by William Shaw
‘She’s dead, Mr… I didn’t catch your name.’
‘She owed me rent. Took it to the breaker’s yard last Wednesday.’
The hairs on her back of her neck prickled. Stay calm, she told herself. ‘She paid you rent to park a caravan in your yard?’
‘Caravan was rubbish. Didn’t get me half of what she owed me.’
Cupidi looked around her. Her brain was racing now, trying to take everything in. This was not the kind of place you parked a caravan if you enjoyed views. It was bounded on three sides; old outhouses to the north, the wall to the west and the house to the south. But there was access to electricity, running water and what looked like an outside toilet in one of the sheds. She was also conscious of the fact that the man was now standing between her and the only route back to her car.
‘She have friends?’
‘Never saw anyone. You done here? Only I’m busy.’
He didn’t look busy, just angry. ‘Which breaker’s yard?’
He hesitated. ‘Over Sittingbourne way.’
She looked up. The back kitchen door was open a little. Inside she could see a small patch of greasy lino floor. He must have come out when he heard her car. Had he been here, lurking in the darkness, when Ferriter and Moon had come here two nights earlier? ‘What about mail? Did her post come to you?’
They were standing side by side in the yard; him just a foot to her left. ‘She didn’t get much, really.’
‘Did you keep any of it? Do you have any of her post now?’
‘Nope. Like I said, weren’t that much of it anyway.’
‘Bank statements?’
‘She didn’t have a bank account.’
Cupidi looked at the man. ‘How did you know that?’
‘She told me. Never paid by cheque. Always cash.’
‘What about a mobile phone?’
‘Nope,’ he said, and shook his head.
Cupidi stared at him. ‘So you searched the caravan before you towed it, then?’
‘Quick look round, maybe.’
Cupidi nodded slowly. ‘You don’t mind towing somebody’s caravan to the breakers because she owes you a few quid in rent, so don’t tell me you’re too polite not to go through her drawers to find out if she’s left a bit of cash lying around.’
The man said nothing. Turning back to gaze at the empty rectangle which marked where the dead woman had lived, her skin tingled. A meagre space in a dingy yard. A small pile of bricks lay at one end; presumably they had been used to keep the caravan stable. The man she was talking to had admitted to deliberately destroying evidence. In situations like this you had to take everything in; be sure of yourself. She felt a kind of hum; a mixture of fear and certainty.
She raised her eyes to meet his; defiantly, he stared right back at her.
She should go back to the car, call in a team.
Breaking the gaze, she turned to walk back to the car, but the man stepped abruptly sideways, blocking her way. ‘She owed me for the rent.’
‘How much was there?’
‘You’re trying to say I did something, aren’t you? You’re trying to make it look bad for me.’
‘How much did you take?’
‘I’m not listening to this… shit,’ said the man.
‘Just asking. Hundred? Couple of hundred?’ She was pushing it, but at times like this, when people were angry, they didn’t have time to think their stories through. Apply a little pressure and you could trip them. If Hilary Keen didn’t keep money in a bank account, she would almost certainly have kept it in her caravan. Cupidi wondered how much it would have been. The kind of amount that would be worth killing her for?
‘Three hundred? A grand?’
‘Fucking hell. What are you trying on?’ Spittle fell in her face but this time she didn’t blink.
Stay calm. ‘What about her phone?’
‘Told you, she didn’t bloody have one.’
‘And you didn’t take any money from her caravan, either.’ She wondered if she had already gone too far. While her eyes were back fixed on his, she was conscious of him flexing his fists, opening them, closing them. She thought of the pale body in the brown water.
‘Do you mind giving me your name, sir?’
‘I don’t think I will,’ he said.
If he was the man who had killed Hilary Keen, he had used violence before. Somewhere amongst the noise in her head, she was calculating the distance to her car. It was true she was fitter than she had been in years, but she’d still have to open the door. She might make it, but then again, she might not.
She closed her eyes and opened them again. ‘OK,’ she said, and smiled at him.
‘What?’ He seemed confused.
‘I said, OK. You don’t have to give me your name. You’re right.’
She turned again and walked slowly, as calmly as she could, past him.
‘Where are you going?’
She didn’t answer.
‘I haven’t finished with you,’ he shouted. ‘I didn’t say you could go.’
At that, she broke into a trot. When she made it to the car she got in, locked the door behind her, laid her head on the steering wheel and took what felt like the first breath she’d had in minutes.
Discreetly she reached down for the radio. She should call this in. Get a team down here.
His open palm banged on the bonnet. ‘You cunt.’
His face was red with anger. He slapped the bonnet again. The car rang with the noise. ‘Delta Sierra Four.’
‘It was my money. It was my fucking money.’
‘I’m going to need urgent backup. Speringbrook House, just south of Hamstreet.’
‘You can’t fucking pin that on me. There’s nothing to prove it.’
‘About two hundred metres north of the junction with the A2070.’
‘I could shut you up easy.’ He mimed taking a gun – a rifle – aiming at her, and pulling the trigger, jerking his arm as he fired the imaginary bullet.
‘I need assistance to apprehend a suspect in the Hilary Keen murder case. Suspect is unidentified male, sixty years old. Suspect is acting aggressively.’
The man walked to the driver side of the car, held his face up to her window and bared his teeth. ‘Nosey fucking…’
Spit flecked her window. She started the car engine, figuring that she needed to keep a distance from him. Her presence was only making him angrier. She should have left the scene earlier; she should never have let it come to this. What was it about her that meant that she always went too far?
‘Run away,’ he shouted. ‘Run a-bloody-way.’
Cautiously she backed out and pulled into a muddy gateway on the far side of the road, watching him.
Looking down at her hands, she realised they were trembling. She wished she had a cigarette.
‘Shit,’ she said out loud.
He had disappeared to the back of the house. He might be running away across the fields now. Should she leave the safety of her car to look?
There would be no way of contacting her colleagues if she left the car and its radio. And she would just make herself vulnerable. Rationally, she knew the best thing would be to stay where she was until help arrived, but she felt stupid doing nothing.
Or he might be going to fetch a weapon. So she kept the car engine running, eyes glued to the side of the house, waiting for him to return.
But after several minutes she noticed the pale yellow curtains upstairs moving. Then out of the darkness, his face appeared, lit by the summer light. He was glaring down, lips moving.
And when she finally saw the blue lights coming he was there watching her still from behind the filthy glass, mumbling curses at her.
TEN
Her heart sank when she saw the first police car slow, then jerk its steering wheel to the right to park sideways across the road, lights still flashing.
She got out of her car and approached it, peering at the four uniformed men inside. ‘I asked for support,’ she s
aid. ‘Not the entire force.’
‘Another two units will be along in a minute. McAdam says nobody’s to approach the house until they’re here. He in there?’
‘Another two? Jesus Christ. Why?’
‘Homeowner’s name is Stanley Eason,’ answered the officer, who stayed sitting behind the driving wheel; a man Sergeant Cupidi didn’t recognise. ‘He has history of threatening behaviour.’
And this, she thought, is where it will all start to go wrong. The hum returned.
‘He threaten you?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Well… yes.’
The man spoke into the radio again. ‘Suspect in Hilary Keen murder threatened officer. Confirmed.’
‘Know what? It wasn’t that bad. He’s just a gobby arse.’
‘Where is he?’
She looked up at the window. The man was still there, looking down. Somehow, in a few minutes, this had got out of hand. ‘First floor. Behind that curtain.’ She pointed. ‘He’s been watching me since I called in.’
A brassy-haired woman in a white Mercedes had arrived and was trying to nose her way round the parked car. The officer got out and shouted across the roof of his car, ‘Sorry, madam, road closed.’
‘She’s just trying to drive up the street,’ said Cupidi.
‘Orders are we secure the area till he’s out.’ He turned back to Cupidi and asked, ‘Do you know the layout of the house?’
‘I didn’t get as far as that.’
‘Before he was violent towards you?’
‘No. Just a bit lairy.’ There were more lights now, approaching from the other direction. ‘All I wanted was one copper to help me take him in for questioning.’
‘Murder suspect?’
‘Possible murder suspect.’
‘And violent.’
‘He didn’t actually touch me.’
‘Duly noted.’ Only doing his job.
The next car to arrive was driven by Ferriter. When she had used her the vehicle to block the road fifty metres north of the house, she jumped out and came trotting towards the rest of the police.
‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, Sarge. Got held up at the station,’ she called. ‘DI McAdam’s on the blower now. Wants a word.’
‘Blower,’ thought Cupidi. For Christ’s sake. She looked up at the face in the window again, but the room was dark and the glass dirty; Eason had pulled back a few inches. It was impossible to see any expression on his face. Did he have an inkling about what was happening out there? The way things were inexorably leading? She turned, walked slowly north up the lane, got into the car and picked up the radio. ‘Cupidi here, sir.’
‘What’s the situation?’
She explained what had happened. ‘At best he’s stolen and destroyed evidence,’ she said. ‘Don’t know if that’s deliberate or otherwise.’
‘At worst it’s him we’ve been looking for?’
‘Him being the murderer would certainly be one explanation why he’s got rid of evidence, yes.’
‘What’s going on now?’
‘He’s gone back inside his house and he’s just sitting there, watching us now.’
‘Could he be drunk? On drugs?’
‘Don’t think so, sir. Do we know if he has any record of mental health issues?’
‘Not so far. What’s your assessment?’
‘My assessment? Police make him angry. You know the type. Middle-aged man. Now we’ve got a lot of coppers here I doubt he’s happy, to be honest. My opinion, I’m not altogether sure it’s wise, this many officers being on site. I’d advise standing them down, sir.’
DI McAdam said, ‘Nope. He’s got some history. Couple of years ago, we had a report of a man from round here threatening a local. We talked to Eason about it, but he flat out denied it. It was him, though. Now we have him as a suspect in a murder case threatening an officer.’
‘He’s not actually violent though.’
McAdam chewed this over for a second. ‘From my point of view, I have to assume the threat was real. I don’t like this either.’
There were four cars now. Cupidi could see the men inside putting on their vests.
‘Right,’ said the copper who’d been the first to arrive. ‘I’m going to knock on the door.’
There was a crackle of radios. Somewhere, far away, McAdam confirmed: ‘Go ahead.’
Cupidi returned to her car and pulled a stab vest out of the boot. It felt absurdly heavy, but then maybe she was tired. She was struggling with the zip as the copper made his way through the small wooden gate, to the front of the house.
‘Mr Eason,’ he called. ‘Can we have a word?’
No answer.
She didn’t recognise the policeman. ‘Hey! Officer,’ she shouted. ‘He doesn’t use that door.’
The man at the door looked round, annoyed, but didn’t pay any attention to what she’d said. With the side of his fist, he banged on the door.
Cupidi saw movement from behind the curtains on the first floor; he was there again, face close to the glass, looking down.
‘The wrong door,’ she said again. ‘Try round the back.’
She looked to her left. In the distance she could see yet another car had arrived to close the lane off completely down by the main road, a couple of hundred metres away. Blue lights, blinking over the green of the marshes. They were keeping the cordon large.
‘Mr Eason? Can you come to the door. It’ll be easier to speak, that way.’
Again, nothing. The policeman knocked, then tried the door handle. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t move.
Stupid.
‘Nothing bad is going to happen to you. We just want to talk.’
Seriously? Nothing bad is going to happen to you? She looked around and counted twelve officers now.
The flat countryside was oddly still. All traffic on the road in front of the house had stopped now. Overhead a light plane flew. A huge bumblebee buzzed up the lane, attracted by the shine on a copper’s uniform. It fizzed around the man as he tried to wave it away.
The policeman backed down the path, looking up to the window. ‘Mr Eason?’
But, looking up, she saw that Eason had retreated into the dark interior of the house. The sergeant turned, pointed towards a constable and then to the back of the house. They would need someone to cover the back door, in case Eason made a run for it.
Nothing else happened. But for the movement of birds and bugs, everything was still. For the moment, anyway.
Ferriter walked over to Cupidi. ‘OK?’
She nodded.
‘It’s him, then?’ she asked.
‘If I was a betting woman, which obviously I’m not, given my luck, I’d say the odds are high. He’s admitted to destroying material that belonged to her. He’s acting defensively… What’s happening now?’
‘Negotiator’s coming down from Canterbury.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’
Cupidi approached the latest car to arrive. Three men were inside, all in vests, waiting.
‘All I was asking for was another copper, not the cavalry.’
‘Procedure, Sarge.’
‘We’re doing nothing till a negotiator gets here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The longer we wait here, the longer he’s going to get dug in. Why don’t I go and try and talk to him again?’
The sergeant in charge thought about it for a couple of seconds.
‘You don’t think he’s a direct risk?’
‘He didn’t lay a finger on me. It was a show, I think. You know. Men are like that.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Let’s do this by the book. The negotiator’ll be here any minute.’
‘Half an hour, at least,’ reckoned Cupidi.
‘Patience is a virtue.’
‘And Grace is a little girl who should be taken into care,’ muttered one of the team sitting in the car behind him.
The silence of the morning disappeared; the noise
of a helicopter. She looked around and saw it, approaching from behind the sun. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, looking up. ‘Talk about overkill.’
‘That’s not us. Press probably.’
‘Brilliant.’
The helicopter slowed, coming to a standstill a little way off, steady in the summer air. They would be filming the scene. It would make it on to the lunchtime news.
It would be a long wait. Cupidi walked back towards Ferriter who was looking at her phone, laughing at something.
‘What is it?’
‘Peter Moon. He’s just asking what’s going on.’
‘Do you do yoga with him too?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Bet he looks nice in Lycra.’
‘If you was a bloke, Sarge, that would be sexist.’
‘Seriously though, Jill. Word of advice. Dating fellow officers. Never a great idea.’
‘Personal experience?’ she said, all butter-wouldn’t-melt.
Cupidi looked at her for a second, then said, ‘Naturally.’
‘It’s not actually like that at all, anyway.’
‘Right.’ Cupidi unzipped her stab vest and threw it over to her. ‘I need to pee,’ she said. ‘Look after that, will you? We’re going to be here a while.’
A blackbird chuckled as she ambled slowly up the narrow lane towards a garden centre on the far side of the Military Canal. As she crossed the bridge she paused for a minute to peer into the dull brown water, then walked a little further, turning right into a car park, where a man was struggling to put a large shrub into the boot of a Volvo.
‘Is the road still closed that way?’ he asked. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Don’t know,’ she lied, leaving the man clutching the heavy plant.
After she’d found the toilets she picked up a handful of energy bars and a bottle of juice.
The till was staffed by an elderly man in an olive jacket, who should have been retired at his age. ‘Do you know the man who lives in Speringbrook House?’ she asked him.
‘That where the police are?’
Cupidi nodded.
‘What are they bothering him for? Didn’t pay his telly licence, or is it some other capital crime? I was just done for going thirty-eight miles an hour on the road up at Winchelsea. A hundred bloody pounds for going eight miles an hour over the limit. You’d have thought those pointy-headed buggers had something better to do, excuse my language.’