by Penny Grubb
‘CONNIVING LITTLE BEGGARS.’ Scott used similar words to Tina Hain but his tone was amused.
They sat facing each other at a wooden table outside a pub on the waterfront. The evening air was warm and still, barely a breeze from the river, just the gentle slosh of the water on to the dock wall down below. The pub nestled in a backstreet, unsuspected behind an approach of bland warehouses leading to a small irregular parade of cobbled streets, walls and railings overlooking the tamed areas of the estuary.
Scott looked different out of uniform; more solid and slightly incongruous, as though the T-shirt and jeans hadn’t had an outing in years.
Conversation proved difficult, the journey into town a series of awkward remarks interspersed by long silences. Annie found his smile every bit as engaging as she’d expected and was embarrassed to meet his eye in case the flutter it produced inside her should show. They both fell back on work as an easy way to keep the words flowing.
‘Tina Hain said that,’ she told him. ‘But it doesn’t help me. I’m sorry I raked it up really. I can’t say I’ve warmed to the three girls, especially not Mally, but they’re only kids. Now I suppose they’ll be in all sorts of trouble.’
‘What exactly did they do? Do you know?’
‘Oh yes.’ Annie smiled. Tina Hain, boiling with indignation, had given her more detail than she wanted or needed. She explained to Scott about the local rivalry that demanded members of this trio were honour-bound to lift the coveted Pairs Trophy at Milesthorpe Show. ‘Mally and Kay won it last year, but Mally doesn’t have a pony now.’ Annie explained how Boxer, Laura’s pony, always refused to jump the obstacle down in the dip where Terry Martin had been filming. ‘So Mally volunteered to be the person to sit down by that fence and mark the contestants as they went by. She won brownie points for that because it’s not a popular job, sitting down in the dip away from the rest of the action.’
Scott shook his head. ‘These things can be massively important when you’re only thirteen.’
‘I knew I’d uncovered something, but it says nothing about Terry’s missing two days. I hoped I might get something useful from Charles Tremlow. Some idea why Terry went to the house next door maybe, but he’s impossible. You must have found him a nightmare as a witness.’
Scott nodded. ‘The poor old beggar was in shock, probably still is. They won’t accept help, that sort.’
‘So did you get a straight story of what happened that night?’
‘Yes, between the three of them.’
‘So, do you know why he went round there?’ It was a key question in her search for Terry’s lost hours, but Scott shook his head.
‘No idea. Chances are he knew the house would be empty, so I doubt he went there for any legitimate reason.’
‘So what happened exactly?’
‘Tremlow heard him, probably the sound of him climbing the scaffolding and he called Ludgrove. Ludgrove told him to call us and he made his way round there. From what Tremlow said, Terry Martin must have fallen just before Ludgrove arrived and they both went and found him in the hole.’
‘So no one saw him fall. Did Tremlow see him up on the scaffolding?’
When Scott said he hadn’t, Annie told him what Tremlow had said; the bald ‘no’ to the direct question, then ‘I saw him plain as day’, as he’d pointed up at the wooden platform.
‘By the time we arrived, they’d talked about it, figured out what had happened. The poor old sod’s probably seen Terry Martin in his dreams every day since. But he didn’t venture out until Ludgrove arrived. He locked himself in his house.’
‘And Doris Kitson? When did she get there?’
‘After they’d found the body. She was a bit of a godsend with the tea and sympathy bit. If it’s detail you’re after, she’s your woman.’ He laughed. ‘If Martin was in Milesthorpe on the Monday, she’ll know all about it.’
‘What did she go to Tremlow’s for?’
‘Parish Council business. She’ll give you chapter and verse on that too if you give her half a chance. She’s the one to iron out your anomalies for you. She probably knows far more than Ludgrove about what his granddaughter gets up to.’
She’d told him about the joy-riders at the funeral; about her theories on Mally. He agreed that the rich, cosseted youth of Milesthorpe would love the spark of danger embodied in clandestine relations with joy-riders from Hull.
‘One of them dropped a name that night they found the body: Maz. Could that be the guy in the car?’
Scott shrugged. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells. Let me know if you get anything more.’
Annie’s thoughts returned to the colonel’s house. ‘Mally Fletcher’s an ill-mannered little cow, but she’s not all bad. Apparently she spent hours coaching her two friends to win the cup she’d earmarked for herself before she lost her pony.’
‘Who says she was coaching them?’
‘Oh, she did. I saw the mess they’d made of Colonel Ludgrove’s lawn.’ Annie called to mind the churned stretch of grass, the concrete blocks and wooden poles. How had the colonel felt to see his garden torn apart by Mally and her friends?
‘They’ve a paddock at the back. Why didn’t they use that?’
Annie shrugged. ‘Colonel Ludgrove should never have been left in charge of her anyway. Hasn’t anyone been in touch with her mother?’
‘She’s gone away for a couple of weeks. No one knows where. No contact number. Didn’t even take a mobile with her.’
Dumped on her grandfather by her mother. Deserted by her father. It was no wonder the well of rage within Mally was so deep. Then a new meaning to Scott’s words hit her. Her insides did a back flip. ‘Scott, don’t tell me it was Mally’s mother in that building.’
‘No, no.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘It isn’t her. Look Annie, I can’t say anything until we have a positive ID, but we’re pretty sure we know who it is, and it isn’t her.’
Annie chastised herself for jumping to conclusions. It was the height of the holiday season. The woman who looked after Tremlow was away too. Maybe it had been her remains in that shed.
‘Did you get anything off Terry Martin’s other films?’ she asked, suddenly curious.
‘Not a bean. Nor the notebooks. An amateurish commentary on his boring life. Pretty sad really.’
‘Nothing in the torn page then?’
‘They all had torn pages. Most of them had been ripped to shreds.’
Annie opened her mouth on, but not torn in half like that last one, then shut it again, in case it sounded like manufactured drama.
Scott stared into his glass where the dregs of his beer sparkled in the evening sun, then glanced at Annie’s, already empty. ‘D’you fancy a walk along the waterfront? There’s a pub down there where we can get something to eat.’
They strolled together, listening to squabbling seagulls shriek and swoop at the oily water. High buildings laid strips of deep shadow in their path. The heat of the day waned and the air felt cold out of the direct line of the sun. Bands of silver and gold flashed from the gently rippling surface of the water creating momentary blindness so that when Scott took her hand and Annie looked up into his face she couldn’t read his expression. Real human contact felt good. She let herself enjoy the warmth of it. No point speculating on future complications when she was only here for six weeks. As they meandered through the streets, he asked about her life in London, and how she’d landed in Hull.
‘I’d been looking for ages for a proper job, one that’d give me real fieldwork. It’s a shame it’s only a six-week placement.’
‘D’you think you’ll stay on longer?’
‘I don’t know if they’ll want me. Once Pat’s up and about, I doubt there’ll be the work.’
‘There are other employers.’
Out of nowhere a memory popped up. The three girls at Balham’s gate. Kay snapping at Laura, ‘If you’d let Mally take Boxer—’ … we could have won without cheating. Was that where the sentence headed?
When Scott paused to look at her, one hand on the door of the pub, she expected a comment on the type of food served inside, but, after a moment, he said, ‘Of course, none of it explains why he paid money to them.’
Annie braced herself for Pat’s reaction as she entered the flat soon after ten. It didn’t fail her.
‘You’re early. Not brought lover boy back? How was the hot date?’
She wouldn’t rise to the bait and just called ‘Coffee?’ over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen.
The first thing she saw as she brought in the cups was her Terry Martin folder on the settee beside Pat, its contents spilt on to the cushions. The TV was off. Pat sat upright, alert, even her bulk seemed smaller. Annie remembered the hospital appointment and now she’d set her mind to notice, saw that the plaster cast was different – cleaner, new. She felt a sudden compunction that much of Pat’s grumpiness had been down to pain.
‘How did it go at the hospital?’
‘Yeah, fine. Good.’ Pat was briefly surprised then turned the subject. ‘Have you got enough here?’ She tapped the Martin folder with her finger.
‘No, not yet. I’ve barely chipped into those missing couple of days, but I know he went to Milesthorpe on the Sunday afternoon. I’m going to see Doris Kitson tomorrow. I meant to get to her today, but it didn’t pan out.’
‘Don’t forget, this is an exercise in doing the best for the person we’re working for. It’s not an investigation into his death. It’s about closure for the Martins. That means finding out where he was those last two days and putting the best gloss we can on it. Did the police find anything?’
Annie shook her head. It was clear from what Scott told her that they hadn’t tried too hard. ‘He vanished for two days and then he died. Because it was an accident, that’s it really unless Health and Safety go after the builder.’
‘You might find something in here. I got the post-mortem report.’ Pat indicated a sheaf of fax paper at her side. ‘He’d been drinking heavily. Way over the limit when he died. Now when you go out there tomorrow to do the Kitson woman, I want you to go back to the one you saw today.’
‘Colonel Ludgrove?’
‘No, the nervy one. Tremlow. See him on your own. He knows more than he’s saying.’
Annie remembered Tremlow’s jumpy and inconsistent account. Pat was right. Of course Tremlow knew more than he’d let on to her and the colonel. Could she get it out of him on her own? She recalled the gossip in the village shop. ‘The locals are still talking about “the murder of that reporter”.’
‘Who do they think did it? Tremlow?’
‘Hell, no. He could barely climb off his own back step, let alone up a scaffolding tower.’
Scaffolding tower? The words shot her gaze up and she read from the look in Pat’s eyes that the same thought had struck them both. Pat looked down again at the papers in her hand. Annie thought of the high platform … of Tremlow’s words. I saw him plain as day.
The flimsy paper rustled as Pat held it out towards her. Her eye skimmed the words and figures. It was Pat who put words to what was in both their minds. ‘It’s one hell of a climb for someone that drunk.’
CHAPTER 12
ALL THE WORRIES she’d accumulated rushed to the forefront of Annie’s mind. Terry Martin had been a blackmailer. Heather Becke didn’t deny being pleased he’d died. What was Terry’s agenda with those three young girls? What happened during his visit to Balham’s farm the afternoon he disappeared?
Before she could voice her unease, the doorbell shrilled, making them both jump.
‘Oh hell, that’s my taxi.’ Annie leapt to her feet and looked round for her things. She’d forgotten the time.
‘Keep your wits about you on Orchard Park at this time of night.’ Pat paused, then added, ‘And be more careful out in Milesthorpe from now on.’
Half an hour later, Annie stood in the bedroom on the sixth floor of the tower block trying to shut her mind to her disquiet on the Martin case. She looked out over the estate as it slept uneasily, its rest punctuated by occasional booms of loud music from passing cars and the background drone of sirens. She pressed herself to the glass of the window as much to avoid the smell of neglect in the room as to see out. A commentary ran on behind her.
‘It’s only bloody Thursday … They’re only here Friday and Tuesday … How many bloody times…? Christ! I wish I’d never started this. You planning on being there all bloody night?’
Mrs Earle lay back on the bed, her face pallid, eyes puffy as though she’d cried, or been drinking solidly since Annie was last there. The air was warm, the room draped in a sheet of stale dilapidation. Sickly sweet perfumes fought for the upper hand with the odour of unwashed clothes.
Annie glanced across at her. The woman was a wreck. No best outcome whatever Annie delivered. She might clean the place out and get rid of the dealers, but would that deliver the precious niece and nephew or just leave a set of parents looking for a new excuse to keep their children away from their helpless lush of an aunt? She looked curiously at the woman on the bed.
‘Why did you let it get this far? You could have called the police right at the start of it.’
‘What, and have everyone on at me? No one wants the law sniffing round.’
‘So what made you come to us?’
‘It was her I wanted, not you. That Pat Thompson. When I saw her advert I thought she’d be able to do something if anyone can. And you said you could.’
‘And I will.’ Annie injected reassurance into her tone as she heard belligerence rise in Mrs Earle’s.
‘Huh! Yeah … well …’
There was some sense behind the woman’s words. What she implied fitted with what Pat had told Annie. A link between the dealers and someone at the agency, so when Mrs Earle saw Pat apparently working as a freelance she’d had hopes Pat would have the contacts to get the guys stopped.
The grumbles behind her subsided to the back of Annie’s consciousness as her attention focused on the world outside. Half past two in the morning. Her mouth curved to a smile as the familiar shape of the white van appeared and headed for the car-park.
She strained to see from the awkward angle as the van stopped and the doors opened. The shapes of the two regulars had become familiar to her. Another form climbed out too. So they’d brought number three with them, the guy from last night whose face she thought she knew. Did they come here every night? If so, could she surmise from what she’d seen that on Tuesdays and Fridays the two of them came alone? It was an interesting theory, especially if number three didn’t know of the dealing.
She couldn’t hide away forever trying to outguess them. It was time to get close.
The back doors of the van had been flung wide. One of them leant right in while the others stood and watched. For all their precision timing, they weren’t in a hurry. If she sprinted, she might get down to the lobby before they came in. The only cover would be to crouch near the bottom of the staircase. Too far from any bolthole if they were to spot her, but why would they look? A rush of apprehension skittered across her skin making the hairs stand on end. Before she could change her mind, she skipped off out of the bedroom ignoring a muttered comment from the woman on the bed.
Beyond the security of the flat’s locked door, broken lighting created dark caverns in the corners of the landing but Annie had no sense of anyone waiting there tonight. She ran down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, swinging herself round the corners. Her insides scrunched in disgust as her hand slid through something sticky. Final flight and she slowed. No sound from below. She’d expected to hear voices, but it looked as though she hadn’t been quick enough.
She went down to where she could see the lifts. One waited at ground floor level, the other rose from three to four as she watched. Misse
d them.
The lobby was deserted right now, but the building never really slept. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone else to be here at this time, to get into the lift with the three men. Had they really gone to the top floor the other night? She moved forward towards the empty security booth and outer door. If they were still outside rummaging about in the van, she would withdraw to the stairs and—
She froze. The door clicked. Voices came at her. Cheerful, laughing banter. Too late to reach the safety of the concrete stairs. No dark corners in reach. Nowhere to hide.
She spun on her heel and leapt back towards the blank lift doors. As she did so, her hands went to her head to scrub her fingers through her hair to mess it up, to pull it forward so it straggled in her face. The backs of her hands rubbed hard at her eyes. A sour reek reminded her she’d put her hand in something on the stair rail and it was now tangled in her hair. She balked at the stench as she hung her head forward and leant against the wall.
The chatter stopped abruptly. They’d seen her. Annie concentrated on keeping an even rhythm to her breathing and gave no sign she’d registered their presence. Thank heavens for battered trainers and shabby T-shirt and jeans. With luck, her work clothes, straggly hair and unfocused red eyes marked her out as human jetsam from the sixth floor.
She saw a fat, well-manicured finger stab out at the lift call button.
A moment of silence before the machinery wheezed into life. She imagined the three men looking her up and down. Then one of them spoke, a random comment clearly continuing the exchange they’d broken off as they’d seen her, but the tone was not so free as before. She remained immobile and uninterested.
The lift door clanked open.
Fear prickled the surface of her skin. The pause was subtle, but she was clearly first in the queue. They waited for her to step inside. Head down, she shambled into the metal compartment. Any other course would focus their attention on her all the more; make them question what she’d been doing there.
She turned, head down, to reach for the control panel, but a forest of legs blocked her way. Through the prison bars of well-tailored cloth that flapped around feet clad in blindingly polished leather she saw the doors slide to. She felt her heart thud hard in her chest. The cloying aroma of aftershave blended with stale cigarette smoke and wrapped itself around her. Trapped in here she was close enough to feel the heat from their bodies.