Cunningham nodded and introduced Anna.
Mrs. Brandon knew then, by how quiet they were, that something was wrong. She touched a gold chain at her neck as she perched on one of the new easy chairs. “Something has happened, hasn’t it?”
“I am sorry, but I have some distressing news. There is no easy way to tell you this, but I am afraid your husband has been fatally wounded.”
Julia just seemed to sag, her head leaning forward. “Ah, no.”
“We will need you to give us a formal identification.”
“What happened?”
“He was shot.”
“Shot?”
“Yes. I am very sorry. It happened sometime early this morning.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes. Do you know what he was doing last night?”
At this point, Julia lost control; she slid forward as she vomited over her new carpet.
It took them some time to help her up, and get Mai Ling back to clean up the mess Julia didn’t cry, but seemed to be in a daze, as she was helped to lie down and a cold cloth was put on her forehead. Cunningham sat close to her, and asked the girl to call Julia’s doctor.
By the time the doctor arrived, an ashen-faced Julia was holding on to Cunningham’s hand. She had not said a word since she had collapsed. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and even her mouth seemed to have lost its color. As soon as the doctor went to her side, she closed her eyes. Cunningham had to ease Julia’s fingers away; her grip had been so tight, it left white marks on her skin. Julia was in a state of shock and the doctor said he would give her something to help her sleep.
While Cunningham remained with Julia and the doctor, Anna busied herself, helping to clear up. The bright, happy family kitchen was full of children’s toys and games, all so new and pristine. There were many photographs of the two little sisters as babies, then toddlers; there were also numerous wedding pictures of Frank with Julia, and the girls
as bridesmaids, as there were in the lounge. It was hard for Anna to reconcile the Frank she had known with this proud and happy man in a pale suit and a pink silk tie.
Mai Ling, who had come down from putting the girls to bed, was placing the children’s dishes into the dishwasher.
“How long have you worked for Mrs. Brandon?” Anna asked her. “One year, six months. I have a work permit.” “I’m sure you do. Do you understand the reason we are here this evening?” “No.”
“Mrs. Brandon’s husband has been found dead.” The face remained impassive. “How did you get along with Mr. Brandon?” “He is a very nice man.”
“Did you work for Mrs. Brandon before their marriage?” “Yes.”
“Was she married before?”
“She had partner.”
“But they weren’t married?”
“I don’t know; he was much older.”
“Is this house Mrs. Brandon’s?”
“Yes, she buy this house; we move in not long ago.”
“After her marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what work Mr. Brandon did?”
“No. He go out early; sometimes come home very late.”
“But you don’t know who he worked for?”
“No.”
“So—the children are in bed?”
“Yes, we have tea and then I take them up for bath and bedtime.” Anna picked up the photograph of Mrs. Brandon and the two pretty girls. “They are lovely. They were from Mrs. Brandon’s previous relationship?” “I think so.”
“What are their names?”
“Emily and Cathy.”
“Does Mrs. Brandon work?”
“No, she at home.” Mai Ling turned the dishwasher on. “He had a heart attack?”
Anna cocked her head to one side.
“Mr. Brandon? He has a gym upstairs and he work out every morning.” The girl opened a cupboard to put away the jams from the table. It was filled with vitamins and health drinks. “He very fit man; he take all these with fresh orange juice.”
Anna looked over the mass of jars and health-food supplements and shook her head. “No. It wasn’t a heart attack. Thank you for talking to me.”
Anna turned to walk out of the kitchen. From the array of vitamins, it was doubtful Frank would also have been pumping himself with drugs. She remembered how he was always working out; she recalled his massive shoulders and the overwhelming cologne he had always used. She was jolted out of it by the sound of the girl sobbing, sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.
“Let’s go.” Anna jumped as Cunningham tapped her shoulder. “We’ll need to come back and talk to the wife. She can’t string two words together right now.”
They returned to the patrol car.
Cunningham yawned. “What do you make of all that?” she said, not looking at Anna.
“Well, it’s a very nice house; they only moved in after they were married. I think she has the money. She doesn’t work, and that place must have cost a fortune to furnish. From what I could gather from the au pair, Mrs. Brandon’s last partner was older—maybe he had the money originally. She didn’t know what work Frank Brandon did; she just said he left early and often came home late. He also has a cupboard full of vitamins. It didn’t look as if he was spoiling all that with drugs.”
“I know someone who works out and takes speed every morning, so you can never tell.” Cunningham tapped the driver to tell him to take her home, not back to the station. She then settled back and took out her BlackBerry, checking e-mails all the way to her home in Belsize Park, ignoring Anna.
By the time Anna had collected her Mini from the station car park and driven home, it was half-past nine. She had not eaten since the sandwich before the briefing, so dropped into a late-night shop on the way. Anna parked in her allocated space, then took the lift up to the top floor. Stepping out, she could hardly believe her eyes.
Stacked up outside her front door were boxes and boxes of deliveries. Attached to the top one was a note, saying they had been unable to gain access, but that the security manager had agreed the items could be left. She wanted to weep.
It was another half hour before she had dragged everything in from the hallway into the flat. She was too tired to begin unpacking and just wanted a hot shower and something to eat. She heated some soup and filled the fresh rolls she had bought with ham and cheese, then carried them into the bedroom. It would have been lovely to flop down on her bed and switch on the TV before crashing out, but the large plasma screen sat ominously in the drawing room, waiting to be connected. Wherever she looked were boxes; she knew there was no way she could start the marathon task that evening. She half wished she was back at her old flat.
It got worse: there was no hot water. No matter how much she fiddled and twisted the dial, it remained icy cold. By this time, it was almost eleven-fifteen, too late to call the duty security manager.
Anna had just closed her eyes when a foghorn bellowed. She shot up. It felt as if, her bed was being shaken by an earthquake. She opened the balcony window doors. It was terrifying; the whole apartment seemed to be moving. Anna’s mouth gaped open: the massive bridge was closing, which was why the apartment was shuddering. As soon as both sides joined, and it reverted back to its usual position, the apartment became still.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, wondering if anyone else had felt it. Surely they must have, but she saw no one else on their balconies. As she returned to her bedroom, she knocked against one of the boxes, stubbing her toe. Back in bed, she bashed her pillow, but sleep didn’t come easily; she was waiting for another foghorn blast.
It was her alarm that eventually woke her. She felt like hell. She was going to give it to the security manager.
Anna was still in a foul mood when she tried to get out of the garage. It didn’t respond to her remote. She was swearing and cursing, when it opened of its own accord; she drove out and pressed for it to close, but it remained open. Even after she had had her breakfast in her cubic
le of an office, she was still uptight. She typed up her report of the meeting with Julia Brandon and then put in a call to the security manager. His answer phone was on.
Gordon was not a morning person; he yawned so many times, it felt contagious. Cunningham had underlined that they were to question every single tenant on the estate, as one or another could have details or descriptions of the drug dealers. He didn’t understand why they had such an early start. Anna pointed out that many of the residents went to work; the few they had not yet spoken to would still be at home, she hoped. It was to be another tedious round of knocking on doors and questioning the neighbors. Also, as instructed, they were to interview Mrs. Webster’s son.
Gordon remained silent while Anna did all the inquiries. She was so irritated by his constant yawning that she snapped, “Did you have a late night or something? You seem half asleep.”
“No, I crashed out early, but I shouldn’t have eaten so much breakfast. It always makes me sleepy—well, that’s what my mother says.”
“Well, in future, do you think you could just listen to what your mother says and maybe have a bowl of cereal?”
“I hate cereal, all that chewing. I like scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes.”
“Gordon, I don’t want to know.”
“Sorry.”
They went from floor to floor on the estate. This was usually a uniform job but, considering the seriousness of the crime, Cunningham had felt a show of rank worthwhile. It wasn’t. Some tenants were still not at home, and most of their inquiries were carried out on the doorstep. Anna was feeling that it was all a waste of time. She had been inundated with the same complaints about the state of the building, and how many tenants had been waiting years to be rehoused.
Anna had left Mrs. Webster until last. Knowing the situation with her son, she had called to ask for a convenient time. Mrs. Webster had said that Jeremy would talk to them, but they had to interview him in his room. Anna felt this would be another real time-waster, but far be it from her to put a foot wrong with Cunningham.
Mrs. Webster was as neat and smart as she had been on the previous visit. Anna and Gordon waited in the hall as she tapped on her son’s bedroom door and then went in. They waited three or four minutes before she came out and said they could now see Jeremy.
Anna walked in ahead of Gordon—and could hardly contain her surprise.
The room was quite spacious; shelves of DVDs were built around a large desk with a computer and small TV set on it. The speakers and DVD deck were stacked on top of one another next to some expensive-looking sound equipment. The walls were lined with tapes and records, all in alphabetical order. There were many magazines, neatly placed beside the desk. The small bed was made in a military style: folded top blanket, white sheet wrapped around, with two inches showing, and a pristine white pillow on top. There was a desk chair, and two spare canvas chairs propped against a wall. The carpet was dark blue and what space 011 the walls was not taken up with his collections was pristine white paint. Just as Anna was taken aback by the clinical room, in complete contrast to the rest of the flat, Jeremy himself was also something of a surprise.
He was extraordinarily good-looking. He had blond hair, well cut with a long top layer, and bright blue eyes with dark lashes; his cheeks were pinkish, almost like a child’s. He was wearing slacks, a white shirt, leather slippers, and a blue knitted sweater. He had the appearance of someone scrubbed clean, almost too much so.
“Jeremy, I am Detective Inspector Anna Travis and this is Detective Constable Gordon Loach. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”
Jeremy stared at Anna but made no move toward them.
“May we sit down?” Anna moved to the bed.
Jeremy stepped forward. “Not on my bed.” He took the wo canvas chairs and carefully opened one, setting it down straight, and then the next, making sure they were exactly side by side.
“Thank you.” Anna and Gordon sat down, and she took out her notebook from her briefcase. Jeremy stood directly in front of them. “Now, Jeremy, 1 am here to ask you about an incident that happened the night before last. Do you mind answering some questions?”
He nodded his head but remained standing, staring at them.
“Your mother contacted the local police station after hearing what she thought were gunshots and loud voices arguing. Do you remember that night?”
No reaction.
“We have subsequently discovered that a man had been shot.”
No reaction.
“I am here just to confirm that and check out the time the shots were fired.”
No reaction.
“Do you recall anything that might be of interest to the police?”
No reaction.
“Have you ever seen the people who were using the flat along the corridor? It’s number nineteen.”
No reaction. If he was taking in anything she was saying, there was not a flicker of interest in his bright button eyes. His presence was very unnerving, as he was standing so still, looking at a point just above their heads. Anna closed her notebook.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” His voice was low and guttural.
“Thank you but no, we won’t keep you any longer, Jeremy.”
“I don’t like to be called that.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Webster.”
“Jay.”
“Oh, Jay. Well, I am sorry to have taken up your rime. I know you work two mornings a week at Waitrose. You clear the trolleys, don’t you?”
No reply.
“Shall we put the chairs back against the wall for you?” “Have you finished?” he asked.
Anna looked to Gordon and then back to Jeremy’s impassive face. “I think so.”
He almost whipped the chairs from under them both, folding and replacing them against the wall. Gordon raised his eyebrows at Anna as Jeremy took a long time making sure they were exactly on top of each other.
“Thank you, Jay.” Anna put out her hand, but he didn’t touch it. He stepped back a fraction and turned to face his desk.
“Well, we will leave you to it.” Anna crossed to the door and Gordon followed.
On a large sheet of paper, pinned behind the door and therefore not seen when they had entered, was a handwritten list of dates and times, printed in different inks and highlighted with a marker pen.
“What are these, Jay?”
“Visitors,” he said.
“I don’t understand. Visitors to you, or …”
“They do not have residents’ parking tickets. It is against the law to park in the forecourt without a residents’ parking permit.”
Anna glanced at Gordon and back to Jeremy, who had now turned to face them. His cheeks seemed even pinker, as if he was using rouge.
“You have been monitoring illegal cars parked, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you know about these cars?”
“Window, of course.”
“Your window?”
“Yes.”
“May I see out from your window, Jay?”
“Yes.”
Anna passed him and went to the window. She lifted the slats of the pristine white blind. The window looked out onto the lockup garages at the rear of the estate. She let the slats slip back into place.
“I also monitor the vehicles illegally parked at the front on the days I work at Waitrose. I collect the trolleys and stack them and replace them in a long line outside the main entrance. People leave their trolleys by the side of their cars when they unload groceries, and they are not supposed to do that. They are supposed to replace them outside the entrance, but they don’t. I have to collect each one and I make a line of them to wheel them back. Sometimes, I have found our trolleys outside on the road; that’s when people have not parked in the Waitrose car park but on the street. I collect them and take them back to the entrance.”
He spoke in short, sharp sentences with a low, controlled anger.
“Jay, just let me under
stand: are these dates of people parking illegally at Waitrose or here on your estate?”
“This is a residents’ parking area. You have to have a permit.”
“Yes, I understand that, but these times and dates are from your estate and not Waitrose, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Anna could hardly believe it. “l don’t suppose you listed any license-plate numbers, did you, Jay?”
“I have them.”
“You have the license-plate numbers of these cars?”
“Yes. You don’t listen to what I am saying. I am a resident and these people have no right to park illegally and so I am monitoring them.”
“For how long?”
“A long rime.”
Anna took a deep breath and smiled. “Do you think Jay, that you could pass these license-plate numbers to me? As a police officer, I can do something about them being illegally parked in the residents’ bays.”
He chewed his lip.
“I could make sure they don’t block any residents’ bays for you.”
“That would be good, because sometimes when my care worker comes here to see me, she can’t find a space; one rime she got a ticket because she had to park across the street on a yellow line.”
“Well, let’s get this all written down then, shall we? Do you have the numbers?”
“Yes. Please do nor silt on my bed.”
Anna straightened and waited as Jeremy replaced the two chairs.
Again, she and Gordon sat side by side, but this time Jeremy drew out his desk chair and sat down too. He swiveled to face them. Anna took out her notebook again and gave an encouraging look, expecting him to open one of the drawers, but he remained facing them.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes, Jay, we are ready. Do you need your lists from there?”
“No, they are not the license plates; they are the dates and times they blocked the residents’ parking area. I started doing this when they boarded up the flats along the corridor.”
“Right, could you pass me the relevant license plates and, if they match the dates …”
“Are you ready?” he repeated.
“Yes. Yes, Jay, we are very eager to—”
It was as if a key had been turned at the side of his head. Without hesitation, he began to list the car-registration numbers from memory. Over and over again, Anna had to ask him to pause, as she couldn’t keep up. He was able to describe the make and color of the cars as well. Gordon was writing in his notepad too, but Jeremy spoke so quickly, as if on automatic pilot; sometimes, when they asked him to pause, it took a while for him to pick up where he had left off”, but he continued reeling out registration after registration.
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