For Better, For Worse

by Jane Isaac

  Beth surveyed the photographs of the murder scene. They were so graphic in their detail it felt as though she was there, in the house: the chipped and scratched cream walls of the hallway, the worn tread on the stair carpet, the pile of washing-up in the kitchen sink. This was a well-lived-in house, a home. She paused at the photos of the front room, the area where Richard would probably have spent most of his time, where his life played out. Often this was where people displayed their photographs and personal items that told a story of their life. But for Richard Moss, the walls were bare apart from a gilt-edged mirror that hung above the fireplace. Light bled in through the drawn faded curtains that had once probably been yellow, but had long been sun-bleached to a patchy mustard. Beer cans and bottles lined the skirt of a brown sofa. An overflowing ashtray sat on a table marked with coffee rings. If this was the story of Richard Moss’s life, then it was all rather sad.

  She switched to the map. Nick had been thorough and marked out Moss’s home and The Lincoln pub and ran a piece of string between the two. She imagined him arriving back in a drunken haze, grappling with his keys. Shuffling into his hallway. Perhaps the killer been watching him and, like Ingram, learned his habits.

  The body was found in the front room. Maybe they’d followed him into his home, attacked him. Or maybe he knew his attacker. There was certainly nothing to indicate a break-in.

  ‘A smoker and a drinker,’ Beth said, raising her eyes to meet Nick. ‘No crime in that. I presume he lived alone?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  She peered closer at the injuries. The victim’s eye was split, his cheeks bruised. A gash ran down his left cheek. ‘It looks like they fought,’ Beth said eventually. ‘Was there any damage in the house?’

  ‘Nothing immediately obvious.’

  ‘What about neighbours? Did anyone hear anything?’

  ‘We’ve done door to door and nobody’s talking. Moss was a regular cannabis user. It’s possible his neighbours think it’s drugs-related and don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘Was he beaten before he was strangled?’

  ‘Yes, the pathologist believes he received the injuries while he was still alive. The note suggests the same killer, but the MO is different.’

  ‘What are you suggesting? A group of killers?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll see what forensics dig up. We’ve done all the usual checks, interviewed people who were at the pub that night and his neighbours. He sat on his own that evening, which was normal. He pretty much kept himself to himself by all accounts. And we’re drawing a blank. I spoke to his sister on the phone and she was suitably vague but she’s all we’ve got. Freeman’s given me leave to go up to Newcastle and interview her.’

  Beth cocked a brow. ‘Does it really need a sergeant to go?’

  ‘There’s no one else to be honest. Andrea’s got things covered here.’

  ‘So, what do you need me for?’

  ‘To come with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Freeman thinks your training as a family liaison officer would be helpful. The press are breathing down our necks. After the issues with the Ingram case, he doesn’t want us open to criticism for not supporting families. We need to find out more about his background and any link to Stuart Ingram. And you can point his sister in the right direction if she needs any further help.’

  ‘So, I’m coming along to do the “there, there”?’

  ‘Something like that. And to do the first stint at driving.’ He smiled. ‘I could do with a nap.’

  *

  Gina Ingram stared over the cornflakes at the cowlick that framed the detective’s face opposite her. She’d only just got dressed when Warren arrived that morning.

  ‘Do you know a man called Richard Moss?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. Wait… On the lunchtime news yesterday, they’d reported a murder in Corby the night before. His name was Moss. A shiver slid down her spine. ‘Isn’t that the man who was strangled?’

  The detective didn’t answer. ‘Did Stuart ever mention his name?’

  ‘No. I’ve never heard of him. Are you saying this Richard Moss was responsible for Stuart’s murder?’

  Warren shook his head. ‘I’m not saying anything. We’re checking every eventuality, that’s all. It’s possible Stuart may have dealt with him at some stage, through the course of his work or his council business. Richard Moss did live in Stuart’s constituency.’

  ‘I’ve never heard the name. Well, not before it was mentioned on the news yesterday.’ She pushed the cornflakes around the bowl, her appetite shrinking. ‘You do think they were connected though, don’t you? Otherwise, why would you ask me if I know him?’

  ‘As I say, we’re just checking everything.’

  20

  Nick’s head lolled, bobbing slightly as Beth turned off the motorway. Seeing him there, the gentle contours of his face relaxed and peaceful, his nose twitching every now and then in his sleep, gave her a pang. She remembered them laughing together at a comedy show, eating pasta in her kitchen, his muscular frame curling around her in bed, and a surge of emotion ran through her.

  He shifted position and grunted. It had only started a few months earlier. A drink after work. A meal in a country pub. He stayed over occasionally. Nothing serious, more an extension of their friendship. They’d kept their liaisons quiet, away from the team; the last thing she wanted was to be accused of currying favour by sleeping with the boss. But hints about a possible relationship had crept in and, since neither of them relished the idea of a move off the homicide squad, she’d questioned their clandestine meetings. Finally, when she was subjected to the investigation by Professional Standards because of Eden’s connection with Kyle, she’d decided to slow things down, at least until the investigation was closed; she didn’t want to give PSD another reason to question her integrity.

  The breakup, a little over a month earlier, had been difficult. Nick didn’t agree with her and the coolness between them was initially uncomfortable when they passed in the corridors, sat across the office from one another or attended the same meetings, inevitable when they worked on the same team. As the days stretched into weeks, they’d managed to smooth out the creases and rekindle a smidgeon of their friendship. But it was wooden, professional. They tiptoed around the closeness they once shared and it was moments like this when she realised how much she missed the personal connection with him.

  A red light flashed in front of her at the roundabout. She braked suddenly.

  Nick lurched forwards. ‘What the f…’

  ‘Sorry. Some dick in a Discovery found his brakes.’

  Nick blinked a couple of times and peered out of the side window. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘On the A1. About to turn off towards South Shields.’

  He yawned. ‘Do you want me to plug in the satnav?’

  ‘No need. My mum had an aunt who lived up here. I know the area reasonably well.’

  He relaxed and leaned back against the headrest.

  ‘You’ve been asleep for nearly four hours. Must have needed it.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’ He wound his seat upright.

  They cruised through the outskirts of Newcastle, unspeaking. Twenty minutes later, Beth pulled off the main drag and into Valley View. A row of 1970s pebbledash semi-detached houses, set back from the road by short square front gardens, lined the road on one side. Opposite, parklands rolled down the hill. She wound around the bends, spotting a tennis court, a children’s play area and parked up outside number 237.

  ‘We’re here,’ Beth said.

  Nick pulled down the sun visor, looked in the mirror, ran his fingers through his hair and popped a mint into his mouth. As they climbed out of the car, his mobile phone trilled. He checked the screen and switched it off.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Beth asked.

  ‘All good.’

  As they reache
d the step to number 237, the door opened a crack. A woman peered out. She wore a blue cable jumper and a pair of navy stretch-waist trousers. Short grey hair was tucked behind her ears. ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Diane Upton?’ Nick asked.

  She nodded.

  He introduced them both. They held up their cards.

  ‘Ah, yes. I’ve been expecting you.’ She stood back and ushered them inside. ‘Go on through.’ She waved at a door on the right. ‘I’ve already boiled the kettle. Tea won’t be long.’

  A plug-in air freshener gave a peachy smell to the lounge as they wandered in. The room ran the length of the house. Out of the front window, the view extended past the privet hedge that edged the garden and across the park beyond. At the back, a teak table and chairs sat beside a rear window which overlooked a lawned garden. A couple of crows flapped about on a birdbath in the middle of the grass.

  Beth watched Nick fiddling with his mobile. He caught her eye and slipped it in his pocket. She was about to ask him who it was when the tinkling of china on a tray indicated that Diane Upton was about to rejoin them.

  ‘Please sit down,’ she said. Her faint Scottish accent was tinged with Geordie, a pleasantly soft combination.

  Beth and Nick sat beside each other on the sofa while Diane busied herself pouring tea into cups and passing them across. Silver spoons rattled on the edges of the saucers. Having visitors was clearly quite an occasion.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Beth said.

  ‘Thank you. As I said on the phone, I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be,’ she said, settling herself into an armchair opposite.

  ‘When did you last see your brother?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Goodness, it’s been ages. We moved up here with Andrew’s job about twenty-eight years ago. I’ve only been back to Northamptonshire once since then, and that was a few years after we came here.’ She looked across at Beth. ‘My mother died.’

  Beth gave a gentle smile. ‘Who’s Andrew?’

  ‘My late husband. Died in April. God rest his soul.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Diane pressed her lips together, nodded her thanks.

  ‘Have you been in touch with Richard since you moved away?’ Nick said.

  ‘I wrote to him a few times after Mum died, but he never responded. I used to send Christmas cards, right up to about five years ago, but I never knew whether or not he’d got them, so there seemed little point in carrying on.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us about where you and your brother grew up?’ Nick asked.

  Beth placed her cup and saucer on a coaster on the coffee table beside her and retrieved her notebook. They needed to build up a picture of Moss’s life and, as Diane appeared to be the only family member left, they needed to take things slowly and extract as much information about the victim’s background as possible in order to trace any associations.

  ‘We were born in Corby. My father came down from Glasgow after the war to work at the steelworks there. We lived in the old village at 24 Meadow Glade.’ Her eyes slid to the side for a minute, reminiscing. ‘Such a pretty little house. Tiny though. I don’t know how my mother managed to raise three kids in that little box. We used to share bedrooms in those days.’

  Nick perked up. ‘There were three of you?’

  ‘Yes, we had a sister, Molly. She passed away.’ Diane paused, patted her chin several times. ‘It must have been… eight years ago now.’ She lowered her voice, looked across at Beth. ‘She had the cancer, poor thing.’

  ‘Where did your sister live?’

  ‘She married a Yorkshireman. Moved up to Hull in her early twenties. I didn’t see her much after that. Christmas, weddings, funerals, that sort of thing. But she was always at the end of the phone.’

  ‘What about Richard? Were you close when you were growing up?’ Nick asked.

  Diane blew out a long sigh before she answered. ‘Richard was a tricky one. The baby of the family and spoilt by everyone, especially our mother. He was six years younger than me, eight years younger than Molly. Such a cute child. He had a gift for talking to our mother, getting what he wanted.’

  ‘Why was he tricky?’

  ‘Och, he was always getting into some kind of mischief. Skulking around, playing pranks. It became more serious as he got older. I can still see the look on my mother’s face when the police first knocked on the door to say he’d pinched a car. She was mortified. But she defended him to the hilt, blamed it on him losing his father when he was five. We’d all lost our daddy but Molly and I never got in trouble with the law. I’ve got some photographs.’ Nick stared at Beth as the old woman crossed to a teak sideboard and collected a shoebox. If they weren’t careful, they’d be there all day.

  Diane lifted out an album and cooed over some black and white baby photos, then flicked through further. She retrieved some loose pictures from the bottom of the box: a boy in school uniform, a man in factory coveralls. The images bore little resemblance to the pitiful photographs that graced their murder wall, Beth thought sadly. Diane passed around the family pictures, indulging in her nostalgia. Finally, she pulled out a colour photo. ‘That’s the last one I have of him, at our mother’s funeral.’

  She was quiet a moment, lost in her thoughts. ‘Such a secretive boy. I don’t think anyone ever knew what was going on in his head. He was clever too. Could have gone to grammar school, but Richard wasn’t one for studying. When he finished school, Mum persuaded a friend of hers to give him an apprenticeship as a window cleaner. He did that for a while then moved on. Worked in factories. Drifted from one job to another. The same with women. Couldn’t seem to find the right one to settle down with. Last I heard he was warehousing.’

  Nick gave a single cough.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m boring you.’ She gave a wistful glance and smoothed out a curled edge of one of the photos. ‘I haven’t looked at these for ages. It’s so nice to get them out.’

  Beth smiled. ‘You’re not boring us at all.’ She finished her tea. ‘We were hoping for more information on his recent life though, so that we can build up a picture of his movements.’

  Diane nodded and started gathering together the photos, piling them back into the box. ‘Oh, look at that one!’ she said, a smile spreading across her face. ‘Craig must have only been about ten then. He’s the image of his father.’

  Beth leaned across and examined the photo. Although he was almost thirty years younger, the thatch of hair and dimples in the cheeks left her in no doubt it was Richard Moss. His arm was resting around the shoulder of a boy.

  ‘Who’s Craig?’

  ‘That’s his son.’

  Beth exchanged a quizzical look with Nick. None of their searches highlighted any family, other than Diane, let alone a surviving son.

  Diane ran her finger along the edge of the figure. ‘Such a lovely boy, so gentle. You know, I could never understand what happened there.’

  ‘Diane, this is important,’ Nick said. ‘When did you last see Craig?’

  ‘Goodness, not for about twenty-five years. Craig’s mother and Richard separated when he was a baby. Richard wasn’t… how should I put this? Richard wasn’t exactly good at paying maintenance. They saw each other when Craig was little, but the contact dwindled in his early teens. When Craig was sixteen, his mother died in a car accident. It was very tragic. She didn’t have any family nearby, so Craig went to live with his father for a while. Sadly, it didn’t work out. They’ve been estranged ever since.’

  ‘When did you last speak with Craig?’

  ‘Not since his teens. I didn’t have an address for him after he left his father’s.’

  Diane glanced back at the photos, poking messily out of the top of an album. Her eyes filled. ‘I often wondered how different things might have been if I hadn’t moved away.’

  *

  ‘Why didn’t we know about this?’ The speaker phone crackled in the car, distorting Freeman’s voice.

  ‘No
idea,’ Nick said.

  The car juddered to a stop as they approached a line of stationary traffic. The roads had grown busier since they’d left Diane’s, slowing their exit out of Newcastle.

  ‘All the usual checks were made. There were no photos in the victim’s house to indicate he had a son. Not surprising if they were estranged, I suppose. We interviewed Richard Moss’s neighbours and regulars in his local pub yesterday and nobody mentioned anything. His sister indicated he didn’t form friendships easily and rarely held onto them. He didn’t like people to get too close.’

  ‘What about the landlord of the pub?’

  ‘The Lincoln? We went out there and spoke with them yesterday. But it’s changed hands four times in the last ten years. The landlord remembers him, sure enough. He was a bar fly. But they didn’t know him personally. He passed the time of day, but rarely chatted with anyone.’

  Freeman heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Okay, so what have we got on the son?’

  Beth reeled off the brief details Diane had provided about her nephew. The name, birthday and last address sounded even more meagre when listed together.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The last contact Diane had with her nephew was over twenty years ago when he lived with his father briefly, before he moved out.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll get started on trying to trace him.’

  ‘Any news on Gina Ingram?’ Beth asked.

  ‘We’re hitting a brick wall there. There’s nothing on her recent phone or bank accounts that looks unusual. We’ve spoken to a neighbour who she was close with and they said she was staunch, standing by her husband. Not the usual behaviour for somebody planning to kill them off. Unless something happened that we don’t know about, of course. There’s nothing from the surveillance crews either. She stays at home when Warren leaves in the evenings.’ The sound of a pen tapping a desk could be heard over the speaker.