The Body on the Shore

by The Body on the Shore (retail) (epub)

  He grunted and turned over.

  ‘Dexter!’ she called downstairs. ‘Dexter! Doggy wake-up service required, Tom’s room. Good boy.’ As the dog bounded upstairs she heard the cries of alarm from Tom’s room. The dog shot into the room. With a huge grin on her face, Claire closed the door. The cries from inside showed that Dexter’s orgy of bad-breath face licking had begun.

  * * *

  The incident room meeting was set for 11 a.m., leaving Gillard just enough time to drive to Surrey Police’s Mount Browne headquarters in Guildford where, in a locker outside his office, he kept for emergencies a spare suit with a brand-new shirt. Today’s drenching was precisely the kind of scenario he had in mind. He was already doing up his trousers and just contemplating what to do about his damp shoes and socks, for which he had no spares, when the door at the end of the corridor opened and the chief constable walked in.

  ‘Ah, Craig,’ said Alison Rigby. ‘I was hoping to catch you.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, easing his feet back into his wet brogues. He stood to face her. Alison was an imposing figure, almost six foot two, with short dark hair and penetrating blue eyes. Colleagues referred to Rigby’s stare as the blue screen of death, capable of freezing the mental processors of even the most senior policeman.

  ‘Any progress on the Peter Young case?’ she asked, lifting a large earthenware mug of coffee to her lips.

  ‘Some,’ he said, surreptitiously checking his flies were done up. ‘We think he was shot from fairly close range from the top deck of a bus, not from across the street as we first thought.’

  ‘How extraordinary. And this we think is a professional hit?’

  ‘It has all the hallmarks. We’ve got nothing from CCTV so far, though there’s more to look at.’

  ‘Craig, we really can’t have architects being assassinated on the streets of Surrey.’

  ‘Though an estate agent or two wouldn’t be missed, I suppose,’ Gillard ventured with a smile.

  ‘Very droll,’ she said, arching one eyebrow in a way that made it clear the remark was not particularly funny.

  * * *

  Gillard, fresh from a brief shopping foray for dry socks, got back to the Khazi to find the incident room already packed. He recognised the backs of Yaz Quoroshi, Claire Mulholland, Michelle Tsu and Carl Hoskins, all staring at one screen over the shoulder of a seated Colin Hodges. ‘What have you got there?’ the DCI asked.

  ‘This is from the second of those double-deckers on Friday morning. It might be the gunman,’ Hodges replied. Gillard leaned over to the screen. There was a still image of a man in a hooded Puffa jacket, with a bulky shoulder bag, just leaving the bus. The timestamp was 07.57.43. The camera seemed to be from somewhere above the driver’s position and focused on the doors, but also covering some of the luggage space.

  ‘Have you got a full sequence?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘Yep, for what it’s worth.’ Hodges rewound, and then hit play. The camera had recorded a series of jerky stills, covering a procession of passengers emerging from the inside of the bus and stepping off the platform into the rain on the pavement outside. The man’s hood was already raised, so his face was not visible, but he appeared to be above average height.

  ‘Can you tell whether he was upstairs or not?’

  ‘No, the camera angle is wrong.’

  ‘That’s a shame. And why this bus, Colin?’

  ‘Well, the first one was scheduled at the stop outside the architects’ at 07.42, which is a bit too early. As you recall Young didn’t arrive at work until about ten to, based on when the office burglar alarm was disarmed. We haven’t looked at the third bus footage yet, but it’s probably too late. It was due at the stop at 08.02 a.m. but according to the supervisor at Arriva it was running about 15 minutes late, so if that’s correct it would have been at the stop a little after the receptionist found Young’s body.’

  ‘Okay. Is this our stop?’

  ‘No. This is from the following stop, Coulton Road,’ Hodges said, looking down to check the documents. ‘I figured that it’s the moment when the bus is stopped that gives the best shooting opportunity. It would have been amateur to try to shoot the guy and get off at the same stop. A big rush downstairs would have drawn attention to him.’

  ‘Agreed. So why him?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘The other passengers are basically female pensioners or schoolkids. No other adult male.’

  ‘Any footage from upstairs?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘Nope. These three buses are over 20 years old and only equipped with a single camera, for driver protection.’

  ‘Of course he could have stayed on for later stops,’ Gillard said.

  Carl Hoskins looked at the DCI. ‘Let’s hope not. We’ve got another resource at this stop. There is a road safety camera on the pelican crossing, because there was a pedestrian fatality there two years ago. I’ve got Friday’s footage on disk somewhere here,’ he said, holding up a pile of documentation. ‘I’ll get on to that this afternoon.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he’s a cool customer,’ Mulholland said, looking up at the skylight, where rain had once again begun to fall, hammering on the perspex.

  ‘So what have you been working on, Michelle?’ Gillard asked.

  The young detective looked up at him. ‘I’ve been going through the backgrounds of some of the witnesses. Everyone at the architects’ is pretty clean, apart from the usual speeding and parking issues. Kelvin Alexander has been visited by us over a report of domestic violence at his home, but that was nine years ago. No charges were ever brought.’

  ‘That might be worth taking an extra look at. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. One thing seems significant. Karen Davies, the South African-born receptionist, used to be Karen van Zyl. She reverted to her maiden name after the death of her husband in Cape Town.’

  ‘What happened to her husband?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘He was murdered two years ago. Shot in the head.’

  Chapter 6

  Karen Davies had agreed to come into Staines police station straight after work on Monday at 6.30 p.m. Gillard was waiting for her with Michelle Tsu. They couldn’t quite return the favour on the Tanzanian Peaberry coffee, but the duty desk sergeant, a pleasant woman by the name of Carswell, had phoned out to have something drinkable delivered.

  The South African looked tired but a little less nervous than the first time Gillard had spoken to her. ‘We’re sorry to have to call you back in at such short notice, but we’ve got a couple more questions to ask you.’

  ‘It’s about Patrick, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I knew it would be.’

  ‘Patrick van Zyl was your husband, correct?’ Tsu asked. ‘And he died during a burglary at your home in Cape Town, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, that is “correct”,’ she said, acidly.

  ‘So actually, you are a widow, not single.’ There was no reply. Tsu looked down at the documents in front of her. ‘According to our information no one was ever convicted of the murder of your husband.’ She lifted up one of the documents. ‘The newspapers say—’

  ‘I think it would be better,’ Gillard intervened. ‘If Ms Davies gave her own account of what happened.’

  Karen smiled icily at him. ‘My husband and I were lying in bed, with the windows open. It was that record January when it got to 44 degrees, so even though it was 3 a.m. it was as hot as hell. We were both naked, covered only by a single sheet. I heard a noise downstairs. At first I thought it was Rudi—’

  ‘Who’s Rudi?’ Gillard asked

  ‘The guard dog. We had one that roamed in-house and there were two others in the yard. There was also a security guy who patrolled the fence at nights.’

  ‘Sounds like you lived in Fort Knox,’ Michelle said.

  ‘Cape Town has quite a crime rate, as you may know. We lived in a gated community with an average level of security. Most of our neighbours wanted more. Anyway, Pat took his Glock and went downstairs to have a look.’ She paused a
nd gulped, her brown eyes softening. ‘It was quiet for a couple of minutes, then I heard the sound of a door closing. I called out for Pat, but got no reply. Then I heard three shots…’ She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. The next few words were muffled through her handkerchief: ‘When I found him, he was dead.’

  Gillard and Tsu waited while Karen composed herself. When she next lifted her face it was twisted with emotion. ‘The Cape Town police, bunch of piel kops, thought I did it.’ Her accent, previously suppressed, flooded out, broad and loud. She seemed a different person.

  ‘Why did they suspect you?’

  ‘Because of my fingerprints on the weapon. But it was just where I moved it from his chest to do CPR because he wasn’t breathing. I got covered in his blood. In my panic I left stains on the door handles, the phone, you name it.’

  ‘Was there any other DNA found which would indicate an intruder?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘Nothing conclusive. Anyway, why are you asking me this? I was never charged,’ she said, stabbing her finger towards him. ‘Do you really think I had a reason to kill that cute architect who I had only known two weeks? Christ almighty!’

  ‘We have to eliminate you from the list of suspects, and the best way to do that is by being in possession of all the facts,’ Gillard said evenly. ‘For example, newspaper coverage of the coroner’s hearing—’

  ‘What’s this, trial by bloody Google?’

  ‘Ms Davies,’ Michelle Tsu said. ‘Given more time we can check the official records. What I want to ask you is, do you know how to use a handgun?’

  She laughed. ‘I was the runner-up in the 2014 SAPSA handgun nationals.’

  ‘SAPSA?’ Tsu asked.

  ‘South African Practical Shooting Association. Pat and I were both members. We had two dozen guns in the house, mostly rifles in a gun safe; in the bedroom we had his and hers Glocks. Mine was pink. But I tell you this…’ The finger was pointing again. ‘From the day he died, I have never again touched a weapon. I came here to start a new life, as a new woman, to forget all the horror. And then look what happens? Two weeks into a job, in good, safe, gun-free Surrey, England, the nicest guy in my office gets blown apart, and once again poor little Karen is in the frame!’

  ‘Did you kill him?’ Gillard asked.

  She didn’t reply, but the look she gave him was venomous. ‘Can I go now?’ she said eventually.

  Gillard nodded and thanked her. After she had left, slamming every door, Michelle said: ‘Bit of a chameleon that one.’

  ‘She could have killed him,’ Gillard said. ‘Easily, if she had the weapon. Park the car in the office car park, three minutes’ walk to the previous bus stop. Catch the bus, shoot him through the window, get off at the next stop, go back into the office, discover the body.’

  ‘It’s pretty laborious,’ Tsu said.

  ‘Not if she is a paid hit woman. Let’s face it, she’s fully qualified. With her own pink Glock.’

  Chapter 7

  The same day, 25 miles further south

  Sophie Lund stared out of the kitchen window into the pouring rain. It was half past five in the afternoon and Balfour was long overdue for a walk. She wasn’t enthusiastic, but the red setter had come rushing into the kitchen, whining, and pushed his snout between her knees while she was playing with her iPad. ‘Oh stop it,’ she said, pushing the dog away. It was no use denying it: Balfour knew it was time. He had been denied his full run this morning because she had had to drive up to town early, which made him even more anxious to get out now. Balfour may have only been 18 months old, but he knew that after the walk came dinner. The sooner the walk, the sooner the dinner. Dog logic. The trouble was they were no longer in Chelsea, and a walk on the estate meant little chance of shelter and some serious mud.

  Sophie stroked the dog’s warm head and rubbed him behind his ears. ‘Okay, boy, you win,’ she said, heading towards the boot room. The dog immediately seemed to know, and started jumping breathlessly, his claws skittering on the kitchen tiles.

  ‘Estela, I’m just taking the dog out. Should be about a half an hour.’ Sophie leaned into the lounge where the au pair was building Lego houses with Amber. David, as usual, was on his PlayStation and didn’t look up.

  ‘Okay, Sophie.’

  ‘Can you put Amber to bed at six? She had another bad night yesterday, and she’ll be tired.’

  ‘I’m not tired, Mummy,’ Amber whined, pouting.

  ‘Yes, you are. And you had bad dreams, don’t you remember?’ Sophie stroked the girl’s dark hair and ran her fingers over the strawberry birthmark on her temple.

  ‘So can I watch Frozen?’ Amber asked.

  ‘No. Maybe tomorrow.’ Sophie and Estela exchanged grins. They must have each seen Frozen a hundred times. ‘I’ll get David’s dinner when I get back.’

  Balfour came bounding into the lounge, whimpering and hurrying her up. ‘All right, boy, all right.’

  She led the dog into the boot room. She picked her full-length Barbour coat, the broad-brimmed Driza-Bone leather hat, and one of her many pairs of wellies. She grabbed a big heavy torch and stuffed Balfour’s lead into her pocket. It was going to be muddy. Very.

  She pulled open the door, and the cold wind and driving rain hit her immediately. Normally she would take the long route to Trygg’s Foote, four and a half miles, the first and last miles being within their own estate, but this time she would take the shorter loop on the main drive as far as Gibbet Oak. She strode around the east wing, with its ten-foot-high sliding sash windows, and took the steps down, crossing the ha-ha on the footbridge, before joining the main drive. This way there was a half-mile ride lined with mature lime trees, their bare boughs silhouetted against the bilious sky.

  Balfour raced away left and then right, following smells. She followed his movements with the torch, trying to spot if he’d done his business. He could never seem to hold it until they’d reached the woods. Dag hated to see it on the lawns.

  As she crunched down the gravel drive, she turned back to look at her home: a Grade II listed mock-Tudor masterpiece, as the estate agent had called it. Gables in all directions, a dozen chimneys and magnificent bay windows, casting a warm light over the lawns. It had been fantastic when Dag had agreed to move out of London. The Chelsea townhouse was wonderful, but she had been brought up in the countryside and always missed it. Colsham Manor had come onto the market at just the right time. After Dag had sold a half share in his business, he had been persuadable to buy a country estate. Now she had her own stables, she kept her bay mare Caramelo at home. She might never get back into the British three-day eventing team, but she could still enjoy regular hacks across the estate and beyond.

  Dag was a wonderful husband, and so Norwegian. He communicated. He listened. And of course he was wealthy. But most of all he wanted to make her happy. Not only agreeing to move deep into the Surrey countryside, but helping fund her interior designer consultancy. Most of all it was building the family. When she had discovered she was unable to have children, after all the years of trying, and when IVF had failed again and again, he hadn’t objected to the idea of adoption. He didn’t mind that Sophie had them travel to an orphanage in the farthest corner of Europe to make her dreams come true. David and Amber were the perfect children, and had made them complete as a family.

  After ten minutes she and Balfour arrived at Gibbet Oak. The 700-year-old tree, from which a notorious highwayman had been hanged in the early 1600s, dominated a large, rough horse paddock, full of docks and thistles. It now had only one huge bough, which spread laterally from its hollowed trunk. But it was very much alive still, the leaves appearing bright and fresh in late May. Last autumn, their first at Colsham Manor, she and the children had come down and collected handfuls of acorns. David had asked if they were going to feed them to the pigs. She had asked why he thought that when they had no pigs, or indeed any farm animals bar Caramelo.

  ‘I remember with my grandfather, at his house in the mountains, fe
eding acorns to the pigs,’ he said. He was only eight, and this was one of the very few memories that he had shared with her. While Amber was outgoing and chatty, David was much more reserved and self-contained. She wondered what traumas he may have suffered in the troubles in which his parents died. Amber, being only five, obviously didn’t remember very much. Her traumas came out in nightmares.

  Balfour was off on one of his long jaunts and Sophie had to call for him several times before he returned, his snout muddy. She let him through the kissing gate onto the bridleway going west towards Lacey Dutton, three miles further on. The bridleway was one of several well-used public rights of way across the estate. On Sundays, large groups of walkers with red socks and rucksacks, those silly ski poles and woolly hats would stride across. At other times there would only be the odd dog walker. The estate agent told her that the profusion of footpaths and public rights of way had cut a couple of hundred thousand pounds off the asking price. ‘No one likes the hoi polloi trudging across their land,’ he had said.

  But in fact she didn’t mind. Except for Her, of course, the bloody Hinchcliffe woman. And she couldn’t do anything about that.

  The rain had slackened off a little as she entered Paling Wood. The bridleway narrowed from the broad grass sward, churned up by mountain bike tracks, and went sharply downhill through a brake of sweet chestnut trees, before climbing up to Ewhurst Hill. With the trees closer overhead it was darker here, and the path was very slippery, so she had to turn on the torch to pick her way. The path up the hill led to a popular viewpoint, where picnickers would often sit in the summer. Now, in this weather, it was unimaginable. In the wind at the top you would barely pause to gobble down a Twix.

  Balfour stopped, barked and decided to race off into the undergrowth. Sophie called for him and shone her torch into the dark underbrush on the right-hand side of the path. She waited two minutes, calling him to no avail. She put a hand in a pocket for some dog treats and called out. ‘Balfour! Balfour! Snacks, boy, snacks!’ It normally worked but not this time. Annoyed, she crossed the stile into the dark wood. This path was little-used, and here in the shadow of the hawthorn trees and blackthorn that grew up underneath the sweet chestnuts, brambles had made it almost impenetrable. She forced her way through the snagging briars, impaling a thumb on a thorn, even through her gloves. She took off her glove and sucked at the droplet of blood, then called again for the dog. Her torch showed the track, dappled with reflections from muddy footprints, which wound down to the stream, whose waters she could already hear gurgling. There was a notoriously slippery footbridge across it, little more than a plank really, which Dag had been meaning to cover with chicken wire for extra grip. The route did lead eventually back to the estate, via the pottery, but was horribly muddy in the winter.