed on her face. He was holding the newspaper open at a whole-page report of the Elizabeth Williams murder investigation, including a photograph.

  ‘That’s her, isn’t it? The woman you’re talking about? She doesn’t look nineteen to me. More like twenty-five, but you’ll never get a straight answer from any of them. You think I was mixed up in that?’ There was no smile now and his eyes were fixed on her face. ‘You think I had something to do with that?’

  Hanson turned to the door, legs in sudden tension. She sensed him move closer, his voice dropping.

  ‘Don’t turn your back when I ask a reasonable question. Look at me.’