by Helen Oliver
“You are welcome,” said the girl and returned to her flat.
The sandy-haired guy who opened the door, presumably Grayson, fastened his dressing-gown cord. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Russell Sykes.” Hammond paused, showed his ID. “And you are?”
“Tim Grayson.” The guy blinked hard. “D’you want to come in? I’m afraid it’s a bit of a tip.”
Hammond noted a wrought-iron table displaying curry house flyers and a dusty fake palm. “Not to worry,” he said, and stepped inside. “Sorry if this is a bad time.”
Grayson stifled a yawn. “I’ve only just got up.”
Hammond followed him into a kitchenette, possibly once part of the landing. “When did you last see Mr Sykes?”
The guy thought for a moment. “Monday. Before my night shift. Sorry, what’s this about?”
“Just a routine enquiry.” Grayson shrugged and Hammond continued. “Did Sykes seem to be his usual self?”
“Matter of fact, he was a bit down because his boss didn’t need him on Tuesday. That was yesterday.” He frowned: “I hope he’s okay – he’s a nice guy.”
“I just need to talk to him.”
Grayson shrugged. “He could be anywhere. If he works at a distance, helping with a bit of building or something, he often stays away overnight.”
“Will he have let you know where?”
“No need.” He gave a weary grin. “As long as he turns up to pay the rent.”
“I understand he’s a gardener.”
“Yeah. Funny that.”
“How, funny?”
Grayson looked awkward. “Sorry, wrong word.”
Hammond smiled, relaxed against the door post. “Go on. You can’t stop there.”
“It’s just -” He stopped. “He’s a trained gardener. Qualifications, yet he’s only got one serious job.”
“Where’s that?”
“Browbridge.”
Hammond nodded.
Grayson said. “If today was a Tuesday or Friday I could tell you exactly where he is.” He paused. “Rest of the time he does anything that turns up.” He shrugged. “There aren’t many gardens round here.”
Hammond said, “What’s your line of work?”
“Nursing. Triage at St James’s.”
“Right. So this is handy for you.” He eased the back of his neck. “Russ owns a car, I believe. He could get around.”
“Yeah, but it’s the price of petrol. He’d have to earn a fortune to make it worthwhile. He’d begun talking about looking for digs in Browbridge. They’d be crying out for him in that area.” He paused. “One thing I do know, he really likes that garden… Or perhaps it’s the woman he works for.”
“April Parsons.”
Grayson managed a smile. “I knew it began with a P.”
“Does Mr Sykes talk about her?
“From time to time. You can tell he likes her. She probably likes him, too. Like I said, he’s a nice guy.”
“Any regular girlfriend?”
“They come and go.”
“Do you have a photograph of him?”
“Yes, I have.” Grayson looked hard at Hammond. “You going to tell me what this is about?”
Hammond didn’t rush it. “I’m sorry to tell you that April Parsons is dead, and we need to get in touch with her immediate contacts.”
“God, that’s sad. Russ’ll be gutted. Actually, he thought the world of her. Was it sudden? Heart attack – stroke?” He frowned. “She’s a bit young for that. …Though it happens.”
“Mrs Parsons was murdered.”
“Oh, my God.” Grayson hesitated. “Why would you want a photograph of Russ?”
“Routine. So we can eliminate him from our enquiries.” He paused. “We’re aware of everyone else, and know where to find them. It’s a bit of a stumbling block if we can’t talk to Mr Sykes.”
“His mum works here in Leeds.”
“Yes, we know.” He paused, “It would be distressing for Sykes if he spotted Mrs Parsons’s death in the press.”
“Crikey, yes.”
“How old is Mr Sykes?”
“Twenty-four.” Grayson rubbed his face. “God, this is such a shock.”
Hammond said, “Any idea why Mrs Parsons didn’t need him yesterday?”
“No.” He paused. “Kind of felt like he didn’t want to talk about it.”
Hammond took a breath. “I’m sorry to pry – but are you in a relationship?”
Grayson nodded. “Anya. Downstairs at No.2.”
“Nice girl. She directed me up here.”
“We’re getting married.”
It wasn’t the time for smiling, but Hammond couldn’t help himself. “Congratulations.” He waited a moment. “The photograph?”
“Right, yeah.” Grayson took his phone from a shelf. “There’s one on here.” He slid his thumb across the screen. “There you go: Anya, Russ and me.”
Hammond took out his own phone. “I’ll take a copy.”
“No problem.”
Hammond copied the smiling trio and switched off his phone.
Grayson said, “If there’s anything I can do…”
“I need to search Mr Sykes’s room.”
Grayson put his phone back on the shelf. “Okay. It’s this way.”
“Thanks.”
Closing Sykes’s door behind him, Hammond looked around the room. There was nothing arresting about the space, not much to invite a second look. A single bed, cheap bedside table and lamp, a kilim rug fraying at the edges. A large hardback dedicated to pruning sat on a shelf beside two thick paperbacks: one on the subject of trees for gardens of all sizes, the other about spring and summer bulbs. A five-drawer pine chest – distressed but not intentionally – stood in front of a window needing a good clean. Starting from the bottom, burglar style, he looked through the drawers. Jeans, cords, T-shirts, woollen sweaters, folded boxer shorts and vests, three of them blue thermal. One of the two smaller top drawers contained different thicknesses of socks, long and short; the other drawer revealed postcards, pens, pencils, envelopes, three tape measures, a stapler with refills, a magnifying glass, a life-time supply of Post-Its, and leaflets about bees, butterflies and common garden birds.
A small plastic waste paper bin, more than half full, stood on the floor by the end of the bed. Hammond nudged it with his foot until, tipping over, it littered the rug with torn envelopes, used tissues, a lifeless biro and several Homebase receipts. He took an evidence bag from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and hunkered down. He noted the dates on the receipts, both last week, and together with the contents of the bin shook them into the bag.
Standing up, preparing to leave the room, he wondered how he’d missed a khaki jacket hanging on the back of the door. So much for observation! Checking four outside pockets he found bus tickets, train tickets, a dead clover, bits of fluff, another Homebase receipt and two acorns. Turning to the inside he unbuttoned a pocket intended for a mobile phone and drew out a folded piece of writing paper. He smoothed out the deeply creased piece of Basildon Bond, sat on the bed and read a letter from April Parsons – handwritten and dated the previous Saturday.
Dear Russ,
I wish I didn’t have to take this step, and am so sorry it has to end like this. If only there were another way. You must feel it’s a cruel twist of fate that promises joy for me, though unhappiness for you. I honestly hope that when our plan bears fruit you’ll take comfort from the part you played and can find it in your heart to forgive me. Please believe that I have valued your love and friendship. You made me feel good about myself. Every woman appreciates that. I’m certain the right girl is out there, waiting for you.
Needless to say, my lovely garden, made even lovelier by you, will miss your TLC. I did wonder if you should stay on, but I don’t think it would work. All things considered, I think distance would be kinder. I’m thinking of you.
Russ – I wish you all the very best and, on a cl
osing note, I would like to ask you to be discreet. You’ll know what I mean. I hope you understand.
With warm wishes,
April.
PS I hope the enclosed will go some way to help until you find another gardening position.
Hammond took a second evidence bag from his pocket, folded the khaki jacket and dropped it, and the letter, inside.
Grayson called from the hallway, “Anything I can do?”
Hammond pulled open the door, joined Grayson. “No, but thanks very much.”
“Did you find anything useful?”
“We’ll have to see.”
“So you did. Sorry, I know you can’t say much.”
Hammond said, “I mustn’t hold you up any longer,” and pulled out his phone. “Give me your mobile number.” Grayson handed over his phone, and he keyed in the number. He handed his card to Grayson. “Call me on mine if Sykes gets in touch.”
“Sure.”
*
The Chelsea tractor had moved on. The Fiesta was still there, with an Audi ridiculously close. Perhaps if he had that glass of Theakston’s it would have moved by the time he came out.
11
After Hammond had talked her through his visit to Sykes’s bed-sit, Cally took a slow breath. “The Dear John letter paints our gardener in a different light.” She’d seen Tim Grayson’s photo of Russell Sykes – enlarged, enhanced, now on the wall in the Incident Room – and pulled a small copy towards her. “He’s a good-looking young guy. Do we assume he and Parsons were having a full-blown affair?”
He paused, caught her eye. “Why not?”
She shook her head. “Can you imagine the effect that letter must have had on him? We can’t begin to guess how he felt.”
Hammond’s mouth tightened. “Can he have been blind to the risk? …A life behind bars?”
“That would apply to whoever killed her… If our killer is Sykes, what are we looking at? Intensity of feeling turning love on its head?”
He lifted his shoulders a fraction. “Or crime passionnel?”
“If it were that in the usual sense,” she said, “wouldn’t he have gone looking for his rival?”
Hammond sighed. “Search me.”
Cally said, “Parsons must have put a cheque in the post double quick. I wonder if he banked online. Assuming it wasn’t cash.”
“She says ‘the enclosed’. She could have caught the last post at the Sorting Office.” He opened an evidence bag containing the contents from April Parsons’s desk drawer, and tipped them onto the desk.
Cally leaned over, picked up a cheque book, bent it open. NatWest, Harrogate Branch, April S. Parsons: account number; sort code. She flicked through the few cheque stubs. “She didn’t use this much.”
Hammond said, “She probably used direct debit or BACs. Or a credit card for shopping online.”
“Here it is.” Cally passed the cheque book to Hammond. “Saturday’s date. Cheque for £1,000 made out to R Sykes.”
“More than I imagined.”
“What did you think?”
“Couple of hundred?”
Cally gave him a look. “Typical male.”
Hammond edited a line on his computer. “Okay. Sykes looks like our prime suspect, but let’s not put all our eggs in one basket.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Concentrate on him for the moment, though? Forget hypothetical suspects.” She straightened up. “Being dumped could’ve taken him any number of ways. …He could have been outraged. Heartbroken.” She took a breath. “Or he might have been looking for the ultimate revenge.”
“Or he could have taken his arse in his hand, cashed the cheque and paid for a last minute week in Spain.” His mouth tightened. “Fuck!”
“Fuck what?”
“Passport.”
“Or,” Cally said, “losing the love of his life – if that’s what Parsons was – he could have felt there was nothing left to live for.” She needed his full attention. “Forget the passport, he could have been suicidal.” She paused. “What do we know about his mental health?”
“Grayson didn’t hint at anything. Just said he was a nice guy who’d started feeling a bit low.”
“Like he’d been okay before?”
“I suppose so.” He reached for his phone, dialled DC Akpata and asked her to check with the Passport Office. Find out if Russell Sykes of 6a Back Oak Street, Leeds was in possession of a current passport. He tapped his biro on the desk, looked at Cally, “Weren’t you going to dig around? See why Harriet Bloom thought fit to tell that porky yesterday?”
“Hey, I forgot to tell you.”
“What?”
“Bloom’s attractive blonde boss. Absolute dead-ringer for someone.”
“Who?”
She laughed. “If I knew I’d tell you.”
Hammond grinned. “They say everyone has a double.”
Cally reached for her cardigan. “I wonder who yours is.” She waited a moment. “Think I’d rather talk to Bloom on home ground. I could do that after work.” She hesitated. “Wonder if Lucy’s had the baby yet.”
“Want to find out?”
She looked pleased. “I’ll call Martina Hemsworth. …Before I go though, anymore on Philip Parsons?”
Hammond said, “He broke the news of Parsons’s death to James – that’s his son – and also identified the body.”
“Both yesterday?”
“Yes.” He put his phone in his pocket. “Changing the subject. Kerridge is wanting to know when DI Franks is putting in an appearance.”
“Presumably when he’s off his crutches.”
“Football injuries leave her short on sympathy.”
“She can’t have it both ways,” said Cally. “Either we win matches and pick up injuries, or we pull out of the competition.”
Hammond rose. “She wants a quick result on Parsons.”
“So would you, if you were her.”
“I’ll never be her.”
She laughed. “Not without gender reassignment.”
“Not even then.”
She headed for the door. “Okay, you win.”
*
Congratulating herself for parking in the shade, Cally sat in the car and dialled Martina Hemsworth’s number.
The woman sounded exhausted; she hadn’t slept a wink. But no matter, she said: later she’d be going to the hospital to see her baby grandson.
*
Feeling mean for possibly getting there first, Cally drove up the steep curve to the car park on the hospital roof. She slipped a pair of Blue Bird baby vests into her bag, climbed out of the Focus, clicked the remote and came down the stone stairs. Walking briskly, she didn’t slow down until she reached the foyer. And stopped in surprise at the sight of Jez at the head of a queue waiting to pay for parking. With only one machine in working order, the mixed bunch of car owners stood like patient sheep, while Jez – his ticket swallowed by the machine – fumbled in his pockets for change. Shrugging at a fat woman blowing out exasperated cheeks, he stood helplessly.
Cally hurried up to him, glanced at the screen. “There’s no charge, Jez, you’ve not been here long enough.”
Grim faced, he said, “Oh, right,” and started to make for the double doors. Cally followed, caught his arm. “Hold on. Is everything all right?”
Eyes dead, he said, “She had a C-section.”
Martina Hemsworth hadn’t mentioned this. “Jez – it’s extremely common. She’ll be fine.”
He breathed into her face, looked blank. “Yeah.”
“A lovely little boy! Your mum’s thrilled to bits.”
His lips barely moved. “Is she?”
Cally let go, and he was gone. She stood for a moment, watched him lope across the carpark, barely noticing when a Jag just missed him.
She made her way to Rosebery Ward, where a nurse looked up from her notes. “Yes?”
“I’ve come to see Lucy Parsons. I understand she had a C-section?”
The nurse nodded.
“She’s not long back on the ward.” She looked apologetic. “I’m afraid it’s close family only.”
There were times…
She produced her ID. “She’ll want to see me.”
The nurse stood up. “She’s a wee bit sleepy.”
Cally smiled. “Only to be expected.”
The nurse indicated a curtained bay. “She’s in there.” Lucy was lying on her back, her face smooth. Cally felt a pang. How long before this untroubled girl realized she wanted her mum? She smiled at the sound of a newborn snuffling behind neighbouring green and pink curtains; further along another cried, and she looked across Lucy’s bed, at the cot on the other side. She moved round to look into it. Into its emptiness. Oh, God. Surely not.
A voice said softly, “Here we are.” Cally whirled round, came face to face with a stout nurse in whose arms lay – as perfectly plump as a newborn could ever be – a beautiful baby boy. Of colour. The nurse touched his chin. “He wins hands down for looks,” she whispered, “but don’t tell anyone.”
Cally took a breath. “Lucy had a visitor a short while ago. Did he see the baby?”
The nurse nodded. “Such a shame. He had to rush off.”
Cally thought of Jez’s dead-eyed look. She took a breath. “I’ve brought a little gift,” she said, and gave the nurse the vests.
“I’ll put them in Miss Parsons’s cabinet.” She drew close, whispered. “Is it true about her mum?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh dear. Well, it’s best we know.”
Cally said, “I’ll be getting along. I don’t think Mum’s ready to chat.”
“I’ll tell her you brought a gift.”
“Thank you. Tell her Cally Burns visited, and that I think her baby is beautiful. I’ll be in touch.”
*
Cally walked up the three flights of stone stairs to the heat-exposed car park. Hot air escaped the car’s interior and she waited for the faint hint of a breeze to cool it. She gazed across the town’s rooftops, took out her phone and called Hammond. Told him about the baby.
12