by A. J. Cross
She looked up at him. ‘And his attack on me suggests he’s out of control.’ She walked a few steps down the aisle. ‘We need to locate Richard Burns.’
TWENTY-TWO
Hanson’s eyelashes fluttered. Her eyes opened to seams of dull light beyond the curtains. She had arrived home the previous evening, ambushed by exhaustion, ideas still careening through her head. She had taken her first ever sleeping pill, supplied by the paramedics. She lay, coming slowly to life. Maisie. Work.
She got out of bed, pulled her robe from the chair and put it on, picking up a low rumble of voices somewhere in the house. Deep voices. She went downstairs and headed for the closed kitchen door, words drifting towards her. ‘We’ve got officers out looking and a bunch of ideas as to how we might—’ She pushed open the door. Corrigan got to his feet, his face full of concern. ‘How’re you doing, Red?’
She gave a careful nod, walked to the chair Charlie was holding out for her. ‘Fine. I think yesterday has sneaked up on me.’ She looked up at Charlie.
‘All under control, Kate. Maisie’s gone to school, and no, she doesn’t know anything about what happened. I called your office and Crystal is taking care of things until she sees you.’
Hanson looked out of the wide kitchen windows at morning fog. ‘What’s happening? What are we doing?’ she asked Corrigan.
‘We got an early start. The chief has given us some extra help – they’re out looking for Richard Burns. Nobody’s seen him, including Delaney who we spoke to an hour ago. He hasn’t actually seen Burns since he got back from the retreat. He phoned Burns’ house while we were there. Got no response. We’re going there in half-an—’
‘I’m coming with you.’
They arrived at Burns’ small terraced house. It looked deserted. Hanson waited as Watts checked its front door and blank-looking downstairs windows and Corrigan walked to the end of the row of houses and disappeared. He was soon back. ‘Nothing. There’s blinds down at every window back there and not a sound from inside. Wherever Burns is, it isn’t here.’
‘We’re being watched,’ said Watts, eyes sliding to the house next door. Hanson saw a curtain at a downstairs window fall back into place. He went to the door and thumped it.
After a short delay it was opened by a woman wearing a dressing gown and slippers. Watts showed his identification. She looked from him to Corrigan then Hanson. ‘About time somebody called you in. It was bliss last night without him here. What are you going to do about him?’
‘Who?’
Exasperated, she pointed at Burns’ house. ‘Him. I’ve called the council about him and they’ve done nothing. He’s been living next door to me for twelve months and now I’m on anti-depressants. During the last three months I’ve made complaint after complaint about him to the council and the agents but nothing’s been done. See his windows?’ They looked to where she was pointing. ‘Brown paper that is. Stuck over every single window in the place. He plays religious music, runs the water at all hours. The noise travels straight through the walls. I’ve tried talking to him. I’ve threatened him with the law. You know what he called me? Jezebel. I’ve had enough.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’ asked Hanson.
The woman shook her head. ‘No. He works for the church and I didn’t want to make trouble. He seemed pleasant enough when he moved in, quiet and polite but he changed. I think there’s something wrong with him.’
Watts looked along the row. ‘All these houses are rented?’
The woman nodded and disappeared inside her house. She reappeared with a business card which she held out to him. Hanson looked at it. Agents’ details. ‘I’m at the end of my tether with him. Will you do something?’
‘When was the last time you noticed him here?’ asked Watts.
‘I “notice” him every bloody day, that’s what I’m saying.’
‘But he’s been away.’
She folded her arms, looked at him, head on one side. ‘No, he hasn’t. Who told you that? Every night it’s the same, the chanting going on all hours. Except for last night.’
The manager of the leasing agency had been contacted and told to bring keys. He arrived, unlocked the front door, pushed it wide and stood, deep disapproval on his face, repeatedly tutting at what was visible until Watts told him he could leave. Now Watts was slowly pacing the small living room on his way to the kitchen, phone to his ear, listening as Delaney confirmed that St Bartholomew’s had rented the house on behalf of Richard Burns. Hanson stood in the middle of the room, the only natural light coming from the open front and back doors. The neighbour was right. Every window was covered by heavy brown parcel paper taped to its frame. She heard quick footsteps on the stairs and Corrigan came into the room wearing forensic gloves.
‘The two bedrooms look to be unused. The bathroom’s pristine. There’s enough personal hygiene products in there to start up our own drugstore. No cologne.’
‘I want to see it.’
Corrigan led the way upstairs to the bathroom. It was small, all its fixtures scrupulously clean. The windowsill was crammed with bath and shower products. She opened a small cupboard. More products. Hanson glanced into each of the bedrooms. Like Corrigan had said, unused. They came downstairs, Hanson’s eyes on the sitting room furniture piled in a corner, the odd swirls of black paint visible on both party walls. She looked down at the carpet, white powder sprinkled in lines forming a large square, in its centre a cushion, dented in its middle. Someone had recently sat there.
Watts returned from the kitchen. ‘Wherever Burns eats, it’s not here. Unless he lives on toast. All I can find is bread, butter, jam and a few tea bags. Nothing in the fridge but bottled water. Delaney should be here any minute.’ He looked at the walls then went to stand by Corrigan who was studying the carpet.
‘What’s all this?’ Hanson went onto her heels peering at the powder. She reached out a hand and touched it with a tentative fingertip.
‘Careful, doc,’ said Watts. ‘You don’t know what it is.’
She brought her hand to her nose. Straightening, she glanced at the piled furniture, went to it, knelt and looked beneath it. Reaching for the small object, she stood and held it up between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Talcum powder.’
Watts stood, baffled. ‘Why? What’s Burns up to?’
‘I’m guessing he used that to designate what to him was a ‘safe’ area within his own home. Looks to me as though Matthew Flynn and Callum Foley weren’t the only ones who were frightened.’
They turned at a sudden loss of light. Delaney’s bulk was filling the doorway. He came inside the small room which suddenly got smaller. Watts waited for him to speak. He didn’t. ‘Got anything to tell us about this place, Father Delaney?’
Delaney shook his head, his eyes sliding over the covered windows, the piled furniture and finally the carpet and its powdery lines, his facial expression one of disbelief. ‘This is the first time I’ve been here. It’s … I don’t understand.’
Watts stared at him. ‘Burns works for you. You see him most days. If you can’t explain it, we’re in trouble.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I know that Richard has been spiritually troubled for a while.’ Delaney glanced briefly in Hanson’s direction. ‘But the church is about acceptance. It doesn’t believe in pathologizing people.’
Hanson was sliding back into unease where Delaney was concerned. ‘Tell us about the retreat you say he’s been on.’ She watched him looking around the room, trying to bring sense to a place where there wasn’t any.
‘Richard has been somewhat distracted and under pressure. He appeared at times to be questioning his faith. It was clear to me that he was unsettled but he wouldn’t confide in me or anyone else at the church. Which is why I arranged the three-week retreat for him. It’s run by an organisation well known to the diocese. It paid for him to attend. He isn’t the first to have used their services.’
‘He never went,’ said Watts.
Delaney st
ared at him, then at the room, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe what I’m seeing here.’
‘When did you first suspect he had mental health problems?’ asked Hanson.
Delaney looked shocked. ‘I didn’t. As I said, I thought he was questioning his faith. That in itself would have a significant impact on anyone who is part of the church.’
Hanson looked at the covered windows, the room, a comment Delaney had made a while ago surfacing inside her head. Something about her labelling anyone who professed to hear the voice of God as mentally ill. That had been a reference to Burns. ‘It’s much more than that.’ She pointed to the carpet. ‘He felt the need to designate a place of safety for himself in his own home.’ She indicated the windows. ‘He covered those for the same reason. What was he so frightened of, Father Delaney?’
Delaney suddenly turned, made his way to the door. ‘As I’ve already said, he did not confide in anyone at St Bartholomew’s. You’ll have to excuse me. The woman next door spoke to me as I arrived. I said I’d have a brief word with her.’
He was gone. Watts looked around, his gaze falling on the black swirls on two of the walls. ‘Is this more of that devil stuff, like the graffiti at the church, the pentagram?’ No one spoke.
Corrigan’s eyes moved over the walls, the floor. ‘What I’m seeing is a place lived in by somebody who has problems with reality.’
Hanson nodded. ‘My guess is that Burns is experiencing hallucinations or delusions. Maybe both. Based on what we’re seeing it’s more than possible that Burns has developed paranoid schizophrenia.’
She turned to Watts. ‘Any sightings so far?’
‘Not yet.’ He looked at her. ‘But it looks like he’s the one who hit you.’ He gazed around the desolate room. ‘Where does he keep his personal stuff?’
‘I took a look in the cupboards upstairs. Nothing but a few items of clothing,’ said Corrigan.
Hanson followed them up the narrow staircase and into each of the bedrooms. As Corrigan had said, nothing. They came onto the landing, Hanson looking around then up. She pointed. ‘What’s that?’
They followed where she was looking. ‘Access to the roof space, by the look of it,’ said Watts. He went into one of the bedrooms, came back with a chair and placed his foot on it.
Corrigan shook his head. ‘Looks like a tight fit up there. Let me try.’ He stood on the chair and pushed at the small, square section of ceiling above him.
‘Careful, Corrigan. Burns might be up there.’ Hanson watched, tense as Corrigan pushed at the access cover. It flipped upwards, over and fell inside the dark space. They listened. She watched as Corrigan pulled himself up and inside. ‘OK,’ he called. ‘No one here! I’m sending something down!’ A large holdall appeared in the space, end first.
‘I’m ready!’ said Watts. ‘Let it go.’ The bag came through the opening and into his outstretched arms. Hanson watched Corrigan lower himself from the roof space. ‘What’ve we got?’ he asked, brushing dust from his hair and clothes. Watts was kneeling over the unzipped holdall. ‘Grab hold of some of these.’ They did, taking papers, reading quickly, letting them fall.
Hanson looked up. ‘Delaney told me that Burns used to be an accountant.’
Corrigan held up a printed list. ‘These look to be his clients, back then. His main function seems to have been to help them evade tax.’
‘See anybody familiar?’ asked Watts.
Corrigan nodded. ‘Yes. I do.’
TWENTY-THREE
Crystal brought three cups of coffee to Hanson’s desk, handing one each to Watts and Corrigan. ‘Here you go.’
Hanson took hers. ‘I need this. Any problems this morning, Crystal?’
‘All sorted. Julian took your first year group for a guided tour of the library and showed them the computers upstairs and how to log in. Let me know if you need anything.’
‘Nice girl,’ observed Watts as Crystal left the room.
Hanson closed her eyes. ‘Woman. She’s twenty-two.’
‘Don’t get bitter, doc.’
She held out a hand. ‘Give me that list of Burns’ clients.’ He handed it to her and she examined the names. Only one of them meant anything. Brad Flynn. ‘What do we do?’
‘We’ll have him in. Richard Burns is our priority right now. If we find him, he can tell us what he knows about Flynn before we speak to him.’
‘If you can get anything out of him,’ she said. She sipped coffee, feeling better. Almost back to normal. ‘What about Alfred?’ She saw them exchange glances.
‘I went to the care home,’ said Corrigan. ‘An unidentified visitor got inside the evening Alfred Best died but there’s no CCTV or witness evidence that might help us identify him.’
‘We’ve put that to one side for Upstairs to investigate,’ said Watts. ‘Can you imagine the chief’s response if he knows we’re following it up?’
She stared at him. ‘But it has to be connected to our case. What about the behavioural evidence it’s giving us? Whoever that unidentified male was, he managed to get inside that building, which tells us he’s a planner. He got to that specific room without being challenged: he’s cool under pressure. He took charge …’ She stopped.
‘What’s up?’ asked Watts.
‘It’s only just occurred to me. He went into that room knowing that Alfred’s wife wouldn’t be a problem. That she wouldn’t call out, press a buzzer or whatever.’
‘Because she’s got Alzheimer’s.’
‘How did he know that?’
Watts frowned at Corrigan. ‘Because … he saw it written down or he heard somebody say it.’
Hanson shook her head. ‘He had significant cognitive demands on him when he arrived inside that place. If we’re right and he was intent on murdering Albert, he had to tune into his surroundings, select someone he thought he could easily attach himself to. His mind was working overtime, keeping a low profile, avoiding challenge to his presence there. I doubt he had the cognitive capacity to search or listen for that kind of information once he was inside. He was there to kill and he had to be in and out whilst remaining unmemorable.’
‘That’s all well and good, doc, but it’s all theory, not facts.’ He and Corrigan stood.
‘You’re OK?’ asked Corrigan.
She nodded. ‘I’ve got one lecture and a couple of tutorial sessions and then I’m going home.’
She came into her house, closed the front door and let her bag and briefcase fall to the floor. She’d felt better as the day progressed but now she was out of energy. Charlie was meeting one of the lawyers he used to work with. Maisie was at hockey practice after which Candice was making dinner for both girls. An hour or so alone won’t kill you. Dropping her coat onto the hall chest, she went directly to the kitchen, pressing the button to activate the blinds on the floor to ceiling windows. They lowered, blocking out darkness. Snack and bath. She fetched sourdough bread, cheese and salad and started constructing a sandwich, her focus on the knife as she sawed through the bread. In the process of spreading butter her head rose at the faintest of thumps from somewhere outside, just beyond the kitchen. She glanced down at Mugger snoozing under the table. ‘I think one of your kitty girlfriends is here.’ She murmured, unwrapping cheese, slicing it. Reaching for tomatoes, her hand was stopped by another thump, louder this time. She raised her face to the blinds covering the windows. Mugger was now on his feet next to her, his eyes also on the windows, ears up. Slowly, carefully, she sliced tomatoes, adding them to bread and cheese, monitoring the house, picking up its familiar creaks and boiler’s click, the hum of the refrigerator. She laid the knife down and carried the food to the table, eyes on the place behind one of the blinds where the sturdy door handle was situated. Once it was pushed down, the wall of glass doors folded and slid, opening the kitchen, the whole house to the garden. It was locked. Wasn’t it? Scuffing, scrapes, followed by a sound she knew: an insistent tugging of the handle. Plate and sandwich fell from her hand to the floor, cheese, tomatoes
, bread, china shards scattered around her feet, slid across tiles. Mugger shot into the narrow space between washing machine and dryer. Hanson gazed frantically around the kitchen. Phone. I brought it in. It’s here! Has to be …
She found it in her trouser pocket, lifted it to her ear, her eyes on the door, whirling at a sound from the hall. Eyes wide, she grappled for the bread knife, clutched its handle close to her chest, blade pointing towards the hall door, heart racing.
‘Hi, Mom!’
Dropping the knife onto the counter, she bent to pick up the wreckage from the floor as Maisie came into the kitchen.
‘Wow! Looks like a food fight.’
Within ten minutes with Maisie’s help she had the kitchen tidied. She checked the garden door. It was locked. What happened is that you over-reacted to ordinary night time garden noises. She walked from the windows, turned back and stared at the lowered blinds.
TWENTY-FOUR
Inside her university room on Monday morning, Hanson was listening to two pleasant voices coming to her in waves, loud-soft, loud-soft. Earlier she’d told Maisie to stop shouting, then realised it was she who was out of kilter.
‘What do you think about my proposal, Professor Hanson? Is it something you would be interested in supervising?’ Hanson returned to the tentative voice of the potential research student who was earnestly gazing at her.
‘It’s excellent, Laura. It fits with and potentially extends Julian’s own research.’ She smiled across at him. ‘Which means you have a ready-made collaborator.’ She saw the quick smile pass between them and checked her watch. ‘Sorry, but I’m due somewhere. Take the textbooks you think might help and I’ll see you here again in say two weeks?’ Laura gave an enthusiastic nod.