The Body on the Shore

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

  ‘Absolutely, ma’am.’

  Rigby smiled, having secured the assurance that she needed.

  Gillard was aware of the rumours that had filled the vacuum about the personal life of the county’s most senior police officer. Rigby was unmarried, nearly 50, and had guarded her privacy meticulously. She had probably missed the opportunity to ‘come out’ when she was less senior. Though the country as a whole had for a decade or more been relaxed about homosexuality amongst senior public servants, the police itself was infamously stuck in the last century. Male officers’ incessant speculation about unmarried female counterparts rarely rose above ribald chuckling about strap-on dildos, muff-diving and bull dykes. What Gillard had seen here, two middle-aged women finding domestic happiness together, was too nuanced to trouble the stereotype.

  For Gillard, being the accidental custodian of such a sensitive piece of information was a double-edged sword. He knew enough about the politics of the police to understand that everything he did from now on, every investigation, every mistake would attract the eagle eye of Alison Rigby, and be viewed through the prism of the secret he bore. Firm, fair and married to the job, that was how she described herself. She had a terrific reputation, from her deft handling of the very tricky Girl F child abuse investigation right through to the Knight murder case. Office chatter had her down as a leading candidate for Metropolitan Police Commissioner at some stage, the toughest police job in Britain.

  He just hoped now that he wouldn’t have to be involved in any further activity in that neck of the woods. Troubles at Colsham Manor could be PC Kerrigan’s problem from now on.

  He was to be sorely disappointed.

  * * *

  Gillard hadn’t mentioned to the chief constable the other things that he had been told by Sophie Lund. Her kids being photographed as they left the school and the au pair being followed. In some ways that was more disturbing than this bizarre mannequin. He had made a phone call to PC Kerrigan, and suggested he take an additional statement from her. Kerrigan certainly gave the impression that the case wasn’t anywhere near the top of his priorities. Gillard had a suggestion: ‘I also think it would be a good idea to take a statement from Geraldine Hinchcliffe, the neighbour. There’s a long-running dispute, essentially a civil matter over land boundaries. But I think if you put in an appearance, Mrs Lund will at least consider that Surrey Constabulary has been doing its job.’ The additional benefit, which he didn’t mention, was that if Sophie Lund was happy, she was much less likely to go to the press, and the chief constable’s secret would not be revealed.

  ‘Message received loud and clear,’ Kerrigan said.

  ‘Oh, and Constable, make an appointment. Don’t just turn up.’ He didn’t want any other officer tripping over the chief constable.

  * * *

  The next call from Sophie Lund came on Monday evening, just as Gillard was putting his keys in his own front door lock. ‘I’m really sorry to disturb you again, and only doing so because I would feel silly talking to that PC about this.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ he replied as he opened the door and stepped inside, mouthing a hello to Sam, who was in the kitchen.

  ‘Someone has sprayed something onto a doorpost on one of the outbuildings. Some kind of symbol.’

  ‘Is it definitely new?’ Gillard replied.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s the stables, and I go there every day. It looks like it was done with a stencil. The sort of thing that we used to make in craft lessons when I was a girl. Just the sort of thing that a mischievous potter might make.’

  Gillard sighed. There could be so many explanations for this. ‘Why don’t you take a picture of it, and when you email it to PC Kerrigan, copy me in.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sounded disappointed, as if she expected more.

  ‘How are things with the neighbours?’

  ‘The same.’ She paused. ‘Craig, who is that woman? The one who was hacking at my trees.’

  Gillard took a deep breath and lied. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘She certainly seemed to have the measure of you. Treated you like a naughty schoolboy.’

  ‘Mrs Lund, you have to realize that the police hate to be involved in civil disputes of that nature. We always urge people to sit down and negotiate, because that’s what will happen in the end. If you can’t do it, the court system will do it for you and you will just end up with a massive bill.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s just Mrs Lund now,’ she said. ‘Well, thank you for all your help.’ She slammed the phone down.

  ‘Who was that?’ Sam asked as she embraced her husband, who was still staring at the phone.

  ‘A real piece of work,’ Gillard replied. ‘Do someone a favour and you inherit a liability. Someone who expects you to run around at their beck and call.’

  ‘Told you before, Craig. Sometimes you’re just too good for the police. You’ve got enough on your plate with this architect killing. Get someone else to deal with it.’

  * * *

  The next call from Sophie Lund was on Thursday morning. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to keep calling you, but I have found something else.’

  Gillard was at his desk, with a stack of documents about Peter Young in front of him. His eyes rolled backwards in his head in exasperation, though he tried not to sigh too audibly. He cradled his chin in his hand and replied. ‘Sophie, I really think it would be better if you dealt with PC Kerrigan.’ He didn’t want to provoke her into slamming the phone down again.

  ‘Well, he’s such an idiot. I emailed the picture to him and I’ve heard nothing. He didn’t return my call, and that’s two days ago. I’ve had nothing from you either.’

  ‘We get hundreds of incidents per day, and you may know we’re dealing with a major murder inquiry which is taking most of my time.’

  You could almost feel the pout at the other end of the line. ‘Craig, I’ve found some bullets. I’m really scared.’

  ‘In the house? Or outside?’

  ‘Outside. We’ve got a tenant’s cottage, currently unoccupied, in fact in need of renovation. It’s about ten minutes’ walk from the Manor. I was walking Balfour and, going through the kitchen garden there, which is a bit overgrown, I saw these bullets, about half a dozen lying on the ground.’

  ‘Do you mean bullets, or do you mean spent cartridges? I mean, there must have been quite a lot of shooting of pigeons and rabbits over the years around there.’

  ‘No, I know what a shotgun cartridge looks like. I was brought up in the country, for goodness’ sake. These are hollow brassy things, so I suppose they are casings.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go to a meeting in a minute. Take some pictures and, as before, send them to PC Kerrigan and copy me in.’ He was about to hang up when he added. ‘Oh, Sophie, just a precaution. The chances are that there is an innocent explanation, but just in case: don’t touch them. If there is anything suspicious, don’t leave your own fingerprints or DNA on them.’

  ‘Oh, I already picked them up and put them in a tin.’

  ‘Okay, too late, then.’ As he hung up he realized that she sounded quite excited at the prospect that something might really be happening. What a pain.

  The following Tuesday

  Sophie was awoken from a deep sleep by a murmuring coming from the baby monitor and then a bang. Instantly awake, she looked at the clock: 3.17 a.m. She looked to her right, seeking the reassuring hummock of her husband’s form.

  But the bed was flat and undisturbed.

  A thread of fear tightened around her as she now recalled he was in Houston, and not back until the weekend, four days away. She flicked on the light, eased her way out of the warm bed and put on a bathrobe and slippers. The baby monitor was connected to Amber’s bedroom in case she woke up and was frightened in the night. Quite often Amber called for her after a nightmare, and on several occasions she had awoken screaming. Luckily that wasn’t the case tonight. Originally she had had both children sleep in the same bedroom at the front of the house, overlookin
g the lawns. But Amber’s night terrors were disturbing her brother, and he had enough problems at school as it was without going in tired every day, so she moved him to one of the attic rooms looking out over the woods at the back. She didn’t want David woken up.

  She padded along the 20 feet of corridor that separated the master bedroom from Amber’s. She opened the door to discover that the bed was empty and the room was chilly. The little girl was leaning out of the open window. Somewhere nearby, the piercing hoot of an owl split the night. The girl seemed to be talking to herself and, trying not to disturb her, Sophie came and knelt next to her. ‘Hello, Mummy,’ Amber said.

  ‘I heard you talking to yourself,’ Sophie said.

  ‘I was talking to the angel,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Not bad dreams tonight, then, my darling?’ She stroked the child’s hair.

  ‘No, Mummy. Not a dream angel, a real one. There.’ She pointed out onto the moonlit grounds, which swept down to the ha-ha, and the beech trees whose huge boughs overshadowed the formal lawns. At first Sophie didn’t see him because of the zebra shadows of branches cast against the trunks of the trees.

  And then she did.

  A man with a light-coloured raincoat around his shoulders and a halo of wavy hair, standing against the base of the right-hand beech, about 50 yards away. Of course, another scarecrow. Very realistic, this one – super-realistic even.

  Then it moved.

  Chapter 13

  The man walked calmly around the tree, then jumped down into the ha-ha, his raincoat hanging in the air for a split second.

  ‘See, Mummy, angel’s wings.’

  Terrified out of her wits, Sophie snatched her daughter from the window and slammed the casement closed.

  ‘Stay here, darling,’ she said, putting the child back into her bed. She hurried into her own room, picked up the bedside phone and rang Michael, the estate manager. She felt from experience that even if the police took her seriously, they wouldn’t be here for ages.

  ‘Michael? It’s Sophie, I’m terribly sorry to ring in the middle of the night but we’ve got an intruder on the lawns. I’m absolutely scared stiff, would you come over, please? Oh, Michael, thank you so much. Apologize to Felicity for me.’

  She had barely put the phone down when Estela walked into the bedroom. ‘Mrs Lund, I heard noises…’

  ‘Yes, there was a man on the lawn.’ The door behind Estela opened and a pyjama-clad David walked through, sucking his thumb, his eyes wide in alarm.

  ‘David, I’ve told you not to suck your thumb,’ Sophie said. ‘You are eight years old, for goodness’ sake.’

  He continued, but reached for the reassuring hand of the au pair.

  Sophie went into the en suite to change into outdoor clothes. Before she had finished, Estela called up to say that Michael had arrived.

  ‘I’ll be downstairs in a minute,’ she said.

  Michael was a ruddy-faced, thickset man in his early 50s. Sophie was used to seeing him in a country jacket and wellingtons. Tonight he was wearing a hooded anorak, tracksuit bottoms and training shoes with no socks.

  ‘Mrs Lund, what on earth is the matter?’

  She told him all the details, and she was only halfway through when Amber walked into the room, clutching her favourite stuffed panda, Mimi.

  ‘Amber, you’re supposed to be back in bed,’ Sophie said with exasperation.

  Michael crouched down and put his hand out to the child. ‘Been having nightmares again, little lady?’

  Amber slowly shook her head and held the panda even closer to her face. ‘I’ve been talking to an angel. He said he could take me to see my mummy.’

  ‘But your mummy’s here,’ said Michael, scooping the little girl up into his arms and turning to Sophie.

  ‘No not this mummy, silly, my real mummy. Mumje që është në qiell.’

  Michael seemed to stagger for a moment, and his mouth fell open. ‘What language is this?’

  ‘Albanian,’ Sophie said. ‘She was an Albanian orphan. Don’t you remember me saying?’

  ‘What did you just say, darling?’ Sophie asked, taking Amber from Michael’s arms.

  David answered for her. ‘She said “Mummy who is in heaven”.’

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ breathed Michael.

  ‘Amber, darling, I won’t be cross,’ Sophie said. ‘But you were imagining what the angel said, weren’t you?’

  Amber pressed her face into Mimi, a pout forming. Slowly she moved her head backwards and forwards within the panda’s embrace.

  ‘The angel spoke to me,’ she whispered.

  ‘But how? You were asleep.’

  ‘The owl woke me up, and I went to the window to see if I could see him. Then I saw the angel, down below on the grass.’

  ‘You mean close to the house?’

  She nodded, gravely.

  ‘You mean right below your window?’

  She nodded. ‘He called up to me.’

  Sophie’s throat dried up almost completely, but she managed to croak out the question: ‘What did he say, darling?’

  ‘He said: “Tregoni atyre. Kam ardhur për hakmarrje.”’

  ‘He spoke to you in Albanian!’ Sophie almost shrieked.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Michael asked, looking around the room in bewilderment. Estela shrugged and looked down at the small boy who was still grasping her hand, tears beginning in his eyes.

  David spoke. ‘It means…’ He thought for a moment, his face screwed up in concentration. ‘“Tell them. I have come for vengeance.”’

  Chapter 14

  Having had enough of the scepticism of the police, Sophie asked Michael to dial 999 for her. The overheard conversation, once he was through to the police incident room, was full of frustrations.

  ‘Yes, it was the child who heard it.’ Pause. ‘She is five.’ Pause. ‘No, it wasn’t “just a nightmare”. It wasn’t a dream. There was a witness.’ There was a long, frustrated pause as Michael looked heavenwards. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying, a witness who saw the intruder. Yes. On the lawns within sight of the house. It was the child’s mother. Well, adoptive mother. Can I pass you over? All right, later.’ Michael nodded to Sophie and then continued: ‘Well, the man was speaking Albanian. Yes, to the child. No, only the child heard.’ Long pause. ‘How did she know it was Albanian? Well, she is Albanian. I presume she speaks it. Well, it sounded very convincing to me.’ Long pause. ‘I’m the estate manager. No, I didn’t see the intruder. No, no, we don’t have any staff, at least nobody who would be here overnight. The nearest pub? It must be two miles or more. Look, I really don’t think it was a drunk. Especially an Albanian-speaking drunk. Look, can I pass you over? She can describe…’ Michael rolled his eyes again and shuffled his feet with impatience. ‘No, no. I don’t think he’s been seen since. Yes, it was half an hour ago.’ Another pause. ‘So you’re not going to send anyone? In the morning, all right. Thank you.’ He hung up and turned to Sophie. ‘I think you got the gist of that.’

  ‘Useless, absolutely useless,’ said Sophie, flexing her knuckles and sitting down on the bed. ‘Do you have a shotgun, Michael?’

  He looked terrified. ‘I’m an accountant, not a gamekeeper.’ Needing more ammunition for his apparently timid stance he said: ‘I’m scared of spiders.’

  ‘I have to defend my children when my husband isn’t here.’ Her face was implacable.

  ‘This is Surrey, Mrs Lund.’ He stared at her as if meeting the woman for the first time. ‘I’m sure there is some innocent explanation.’

  She nodded, but was clearly unconvinced.

  ‘I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a brandy, Mrs Lund?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Of course, of course. I should have offered.’ She knelt down at the glass-fronted cabinet and reached for the Hennessy. With the bottle in one hand she got to her feet and reached on tiptoe to a high display shelf for a crystal balloon. Her fingers somehow lost their grip and the glass fell onto the top of the cabine
t, shattering. It was the last of her late mother’s glass collection.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She sank to her knees to pick up the larger pieces, but before she could even begin, her shoulders began to shudder and an unstoppable wave of tears took hold of her: tears of rage, of frustration and of sheer bloody terror.

  Michael crouched by her side and as the crying grew into a wail, gave her a sideways hug. It was a perfect example of the kind of awkward embrace that an employee can in exceptional circumstances offer an employer of the opposite sex: plenty of patting hands on the shoulders, plenty of ‘there-theres’ but no body-to-body contact. Unable to put up with this for long, Sophie rose to her feet offering a mishmash of thanks and apologies. Michael guided her to the sofa and got them both a brandy in ordinary glasses while Estela cleaned up the broken shards.

  As Sophie patted her bathrobe pockets, feeling for a tissue, she saw through her smeared vision her son, David. He was carrying a plastic water pistol, clearly loaded and dripping on the carpet.

  ‘Mummy, I will defend us.’ His face looked full of determination.

  She pulled the boy to her bosom. ‘Oh, David. That’s very sweet of you. We need more brave little men like you.’

  Wednesday

  DCI Gillard took the call from PC Kerrigan on the hands-free as he was waiting at roadworks on the way to work. The constable relayed the bare facts of last night’s incident at Colsham Manor in the habitual flat tone of police reportage, while conveying a clear hint that Mrs Lund was a nutcase.

  ‘Thank you for the update,’ Gillard said.

  ‘A bit of a fairy story, if you ask me,’ Kerrigan said. ‘Probably a drunk on the lawn. But it seems like both mother and daughter have a good imagination.’

  ‘And no CCTV,’ Gillard replied. ‘The husband took it out.’ The lights had finally turned green, and he edged the car past a line of diggers and earthworks. ‘Okay, as you know, I’m not taking her calls any more, as I’m up to my neck in this murder enquiry. But do copy me in on any significant developments. If I get a moment to myself I’ll cast an eye over this. In the meantime you might want to get a colleague to take a look.’ He thanked Kerrigan and hung up.