Sophie and Dag had tried to gently ask about the circumstances in which David and Amber became orphans, but they could never quite pin down the details. Perhaps it was because Teto herself did not know. All they gleaned was that someone with an old grudge had burst into the house in Fier during the night. The mother died from the first bullet; the father took five bullets but did not die for several weeks. Armend was a very tough man, Teto had said so repeatedly. Armend had died in hospital – she had gone to see him before he died. Teto’s own parents were much older, and her father still lived in the Accursed Mountains. ‘Too tough for me there,’ she had said. ‘That’s why I went to live in Shkoder. And that’s how I met a nice Italian tourist.’ She made a cash gesture with finger and thumb. ‘For me, very nice.’
Sophie had wanted to know why Zerina hadn’t wanted to adopt her niece and nephew herself, but couldn’t think quite how to phrase the question without making it an accusation. And she was very keen not to give her any ideas. Sophie loved the children; they had become central to her life. She couldn’t bear if they were taken away or harmed. Ever since the adoption it had been a tiny, secret fear. And now that fear was growing, like a cancer.
* * *
Sophie’s call to the police about the children being followed didn’t elicit any immediate action. PC Kerrigan texted that evening to say he would take a statement from her ‘in due course’ but by Thursday morning she had convinced herself they weren’t planning to do anything else. Then she had an idea. Looking through her old Rolodex she found the business card of a Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard. At the country fair last summer she had gone to the police caravan and picked up a series of crime prevention leaflets. She noticed a really very dishy man there, in cycling gear. She had at first assumed he was a member of the public, until she heard one of the uniformed officers called him sir. So she had butted into the conversation and asked about the theft of Dag’s quad bike, which had occurred from a locked garage within a few weeks of them moving in. There had been no follow-up to her original report, and she told them she thought it was a bit poor. The two uniformed officers didn’t seem to want to take it any further, and pointed out various leaflets on locks and immobilizers, but the detective seemed a little more interested. He took some details, and when a quad bike was recovered, phoned her back. Sadly it wasn’t Dag’s.
Now seemed a good opportunity to renew the acquaintance.
Sophie wasn’t prepared to wait. It was just after eight when she rang the detective’s mobile. Judging by the background noise she seemed to have got him in the car. She outlined the details, and he promised that if he was in the area in the next few days he would take a look.
* * *
Gillard cut the call and let out a hefty sigh. He really didn’t have time for anything except the Peter Young case, but as he was sitting in stationary traffic on the Kingston bypass it did no harm to listen to the woman. As he explained to her, he really had no choice but to pass the details back to the original investigating officer, PC Adrian Kerrigan, despite Mrs Lund’s lack of confidence in him. Gillard knew well enough that the police could not be everywhere, but he also knew that crime prevention depended on keeping the public onside. There was at least one lesson he could take from this: don’t hand your business card out at country shows. He might just be able to fit in a visit on his day off.
When the detective arrived at the Khazi, Hoskins and Hodges were in the usual position, slouched over their respective PC screens, eating and watching CCTV on fast forward. ‘How’s it going, then?’ Gillard asked.
‘It’s a game of two halves,’ said Hodges. ‘We’ve got nothing on where our suspect got on, but we’ve got him clear as day crossing Roosevelt Avenue and heading up Coulton Road.’ Hodges ejected the current disc from his PC and slid another in.
‘Any more cameras up there?’
‘Not until we get to Esher station. I got the request in.’ Hodges was fast-forwarding through the footage, which on the screen looked like chaotic, scurrying ants. As the counter approached the number he had written down, he slowed. ‘There, that’s him.’
The cameras showed a man in the now familiar hooded Puffa jacket approach the crossing, ease his way between a couple of elderly women and dash across the road before the pedestrian lights had turned green. It was only in the last few yards, as he was crossing to the other side, that he looked back and his face became properly visible.
‘So, white British by appearance, bit of a wispy beard. Looks like a nose ring or something,’ Hodges said.
‘And he’s in a bit of a hurry,’ Gillard noted.
‘It’s raining and he doesn’t want to get wet,’ Hoskins suggested.
‘It’s not much, is it?’ Gillard said. ‘We can’t even put him upstairs on the bus for sure.’
‘That’s right,’ Hoskins said.
‘Get me the best enlargements you can – I’m going to the girls’ school this afternoon, see if anyone recognises him.’
Hodges let out a wicked cackle. ‘Poor you, sir. All that miniskirted jailbait sitting on your lap.’
Hoskins took up the theme. ‘Now now, Colin, I’m sure that DCI Gillard would much prefer to be sitting here with us in the Khazi for the next six hours staring at fuzzy videos of busloads of pensioners crossing the road.’
Gillard sighed. He wasn’t going to repeat how intimidating he found these adolescent girls en masse, but he was distinctly nervous about the prospect. These days, there were so many ways to do or say the wrong thing.
* * *
DI Claire Mulholland joined Gillard for the afternoon follow-up at Hawthorne Academy. She couldn’t help noticing how nervous he seemed to be. It was probably down to what he had told her about his experience on the bus yesterday morning. Having grown up at the rougher end of Staines, several miles further north, Mulholland was quite used to rowdy schoolchildren, but from the moment they entered the expensive softwood and steel hallway of the school, she was struck by the level of informality. Teachers laughed and joked with the kids, seeming to adopt more the role of experienced but still sassy older sisters than the stern matrons who had taught her. Mrs Joanne Calder, the student welfare officer, met them and guided them in. She was wearing a purple sweatshirt which carried the slogan ‘Hawthorne Rocks!’ with a cartoon of a guitar-wielding punk girl on it.
Joanne, as she insisted on being called, guided them into an open-plan coffee-cum- snack bar, lined with vending machines and boasting tall stand-up round tables which wouldn’t have looked out of place at a crowded Starbucks. Waiting for them there was a pack of about 70 girls, projecting terminal boredom as only teenagers can. Joanne addressed them in a practised bellow, saying they had been asked to attend as regular users of the bus from Surbiton. She then introduced the police officers simply as Craig and Claire, and invited the girls to listen to what they had to say. The fact that more than half were still working their phones or plugged into earphones brought no remonstration from Joanne.
Gillard repeated a fair amount of what he had said the previous morning, and caught the eye of eyebrow girl, slowly chewing gum, between text messages. He invited the girls to look at the images on his laptop of the man in the Puffa jacket. Only a few bothered to come up to stare at the screen, before shrugging or saying they hadn’t seen him. At the end, frustrated by the lack of engagement with his audience, Gillard said: ‘Someone must have seen something. And if you see this man,’ he pointed to the image, ‘please text the police information line.’
The girls gradually filed out, including the short one who had done the impersonation of Gillard at the bus stop. She wouldn’t make eye contact with him, but there was a sly smile on her lips as she sidled past, working her phone. ‘So are you planning to be an actress, young lady?’ he asked.
Something was grunted in reply.
‘Melanie, would you be good enough to answer the policeman politely?’ Joanne asked.
The girl turned to him and said: ‘Nobody but us girls goes up
stairs. I’ve seen that bloke though, he gets off the train at Surbiton, but I think he goes downstairs on the bus.’
‘So he’s a regular?’
Melanie shrugged. ‘Regular, I don’t know. But I have seen him on the train.’
‘Melanie, why didn’t you say something before?’ Joanne asked.
‘It’s none of my business, innit?’
‘A man has been killed,’ Mulholland said.
The girl ignored her and instead answered a phone call from her mum.
‘She’s a good girl, really,’ Joanne said. ‘Chaotic family background, lots of issues.’
As they left, Gillard rang in a request to DC Hoskins to get some CCTV in from Surbiton station. After he’d hung up, Mulholland said: ‘Who’d be a teacher, eh?’
‘Not me,’ said Gillard. ‘I did two weeks of riot control in the Met. Couldn’t do a lifetime of it.’
* * *
Sophie had given up hope of a response. But at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning the doorbell rang, and Dag called up to her. ‘It’s the police.’ She came downstairs, followed by David who stared out curiously through the banisters. The man at the door was, as when she had first met him, in cycling gear, and as easy on the eye as she remembered: helmet with visor, skin-tight jersey and leggings, plus pointy green shoes. His mountain bike was leaning against one of the columns of the portico.
‘Oh, have you come on your day off?’ Sophie asked.
‘Well, combining business with pleasure, actually,’ he said. ‘I’ve never cycled around here. And the weather is better today.’ Gillard spotted the boy on the stairs. ‘Hello, young man, what’s your name?’
‘David. Are you a policeman?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Where’s your uniform?’ The boy slid down to stand next to his mother.
‘David, don’t be rude,’ Sophie said, ruffling his hair and mouthing apologies to Gillard.
‘I’m a detective,’ Gillard said, crouching down. ‘I’m here to help your mummy.’
‘Do you catch bad men?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘So are you a fast runner?’
Gillard chuckled. ‘Actually, once, I was. When I was young.’
‘I’ll race you to the tree,’ David said, pointing at a large beech tree about 50 yards away.
‘David, the detective hasn’t got time for that,’ Sophie said. She rolled her eyes at Gillard.
‘It’s all right,’ he replied, turning back to the boy. ‘Go on, then.’ He adopted a sprinter’s pose, but the child was already running. ‘Ready, set, go,’ he said when he was already five yards ahead. Gillard chased after him, matching his pace to that of the boy, and then letting him win in the final few yards.
David was thrilled, jumping up and down. ‘Mummy, I’m faster than a policeman!’
‘Yes, you’re a very fast runner,’ Gillard said.
Sophie smiled at them both as they returned. ‘Now David, go upstairs and don’t bother the nice man any more.’
Dag re-emerged in combat trousers and rugby shirt, and beckoned for Gillard to follow. Sophie and Dag drove down on the quad bike while Gillard cycled. With the benefit of some watery sunlight and a few dry days the bridleway was much recovered. They stopped at the stile, and Sophie led them over and down towards the bridge. The mannequin was still there, though it was obvious from a few yards away it was not a real person. The hat was gone, the wig had sagged and one wellington had dropped off.
‘I suppose I’m a fool to have ever believed it was real,’ Sophie said. ‘But I can assure you that at night it was very convincing.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Gillard said. ‘So you say you believe that this was done by your neighbour?’
‘Yes. Geraldine Hinchcliffe.’
‘Arch-lunatic and potter,’ Dag added.
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Not actually spoken,’ Sophie said. ‘I left a message on her phone, and she left a handwritten note under the windscreen of my car, typical eccentric response, to say she had nothing to do with it.’
Gillard crossed the footbridge, then reached up and with a pocket knife cut through the cord on which the mannequin was suspended. He put it into a large carrier bag. ‘We can take a look at this back of the house. Did you ever find Amber’s wellingtons?’
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘I’m sure she stole them.’
‘I’ll get one of the uniforms to go around and have a quiet word.’
As they returned to the yard there was the sound of a chainsaw starting up. ‘Has Michael got some contractors doing some work today?’ Dag asked.
‘I don’t think so. He knows they’re not to use machinery near the house on a Sunday. I bet it’s that bloody woman,’ Sophie said, increasing her pace. From the front lawns she led them to the back of the main house, threading through a series of farm buildings and a small car park. Parked next to a row of leylandii there was a Land Rover and trailer, half full of cuttings. A tall figure in a green jacket and orange helmet was wielding a chainsaw on one of the conifers.
‘Hey!’ yelled Sophie, breaking into a run. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Ahead of her, by the Land Rover, a grey-haired woman in a floaty dress and sandals turned to them. It was Geraldine Hinchcliffe.
‘We are just doing what you should have done years ago,’ Geraldine shouted, pointing the mug in her hand at the three of them.
‘You can’t do this, it’s on our land!’ Sophie shouted, trying to make herself heard.
‘I’ve told you, this section is mine,’ Geraldine bellowed, brandishing a piece of paper from her pocket and pointing at the base of the trees. ‘I’ve got legal opinion.’ She waved it in Sophie’s face. ‘From a solicitor.’
Dag meanwhile went around the Land Rover and up to the workman, who stopped the chainsaw and turned to him.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Gillard, would you please tell this bloody woman…?’ Sophie asked.
‘I am Geraldine Hinchcliffe and I will not be talked to like this on my own land.’
Sophie looked like she was going to explode. ‘It is NOT your land—’
‘I think it would be best if everyone just kept calm,’ Gillard said in his best public-order boom. ‘And you, sir, I would please halt all work until its legality has been verified.’
At that moment, the tall workman took off his helmet.
Oh my God, thought Gillard. I don’t believe it.
Chapter 12
The chief constable was quite recognisable once she had removed her orange helmet and safety visor. Alison Rigby, her tall frame bulked out by the thick padded jacket and safety trousers, locked her infamous blue stare on Gillard. ‘I think you would agree that this is a civil matter, wouldn’t you, Detective Chief Inspector?’ she said.
‘So long as everyone keeps calm, ma’am,’ he said.
Sophie immediately spotted the deference in Gillard’s tone and rounded on Rigby. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but you are currently standing on my land, cutting down my trees. That is trespass, and criminal damage.’
Geraldine Hinchcliffe, her long dangling earrings shaking in disagreement, waved the piece of paper under Sophie’s nose.
Rigby folded her arms and looked down at Sophie. ‘I am Geraldine’s partner, and she asked me to help her. We’re quite confident the law is on our side.’
‘Are you going to arrest this woman or not?’ Sophie said to Gillard.
He now thoroughly regretted coming to do a good deed on his day off.
* * *
First thing on Monday, as expected, Gillard was called into the chief constable’s office. Alison Rigby was sipping coffee from a large brown mug, which Gillard now noticed looked to be home-made. One of Geraldine Hinchcliffe’s efforts, no doubt.
‘Ah, Craig, take a seat.’ She pointed at one of the low chairs that encircled the coffee table, which indicated an informal conversation. Gillard sat, while Rigby continued to go through paperwork for a good five minut
es. Eventually she looked up, came around and sat opposite him.
‘Unfortunate business yesterday, Craig.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘So what were you doing there?’ she asked.
‘I only went along as a favour. Because of the mannequin. Thought I could combine a nice relaxing bike ride with it.’
‘Gee told me about the mannequin business and took me along to have a look at it. I have to say I think the Lund woman has blown it out of all proportion. And there is no way that Gee would do anything like that.’
‘You know Ms Hinchcliffe better than I do,’ Gillard said, not quite indicating that he would take her word for it. He was still waiting for the main subject to arise.
‘Look. I’m sorry to have put you in such a difficult situation. I really shouldn’t have got involved, but those trees did need to come down.’
‘Wasn’t it a job for contractors?’
‘Poor Gee tried, but when they saw which side of the fence the trees were on, they said they wouldn’t be insured. They didn’t even want to look at our legal opinion.’
‘Are you satisfied over the legality, ma’am?’
Rigby sighed. ‘Actually, not entirely. It’s arguable, but Gee had been on to me for months about this. I thought if I did it, I’d get a little peace.’ She looked up and helped herself to a couple of Maltesers from a jar on her desk. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Yes, ma’am. If I may suggest, best not to wield the machinery yourself in this case. Saves complications and awkwardness.’
She nodded. ‘So I take it we can forget about this little incident?’
‘What incident, ma’am?’ Craig smiled.
‘Yes indeed. And particularly the unintentional insight into my private life.’ She flashed the blue stare, long enough for Gillard to realize that this was very important to her.
The Body on the Shore Page 8