by Chris Simms
He lay on her bed and rubbed at his lips, willing more of her to appear. That smile, so kind. But measured, too. Like it was a commodity that had to be rationed. Like she couldn’t manufacture happiness at will. But she could, for him.
He began to breathe more deeply and, when his eyes opened, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep. He sat up and placed the jar of hand cream back where it belonged. Staring at the wall, he realized his feelings of panic and despair were gone. In their place was a sense of peace. He felt serene.
His fate, he realized, belonged to him no longer. If it ever had. Forces which he had no chance of influencing were controlling his future. His destiny.
To his astonishment, he wanted to laugh. The knowledge was liberating. Harpham could go to the police. Of course she would. She’d report what had happened and the cogs – slowly and inevitably – would begin to rotate.
On the way down the stairs, he spotted Mrs Fowler. She was in her slippers, opening her side gate. Behind it, he could see her blue and green wheelie bins lined up. He checked his watch: not even lunchtime, bless her.
A minute later, he stepped outside in a pair of grey trousers and a plain navy jumper. ‘Edith,’ he called out, striding down the abrupt slope of his drive. ‘Allow me do that.’
The act of looking over her shoulder weakened her grip and the wheelie bins corners made a hollow thud. ‘Oh, these silly things.’
Why, he wondered yet again, didn’t she ask the council for a smaller food caddy? She hardly ate anything, after all. ‘Not the friendliest of designs,’ he replied, grasping its handle and tipping it back onto the two front wheels. The thing rumbled emptily as he manoeuvred it closer to the pavement. ‘Blue as well?’ he asked, brushing his hands together.
‘Yes, blue. Has college finished early?’
‘Coll— oh, yes. Actually, it’s a reading day, today. I only went in to collect some marking.’
‘Did they like the cake?’
‘The cake?’
‘In the staffroom? Did they like the ginger cake?’
‘Of course, Edith. There was only a handful of us in, but it was soon finished off. They sent their thanks.’
Smiling scored her face with even deeper wrinkles. ‘That’s good.’
He positioned the blue bin alongside the green. Nice and neat. ‘Back to my marking, then.’
Once in his kitchen, he sat down. How long before the police came round? It could be days. Or it could be hours. He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. The endless sweep of the second hand. Time was so precious. He got back to his feet and checked his Weekly Wayfarer ticket was in his jacket pocket. It was valid for three more days.
THIRTY
It took the senior team until late morning to finalize how the investigation would now move forward. As the allocator made his way closer to Sean, the phone on his desk rang. ‘DC Blake speaking.’
‘This is a good one,’ Troughton announced quietly. ‘Don’t let me down.’ The line went dead.
‘DC Blake?’
Sean replaced the receiver to see the allocator scanning his printout.
‘It’s highly likely there are some non-council sources of CCTV footage yet to be recovered from the vicinity of the first victim’s residence. It’s now vital we have it for comparison with footage from the surroundings of the other victims’ homes.’
Sean nodded. ‘Have we the locations of any cameras?’
‘No. You’ll need to get on Street View and complete a visual audit of shops and businesses close to where she lived. Get on the phone to each one. If any have street-facing cameras, tell them to not record over the tapes and pass the information in Inspector Troughton’s direction.’
Sean turned to his monitor and clicked on the web browser.
Just before lunch, an officer who sat on the far side of the incident room made his way over. ‘DC Blake? I’m DI Levine.’
He perched himself on the edge of Sean’s desk. The man was somewhere in his forties, shortish brown hair swept to the side.
‘Talk me through the couple who saw this white van, can you? I’m due to question them in more detail.’
‘Lou-lou and Ettre,’ Sean replied. ‘They’re quite a double-act. Italian, I’m pretty sure.’
‘You’d say they were on the ball?’
‘Definitely. If you’re going back, I’d take some images of vans’ side views. They might be able to narrow it down to a make or model.’
He tapped his notebook against his thigh. ‘Good thinking, cheers.’
The rest of the day was spent ploughing on with the CCTV survey. When it got to six o’clock, most commercial premises had reverted to out-of-hours answerphone messages.
He reached for the ceiling, feeling the tendons in his forearms stretch. After rotating his shoulders, he stood. His hips felt stiff. He looked down at his chair. How many hours have I spent welded to it? Too many. He had the urge to be out running. The local park or even a pavement. Something to get his blood flowing properly.
Officers who’d been on outside enquiries were beginning to drift back in. Sean looked on enviously as they retook their seats. Magda wandered through the doors and slumped in her seat. He caught her eye and mouthed a word. Coffee?
She nodded her thanks.
When he got to her desk, she’d removed her shoes. One ankle rested across a knee as she kneaded her foot with both thumbs. The nylon of her tights crested and flattened with each circular movement. ‘My poor plates of meat.’
Aching feet, Sean thought. That would be nice. He noticed how muscled her lower legs were. Images of a weightlifter appeared that he quickly banished as unfair. ‘No luck, then?’
Her head shook. ‘You?’
‘Same. Hours on the internet and phone.’
She let her foot drop to the floor and started flexing her toes back and forth. ‘Anything on what’s in the six thirty briefing?’
‘Nope – apart from the psychological profiler. I think she has more to say.’
‘That should be good.’
He saw DI Levine come through the doors, so he plonked her coffee down. ‘See you in a bit.’
The other officer was taking his jacket off when Sean got to his desk.
‘DC Blake! The Italian couple came through.’
‘Really? What did they say?’
‘Couldn’t give me any of its registration, but they agreed on it being a Peugeot. So, better than a kick in the bollocks, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yeah, nice.’
‘I’ll instruct a CCTV analyst to look for white Peugeot vans in the vicinity of the other murders. You never know. Clever idea about taking a photo selection, by the way. Saved me a lot of time that did, cheers.’
‘Glad it helped.’ Sean allowed himself a small smile as he walked back to his desk. For the first time since arriving, he felt justified in even being in the room.
A woman, sounding harassed: ‘Could you move down a bit?’
A few people glanced up from their screens, but no one in the packed train carriage replied.
‘Please, can you move down!’
A few of the people standing closest to the doors tried edging forward. Those standing in the aisle only looked to either side, unwilling to deprive themselves of any precious space.
‘Move down!’ A male voice, on the verge of real anger. ‘There’s room towards the middle!’
He was pressed against the bike rack at the end of the carriage. Inches from his face was the word Superdry, the orange letters stitched into purple fabric. A hand reached over his shoulder. Black hairy fingers tugged a narrow window open as the train began to move. Cool air started washing against his face.
‘It’s an absolute disgrace,’ the woman who’d originally spoken stated irritably. ‘It should be a four-carriage service, this. How can they just chop it in half?’
‘I know.’ Another female, her voice older. ‘Didn’t help them cancelling the Sheffield train.’
‘They didn’t?’
‘Says here. On my phone.’
‘That explains a lot.’
‘It does.’
‘United are playing at home this evening,’ a male voice added. ‘That has an effect, as well. Makes it busier, like.’
Other phones had started to buzz and ping. Conversations gradually began to build. He closed his eyes to better focus on their words.
‘Yeah, I’m on. Just. It’s packed. Saw it last night, bruv. Netflix. Nah – too similar to Prison Break.’
‘Hiya, it’s me. I was saying, he says it’s come back again. Two weeks, but that’s just for starters. Last time, he was off nearer two months.’
‘Weevils, apparently. In the soil. Neil, he said to plant strawberries. They love strawberries, he said. No! Wild ones spread like billy-o. Normal ones.’
He kept listening, hoping for a raised female voice. Any kind of argument. An aggressive tone. Someone behaving inconsiderately. He’d purposefully chosen the most crowded platform at Piccadilly station because the chances of conflict seemed better.
Instead, he was getting this … cheerful stoicism. This resigned acceptance. It was pathetic. The train pulled into a station. Bodies pressed and slid and shuffled as several passengers squeezed to the doors and got off. When the train moved on, some space had opened up. He could now see around.
The two women who’d been chatting were by the doors. One was black, with braids in her hair. The older one’s hair was silver. The man who’d joined their conversation was seated. He had a can of beer in his hand.
Still the quiet peaceful murmur of voices. His frustration mounted.
More people flooded off the train at the next stop. A young woman with two blonde pigtails was out on the platform, an empty buggy in front of her. A foul-faced toddler of about four stood next to it. The woman’s exasperated voice filled the carriage, even though she had yet to get on.
‘You’re going to Nana’s, and that’s it. Now, get on, Harrison. Now!’
The kid stomped aboard. ‘Minstrels.’
‘In a minute! Jesus. Give me a bastard chance!’ The woman lifted the empty buggy up the step. ‘Danielle, you still there? Christ: kids!’
He spotted the wire hanging across her throat. She was on the phone to someone. Unbelievable. The pair who’d been chatting edged to the side and she backed into the space they’d created. The heel of her foot came down on his toe. She didn’t appear to notice. ‘I’ll be back at mine in a half hour. It’s only Ryder Brow. Half hour to get ready; meeting at eight will be fine.’
The man with the can was hauling himself to his feet. ‘Sit here, love. The little one can sit here.’
‘Ah, cheers. Harrison – sit there!’ As she pushed the buggy forward, a folded five-pound note dropped to the floor.
He was about to say something, but placed his foot over it and kept quiet instead.
The door to the driver’s cabin opened and a ticket collector stepped out. The boy leapt onto the seat, dirty shoes and all. ‘Minstrels?’
‘Minstrels,’ she parroted. ‘I said wait, fuck’s sake! Danielle? His nana’s dropping him at school tomorrow. I know. So we can just see where we end up.’ She cackled loudly.
The sight of the ticket collector had prompted people to start reaching into pockets. He stooped down, quickly slipped the note from beneath his shoe and put it in his pocket. The ticket collector stopped at the woman, who’d produced a family-size bag of Minstrels from her handbag. She dumped it in the child’s raised palms.
‘Tickets?’
‘Yeah, adult return to Ryder Brow.’
‘Three pounds ten, please.’
She peered into her bag, frowning. A hand went to her pocket and came back out. ‘Harrison? Did I give you that money?’
He gave her a blank look, cheeks now like lumpy balloons.
‘Fucking money’s gone.’ She craned her neck to check near the doors. ‘I had it just now.’
‘I’ll come back,’ the ticket collector sighed, moving on down the carriage.
She was dumping the boy with his grandma, he thought. She was then getting a train back. He could jump off at the next stop and be outside Belle Vue station for when she returned. After that, it was only a case of following her home.
‘No, it was the ticket collector. Lost my money for it,’ she announced to the air in front of her. ‘He can try. Good luck to him.’
When the ticket collector returned, something told the man the woman’s behaviour would grow considerably worse. And she’d already said more than enough to warrant him taking her tongue.
THIRTY-ONE
‘That was lovely; the whole weekend’s been lovely. Really, Katherine, it’s …’ She sent an admiring glance around the cottage’s lounge. ‘I always forget what a lovely place you have here. So cosy.’ She started to gather in the plates.
Katherine lifted a hand. ‘I’ll do those, don’t worry.’
‘You certainly will not.’ She shooed away her younger sister’s outstretched fingers, then proceeded to place the cutlery on one plate. ‘And it sounds like the job’s going so well, too. You deserve this, Katherine. You really do.’
‘I wouldn’t say it’s going well. Sometimes, it feels like I’m just rushing from one incident to the next.’
‘I mean results are improving.’ She scraped the woody ends of asparagus stalks into a shallow bowl that still contained shreds of rocket and shavings of parmesan. ‘No job just runs like clockwork; not from a leadership perspective.’
Katherine’s smile was strained. She asked herself if her older sister was even conscious of doing it. Conversations never advanced far before Amanda’s comments grew patronizing.
‘When I got that first big promotion at Glaxo, it was such a shock – to begin with. But, you adapt.’ She lifted the plates and carried them through to the kitchen.
Katherine took up her half-finished glass of Merlot and followed. ‘Twenty past seven. The roads will be quiet.’
‘Yes. I’ll risk the M56 past the airport.’ She set the plates down beside the sink and moved towards the back door, where her coat was hanging. On the windowsill beside it was the album of her holiday photos that she’d brought to show Katherine: two weeks with Jeremy, trekking in Myanmar. Before the hordes arrive en masse and ruined it.
‘Oh, Katherine. I completely forgot.’ She moved the album aside. Hidden below it was a small cardboard package. ‘A courier came by this morning.’
Katherine put her glass down and crossed the narrow kitchen. ‘Really? When?’
‘When you popped out for the fresh bread. Sorry. I was in the middle of doing the eggs …’
Katherine picked it up and waggled it slightly, gauging the contents. ‘Something’s in there.’
‘Yes. I imagine there is.’
‘I mean something solid. I wonder who it’s from.’ She was already reaching for the thinnest knife on the magnetic rack. ‘That horrible brown tape, it’s impossible to tear off.’
‘He said it was signed for, the courier man. But his machine was playing up. Something from the college?’
Katherine ran the blade along the top. ‘No label. In fact, no return details at all. He didn’t leave a form or anything?’
‘No.’
She folded the flaps back. Balled-up bits of newspaper. They covered what looked like a small block of wood. She raised a frown to her sister. ‘What is it?’
‘Is there no letter? A delivery slip? Check at the bottom.’
Delicately, like she was scooping up baby birds, Katherine gathered the uppermost balls of newspaper in both hands. They were placed to one side. Then she lifted out the block. It was nothing more than a piece of timber, edges splintered by a saw.
‘How very odd,’ Amanda murmured.
Katherine set it down then used a forefinger to stir the scrunches of paper that remained in the box. ‘No documentation at all. What did he say, the man who called?’
Amanda glanced in the direction of the front door. ‘Just that …
it was a package. He had a package and that …’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘He actually seemed a bit lost. I assumed he was new to the job. But, thinking about it, he couldn’t have been; he said the machine often played up …’
Katherine’s head shook. ‘And was he definitely a courier? I mean, he had a uniform—’
‘Yes, of course. The one for that American company. Is it K something? Three letters.’
‘UPS?’
‘That’s it.’
‘So he was wearing a brown UPS uniform?’
‘No, it was blue.’
‘But UPS is all brown. Even the trucks they drive.’
‘I didn’t see any vehicle. You might have; you were home within a minute of him leaving.’
‘All I saw was a white van parked out on the lane. But no one was in it.’
‘I think you should call the police.’
‘The … why?’
‘Katherine, it was clearly a ruse. I don’t think he was genuine. What if …’ She glanced uneasily at the window. Darkness now lay beyond. ‘They case properties out, in rural areas. Ones they’re looking to rob.’
‘But why this package business?’
‘As an excuse! He didn’t actually think anyone was at home.’
Katherine folded one of the flaps of the box down. The label was printed with her name and address. ‘That doesn’t make sense. He can’t have packages addressed to every property he’s got in mind.’
‘They can get anything from the internet. It’s not hard. I read, with a lot of rural burglaries, they go on Google Earth. Take a good look first and work out the best way in.’
Katherine smiled. Amanda had always been critical of her moving to the country. Silly little sister with her dreams of a rose-gardened cottage. ‘There’ll be a far more rational explanation. Student prank, probably.’
‘Katherine, if you really believe that—’
‘In fact, you’ve far more chance – statistically – of being burgled while living in a high value urban property like yours.’
‘Really?’
That flutter of the eyelashes. Always a sign of irritation, not quite suppressed.