by A. J. Cross
The bank manager pointed at information on the computer screen. ‘See? Mr Best came into branch to make these withdrawals, himself. Always in cash.’
‘Pretty hefty withdrawals, sir,’ said Corrigan. ‘And at regular intervals over the last three or more years. Did you discuss that with him?’
The manager shrugged. ‘I advised him that it wasn’t wise to take out money in that way. For personal safety reasons, mugging, burglaries and the like, but he continued to do it.’
‘Did you ask him what he needed the money for and why in cash?’
The manager looked dismissive. ‘That’s not part of the bank’s policy. It was Mr Best’s money. It was entirely up to him what he did with it and how. I thought it might be gifts to relatives. Some people like to dispose of capital whilst they’re still alive so they can actually see the benefit to others, rather than bequeath it.’
‘Wouldn’t the IRS have wanted to know where the money was going?’
He sent Corrigan a thin smile. ‘It’s HMRC here. He would have been allowed to make gifts to relatives. Or charity.’
Corrigan regarded him with patience. ‘In these sums and with this regularity?’ He waited, getting no response. ‘This is a police investigation, sir. If you have information pertaining to it, you need to tell me what it is.’
The manager’s mouth tightened. ‘All I can tell you is that Mr Best did mention to me some weeks ago that he was feeling pressured by HMRC for information.’
‘And?’
The manager raised his shoulders. ‘I advised him to tell them where the money was going.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it. When I heard what happened I assumed the pressure he mentioned had become too much for him. This bank dealt with Mr Best’s finances to the degree required of it. I can’t tell you any more, lieutenant. Is that all?’
‘I guess. Unless you have evidence to show that this bank genuinely cared for one of its elderly customers. Which would be a nice thing, don’t you think?’ Corrigan left the office, the expression on the manager’s face conveying that the expressed views and values of an American were of no interest to him.
Thirty minutes later, Corrigan came into the building he and his colleagues had spent several hours inside a couple of evenings before. He went directly to the glassed-in reception area and pressed the bell on the counter. He wanted to jog the memory of anyone here who may have seen something on the evening Alfred Best died but maybe hadn’t realised its significance. The plump woman inside the office looked up, did a double take and came to slide open the glass.
‘Lieutenant Corrigan, ma’am. You were on duty here the evening Alfred Best died.’
‘Yes.’ Her bright red mouth widened. ‘You asked me some questions.’
‘I remember you.’ She flushed. ‘One thing I didn’t ask is how you register visitors on arrival. Could you show me?’
‘Of course.’ She lifted a large hardcover book from one side of the counter. ‘What we do is make a note of them in this.’ She looked up at him and smiled again. ‘Actually, I have to enter your name.’ He watched as she did so then turned the book around. ‘See? We write down the names of visitors, time of arrival, who they’re here to see.’ She turned back to the page relating to the day Alfred Best died, lowering her voice. ‘We had a death that morning. Mrs Lewis. A lovely woman. Ninety years old. Like I said, she died and her daughter and son-in-law arrived in the afternoon, very upset and distracted because it was so unexpected, despite her age. They’d been on holiday in the Lake District.’ She pointed at written details. ‘This is the entry for her daughter and son-in-law. Some visitors travel a long way so we like to keep registration brief. That way they can make the most of their time here.’
Corrigan pointed to a number on the same line as their names. ‘Three? Why three?’
‘That’s a mistake.’
‘Why a mistake?’
She shrugged. ‘I thought they’d brought a visitor with them but later I found out that they hadn’t. That’s all we do if they bring additional people. Just give the number in each party. In case of fire.’
‘You saw that visitor?’
‘Yes, but as I say he wasn’t with them.’
‘What did he look like?’
She thought about it, shook her head. ‘I can’t really say. My focus was on Mrs Lewis’s two family members. They were very upset so I accompanied them to her room.’
‘What about this other person?’
‘I don’t recall seeing him again while they were here.’
Corrigan leant on the counter, lowering his voice. ‘I understand the stress involved in that visit but it could really move our investigation on if you could give me even a vague idea as to what this man looked like.’
She looked up at him, pressing her red lips together. ‘I don’t remember much about him at all. I couldn’t even say how old he— He was wearing a hat!’ She beamed. ‘I remember the hat.’
‘What kind of hat, ma’am?’
‘The kind actors wear. Like a fedora.’
‘What about his voice?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t recall him speaking.’
‘Where are the CCTV cameras?’
‘There’s one on the left of the entrance and one in each of the corridors but we’ve been having trouble with the system over the last few days. We’ve booked an engineer …’
‘I’d like to see the external camera, please.’
‘Of course.’ She led the way outside and pointed to it mounted beneath one of the low eaves on the ground floor. Arms folded around herself against the cold, she eyed Corrigan as he pulled at a nearby drainage pipe, placed one foot on the wide sill of a nearby window and pulled himself upwards, placing his other foot on a nearby fence for balance.
He examined the camera then looked down at her. ‘Is this the only external camera, ma’am?’ She gazed up at him, nodding.
He turned back to it, examined it closely then reached into a pocket of his heavy jacket. Taking out a slender Maglite torch he shone its high intensity beam at the camera. Switching it off, he replaced it in his pocket and climbed down. He and the woman went back inside the building. ‘I need to see the recording for the day Alfred Best died.’
‘Oh dear. I’m sorry but there isn’t one. It was around that time we started having a problem with the system.’
Corrigan was on his phone inside the Volvo. He nodded several times. ‘I understand. I’m sorry for your loss and also grateful for your time.’ He ended the call and looked down at a photocopy of the page from the visitors’ book. Mrs Crosby, daughter of the elderly woman who had died on the morning of the day Alfred Best had gone out of a fourth-floor window into nothingness, had just described how shocked and upset she and her husband were on the evening they visited her mother’s care home, having been summoned from holiday due to her death. Too shocked and upset to be aware of anyone beyond the staff members they had conversed with. He started the Volvo, thinking of the unknown male who had gained access to the care home by attaching himself to two distressed and distracted visitors. Whoever the guy was they had served his purpose, allowed him access to the inside of that building without drawing undue attention to himself. ‘Which is exactly what you’d want if your plan was to throw somebody out a window.’
He reached for his phone, got Watts on its first ring and told him what he knew. ‘Somebody they can’t identify was here. No CCTV evidence. Either he got lucky and the system was down or he tampered with the external camera.’ There was brief silence.
‘The chief’s going to love this,’ said Watts. ‘How about our chances of proving it was murder?’
Corrigan gazed at the well-lit, modern building, its external camera just visible. ‘Not good.’
Hanson slowly lowered her hand until her fingertips made contact with crisp, white linen in the small space amid the decorative brasses. The material felt clean, smooth. She carefully removed her hand, stared at her fingert
ips, rubbed them together. No gritty feel. No dust. She took out her phone, raised it and took several pictures of the regiment of brasses and the space in the middle of them. She checked the pictures. They showed the detail, the various designs wrought in gleaming metal. All laid out with precision. Why one missing? Colin Chivers sidled into her mind. The kind of thief for whom the ‘if it wasn’t nailed down’ phrase had been invented. But why would anybody take only one? Why not take all of them? Maybe this was a careful thief: steal by stealth, one item at a time. Particularly if he knew of the police activity around here. She studied the several brasses arrayed in front of her. It opened up another question: whoever had taken the brass had selected it from the middle of a group. Why that one? She looked again at the photographs she’d just taken. The first two were fine, the third slightly out of focus but each of them showed the space— She stiffened, her eyes moving to the extreme right of where she was standing, ears straining for sound or movement, rationalisations arriving from her amygdala to explain the stealth she was picking up from behind her: she was here on police business to see a man who was also here, on church business. Her rational prefrontal cortex wading in to support this prosaic logic, even as the air around her shifted. Shoulders rigid, core muscles in tension she felt the quick rush of air over the right side of her head, a blast against it then her shoulder, followed by a river of warmth and nothing.
Watts’s eyes were on Hanson, sitting in the doorway of the ambulance, wrapped in a blue blanket as a paramedic shone a light into each blue eye, moved a finger in front of them then consulted with his colleague. They exchanged words, finger-pointing her head, her shoulder. Watts had had enough. He went to them. ‘How is she?’
‘… I’m … fine,’ murmured Hanson.
‘She’s in shock,’ said the paramedic with the light. ‘Head and shoulder injury.’
Watts bent down to Hanson, lowering his voice. ‘Doc? What happened?’ Seeing her eyes drifting, he straightened and turned to the paramedic who pointed to a man in paint-stained overalls standing nearby, watching them. ‘He found her lying on the altar steps.’
Watts went to him. ‘I want your name and your business here.’
The man in the overalls pointed across the church grounds. ‘I’m painting Church House. The name’s Bennett. Frank Bennett.’ He nodded towards Hanson. ‘She was asking me questions at lunchtime. When I got back here I did a bit of work then noticed her car still here. I wondered where she’d got to. I came across and had a look. That’s when I heard something inside the church so I went in and found her.’
‘See anybody else?’ Bennett shook his head.
‘Stay here. Don’t go anywhere until told, right?’ Bennett nodded as Watts headed back to the paramedics, keeping his voice low. ‘Tell me her injuries.’
‘Superficial cut to the right side of the head which I’ve treated. She was lucky.’
Watts gave him a level look. ‘How’d you make that out?’
‘It was a glancing blow. Her hair cushioned it, leaving only a minor wound. The blow continued downwards, striking her on the right shoulder. She’ll have a bruise there but it could have been a hell of a lot worse.’ Watts watched as the paramedic leant inside the vehicle and brought out Hanson’s dark green parka which he held up in front of him. An area on the right shoulder was torn and bloodstained in places, thick padding protruding from it. ‘This took the brunt. Like I said, lucky. She could have sustained a broken collarbone.’
Watts took the parka from him, his eyes on the damage, running his finger over several tears in the smooth, shiny material. ‘Not the usual blunt instrument, then?’
‘Nothing like,’ responded the paramedic. ‘Something with sharp points.’
Watts gazed towards Church House, seeing no visible signs of life. They both turned at the sound of a car arriving at speed, skidding to a halt and a door slam. Watts headed for the parking area beyond the church, the tall figure already out of his car and coming towards him in response to his earlier call. ‘Hold on, Corrigan … Hey, take it easy! She’s OK and she can do without more upset.’ They’d worked together for nearly five years. He’d seen Corrigan’s face in all kinds of policing situations. He’d seen it tense. He’d seen it cool and considered. He’d seen it focused. He’d never seen it looking like this.
‘What’s happened? Where’s Kate?’
Her first name. ‘Somebody hit her. Hang on. She’s in shock. Right-sided minor cut to the head, right shoulder bruised. She’s all right.’ Corrigan brought both his hands to his mouth. Watts looked down to the chill grass between them for a few seconds then up. ‘Come on.’
‘Who’s that?’ asked Corrigan pointing to Bennett.
‘He’s painting the outside of Delaney’s place. He heard something and went inside the church to take a look and found her. I’ve got his details. We’ll get a statement off him.’
Hanson looked up as they approached then bowed her head. Watts hung back as Corrigan crouched in front of her and reached out his hand. Watts saw her take it, grip it tight. He knew her well enough to anticipate that by tomorrow she’d wish she hadn’t. He looked at his two colleagues, their heads close together. Two people he had a lot of time for. He shook his head and got on his phone to ring Charlie Hanson.
Hanson was home and not pleased at being the focus of attention. She looked up at Charlie, his face full of concern, then at her two colleagues. The ache in her head surged. The only good thing was that Maisie wasn’t here. She was going from school to Chelsey’s house. ‘Let’s get something straight. I’m OK.’
Watts studied her face. It was pale, grey shadows beneath the eyes. ‘Let’s play it your way. Tell us what happened.’ Thoughts and impressions poured into her head, jostling for attention, making it spin. ‘It’s … a bit mixed up. I’d gone there to see Richard Burns, Delaney’s other deacon. I’d made a loose kind of arrangement with Delaney that I would see Burns sometime this afternoon. He told me Burns would be there, tidying up or something.’ She frowned at the effort to focus. ‘I was later than I’d intended. I got side-tracked by something else.’
‘You were talking to Frank Bennett, the painter chap. He’s told us. It was him who found you.’
She reached up, touched a place in her hair and winced. ‘The church was unlocked when I got back there. I went in, expecting to find Burns already there.’ She stared ahead, the scene inside the church still hazy. ‘I remember walking inside and down the main aisle. It felt empty and … peaceful. I went up the steps to the altar and … I looked at the lace and the brasses laid out on it.’ She looked up at them. ‘Something I was seeing was … wrong. I can’t explain …’ She reached up again, touched her shoulder. ‘I can’t remember what it was … and then, it happened …’ Half-realised memories shifted, the ache in her head intensifying. ‘That’s it. That’s all I remember.’
Corrigan’s eyes were fixed on hers. ‘Did you get an idea somebody was there before you were hit?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘I heard something behind me.’ She frowned at the effort to recall. ‘I was looking at the brasses and … I just sensed him there. And then, whoever it was came very close. Too close. I knew he was there to hurt me.’
Seeing Corrigan’s lips compress, Watts intervened. ‘You thought it was male?’
‘Mmm … Much bigger than me. Taller. A change in the light or something.’ She looked up at them. ‘I’ll call you if I remember anything else.’
She did, an hour later. ‘I want to go back to the church.’
‘OK,’ said Watts, looking across UCU at Corrigan, mouthing her name to him. ‘We’ll go with you tomorrow morning and—’
‘No, now. I need to sort out what happened.’
He looked at his watch, five forty-five, then at Corrigan. ‘Give it a rest, doc. Relax. We’ve got the painter’s statement. He seems on the level. Take it easy and—’ He held the phone away from his ear, her voice spilling from it.
‘I sai
d now. Too much time’s gone by already. I need to think. I need to be there. In that situation.’
‘OK, take it easy—’
‘If you give me any more advice, I’ll scream, understand?’
‘Yeah. You’re back to normal. We’ll pick you up. We’ve got an idea to put to you.’
They walked on either side of her into the church and up the central aisle, Corrigan and Watts detouring, leaving Hanson to continue on to the altar now in deep shadow. Reaching it, she stood, looking straight ahead. Her eyes moved downwards to the altar with its thick lace cloth, it’s tall, slender candles, its brassware, polished and gleaming even in this dull light, and it’s one small space. Memory yielded up a small gift. She reached into the pocket of her overcoat and pulled out her phone. She looked at the three photographs she’d taken of the altar. Despite the fact that she was expecting it, a sound from the direction of the main door caused her to flinch. Facing straight ahead she felt rather than heard someone walking quietly, steadily towards her. She swallowed, her eyes focused straight ahead, her breathing under control, mind receptive. Her eyes moved to the left of her then the right. He was close now. Very close. She turned as Watts and Corrigan materialised from the shadows on either side.
‘It wasn’t Frank,’ she said.
Corrigan went to the painter. ‘Thanks for coming. I’ll walk you out.’ Hanson and Watts watched a bewildered-looking Frank being escorted to the door then Corrigan walking back to them. Watts studied her. ‘What did that tell you?’
‘Whoever hit me was taller than Frank and he wasn’t carrying the smell of cigarettes or body odour. The man who hit me is very careful about his personal care. Very clean. He wears cologne.’ She pointed to the altar. ‘I’ve realised what’s wrong here. Look.’ They gazed down at the objects on it, the candlesticks and numerous items of brassware. She pointed to the space. ‘It’s something that isn’t here.’ She showed them the photographs on her phone. Watts put on his heavy glasses as Corrigan’s eyes moved over the individual brasses, most of them plain, one with four decorative points along its upper edge. He reached out and placed his fingertip on one of them then turned to look at them. ‘At a guess we’re missing a processional brass with a sunray design. I went back to the care home earlier. I don’t think there’s any way to prove that Alfred Best was murdered, but if he was, it means we have a serial here.’