A Little Death

by A. J. Cross

  Julian was out of the car, staring at her. ‘Kate? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  She stopped, looked at him in disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see it?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘You must have seen it! How could you not?’

  She ran past him to the passenger door still standing open. She stopped. She couldn’t look. When she was a student here her beloved elderly PhD supervisor had offered to help her address the fear. She’d declined on the basis that it was rarely a problem. She stood, her eyes fastened on the interior of her car. Right now it was a big problem. She could not get inside whilst ‘it’ was still there.

  She gestured to Julian. ‘Come and see.’

  Uncertain, he came to her then turned to the little car. Head bowed, he leant inside.

  After a few seconds he said ‘There’s nothing here, Kate. Whatever you saw …’ He stepped away from the car, his face set. ‘OK. I’ve seen it.’

  She stared at the car then at him. ‘It has to come out. It can’t be in there. Wait.’

  Aiming her key fob at the boot, cringing at its sharp ‘thunk!’ she went to open it and eyed its contents, senses keening for any signs of movement, all logic gone. She reached for one of Maisie’s plastic snack boxes, picked up a plastic carrier bag between thumb and forefinger, the whole of her car now tainted. She returned to Julian, handed the box to him and saw the expression on his face as he looked at it, then at her.

  ‘I never saw one that big, Kate.’

  She turned towards headquarters main entrance. ‘It’s OK. Stay here and – keep an eye on it. I’ll get an officer to sort it out.’

  ‘No. I’ll do it. Just – give me a minute.’

  Box in hand, he approached the car and slowly leant inside. Nothing happened for what seemed like an age. She started at a sudden thump from inside. Julian was out of the car, the plastic lid on the box, a large, dark shape huddled in one corner, unmoving.

  Flushed, he looked at her, ‘Shall I let it go?’

  ‘No. Put the box in here.’

  She held out the plastic bag, arms extended, grimacing as he placed the box inside. Even this proximity was too much. ‘It’s not going anywhere until I know it’s not dangerous. I’m taking it to someone who can tell me.’ She looked up at him.

  ‘Julian, can you go into UCU and fetch the stag beetle? I’ll wait here.’

  Inside the School of Geography, Earth and Environmental Sciences, Dr Adrienne Capaldi greeted Hanson. ‘You’ve brought your stag beetle. Sorry I wasn’t here when you came the other day.’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘OK. Show me the stag first.’

  Using fine tweezers, she removed it from its small plastic evidence box and placed it gently on the stage of the microscope.

  ‘This was found near a body, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Within a tarpaulin covering.’ Hanson watched as she peered at it through the microscope.

  After several seconds, Capaldi spoke, eyes still fixed on the stag beetle. ‘There’s remnants of a lot of soil and dead wood inside her. Given that and her size, I’d say that she’d mated and was preparing for the arrival of eggs.’

  ‘When would that occur?’ asked Hanson.

  ‘Between May and early August.’

  Hanson nodded. ‘That fits. What kind of habitat would you expect to find it in?’

  ‘As it was around the mating season, it had to be somewhere where she had access to dead wood.’

  Hanson frowned. Adam had referred to remnants of dead wood on Elizabeth Williams’ body. She didn’t recall seeing any at the field but she hadn’t been looking for it.

  Adrienne removed the remains of the stag and placed it carefully inside its box. She pointed to the lunchbox Hanson had left at the far end of the table.

  ‘Is that the “something else”?’

  Seeing Hanson make no move towards it she smiled and went to fetch it.

  Hanson retreated to a distant lab stool. ‘It looks dangerous to me. I got Julian, my PhD student, to trap it.’ She swallowed, her eyes skimming the box’s dark, squat occupant.

  Adrienne grinned across at her. ‘Phobic?’ Hanson nodded.

  As the box lid came off, Adrienne lost the grin. ‘Where on earth did you find her?’

  Hanson shuddered. ‘Spare me the pronoun. Is it dangerous?’

  Adrienne took a strong lens and tweezers and began a close examination. ‘She’s a big girl, beautifully coloured and – wow! – aggressive. You’re missing a real treat here.’ Hanson remained where she was, eyes averted.

  ‘Got it!’

  Hanson jerked on the lab stool. Capaldi was looking pleased.

  ‘I’ve identified her. Green iridescent jaws and no obvious epigyne – that’s female genitalia. I can’t see them, which is what I would expect. It confirms my earlier gender identification, plus she’s got six eyes.’

  Hanson was reaching the edge of her endurance. Description was almost as bad as seeing. Adrienne put down the lens with a sharp click, causing another involuntary start.

  ‘Your spider has a name: Segestria Fiorentina. She’s feisty and capable of delivering a good bite. I’ll give her a home here if you don’t want her.’

  ‘Where did it come from? Somewhere hot inside a box of bananas?’

  Adrienne laughed. ‘I think much of that is probably urban myth. No. She is a long way from home but not that far.’ She went to a shelf, took down a manila folder and withdrew a single sheet which she handed to Hanson.

  ‘Take this. It’s “101” info for our undergrads. It’ll tell you all you need to know, plus there’s a very nice photograph.’ With a grimace, Hanson took the sheet.

  ‘She’s a native of Berkshire,’ said Adrienne.

  Hanson stared at her.

  Berkshire.

  Hanson returned to headquarters and went straight to UCU. Her colleagues looked up as she came inside. Watts did a double-take.

  ‘What’s snapping your garters?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  She pushed Capaldi’s information sheet across the table to them, watching as they got the gist.

  Watts looked at the illustration with distaste. ‘Nasty.’

  ‘How’s this relevant to you, Red?’ asked Corrigan.

  ‘One just like it was inside my car last night.’

  Watts pushed the sheet back to her. ‘Like I said, nasty, but let’s face it, these things get around.’

  ‘Not from Berkshire to Birmingham without a lot of help they don’t.’

  He frowned at her. ‘Meaning?’

  She went to the board, hit an icon and pointed. ‘The day I spoke to Chris Turner at the college he told me he was going to Berkshire for a few days. See? I made a note of it in case we needed to see him again.’

  Her two colleagues exchanged looks. Corrigan pointed at the sheet on the table. ‘You suspect Turner of planting that in your car?’

  She nodded. ‘His attitude to me that day was extremely challenging, so yes, I do.’ She had another thought and glanced at Watts. ‘I’ve also had a couple of silent phone calls, remember?’

  She brought up the three-dimensional image of the field. ‘I’ve got some information about the stag beetle. Capaldi found soil and dead wood inside it which apparently indicates that it had mated and was preparing for egg-laying. Mating season is May to early August which fits with Elizabeth Williams’ disappearance. Whether the stag was in the field would depend on there being a source of rotting wood.’

  They came and stood before the screen, examining the field’s surface detail. Hanson shook her head. ‘There’s no rotting wood there that I can see.’ She saw Corrigan reach for his keys.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘To see Chris Turner.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.

  Turner lounged in his chair inside the common room, his full attention on Corrigan. So far he hadn’t spoken directly to Hanson and barely looked at her.

&
nbsp; ‘For all I know, she’s got a downer on men.’

  Corrigan pointed at him. ‘That’s disrespectful.’

  Turner yawned widely then stretched, with a brief glance in Hanson’s direction. ‘You tell me how I’m supposed to have done whatever it is that’s happened to her car which frightened her. I don’t even know what she drives.’

  She looked at him. ‘You told me several days ago that you were going to Berkshire.’

  ‘Yes? So?’

  Hanson held onto her temper. ‘It’s relevant to what happened to my car.’

  He folded his arms and rested his head back, his half-closed eyes on her. ‘I take off for a couple of days and suddenly, somehow, I’m responsible for something I know nothing about. Is that what you’re saying?’

  She and Corrigan exchanged a glance then stood. They had no proof and Turner knew it. She looked down at him. ‘Why would you think it was something which “frightened” me, Mr Turner?’

  He looked away. ‘Call it a lucky guess.’

  They came into UCU. ‘He did it. He put that … thing inside my car. I don’t care what he says about not knowing what I drive or how he managed it but he did. For me, he’s a suspect in the Elizabeth Williams murder.’

  ‘You might be right, but it’s not something we can prove. He’s not the only person of interest.’ Watts handed her a written sheet of A4. ‘Hugh Downey’s statement relating to Sean Gill.’

  She read it. It tallied with her own experience of the incident near Sarehole Mill. Downey had confirmed that he’d visited the site to dismiss Gill because of suspicions that he was involved in defrauding Renfrew. She thought of their earlier decision to open up the investigation to include Renfrew subcontractors.

  ‘We have to see Aiden Malahide and ask him about Gill’s and other workers’ access to the offices. If Elizabeth Williams was ever inside them it might have been where she was first seen by whoever killed her.’

  ‘The secretary told me they drop in as and when,’ said Watts.

  ‘Malahide has to give us the names of any whom he knows go there most regularly.’

  Watts’s bulldog features were downturned. ‘If we don’t get a lead from the subcontractors that will be it for me as far as Renfrew is concerned. I’ll want to focus on the persons of interest who actually knew Elizabeth Williams, which means Turner and Vickers.’

  Hanson copied Downey’s address from his statement. ‘I’m going to see Downey’s wife. She did some secretarial work at Renfrew last year. I want to know if she recalls a student ringing or calling into the office to ask about work experience. She might also have something to say about the subcontractors.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Downey have told her about our investigation into the Williams murder and relayed anything she had to say?’ said Corrigan.

  Hanson looked doubtful. ‘He might not have done, you know. My strong impression is that he’s very protective of her because of her health.’

  ‘I’d come with you but I’ve got armed response in half an hour until six thirty this evening.’

  Hanson shook her head. ‘I can’t see either of them today. I’ll go and see Nan Downey tomorrow morning. How about we both see Malahide? We’ll get the names of the subcontractors who regularly frequented the office last year and follow them up.’ She glanced at her open diary. Closing it she put it into her bag. ‘I still need a tree surgeon.’

  At six forty-five Hanson was tidying the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  She went towards the door and the dark shadow beyond it. She wasn’t expecting anybody. Always on alert. Always the fear. Except when it came to Sean Gill. Taking a deep breath, she opened it. It was Corrigan.

  ‘Bad timing? I was on my way home and thought I’d look in.’

  ‘No, come in.’

  He turned to his car. ‘I’ve brought something with me.’

  She watched him open the Volvo’s boot and lift out a chainsaw. He brought it inside.

  ‘Look, Corrigan. You don’t have to do this. I can take care of it.’

  ‘I know you can but it makes sense. I’ve got the chainsaw and I don’t need hiring.’ He waited, seeing her indecision. ‘Want to show me this darned tree?’

  She led him out of the kitchen doors and around the side of the house. ‘It’s this one, here.’

  He nodded. ‘I got it.’

  She watched him climb, sure-footed in black work boots, position himself on a low fork to examine the problematic branch, tugging at it, his voice low and pleasant. She followed the lyrics: ‘I drove all night to get to you.’ He grinned down at her. ‘I drove a mile across Harborne, doesn’t scan nearly so good.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Next morning Hanson drove to the Downey’s Moseley address, her mind closed to what had been inside her car the previous day. She had a life. She had to get on with it. Something she wouldn’t do was give Chris Turner any further satisfaction that his escapade had affected her.

  She found the Downey house number and pulled into a space on the opposite side of the road from the large double-fronted Victorian villa. There were close-parked vehicles all along that side, at least two of them 4x4 vehicles, one a Shogun. It could belong to anybody around here or shopping in Moseley Village.

  She headed for the house, rang the bell and waited. She reached for it again but stopped at small signs of movement some distance beyond the door. A figure was slowly approaching it. Still unnerved by the incident the previous day, Hanson squared her shoulders, chin up.

  The woman who opened the door was pale, almost ethereal and looked to be suffering from a head cold although when she spoke her voice was clear and pleasant.

  ‘Yes? Can I help?’

  ‘Mrs Downey?’ She showed her identification. ‘My name is Kate Hanson.’

  The woman’s face broke into a smile. ‘Dr Hanson!’ She opened the door wide. ‘Hugh’s told me all about you. Come in!’

  Hanson stepped inside the warm house, chiding herself for not taking what she’d learnt about Nan Downey’s health into account when she decided to call here.

  ‘Mrs Downey, I’m sorry. I should have phoned first. If you don’t feel well enough to talk—’

  Nan Downey’s quick laughter transformed her face. ‘I’m fine. It’s lovely to see someone and after listening to Hugh I was really curious to meet you. What an exciting job you have. Listen to me chattering and leaving you standing. Come through to the kitchen.’

  Hanson followed her along the hall, listening to the light, bubbly voice, noting that she walked with a pronounced limp.

  ‘Hugh has told me a bit about the police investigation you’re working on. It’s dreadful but your part in it sounds so interesting.’ She looked at Kate, her face suddenly serious. ‘He also told me about what happened at Sarehole the other day. What an awful experience. He never liked Gill. He wanted rid of him. He’s made a statement about him at the big police station in Harborne.’

  Hanson nodded. ‘I was very grateful that your husband arrived when he did.’

  ‘Hugh was glad he could help.’

  Nan led her into a bright kitchen, gesturing towards a room off it. ‘I’m painting. When I’m really engrossed I don’t hear a thing but today …’ She shrugged. ‘It isn’t going so well. Tea? Coffee?’ She saw that Hanson was about to refuse and shook her head.

  ‘Please. Don’t say no. I so rarely get visitors these days.’

  Seeing Hanson’s smiled nod, she lifted a large tortoiseshell cat from one of the chairs. ‘Sit down. I’ll get some coffee going.’

  Hanson took in the loose smock over a roll-neck sweater and trousers. She glanced up at Nan. Her eyes did look bleary. She watched the hesitant turn, followed by slow progress across the kitchen. She decided not to offer help. She’d gained the impression from Hugh Downey that Nan took pride in the independence she still had. Gazing around the bright, yellow-painted kitchen she looked towards the room Nan had indicated, a decorative metal doorstop propping open the door. Just visible was the splaye
d leg of what looked like an easel.

  Nan brought coffee and a plate of shortbread to the table. ‘I like to bake, especially biscuits.’ She smiled. ‘Hugh loves them yet he still manages to stay slim. Being so active, I suppose.’ She sat opposite Hanson. ‘That’s what he’s doing today. Rushing from one site to another, checking progress because he’s taken a couple of days off. Ever since I was ill a lot has fallen on his shoulders but he manages to do everything with a cheerful will. He helped his father take care of his mother when she was ill, so he’s sensitive to what I need.’ She looked away and Hanson thought she saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘He works so hard. Sometimes, he’s naughty because he won’t slow down, won’t stop.’ She blinked. ‘But I’m grateful to him every day for all that he does do for me.’ She looked up with a quick, bright smile. ‘Sorry to chatter on. It’s because I don’t see many people. You’ve come here for a reason.’ She looked at Hanson expectantly.

  ‘Yes. I thought you might be able to help with our investigation,’ said Hanson.

  Nan clasped her hands together. ‘How exciting. I will if I can.’

  ‘You worked at Renfrew as a secretary for a while?’

  Nan gave a brief nod. ‘Yes. Only on a casual basis when they needed extra help. I enjoyed it but then I had to stop. That was in May of last year.’

  Seeing that no more details were forthcoming Hanson asked, ‘When you worked there, do you recall any kind of inquiry from anyone, a student maybe, about work experience?’

  Nan was silent for a few seconds, her brow furrowed. She shook her head. ‘No, sorry. I don’t recall anything like that.’

  Hanson pressed on. ‘This inquiry could have come in a letter or an email or even an unannounced visit to the office. The person making the inquiry might have referred to it as an “internship”.’

  Nan put a hand to her forehead. ‘Let me think about it. It sometimes takes me a while to remember things.’ After a few more seconds she looked at Hanson with a headshake.‘Sorry. Tell me about the kind of person who would have been asking.’

  ‘It would have been a student. She’s likely to have been around nineteen years old.’