A Poison Tree

by J. E. Mayhew

  ◆◆◆

  Kinnear hurried from the perimeter of the crime scene when he spotted Blake marching towards him. “Standard’s the biggest size, sir,” Kinnear said. “Although the British Kennel club recognises three breeds of poodle and the World Canine Organisation, four, the dispute seems to be over standard and medium.”

  “Really?” Blake said, frowning. “What about giant poodles? I thought you could get giant poodles.”

  “Not in this country, sir,” Kinnear said. “Just Standard, Toy and Miniature. Mr Chowdry has a standard called Genoa. She’s black, has a red collar and enjoys Chappie meat chunks with a scoop of kibble for breakfast. He normally carries a large number of dog poo bags on a roll and used one this morning. He walks the dog that way every morning at that time because there aren’t many other dog walkers around then. Genoa is a bit frisky and jumps up at people.” Kinnear looked down at the muddy streak on his trousers as if to illustrate the fact. “Sir.”

  "That’s more like it,” Blake said, suppressing a grin. “Now. Get uniform to do a door-to-door on the houses along Ferry Road. People will be waking up and getting ready for work. Somebody must have seen or heard something last night, surely. Check if any of these houses have CCTV. It’s a slim hope but they may have picked up somebody going past.”

  Blake watched Kinnear hurry off. He was a good detective, but Blake couldn’t shake the feeling that the young man lacked commitment. It was probably unfair; Kinnear hadn’t let him down on other cases and was unlikely to on this one, but thoroughness was essential. Miss something now and the whole case might remain a mystery for decades. Spot something seemingly trivial at this early stage and it might be easy to get to the bottom of this case, like dominoes tumbling into each other. Kinnear was eager for promotion; he made all the right noises but somehow didn’t inspire confidence just yet.

  Kicking a tussock of grass, Blake hissed through his teeth. They’d done well to identify the girl so quickly, even if it hadn’t been confirmed yet. But he felt restless, eager to push the investigation on. It was frustrating and borne out of a wish to find out the truth of this situation. But there was a process to follow and it had to be painstaking, which also felt slow. Shortly a Family Liaison Officer would take the girl’s parents to identify the body and, as soon as respectfully possible, Blake could begin asking questions. Until then, he had to wait. Not that there weren’t a hundred other things he had to attend to.

  The light began to grow as morning became more definite. A few birds began to sing, a wood pigeon cooed. Officers searching the undergrowth nearby still had their torches switched on but they flashed more feebly, now it was daylight.

  A uniformed officer approached him from the barrier tape. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “But Aiden Davis, the Head Ranger is here and wants a word.” Blake gave the officer a nod and followed him over.

  Aiden Davis was a small-framed man with short, spiky brown hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that made him look constantly irritated with the world. He wore the same green uniform as Eric Stafford but failed to fill it as impressively. Blake shook his hand, “DCI William Blake.”

  Davis nodded and gave a mischievous grin. “Tyger, tyger, eh?”

  Blake looked blankly at him, pretending not to understand. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “The poem… Tyger tyger, burning bright. It’s by William Blake. You must get that all the time…” Davis blushed realising what a hole he was digging for himself.

  “Not really, sir. A few English teachers mentioned it when I was a kid,” Blake said and fixed Davis with a stare. “Nobody does now though.”

  Davis stared at his boots for a moment. “Sorry… I just thought… Can you tell me what’s going on?” he said, glancing over Blake’s shoulder to the white tent that covered the crime scene.

  “We’ve found a body,” Blake said. “That’s all I can tell you at the moment, Mr Davis. We’ll need to interview your staff and any others who may have been in or around the woods last night.”

  Davis cursed under his breath and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. “Awful,” he muttered. “What do you want us to do?”

  “We’ll need to keep any members of the public away from the immediate crime scene. If you can help with that, I'd be grateful. We’ll narrow the cordon as quickly as possible once we’ve concluded the search…”

  Aiden Davis frowned. “What are you looking for?”

  “Anything that may be of interest, sir. We’re trying to remove the body as quickly as possible before more dog walkers arrive but I can’t guarantee it.”

  “I’ll try and contact the Parks and Countryside Service but I doubt my manager is in yet.”

  “Just before you go, sir,” Blake said. “Could you tell me what time you left here last night?”

  Davis licked his lips. “Me? I-I…” he stammered. “About six thirty, maybe. I always like to make sure everything is locked and secure before I go. Why?”

  “Just wondering if you saw or heard anything suspicious or unusual as you left, that’s all,” Blake said. “I’ve already spoken to Mr Stafford, the other ranger.”

  “Eric? I see,” Davis said, looking puzzled for a moment. “No, I didn’t notice anything odd. I got in my car and drove home.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  Davis scratched his head. “No. I don’t remember hearing anything out of the ordinary. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to go and phone my manager.”

  “Very good, sir,” Blake muttered. He nodded and watched the ranger scurry away, glancing over his shoulder as he went.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Major Incident Room seemed like a million miles away from the crime scene; traffic rumbled by and seagulls bickered and squawked just outside the window. To the outsider, the office would be a jumbled maze of desks covered in paper and boxes. Every now and then, a computer monitor peeped over this organised chaos. It was early afternoon and Blake’s stomach grumbled at its neglect. A large team had been allocated to the investigation; Blake recognised a few people, but many were new faces to him.

  DI Kath Cryer, a big, round-faced woman with dyed, blonde hair sat directly in front of him, doodling in a pad. Blake had worked with her several times; a marmite person; voice like nails on a chalkboard and a personality to match, but on the ball. Next to her sat DC Alex Manikas, tall and dark; a quiet, solid, safe pair of hands. Kinnear sat next to him, full of twitching, nervous energy. DS Vikki Chinn was another calming presence, Blake thought. A mixture of detective constables and some uniformed officers sat chatting or looking at their phones.

  Blake tapped the desk with his mug. “Okay, I’m going to make this brief so that we can all get on and because it’s early days and we don’t have a mountain of information yet. Rebecca Thompson, aged sixteen, died around six thirty last night in Eastham Country Park. Possibly strangled. There’s no evidence of sexual assault, however, her shoes were taken after her death and have not been found.”

  Blake pressed a key on the keyboard next to him and images of the crime scene were projected onto the wall.

  “We already have a number of people who said they were walking dogs in the area and HOLMES has given a list of ‘possibles’ who need to be interviewed. We’re awaiting DNA but the pathologist says that Rebecca put up a fight and the attacker left a lot of evidence under her fingernails. Her mobile phone is missing.”

  DI Cryer put her hand up. “Any boyfriends, sir?”

  “Not that we know of, Kath,” Blake said. “The FLO is working closely with Mum and Dad. We might discover more in due course.”

  “Have we been able to get into her social media accounts, sir?” Cryer asked. Blake shook his head.

  “Not yet. But if you could look into that? Maybe look at any online searches she’s made recently.”

  “Will do, guv,” Cryer said, scribbling into her notebook.

  Blake clapped his hands, suddenly feeling ridiculous for doing it. “Okay people. Check any actions allocated to you and let�
�s get going.”

  ◆◆◆

  Superintendent Martin sat at his desk, frowning over some papers when Blake knocked and stood at the threshold of his office. He was a rangy-looking man with a mane of silver-grey hair and a stubbly beard to match. His pale blue eyes always seemed narrowed in a laugh but Blake knew better than to think Martin was a soft touch. Blake had felt the sharp edge of Martin’s withering scorn before now. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

  Martin looked up. “Come in, Blake,” he said. “I trust we’re all over this case already? Nasty one. Tragic.”

  Blake nodded. “Well, we’ve got a very quick ID which bodes well, sir. FLO is with the family now. So I’m optimistic.”

  “Good,” Martin said, lowering the papers completely and staring hard at Blake. “And you’re okay? That scratch looks nasty.”

  Blake reddened. “Cat trouble, sir. I’m getting it sorted.”

  “Didn’t have you down as a cat person, Blake.”

  “It’s my mother’s, sir,” Blake replied, keeping his face as expressionless as possible.

  “Ah. Right,” Martin said, clearing his throat. “Everything alright in that department? Things sorted?”

  “Not quite, sir. Bit of a ticklish family matter. I’m still talking with my brother and sister about it. Might take time.”

  Martin nodded. “At least you’re still talking. That’s a blessing. Well. I’m counting on a quick resolution to this Blake. The papers are sniffing around already. A young girl found dead in a dark wood. You can imagine.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  ◆◆◆

  Becky Thompson’s parents lived in a recently built estate of prestige three-storey houses that bordered the Eastham Country Park. Blake reckoned the poor girl died less than half a mile from her front door. He drove past the turning for the Thompson’s road, making Vikki Chinn look questioningly at him. He could have parked outside their house but he wanted to walk a little and get his head straight before stepping into the inevitable trauma and grief of two bereaved parents. He parked a little further down the road outside the Ferry Hotel; a high-fronted Victorian public house with a raised patio at its front. From here, Blake could see the river and the small stone jetty where paddle steamers from Liverpool once docked.

  They climbed out of the car. Overhead, planes traced white tracks across the sky as they lifted from John Lennon Airport. Blake looked across the Mersey. “I grew up round here, you know, Chinn.”

  “Really Sir? I didn’t know you were a wool,” she said. ‘Wool’ was the scouse term for anyone who came from a place on the outskirts of Liverpool.

  “I am, Vikki, and proud of it. Nothing against Liverpool, but it only really got going about three hundred years ago. The Wirral is ancient. It's mentioned in Arthurian legend; a marshy wilderness populated by godless people.”

  “Not much has changed there, then, sir,” Vikki said, with a smile.

  “The Welsh believed the Wirral to be a magical land; the home of the Ouzel, the oldest and wisest of birds,” Blake gave Chinn a sidelong glance. “The Vikings had a parliament here. Seriously, Wirral is a weird place; caught between two rivers, staring out on the sea. It’s ancient and strange. You must have noticed.”

  “I have, sir,” Chinn said, the grin not fading from her face. “Weird and strange.”

  “It’s not Liverpool, Vikki, it has its own identity.”

  “No, sir,” Chinn said, still grinning. “I mean yes, sir.”

  “Anyway,” he said. “Let’s go and see the Thompsons. You ready, Vikki?”

  ◆◆◆

  Mr and Mrs Thompson propped each other up on the beige sofa in their bland, oatmeal lounge. They clung to each other as if letting go would mean one or both of them being swept off into a maelstrom of horror. For years, the real world had circled them, waiting to pounce as they went about their mundane business; shopping, gardening, celebrating birthdays and Christmases as the time rolled on. Last night, they were just worried; convinced that whatever the reason for their daughter’s absence, she would return. This morning the real world had leapt upon them red in tooth and claw. Now they sat huddled together, trying to blot out the images and memories of identifying her cold body on a mortuary trolley.

  Blake judged Mr Thompson to be late forties, greying at the temples, clearly hitting the road every night to run off the middle-aged spread that threatened to appear any time now. His expensive fleece top spoke of a love of the outdoors. Blake had looked at the same top himself and wondered who would spend £125 on such a garment. Now he knew.

  Mrs Thompson carried more weight than her husband and, even though her face was blotchy with tears, she’d refreshed her makeup. Blake might be doing her a disservice but he couldn’t see her hiking up a mountain with her husband. She repeatedly ran her fingers across the back of Rebecca’s school photograph that lay face down in her lap as if trying to smooth it out.

  DC Tasha Cook, the Family Liaison Officer had accompanied the couple to identify the body. She would be working closely with the Thompsons. Blake never ceased to marvel at anyone who could weather that storm of grief and not get sucked down into an ocean of despair. He caught her eye and then cleared his throat.

  “I know this will be very difficult but we need to ask you some questions if we are to establish what happened,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “We understand Inspector,” Mr Thompson said. He drew a long rattling breath and then paused, frowning at Blake. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry?” Blake said but he knew straight away what Mr Thompson meant.

  Mr Thompson sounded distant as if he was dredging up a memory from more innocent times. “The fella off that Searchlight programme on the telly. You used to do all the CCTV footage and the like.”

  “Yes,” Blake said, clearing his throat. “Yes. That was me. A good few years ago, now. I’m just a regular policeman again now.” Thank God! He thought. Blake’s short sojourn on TV when he was younger had been fun at first. It had turned sour quickly and had become a stick to beat him with, or a reason for subordinates to smirk and whisper behind his back. There were other, darker reasons he didn’t like being reminded of that time too. Even now, thirteen years on, it surfaced with monotonous regularity.

  “I used to like that programme,” Mr Thompson muttered and stared at the wall behind Blake. “You always felt so distant from it all. So removed. “What was it the presenter used to say at the end?”

  “It was ‘Sleep tight, stay safe’ or something like that, wasn’t it, love?” Mrs Thompson said, in the same distant, hypnotised voice.

  Blake cleared his throat again. “So… erm…forgive me but…when did you last see Rebecca?”

  “Yesterday lunchtime, around twelve thirty,” Mr Thompson said. “We both work from home, my wife and I, web design, online marketing and suchlike…”

  Blake nodded and glanced over at Chinn whose mouth twitched. She knew he didn’t have a clue what that meant.

  Thompson continued. “She popped home from school with Gavin and Rory...”

  “Who are…?"

  “Friends from school,” Mrs Thompson cut in. “Nice lads. A bit peculiar, I suppose. They have special needs, according to Becky. She’s a bit of a tomboy, is Becky…” Mrs Thompson’s face crumpled and her husband hugged her close, rubbing her arm. Blake waited. He could feel the tension building in him. Sometimes, he was great at soft-footing on eggshells but right now, he felt on edge. There was little they could do until the results of the post-mortem came through but Rebecca’s death was suspicious and he wanted to get to the truth. Mrs Thompson composed herself.

  “Gavin and Rory are like brothers to her,” Mrs Thompson continued. “They go everywhere together.”

  “Rather eccentric brothers,” Mr Thompson said, frowning. “But they’ve been friends since primary school.”

  “Do they live nearby?” Blake asked. “We’d like to talk to them.”

  “They might have more
information about Rebecca’s movements after she left here yesterday,” Tasha Cook added, smoothly before Mr or Mrs Thompson could jump to any conclusions. Blake silently thanked her.

  “Gavin lives in Willaston and Rory over in Bromborough,” Mrs Thompson said. “I can give you their addresses.”

  Blake leaned back. “Presumably, they went back to school after their dinner?”

  “No,” Mr Thompson said. “The school was closed in the afternoon. Preparing for a parents’ evening or something. I’m not sure. The older they get, the less information trickles through. They said they were going into Bromborough. Not that there’s much to do there…”

  Blake nodded. “Do you think they might have been going somewhere else? I know kids sometimes make stuff up. Especially if they’re doing something you might not approve of… ”

  “What like?”

  Inwardly, Blake winced, wishing he’d phrased his question better. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “drinking or…”

  “Becky has her moments, Inspector,” Mr Thompson said, his voice rising. “But she’s a good girl. She always tells… told us where she was going and what she was doing.”

  “But she didn’t come home for her tea,” DS Chinn said, lowering her notepad. “Was that typical?” Normally, Blake wouldn’t have appreciated the interruption, but she had drawn the woman’s fire and, once again, he was grateful.

  Mrs Thompson frowned. “No. She usually texts if she’s going to be late.”

  “She sent a Whatsapp message about three pm,” Mr Thompson said, pulling his phone out and scrolling his finger across the screen. “A picture. Here.” He held up the screen so that Blake could see it.

  Blake glanced over to Chinn and then back to Mr Thompson. “Could I possibly have a copy of that?"

  CHAPTER 6