Songbird

by Peter Grainger

  Reeve looked down at the phone in her hand and said to herself as much as to Serena, ‘Seventy-one Biscot Road.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. A case of how the other half lives. And sibling rivalry.’

  ‘Why do you say that? Why sibling rivalry?’

  ‘Just something Graham Fletcher said about the two of them. It makes sense if this is where Michelle Simms was living.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s an “if”. This is the address, alright. It’s just not…’

  ‘A very good fit, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not what I was expecting. You?’

  You? Yes, what about you, Serena Butler? What judgements do the officers at Kings Lake Central make about you and where you came from, based on what they see in front of them now? Biscot Road is actually a bit posh compared to Balsall Heath, isn’t it?

  ‘I know what you mean, ma’am. It’s easier to picture her in the other house than this one. It’s probably the best one in the street, but even so…’

  Reeve took another look at number seventy-one, and Serena remembered a conversation with Smith when he’d talked about his own origins and they had realised they came from virtually identical backgrounds. His escape had been the Army, and hers had been some unexpectedly good exam results, but those early years shape you and remain with you forever. After that conversation, there had been something of an understanding between them, something like a bond, maybe.

  DCI Reeve took the keys out of the ignition and said, ‘Well, let’s go and talk to her other half. He hardly said a word last Saturday. That’s why I wanted to meet him here, rather than at the Fletchers’ place. I didn’t want them doing all the talking again.’

  She glanced up and down the road.

  ‘Do you think it’s safe to leave the windows open a bit?’

  Serena shrugged and made an I-don’t-know face. The detective chief inspector sighed, nodded and closed them again. The posters were all over the station, the friendly old uniformed sergeant pointing out at you and saying “Be Safe – Don’t Make Yourself A Victim Of Crime”.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Serena Butler’s first thought was that if number seventy-one wasn’t a good fit for Michelle Simms, Barry Simms was an even poorer one. He came to the door wearing cheap, baggy jeans and a green T shirt with damp patches on the front; at first she feared he’d been sweating in odd places but he explained on the doorstep that he was doing a bit of cleaning up, what with people coming. It was only later she realised they themselves were the people coming, the police detectives.

  They followed him along a short hallway and into the lounge. It was neatly furnished and carpeted, and there was a smell of polish. There were fitted bookshelves, wall-lights with dimmer switches, oak window sills, picture rails – the place had been expertly decorated, and Serena just knew that the man responsible was Barry Simms.

  He was asking whether they would like to sit down, uncertainly, as if the very suggestion might seem inappropriate under the circumstances, as if, never having had a wife murdered before, he was unsure of the right way to proceed. Reeve took a seat on the sofa, joined by Serena, and Barry Simms sat facing them on a matching chair. He wasn’t a big man at all, little taller than Michelle had been in her bare feet, and his face was narrow and nervous. If he’d shaved this morning, it wasn’t closely. In the corner of his mouth was a trace of white which Serena guessed was toothpaste.

  Alison Reeve said she would explain why they were here shortly, but first she asked after Mr Simms himself. She expressed her sympathies for his loss, and asked whether he was getting enough help. If not, she might be able to talk to someone in the local force, get a contact for the social services.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘that’s not necessary, but thank you. Michaela and Graham have been very supportive, they couldn’t have done more. Michaela’s taking care of all the arrangements for – well, all the things that have to be done.’

  The funeral, Serena thought. He can’t bring himself to say it yet. She tried to picture it, this man wearing an ill-fitting suit – because it would be – in a church or at a graveside, trying to make sense of the death of a woman who could not have loved him. She couldn’t, could she? Serena looked around the room as Reeve worked through the platitudes, hoping to find a wedding photograph as a reference point but there didn’t seem to be one.

  ‘So, Mr Simms,’ said Reeve, ‘we came because I wanted to update you in person on our investigation. We’ve already conducted a number of interviews, and more are planned. We should soon begin to get back the results of the tests that have been carried out, and obviously, when there are developments I’ll make sure you’re kept informed. But I also wanted to ask you whether anything else has occurred to you about what happened last week. You told us Michelle texted you when she arrived at the Pinehills caravan park. We should have asked you this on Friday, Mr Simms, but could we have a copy of that message on your phone? It’s a routine procedure, nothing to worry about.’

  Barry Simms got up and went to the television which was mounted on its own glass shelf – there was also a USB charging point in the same socket and his mobile was there. He pulled out the lead, found the text and handed the phone to Reeve. She read it and passed it on to Serena, who knew what was required. She copied and forwarded it to her own phone as Reeve explained what they were doing.

  Reeve said, ‘Mr Simms, have you checked whether you had any missed calls from Michelle last week?’

  And again, Serena was checking as Simms answered that he had not, but there were none to be found on his phone. Reeve next asked him if he knew why Michelle had changed her mind at the last minute and joined her sister at the caravan.

  He said, ‘I don’t think there was a particular reason. That’s how she is, you know, sometimes… Impulsive. Spur of the moment. The salon gets very busy, and she does long hours there. Some weekends too, this time of year.’

  Reeve said, ‘That must be difficult. You didn’t see much of each other when that was going on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it you do, Mr Simms?’

  He didn’t answer straight away. There seemed to be a moment when he realised that detectives were here, questioning him about the death of his wife.

  ‘Me? I’m a shift engineer at Schmidt Plastics. You’re right. Sometimes we hardly met for days at a time, especially when I was on the late shift.’

  ‘And what shift were you on last week?’

  ‘Early. That’s six in the morning until two in the afternoon. I remember saying to her we could have half a day somewhere if she could get an afternoon off but… Then she decided to go and see Michaela.’

  Serena watched him and thought, he said the Fletchers have been supportive, but he’s still not come to terms with what’s happened. Has he been here on his own since they came back on Saturday? Is there anyone else he can turn to for help?

  Barry Simms said then, ‘You can’t make sense of it. Someone goes to stay at the seaside for a couple of days, and they never come back.’

  There isn’t much you can say but Reeve did her best under the circumstances. Simms straightened himself up after a minute or so and said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m not being much use to you. Would you like to see her room?’

  The glance from Reeve was momentary but enough. Michelle Simms had her own room here? How odd was this? You look at the rooms of missing persons, runaway teenagers, but Michelle was neither of those. Nevertheless, Reeve concealed her surprise perfectly and said yes, if he didn’t mind, that might be helpful.

  It was the largest bedroom, at the back of the house and made larger by the fact that a two-story extension had been added, creating an L-shaped building, unlike the adjoining property which was still the original rectangle. It was obvious that the Simms had been here for a long time, and Serena guessed that Barry had done most if not all of this work himself. The window overlooked the long, narrow strip of garden, exactly like the one she had played in herself as a child. There was a lawn an
d borders, a shed and a little greenhouse, all as neat and tidy as the lounge downstairs.

  Simms stood in the doorway behind them as if he needed permission to go any further, and he looked more nervous than he had downstairs, as if he might have made a mistake letting them in here without her say-so. After a moment Reeve said, ‘Mr Simms, could I trouble you for something to drink? It’s such a hot day!’

  He looked almost grateful for an excuse to get away from here and into the kitchen. Yes, he said, of course, he should have offered them tea or coffee before this, or a cold drink?

  ‘Tea would be good, Mr Simms. They always say it’s the best thing on a hot day. Milk but no sugar, if you don’t mind – and the same for DC Butler. We’ll be back downstairs in a couple of minutes, no need to bring it up here.’

  Serena didn’t know about drinking tea on hot days but she did know why Reeve had suggested it – of all the options, tea would take the longest to make. The DCI wanted a look around without Simms there, or she wanted a quick word, or both.

  The bed was large, queen size most likely, and placed centrally, the headboard against the inner wall – you could sit up in bed and look directly out of the window, or at the flat-screen television which was mounted on the same wall. Michelle Simms did that sometimes; the remote control was on a little table at the right-hand side of the bed. The duvet cover was crushed velvet, a dark red, and there were pillows to match. Reeve lifted one corner and revealed a satin under-sheet in a lighter but still matching shade of red. The full-length curtains tied back at each side of the window coordinated too, dark red with shiny silver hearts and arrows woven into the fabric. The carpet was luxurious and cream-coloured – not a shade that Serena would have chosen but it worked here. On the right side of the room was a small chaise longue – to be honest, if there hadn’t been, you’d have asked why – and next to that a dressing table and chair in a fine, dark wood that could be antique. There were make-up items on it, probably the last ones Michelle had used before the impulsive departure for the coast and her death.

  The bedside table had a shelf underneath, with a couple of paperbacks and some magazines. Serena crouched and took a look. The books were cheap romances, and the magazines were women’s, but amongst them was one item that caught her attention, something that might be worth mentioning to Reeve when Barry Simms was not around and likely to overhear.

  Reeve had gone to the opposite side of the room. This consisted entirely of built-in wardrobes, oak most likely, floor to ceiling. She pulled open one pair of doors – there were five in total – and revealed rails hung with clothes, packed tightly together. To add more, you’d need to start making regular donations to charity shops. Dresses, skirts, blouses, jackets, winter coats – Serena glimpsed something in fur before Reeve closed the doors.

  When Reeve turned, she pointed – she wanted Serena to close the door to the bedroom as well. Then she said, ‘Christ! She’s got more clothes than I’ve bought in my entire life!’

  ‘And nothing cheap either, ma’am.’

  Reeve frowned and said, ‘Are you implying something about my own wardrobe, detective constable?’

  The two of them had worked together often enough for Serena Butler not to take alarm at that. She smiled and said, ‘The whole room’s a bit over-the-top, isn’t it? A bit self-indulgent?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s just self-indulgent. I think she got whatever she wanted from Mr Simms – he did a fair bit of the indulging himself. It’s self-contained. She could shut herself away in here. All it needs is a kitchenette and she had a bedsit. Did you notice how he stood at the door and didn’t come in?’

  Serena nodded and said, ‘Well, almost self-contained. She didn’t have her own en suite.’

  Reeve held up a finger, pointed, then followed it to the end pair of wardrobe doors. ‘This is clever but the light switch gives it away. Unless I’m much mistaken…’ She pulled open the door and sure enough there was a bathroom. Serena took a couple of steps, enough to see that it was as well-appointed as the rest of Michelle Simms’ private living space.

  ‘What are you making of this, ma’am? It’s all a bit odd, isn’t it?’

  Reeve said, ‘Define odd. You can’t imagine a relationship so weird that someone somewhere isn’t already living in it. There’s nowt so queer as folk? It seems obvious she was dominant, though, and we should never ignore the obvious. This room’s as useful as anything anyone has told us about her. You could almost say we should take a photo or two and pin them up in the incident room…’

  There was a moment when they looked at each before Reeve said no, they couldn’t do that, it would be overstepping some sort of line, wouldn’t it? Then she said they ought to go and see what Barry Simms could do with a teapot – he was obviously good with his hands. And is there anything else we need to ask him before we leave?

  Serena said, ‘He was on the early shift last week, so he finished work at two pm. We should ask him where he was on Thursday night.’

  ‘Quite right. Why should we, though?’

  ‘Sixty-three per cent, ma’am.’

  Reeve took a last look around Michelle Simms’ strange little sanctuary before she said, ‘I always think that’s an underestimate.’

  At home and alone, Barry Simms said, in answer to Detective Constable Butler’s question. He had re-wired the utility room a couple of weeks ago and had redecorated it while Michelle was away. He offered to show them, and some men would have suggested that ironically but not Barry Simms, you couldn’t imagine that. When they declined, he looked a little disappointed.

  She asked him then in a conversational way how long they’d been married, and he said without needing to check, twelve years, twelve years last May. Serena remembered that Michelle was thirty-seven, so they’d married when she was twenty-five. How had that happened, she asked herself. Michelle seemed to have been a handful in the second half of her thirties – what was she like in her mid-twenties? Simms was probably a few years older – it was difficult to tell. But he seemed willing to talk, so she asked him how they had met; she had a destination in all this, another question she wanted to ask eventually.

  As he talked, Alison Reeve reached into her bag and pressed a couple of tablets out of a foil pack. Stronger than your average painkillers, was Serena’s guess. They were taken discreetly with a mouthful of tea, and then while she was looking in her bag, the DCI opened her phone and glanced at her messages. Something there caused her to frown and catch Serena’s eye.

  ‘It was a blind date,’ he said, ‘you know, the kind of daft thing friends sometimes do?’

  It was hard even to imagine them having friends in common.

  ‘People were getting married, getting into relationships and having babies, and they try to pull everyone else in with them. They bought us cinema tickets and we had to go and sit and wait to see who turned up. I was there first. I sat there on my own and the film started, and I thought, you know, here we go again. Someone’s sitting at the back and having a good laugh at my expense…’

  Reeve said, ‘What was the film, Mr Simms?’

  ‘“Casino Royale” with Daniel Craig. I thought that was meant to be a part of the joke as well. Him being the handsome hero, the hard man who always gets the girl, and me sitting there like a gooseberry. But then I could see everyone in the row having to stand up, and there she was coming towards me. She was smiling and apologising to them, and nobody minded because she was… Well, she just sat down next to me and said, ‘Sorry I’m late, tell me what’s happened.’’

  He had their attention now. The memory had animated his face for the first time. Barry Simms would never have got through the front door of the MI6 building at Vauxhall Cross unless it was to do some redecorating, but he had fallen in love with a very pretty girl that night, fallen in love at first sight. It was written all over his face, all these years later.

  ‘After the film we went and got something to eat. At an Indian restaurant, her idea, I’d never been to one. I had
n’t brought my car, so I travelled home with her on the bus, saw her to her front door. She had a flat in Leagrave. She asked me in but I said I had to be up early for work, and she thought that was hilarious. She said I was a gentleman and gave me a phone number to fix up another date.’

  In this job, thought Serena, people tell you stories all the time. They tell you lies and even half the lies they tell you aren’t true lies. You learn to keep your distance, to doubt and distrust, but there was something genuinely sad about Barry Simms and the story of his one true love. She had to ask him when they got married, and he said it was a year later, adding, with a smile that was more from pain than pleasure, that he sometimes wondered whether she’d agreed to just have the last laugh on those friends who’d fixed them up in the first place.

  When she took the final step and asked about children, Serena sensed the surprise on Alison Reeve’s face but didn’t look at her. Barry Simms was silent at first. For a few seconds the only sound was a distant roar of jet engines as a plane made the descent into the airport three miles to the east.

  Then he said, ‘No, it never happened. Michelle was a hairdresser. She was always ambitious, planning to open her own place. Then she took on managing Vicky’s in the town. That’s a big business now, thanks to her. You’d say she’s a career woman, I suppose.’

  Reeve said, ‘I expect her family was important to her, though, Barry. She seems to have been close to her sister, Michaela.’

  He nodded and said, ‘Michelle’s fond of those girls. She spoils them on birthdays and Christmases.’

  ‘Did she visit her sister often?’

  ‘She called in most weeks, I’d say.’

  ‘And they got on well? Did they argue at times?’

  For the first time, Barry Simms seemed to stop and reflect on the line of questioning.