by Henry James
Maria Benson was followed out of the building by Sergeant Wallace, head bowed, into the rain. Wally raised his hand solemnly as he left. Events and moods had altered in line with a change in the weather.
The telephone rang urgently behind Clarke.
‘Bloody unfair, poor Wally,’ Miller said, ignoring Wells’ phone right beside him. The departing sergeant was the constable’s boss. All to do with a council depot being raided, and road markings being left unpainted. ‘If CID were up to snuff and caught the buggers that nicked the paint in the first place it’d never have happened. Should be them being marched out the door.’
‘And what’s your contribution been so far this week, eh?’ said Clarke. The sharpness in her tone took the PC aback. ‘Answer the bloody phone, why don’t you, it’s the least you can do.’
‘Right there! Slow down!’ Clarke ordered, but they’d already overshot the entrance. Simms braked hard, then shifted the car into reverse. The entrance to the caravan park was set back from the road, and obscured by dense overgrown foliage. As they passed under the dark green oak canopy, Clarke saw two forgotten stone lions sitting upon ancient red brickwork to either side of the entrance. Once upon a time they must have heralded a gateway to a much grander setting than an unsightly twentieth-century caravan park.
‘Caravan parks,’ Simms remarked. ‘Never been to one before.’
‘Why would you?’ Miller said from the back seat of the Golf. They drove along an unmade gravel road, passing by the white rectangular vans. Although they were relatively well spaced out, they were altogether at odds with the serene woodland setting. ‘Jeez, this place is the back of beyond. Why would anyone come here to spend their summer in a sardine tin?’
Half an hour ago Simms had called from the High Fields care home: Neil Cassidy, one of Weaver’s patients, had recovered his speech and was able to communicate some information. The sharp-thinking off-duty PC had made a vital connection, and a quick call to Cassidy’s daughter had led them to Cravensea Caravan Park, nine miles south of Denton.
A white-haired couple made their way slowly along the roadside, regarding the people inside the passing car with curiosity.
‘You might not like it now,’ Clarke remarked, answering Miller, ‘but in thirty years’ time when all you’ve energy for is mowing your patch of grass and watering the geraniums, before a quick sherry, a bowl of peanuts and nodding off to James Galway at noon, things might look different.’ Clarke was exaggerating, but she remembered a similar place in Suffolk she’d visited as a child with her grandparents, and more recently, her parents.
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all mapped out.’
‘Huh, let’s just say I can appreciate the attraction,’ she said, thinking of her unhappy mother changing her grandson’s nappies back in her Denton flat.
When Clarke had picked up Simms’s call at Eagle Lane she’d not even heard of the place. Nobody had. So the collective intelligence of CID had resorted to consulting the Yellow Pages to find the location. Cravensea Park, they had learned, was in the grounds of a Tudor manor house, thought once to have been owned by Anne Boleyn. But for all its historical resplendence it had been a devil to find.
‘Which one could it be?’ Clarke asked, peering through the trees.
‘Hmm. A white one?’ said Simms, helpfully.
‘Well thank you, Sherlock.’ Clarke glanced at the boy. For an instant she saw his brother, Derek, with whom she’d been in similar situations many a time. ‘It’s no time to be funny, David. Pull over here, next to this one …’
It was the young policeman’s day off, but such was his enthusiasm to be involved, he’d insisted on driving. Her gaze lingered on the young man; she didn’t know how she felt towards him. He was sweet and boyish, lacking the brash arrogance of his older brother. She wondered what he had heard about Derek’s relationship with her … and Philip. There was a conversation to be had, this she knew. But now was not the time for such thoughts.
Simms parked the car under an enormous oak that bordered the gravel road and afforded the caravans privacy from passing cars. Cars were parked in between the mobile homes, indicating which might be occupied.
An elderly gent gingerly descended the two steps down from the next caravan, pausing to consider the new arrivals. ‘Be on the lookout for a maroon Volvo,’ Clarke said, ‘Weaver more than likely drove it out here, but he may have hidden it from view …’
Simms switched off the ignition. ‘Look, there.’ He pointed towards a signpost marked Office and Toilets near a single-lane track breaking off the main drive.
‘Miller, you keep your eye on the road,’ Clarke said, taking control of the situation.
‘’Ello, ’ello … what have we got here, male, under sixty-five,’ Miller said from the back seat, ‘shortish ginger hair, bit of a beard?’
Clarke and Simms swung round together, almost knocking heads.
‘Bloke coming this way tugging a trolley with a large plastic container on it.’
‘Stay put,’ Clarke whispered, unnecessarily, ‘he’s coming straight towards us.’
Weaver, and it was definitely him, had been to fill up with water; here he came ambling back into their line of vision.
Just then, a squirrel hopped on to the track to inspect an acorn and sat there, right between Weaver and their car.
‘Ah, look at that,’ Miller said in mock tenderness.
‘Damn it – he’s seen us.’ There could be no mistaking three adults sitting in a strange car in the middle of the day. The man darted between two caravans. Clarke burst out of the Golf. She signalled to the others to circle behind as she gave chase. She rounded the caravan as Weaver slipped between the trees beyond. He didn’t have too much ground on them. She must be able to catch him – if she didn’t lose sight of him. She entered the woods and ran through the trees, following what she thought was a path until her foot caught in brambles. Stopping dead, she panted heavily, hands on knees. Christ, she’d not run like that, since … God knows, well before Philip was born.
Weaver was gone. Or was he? She couldn’t see him, but then perhaps he wasn’t visible through the dense foliage. Clarke stood still, blood pulsing in her ears. A bird called in alarm to her left. Beyond a thicket of hazels was a large fallen tree. Crouching low, she edged her way towards the horizontal trunk. It was moist underfoot and she moved soundlessly until she was able to reach out and touch the crumbling bark. The bird – a blackbird – was still audible on the other side. She glanced left then right along the fallen tree: one way a tangle of branches, the other a mass of roots and earth. Her choices were limited. She let the trunk take her weight and breathed deeply.
After a minute, or it could have been two, when the roaring in her ears had subsided, she took stock of her position. Should she wait for the others? No, there was nothing for it but to get over to the other side. She felt her way along the bark until she found a foothold, then with her hand she grasped the stump of a branch. In two swift moves she was over, landing not more than three feet away from a startled Ben Weaver. The two faced each other, both crouched catlike in equal amazement. Weaver made to lunge but thought better of it, which prompted Clarke to cry out, ‘Here!’ and again, ‘Over here!’ Weaver turned and fled further into the woods. Clarke gave chase again. She could hear her colleagues’ calls in the distance but she hadn’t the breath to respond. Branches and brambles whipped her face but she was gaining on her target when, abruptly, he vanished. She stopped dead for a second in disbelief, and called faintly, ‘Over here,’ but with little conviction, before moving on cautiously. In less than twenty paces the grass underfoot gave way to fast-flowing water – a riverbank, hidden from view by low-hanging branches. Below her a lily-white hand was clutching desperately at a tuft of grass.
‘Help!’ Weaver spluttered. ‘I can’t swim. I can’t …’
Clarke edged forward, raising her foot …
‘Got the bastard!’ Miller said. ‘You’ve got a pair of legs on you, Detective, we h
ad trouble keeping up.’
She glared at the pathetic figure in the water, then turned away, leaving the men to pull the murderer out of the river. She wasn’t sure they shouldn’t have just left him to drown.
Thursday (4)
The celebration at Ben Weaver’s arrest was short-lived, much to PC Simms’s dismay. His quick thinking had got CID a result, but that success was overshadowed by some major bust-up between Frost and Mullett. Nobody knew what had gone on in the superintendent’s office, only that there had been an almighty row.
Simms entered the canteen dejectedly. It was his day off but he might as well grab a bite to eat here before disappearing off home. In the queue he spied Mullett’s secretary, Miss Smith, talking with two WPCs. Simms strolled over with a confident demeanour, hoping she might offer a congratulatory word. But the woman was visibly shaken, and paid him no heed. Simms stood there like a spare part and found himself enquiring what was up.
‘Jack Frost. Blowing his top at the superintendent,’ Liz Smith said tersely, unappreciative of the interruption. ‘I was,’ she continued, ‘sure he was going to punch him, and if Sergeant Waters hadn’t intervened, who knows how it would have ended. I was sure I’d have to call for help …’
How big a deal could this be, he wondered.
‘You all right?’ Clarke now stood behind him.
‘Sure.’
‘Let’s grab a coffee.’
The pair took a table in the far corner. Having asked Simms to join her, Clarke then sat and said nothing, opting to stir her coffee in silence. This was the first time they’d been alone since her return to Eagle Lane. The pursuit of Weaver had been adrenalin-fuelled, and he’d felt only the excitement and a desire to impress. Now, presented with the woman herself, the one person at Eagle Lane he’d wanted to get to know and perhaps connect with in some way, he couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘That was something, eh, back there?’ he said eventually, thinking of Weaver. He couldn’t very well ask about her child in the staff canteen.
She placed her spoon on the saucer. ‘Sure was,’ she said as if she’d just remembered he was there. ‘Well done for acting so promptly when visiting your mother, not everyone would have the wherewithal to put two and two together like that.’
He couldn’t help but smile. It was all he wanted to hear, really. The whole thing was over so quickly – Weaver was carted off to County almost immediately to be questioned over another similar case – ‘Oh, it was nothing really. Anyone would have done the same – besides, you’re the one that actually caught him.’
‘Teamwork,’ she said with a faint smile.
He’d never considered Sue Clarke at close quarters before, but for the first time now saw how pretty she was, and why his brother had been so smitten. Tired though, eyes marked by dark shadows. He changed tack. ‘What’s all the fuss with Inspector Frost?’
‘Good question. After we brought Weaver in, Jack caught Mullett in the lobby, and demanded he change his mind.’
‘Over what?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, that’s the mystery, nobody knows. They disappeared into Mullett’s office and had an almighty barney.’
Simms felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Sergeant Waters said, ‘but might I borrow Detective Clarke?’
‘What’s up?’
‘Jack’s going into interview room one with Gary Benson; I thought a calming influence might be needed …’
‘Not sure I’ve got it in me,’ she said wearily.
But off she went and David Simms was left with two cold coffees. One crime quickly replaced another, and one small victory was soon forgotten. All the same, the young policeman was moved in ways he found difficult to explain, and fought hard to resist the temptation to run after Clarke.
‘Do you know how much patience I have with you and your dear old mum, Gary?’
The man shook his head.
‘This much.’ Frost pursed his thumb and forefinger tightly together, and held his hand high so all in the room could see.
Clarke had never seen Jack this angry before; whatever the bust-up with Mullett was about, it must have been monumental. To his credit, Gary Benson had come in of his own accord, not that it appeared to win him any favour with Frost. And this was only preliminary questioning – Benson had not been interviewed prior to today.
‘Now, I’m going to ask you a series of questions that require a yes or no answer, so it’s very straightforward. Got that?’
‘Yes, Mr Frost.’
‘If you give me a wrong answer, you will at the very least lose your job. I assure you Harry will see to that, understood?’
Clarke watched Frost in amazement; she had never witnessed him threaten a suspect in such a way. She tried to catch Waters’ eye, but he stood observing calmly at the back of the room.
‘Right, off we go. Did you know Rachel Curtis?’
‘Yes, Mr Frost.’
‘Did you go to Dominic Holland’s party?’
‘Yes, Mr Frost.’
‘With Rachel?’
‘No.’
Frost gave it a moment’s pause, then said again, ‘Did you go to the party with Miss Curtis?’
‘Err … yes and no,’ Benson said, looking confused.
‘Jack—’ Clarke wanted to interrupt. The bouncer was clearly terrified.
Frost ignored her and prompted, ‘Gary?’
‘I went to get her but she’d already left.’
‘What?’
‘On me bike. I knew she was going, I said I’d pick her up at midnight. But she’d gone.’
‘Gone where, with who?’
‘I dunno, I went in the ’ouse but they were all bladdered.’
‘Did you speak to anyone, is there anyone who could confirm your story?’
‘Yeah, a couple of woofters were hoovering coke in the front porch. A little fella and a big gobby one with a spastic haircut.’ The florists.
‘Gary, we’ve spoken to them already,’ Clarke said calmly, aware that Frost was pacing furiously, ‘and they might not be entirely credible as witnesses.’
Benson turned to Frost anxiously. ‘It’s true, Mr Frost, they were munted, but that’s hardly my fault. She never left with me! She weren’t there no more. I was well narked, tore up the geezer’s lawn on me bike.’
‘Why oh flamin’ why did you not say this earlier!’
‘I thought you’d think I’d done it, because of me mum. Her making threats, an’ all.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About midnight. Rachel had already gone by then, I’m tellin’ ya—’
‘Could have been in that taxi,’ interrupted Waters.
Frost looked at the sergeant. His theory about the man pretending to be a taxi driver. A man they’d not been able to identify but who allegedly was wearing a flat cap of the sort sold at Castleton’s.
‘How much earlier?’ Frost turned back to Benson.
‘Well, early, one of them fellas said she’d left about nine. I dunno.’
‘All right, you two can go,’ Frost said, addressing Waters and Clarke. He leaned in to Waters. ‘But not too far …’
Frost calmed down after his colleagues departed and he was left alone with Gary Benson. He understood the man’s predicament; mother and son were each protecting the other. At the same time, though, he was disappointed that neither felt they could trust the police, or him personally, with the information. Gary said he’d picked Rachel up at the Codpiece around sevenish and then dropped her off in Two Bridges and agreed a time to collect her. So Taffy was telling the truth – Gary and his mother were there at the lock-in.
‘Why did she want to go to the party?’
‘Could smell money, couldn’t she. Always smart, that one. Not my sort, rather be in the pub with me mum and me mates. I’m sorry about the geezer’s lawn – I was just pissed off that she’d dragged me out there again for nowt.’
‘But why would she ask you to come get her, then leave sooner wi
thout letting you know?’
‘Maybe she didn’t feel well.’
‘Maybe.’ Frost lit a cigarette and passed the packet over.
‘The morning after, I did wonder whether it was part of ’er parole or something. You know, home before midnight an’ all that.’
Frost let out a jet of smoke. ‘Good point. But nine o’clock? She’s not a flamin’ schoolgirl.’
Gary just shrugged. ‘I dunno,’ he said eventually, ‘that probation geezer was always on her case. Right menace.’
‘So he should be. It’s his job.’
‘He really didn’t like her seeing me,’ he said mournfully.
‘Why was that?’ It struck Frost as unusual that someone from the probation office would express such a forceful opinion on who one of his charges was seeing, unless they were a known villain.
‘I dunno,’ he said again and scratched at a shaving rash under his chin. ‘She was always having to see him, though.’
‘Hmm.’ Although Frost took what Gary was saying with a pinch of salt, what he was hearing was not in accordance with what he had been told. Fergusson was to see her once a week, was his understanding. He’d check that with Waters, who was waiting outside for him.
Frost tossed over his pack of Rothmans. ‘Here.’ He rubbed the back of his neck, he wasn’t really angry with the confused bouncer, no, his real anger now was directed at Mullett. Despite the spectacularly swift arrest of Ben Weaver, the superintendent was refusing to lift the blanket ban on leave. Apparently, the super did not consider the arrest of a murderer a significant enough result; no, in his eyes the real problem was the Rachel Curtis case. Apparently, this case would have all sorts of ‘ramifications’ were it not brought to a quick resolution. The bungled television appeal had only added fuel to the flames and delivered Mullett his favourite target on a plate: Frost.
Frost saw Waters wave at him through the small window in the interview-room door. ‘Now. I’m guessing, although you might not have killed Rachel, you do have a front-door key to her house?’