Detectives Merry & Neal Books 1-3

by JANICE FROST

  “It’s alright. Everything you say to us is completely confidential.” Ava looked at Ollie, who nodded. “How did you meet Gray Mitchell?”

  “George Irons introduced us.”

  “And how did George Irons know him?”

  “He got in touch with him after Gray decked his dad.”

  This was intriguing. Now Mitchell and Irons were connected in an entirely new way.

  “Was Gray Mitchell counselling you about your sexuality, Nathan?” Ava asked, again very gently.

  Nathan blushed bright red.

  “Yeah.” He looked sideways at Ollie, who shrugged in a ‘no big deal to me’ manner.

  “George wanted to apologise to Gray for his father’s behaviour, even though his dad was the one who got hurt. George was angry at his dad — he thought he was totally out of order having a go at Leon Warrior. George is nothing like his dad.”

  “I take it George mentioned that he had a friend who was confused about his sexuality and Gray volunteered to help?”

  “Yeah. George is a good mate. We’ve known each other since junior school.”

  “And you and Gray met — how many times?”

  “About five or six times, in coffee shops mostly. Once we went to the Barley.”

  “Who else knew that you were meeting Gray?”

  “No one. I didn’t want anyone to know and I asked Gray not to tell anybody, not even his partner, Leon.”

  “Okay. So you never met Leon or any of Gray’s friends?”

  Nathan shook his head.

  “I need to ask you something a little delicate, Nathan. Is it okay if Ollie stays or would you prefer him to go upstairs?”

  “He can stay.”

  “Okay. I need you to understand that you should not talk about this with anyone else, alright?” Ava looked from Nathan to her brother. They both agreed.

  “Did you ever tell Gray that you were feeling depressed or suicidal, Nathan?”

  Nathan stared at her. Then, very quietly, he answered, “Yes.”

  Ava nodded.

  “The first time we met I told him I was ashamed and scared and that I didn’t know if I could face living either as an openly gay person, or as a person who had to pretend to be something he wasn’t. I was pretty fu . . . messed up. George was worried about me.”

  “And Gray helped?”

  Nathan smiled for the first time. “Yes. He was awesome.”

  “Good. That’s great. I’m glad someone was able to help. We’re nearly done, but there’s just one more question I need to ask.”

  Neal knew what that question was.

  “Nathan, on the night Gray was killed, did you send him a text saying you were thinking of taking your own life?”

  The look of shock on Nathan Elliot’s face was confirmation enough, but they needed to hear him say it.

  “No! Is that what you think happened? Did someone pretend they needed Gray’s help, then kill him? Someone pretending to be me?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what we think.”

  Someone had known about their meetings. Someone in Gray Mitchell’s small circle of friends had taken advantage of this vulnerable young man to appeal to Gray’s inner goodness and lure him to his death. Another known known, thought Neal, but there were still too many unknowns.

  * * *

  Ava saw Neal to his car while Ollie and Nathan played on Ollie’s Xbox. Neither of the boys felt like maths problems after the conversation they had just had.

  “So who knew that Gray was counselling Nathan?” Ava asked. “Leon Warrior? Laurence Brand? They seem like the most likely candidates. Whoever it was, he or she could have sent that text to Mitchell, knowing he’d think it was a cry for help from Nathan.”

  “There’s also Ray Irons,” said Neal. “He could have overheard George talking about it. He might even have misheard or misconstrued and thought his son was seeing Gray Mitchell. I can imagine him being outraged enough to want to kill Mitchell for that, especially after Mitchell had humiliated him that time.”

  “That’s an interesting one,” Ava said. “And he’d be getting back at Warrior. Killing the man Warrior loved — or so Irons thought. As we know, it was all a bit more complicated than that.”

  “Aye, it nearly always is.”

  “Where does Caitlin Forest fit in? Is there some connection we haven’t looked for? I can’t think of a single plausible reason why any of our principal suspects would want to kill her. Or isn’t there a connection? Maybe we should be investigating Caitlin Forest’s death independently of Mitchell’s.”

  “We already are. You know that. Every murder is given equal weight. But it won’t do any harm to look at Forest’s background. Find out who she was. Look for anyone or anything that would tie her to Mitchell or another member of their circle. You’re checking that, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll get onto it.”

  “Monday will do,” Neal said. “Take tomorrow off and enjoy your date.”

  “Thanks, sir. I will,” Ava said. “Do you have plans for the evening?”

  Neal shrugged. “Movie with Archie, then more of Breaking Bad with Maggie. Perhaps a quiet read if I get the chance.”

  “Have good one. And say hi to Maggie from me.”

  A thin film of ice had formed on Neal’s windscreen. His headlamps illuminated Ava’s lonely, tree-lined drive. A cat bolted across the path in front of him and Ava scooped it up, scolding Camden for his poor road sense.

  As Neal pulled away, Ava began to think about her date, and what she would wear. There wasn’t a whole lot of choice. Her wardrobe consisted overwhelmingly of clothes that she could wear either to work or on weekends. There wasn’t much there in the way of glamour. Last time she had worn her favourite dress, it had been drenched with Christopher Taylor’s blood. But Ava’s looks required very little embellishment. She was zipping up a little red dress that she’d bought at an end of summer sale, when her mobile buzzed. It was a text from Joel. There had been an accident on the city bypass and all hands were needed in A&E, probably for the rest of the weekend.

  Ava pictured the beautiful room awaiting them at the Wrenwood, and the night of passion that wasn’t to be. The zipper never got past half way. She shook off the dress and slipped into a tracksuit, intending to go for a run.

  Downstairs, Ollie and Nathan were busy stealing cars and toting guns in their video game. Ollie shot her a guilty look. At least Nathan looked relaxed and happy. Not for the first time, Ava wondered what kind of world this was that could persecute decent people for not conforming to the norm.

  Chapter 18

  Laurence was anxious. Marcus had not turned up for his Sunday morning lesson, nor had he phoned to say that he wasn’t coming. More worrying still, he had failed to answer any of the messages Laurence had left for him. Maxine Brand tried to convince her husband that Marcus probably thought Laurence still wasn’t well. Or else he’d had a late night and was sleeping off a hangover. Laurence was unconvinced. Marcus never stood him up. He was certain that the boy would have called with an excuse or an explanation.

  Laurence declared that he was going to call by Marcus’s place, just to make sure the boy ‘hadn’t come down with something.’ Maxine did not try to dissuade him. She knew that her husband would only fret until he found out why Marcus hadn’t shown. She was also running late for work.

  “Call me if there’s a problem,” she said as she left the house. “But I don’t expect to hear from you.”

  An hour later, Laurence arrived at the terraced house Marcus shared with a couple of other lads. There was no reply at first, but after Laurence had knocked three or four times, the door was opened by a bleary-eyed man in his mid-twenties. He had that gaunt look about him that Laurence associated with drug addicts. Marcus had told him one of his flatmates was a bit of a junkie, and Laurence guessed he was looking at him now.

  “I’m looking for Marcus Collins. He does live here, doesn’t he?”

  “Dude,” the young man said.

 
; Laurence wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a greeting. No clarification was forthcoming, so he asked, “is Marcus home?”

  “Dude?” A question.

  “I’m Laurence Brand, Marcus’s Latin teacher. Maybe he’s mentioned me?”

  The man shook his head. “Dude.”

  “Well, anyway, perhaps you could check whether he’s at home,” Laurence asked.

  The man shouted up the stairs, “Dude!”

  Another twenty-something male appeared on the upstairs landing. “What’s up?” he asked. Flatmate one shuffled out of the frame and disappeared through a door in the hallway.

  “I was up till two in the morning and I never heard him coming in,” the man upstairs said. “His room’s next to mine. I’ll just check for you.”

  He did not invite Laurence inside. Laurence waited, shivering in the raw morning air. He heard the sound of knocking, then heard Marcus’s name called. Then the young man reappeared at the top of the stairs and shook his head. “Not here! Wanna take a look for yourself, mate?”

  Laurence stepped inside. The murky hallway held an unpleasant odour — a toxic mix of unwashed armpits and unflushed toilets, decaying rubbish and stale cigarette smoke. The stair carpet was sticky and as Laurence drew nearer to the open toilet door, the worse the unflushed toilet smell became.

  “Scuse the smell. Dude stunk out the toilet earlier,” his host said.

  “His name is Dude?”

  “No, it’s Shane. We all call him Dude because that’s pretty much all he says these days. This is Marcus’s room.”

  From somewhere down the hallway a woman’s voice called and flatmate two disappeared, leaving Laurence to explore Marcus’s room alone. Laurence was surprised to find that the door had no lock. If what he had heard about drug addicts was true, then surely Marcus should be more security conscious? But then he saw that Marcus possessed nothing that would be of value to the other two. He had two shelves of books and very little else. Even his wardrobe, whose door gaped open, revealed only a couple of changes of clothing.

  Unlike the rest of the house, Marcus’s room was clean and tidy. But Laurence was staring at the bed. It was made. Marcus had not slept in this room overnight. Laurence knew that Marcus had an Ipod and an Ipad, which he normally carried around with him. They were nowhere here. Laurence couldn’t see his mobile phone either. He did not feel comfortable searching through Marcus’s drawers. He was about to leave when he spied a green sticky note in the shape of a leaf on the table next to Marcus’s bed. Laurence picked it up. Angie Dent’s name and phone number were written there, encircled several times in red ink. Outside the circle, Marcus had doodled a red question mark. Laurence frowned. On an impulse, he stuck the note in his trouser pocket.

  From next door came the sounds of vigorous lovemaking, and a headboard banged rhythmically against the wall. Laurence listened for a moment or two before heading down the staircase. He didn’t bother to let Dude know he was leaving.

  He mustn’t panic. It was Sunday morning. Plenty of people nowadays spent Sunday mornings with someone they had only met the night before. Marcus had been through a lot, first being ditched by Caitlin, then becoming a suspect in her murder investigation. Who could blame him if he’d gone out and had a good time, ending up in Angie Dent’s bed? In a corner of his mind, Caius nodded, knowingly. Laurence checked his phone. Still no reply from Marcus.

  Leon would know Angie’s address. Caitlin had given Leon Warrior her contact details when she was working on his stained-glass window. Laurence hadn’t spoken with Leon since he had attacked him with the brick. His finger hovered over the keys of his mobile phone for a while before he found Leon’s number. The conversation that followed was punctuated by apologies and awkward pauses. It took a while, but Laurence went some way towards repairing his relationship with Leon. He also obtained the address of the flat that Caitlin Forest had shared with Angie Dent.

  Laurence debated with himself whether driving round to Angie’s place to search for Marcus was a rational course of action. He knew very well that his previous actions had seemed perfectly sane at the time. Only later had he realised that they were unquestionably deranged.

  In the end, he concluded that if he were deranged now, he would not be in any doubt. Therefore, driving round to Angie’s place to check up on Marcus was the action of a concerned friend, not someone in the grip of a delusion. All the same, he didn’t tell Maxine what he was doing.

  * * *

  Caitlin Forest’s name was still on the intercom list, he noticed. Of course there was no answer. Had he really expected there might be? Laurence wandered around to the back of the block. He saw with a pang, the police tape around the recycling shed where Caitlin’s body had been found. Then he returned to the intercom and pressed a number at random. A voice answered — female, sleepy.

  “I’m a friend of Angie Dent’s. Would you mind letting me in? She’s not answering and I’m worried about her. She’s been a bit depressed since her friend died.”

  To his astonishment, without a word, the entrance door clicked open. Hadn’t the police warned the occupants there was a killer on the loose? Marvelling at the stupidity of some people and his own good fortune, Laurence closed the door behind him. He climbed the two flights of stairs to Angie’s flat. He stood outside her door feeling like a stalker, even pressing his ear to it, but there was nothing to hear.

  He knocked, gently at first, then more insistently. No reply. Laurence was beginning to feel foolish. What did he think he was doing checking up on Angie and Marcus? No, not Angie, just Marcus. He was inordinately fond of the boy, he realised, and loved him like the son he’d never had. It was love, he concluded, not madness, that was making him behave this way.

  Unable to think what else to do, Laurence tried ringing Marcus’s number again. Inside the flat came a sound that caused his heart to jolt. Marcus’s ringtone.

  Then Laurence heard voices on the stairs and a uniformed police officer suddenly appeared in the corridor. He was accompanied by what at first glance appeared to be a giant teddy bear. As they drew nearer Laurence saw that it was a young woman dressed in a brown fluffy onesie with ears. She pointed at Laurence. “That’s him. That’s the man I saw wandering around the back of the block, the one who buzzed my number asking about Angie.”

  Laurence opened his mouth to explain. Before he could say anything, the young police officer marched up to him and demanded to know his business.

  “I . . . I’m looking for Marcus,” Laurence stammered.

  “Who the hell’s Marcus?” bear woman asked. “He said he was looking for Angie Dent.”

  “I think it would be a good idea for you to come downstairs with me, sir. I’d like to ask you some questions and run a quick check.”

  “But . . . but I haven’t done anything wrong!” Laurence protested. “His phone’s ringing in there. Why isn’t he answering it? If he’s gone, he would have taken it with him. You need to break the door down or something.” Laurence was aware of the familiar storm mounting inside him.

  “Nobody’s going to be kicking in any doors,” the young officer said, moving the bear woman behind him protectively. “If you’ll just accompany me quietly, sir.” He gripped Laurence by the elbow.

  The storm surged to the surface. “Get your bloody hands off me!” He shrugged himself free of the officer’s grasp.

  “Marcus!” Laurence shouted. He began to bang on the door to Angie’s flat. “Marcus! Are you in there? It’s me, Laurence Brand. Let me in! MARCUS!” Without realising it, Laurence had raised his voice until he was yelling Marcus’s name over and over, all the time hammering harder and harder on Angie’s door. Along the corridor, doors were opening, heads popping out.

  “Sir, I advise you to calm down and stop banging on that . . .”

  Suddenly the storm erupted. Before he knew what he was doing, Laurence spun around and punched the policeman in the nose. Bear girl screamed. A couple of men ran down the corridor towards them. Laurence resum
ed shouting and banging. The copper laid a hand on his shoulder. “Right, dat’s it,” the officer said, through his bloody nose. “I’b arresting you for assaulting a police officer.”

  Laurence was manhandled to the ground by the policeman and the two men. They held him still while the police officer cuffed him. Laurence continued to shout Marcus’s name until he was hoarse.

  * * *

  “Sooo, tell me everything, girlfriend,” PJ said.

  “Nothing to tell. Joel had to work. Haven’t seen him all weekend,” Ada replied.

  “Poor you,” said PJ.

  “How about you? How’s it going with Steve?” Having forgotten Jim Neal, PJ was now seeing the young police sergeant who had hankered after PJ all this time.

  “It’s going great. Steve’s so romantic. You’ll never believe what he did for our six month anniversary—”

  At that moment, Neal appeared in the doorway of his office and beckoned to Ava.

  “Tell me later.”

  “It looks like Leon Warrior could be in the clear,” Neal said by way of greeting. He seemed tense. Neal didn’t often greet people with a smile, but he was normally polite enough to say ‘good morning.’ But Ava was becoming accustomed to his moods.

  “How so?”

  “We followed up his reports of what he was doing on the night Mitchell was murdered. He was caught on CCTV outside a club in Soho, at two in the morning and again at a filling station at five. Godfrey Hardy was with him. It’s all but impossible for him or Hardy to have killed Mitchell.”

  Neal went on. “We’ve got the digital forensic report on Mitchell’s laptop back and I’ve got printouts of his email and search activity.”

  Ava leaned forward.

  “Mitchell corresponded with his sister quite a bit. Considering her attitude to his sexuality, he was remarkably forgiving.”

  “He was a good person. Everyone we’ve spoken to says the same. Words like ‘kind’ and ‘generous’ and ‘lovely,’ kept coming up when people described what he was like. I know we’re trained to look for the darkness in people. Normally I’d be suspicious as hell if someone came across as too good to be true, but it really seems that Gray Mitchell was practically a saint.”