by Alex Walters
'Always painful in a case like this,' she agreed. 'I watched it on the TV in the Chief's office. Thought you did a good job.'
'Well, I'm glad you thought so.' The lights changed to green and Murrain accelerated through the centre of town towards the station where they'd located the MIR.
'Chief thought so too, if that tickles your ego. He thought you sounded confident and reassuring. And authoritative. Like you know what you're doing.'
'Whereas he and you know better,' Murrain observed. 'He must have said that through gritted teeth.'
'He's got a lot of time for you, Kenny, as you well know.' She allowed a beat. 'More than you deserve.'
'No doubt.' She was right, though, as he knew. Murrain had his run-ins with the senior ranks as most operational officers at his level tended to, but his track-record stood up to scrutiny even if his methods sometimes raised eyebrows. For his part, though he rarely brought himself to say so out loud, he thought the Chief Officers' Group were mostly a capable bunch. They'd been largely successful at shielding the force from political and financial pressures that he couldn't begin to imagine dealing with, and for the most part seemed content to trust him and his colleagues to get on with their work. It hadn't quite felt like that a couple of hours earlier, when he was being grilled by a panel of his Chief Super, the ACC and the Head of Communications prior to kicking off the press conference, but he knew they'd also just been doing their jobs. Everyone wanted to get this one right.
The purpose of the press conference had been to showcase the Dunns' public appeal for information. The parents had coped creditably in the face of the media pack. They'd been emotional but remained coherent, striking the right tone to encourage potential informants to pick up the phone. Murrain had taken questions from the media, most of which, inevitably, had carried the implication that the police really ought to have made more progress by now. Murrain's responses had been positive if non-committal. Presumably that was what the Chief had meant by 'reassuring'.
'I'm assuming you'll be pulling another late one tonight?' Eloise said.
'Imagine so.' He'd reached the turn-off to the police station but, on a whim, continued along the main road, heading out of town towards the neighbouring village. He wasn't sure what had made him continue driving. Not quite one of his usual feelings. But something.
'I've got to attend some after-hours Council thing tonight,' she said. 'So don't reckon I'll be back till eight-thirtyish. Take away?'
'Fine by me. Whatever you fancy.'
Eloise was an operational Chief Superintendent, although somehow her relative seniority seemed to mean she was generally back home long before Murrain in the evenings. But he was fully aware of the pressures involved in her role. 'What I fancy most at the moment is not having to attend this bloody Council meeting. Two hours of sniping and backbiting. But I haven't been able to come up with a decent excuse.'
'It's the price you pay for high office,' he said. 'Better dealing with councillors than corpses.'
'I'm not sure it's always possible to tell the difference.'
Murrain said his goodbyes, and then continued down the hill and over the river into the village where Ethan Dunn had lived his brief life. Once across the river he turned right off the main road into the centre of the village. The road ran alongside the river for a few hundred yards and then rose again, heading up into the Derbyshire hills, towards the area where Ethan's body had been found. The old stone cottages clustered tightly around what once had been no more than a track then the road widened again as the surrounding buildings thinned. Ahead, this route eventually led past Pete Tanner's farm to the open moorland beyond. Before he reached the farm, Murrain slowed and, signalling right, turned into the driveway of an imposing Edwardian villa that loomed over the roadside, incongruous after the clusters of older artisans' cottages that characterised this end of the village.
There was a small car park and Murrain pulled into a space marked 'Visitors'. A couple of other cars were parked at the far end, presumably belonging to staff, and a minibus stood in front of the main entrance. Murrain stood for a moment gazing up at the brooding lines of the building. It was a sizeable place, no doubt built by some rich industrialist with the resources to live a suitable distance from the urban sources of his wealth. The building was surrounded by woodland, and the rear would have an impressive view out across the Goyt valley.
Ethan Dunn's body had been found in the adjoining land, just a couple of miles so up the road. As Murrain stood in the chilly afternoon sunlight, he could feel something, some distant sense of static, but he couldn't for the moment tell whether it was associated with this building or simply stirred by the proximity to Tanner's farm. He waited for a moment and then made his way up the stone steps to the entrance.
Inside, he found a smart-looking reception area, with plush carpeting, comfortable seats and discreet decor. Designed to make a positive impression on those considering depositing their elderly relatives in the place. There was no immediate sign of life but after a few moments a woman in a nursing-style outfit appeared through the double-doors beyond the reception desk, smiling broadly.
'Good afternoon,' she said. 'How can I help you?'
Murrain brandished his warrant card. 'Chief Inspector Murrain,' he said. 'I was wondering whether the owner or manager's available?'
The smile had vanished instantaneously, replaced by an expression which Murrain assumed was intended to convey sympathetic concern. He could imagine her using it when breaking bad news about one of the home's residents. 'Is this about…?' Her voice trailed to silence, but she gestured vaguely in the direction, presumably, of Tanner's farm.
Murrain nodded. 'I imagine you'll already have spoken to one of my officers as part of our enquiries. I just had a few additional questions, so thought I'd call in on my way past.' None of this was strictly true. He hadn't been passing, and, for the moment at least, he had no real idea why he was here or what he was going to ask. He'd simply wanted to get a feel for the place, follow up on the brief instinctive frisson he'd felt when Tanner had first mentioned the care-home.
He'd had Bert Wallace run a check on the place already but she'd found nothing of interest. The home was appropriately registered with the Care Quality Commission, and there were no recorded concerns about its operation. It was an independent business and the most recent filed accounts suggested it was running profitably. A brief check through the local press achieves had uncovered no reports of scandal or wrongdoing. A couple of Murrain's team had been out here as part of the general door-to-door enquiries but no-one had been able to offer anything useful. The staff on duty at the relevant time had seen nothing. The residents were all fully accounted for. The fields adjoining Tanner's land were let to a local riding-school for grazing and the care home staff had no reason to access them. It had just been another property to tick off as the officers worked their way through the village.
'I'll check whether Mr Brody's available,' she said. 'Can I get you a coffee?'
He smiled and declined the offer, then lowered himself into one of the comfortable-looking seats to wait. He half-expected that Brody might find some excuse not to see him, but a few moments later the double-doors were flung open and a tall, heavily-built man burst into the reception area. 'Good afternoon, Chief Inspector,' he boomed. 'Welcome to our humble institution.'
Murrain took the outstretched hand and found himself subjected to a vigorous and theatrical handshake.
'Finlan Brody at your service. How can we assist you, Chief Inspector?'
It was a good question and Murrain had no immediate answer. Fortunately, before he could respond, Brody ushered him through the double-doors into the corridor beyond into what was presumably Brody's office. It was an elegantly furnished room, with an old-fashioned mahogany desk set squarely on a plush carpet, and a selection of tasteful and expensive-looking artwork adorning the walls. Two large arched windows gave a view over the lawns at the rear to the open space of the river valley beyond. Murrain could imagine so
me residents and their relatives might be reassured by such visible opulence. Others might wonder what their fees were being spent on.
'I hope we've offered you coffee?'
'Thank you, I'm fine,' Murrain said. 'I won't keep you long.' He'd hoped for something when he walked in here, some confirmation of the sensation he'd felt when talking to Tanner. But for the moment there was nothing he could feel sure of—only a faint background hum, some faint sense of meaning lurking just beyond his comprehension. He was wasting his time, not to mention Brody's. 'Impressive place you've got here,' he said.
'I was lucky. The house was actually an inheritance—some maiden aunt I'd never met, would you believe? At first, I thought it was too big to live in and was on the point of selling it. But I was looking for a change of career at the time so I decided to move into this business. It was a bit hairy for the first couple of years because I'd had to borrow a lot for the conversion, but after that we've never looked back.' Murrain thought that this sounded like a well-rehearsed routine and was unsurprised when Brody shifted gear into a sales pitch. 'We've invested a lot in the place over the years. Facilities second to none. Really excellent staff. Beautiful location. If you're ever seeking care for elderly relatives, Chief Inspector—' He stopped and smiled. There was something theatrical about his every gesture. His appearance—swept back hair, a neatly trimmed beard, an costly-looking jacket just the right side of casual—were designed to make an impact. He seemed unlikely to suffer from any lack of self-esteem. 'But you've not come to listen to me waxing eloquent about this place. I assume you've come about the dreadful business up the road?'
Murrain had decided his only option was to play to Brody's evident ego. 'I just wanted to introduce myself and perhaps see whether I might pick your brains. I appreciate you've already spoken to one of my colleagues but I thought, given your standing in the local community, that it might be helpful to talk to you directly ' He had no idea what Brody's real standing in the local community might be, but he guessed Brody himself was unlikely to underestimate it.
'Only too happy to help if there's anything I can do. I'm very active in the community. We do our best to ensure it's a place we can all be proud of.'
'I don't suppose you knew the Dunns?' He wasn't sure what had made him ask the question, but he'd felt the sudden buzz that suggested it was in some way significant.
'The parents?' Brody frowned. 'I don't think so. The name didn't ring a bell when I saw them on the TV. I may have recognised the faces, though. It's a small village. You tend to see people out and about. I suppose they might have had a relative living here but I've no recollection of it. Nothing more than that.' He paused and looked up at Murrain. 'Do you suspect the parents?'
Murrain could imagine Brody as the type to dispense some supposedly insider gossip as he held court in the village pub. 'We've no reason to,' Murrain said, shortly. 'I'm just looking for general background. Anything that might help us identify potential leads. You must know the community well?'
'You mean, can I point you in the direction of any likely child killers?' Brody said, pointedly. 'Can't say I've noticed any hanging around the village.' He shook his head. 'Sorry—that was flippant. But I can't believe it was anyone local who did this.'
Which was always what people thought, Murrain reflected, right up to the point when they discovered what the quiet young man in the flat above or the harmless old chap next door had really been capable of. 'You'll appreciate we have to explore these possibilities, Mr Brody. Despite what the media would have us believe, it's rare that these crimes are committed by random strangers. But I'm not expecting you to inform on your neighbours. I'm really just looking for some insights into the village. Does it tend to be very family orientated, for example? Or are there many people living alone?' The buzz was still there in the back of his head, perhaps even growing stronger. There was something here, he felt, but he had no idea what.
'It's like anywhere, really,' Brody said. 'A bit of a mix. We attract some older people. It's a nice place to retire—picturesque but not remote. We've got young families. There are a couple of decent primary schools up the hill. And a few people on their own—youngsters who've not got hitched yet, the odd widow or widower.' He laughed. 'Even the very odd middle-aged bachelor like me. There's a decent train service to Manchester so we get plenty who commute into the city. We call it a village, but it's a dormitory town really.' He shrugged. 'I hear what you say about the likelihood of it being a random stranger, but we do get all sorts through here. Ramblers who get the train out so they can head into the hills. People passing through on their way to the motorway. People visiting the local cafes and pubs. It may look quaint, but it's not exactly your cloistered rural village.'
Murrain had gained a similar impression during his brief walks along the main street. The place had made the most of its attractive riverside location, hidden cosily among the surrounding hills and woodland, the main street lined with cafes and shops aimed at the weekend day-tripper market. Discreetly concealed off the main drag, there were rows of new-build housing—including the estate where the Dunns lived—occupied largely by commuters who were absent at work for the larger part of the week. Beyond those, towards Stockport and Manchester, there was a larger adjacent town with its own substantial population. The killer might not be a random stranger, but—in the absence of any direct link with the Dunns—the number of possible suspects could be enormous. 'I take the point,' Murrain agreed.
'All I can tell you,' Brody said, 'is that the local community's right behind you. Whoever's behind this, they want him caught and soon.' He made the words sound like a threat. 'I head up a forum of local businesses. Just an informal thing for networking. But we've got parents of young children among the members and I can tell you they're scared to death by this. Until this guy's caught, no-one's letting their kids out of their sight.'
'Has anyone mentioned any other incidents involving children?' Murrain asked. It was a question his officers were routinely asking in their interviews. 'Attempted snatchings, approaches from strangers, that sort of thing. If Ethan Dunn was unlucky enough to be targeted randomly, it may not be a one-off. We've had reports of incidents elsewhere in the borough, which may or may not be connected, but not here.'
'I've heard of nothing like that,' Brody said. 'If there had been, I'm sure word would have got around, given what's happened now.'
Murrain nodded, keen now to end the interview, conscious he'd had no good reason for being here in the first place. 'Well, thanks for your time, Mr Brody.' He pushed himself slowly to his feet. 'I won't keep you any longer.' He paused, looking past Brody at the sunlit garden outside. Now he was standing, he could see the fencing that lined the northern border of the lawns and the meadow beyond. In the distance he could see the trees that marked the start of the woodland and Pete Tanner's farm.
In that moment, he felt something shimmering behind his eyes. Some image, blurred, ill-defined. He turned back to Brody as the moment passed and the vision, whatever it might have been, dissolved. 'Fine view.'
'Very fine,' Brody agreed. 'We're fortunate to live here, Chief Inspector.' His smile broadened, although there was no obvious warmth to it. 'Let's hope we can keep it that way, eh?'
'Let's hope so,' Murrain said, meeting Brody's gaze. Something, he thought. There's something here. But, as so often, he couldn't begin to imagine what.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two years earlier
'Mum. Granny said we could go for a pizza! Can we go now?'
Kate Forester stood in the hallway, her jacket half off her shoulders. She gazed past Jack’s bouncing figure to where her mother was watching the television news. 'That’s what granny said, was it?' She pitched her voice loud enough to ensure Elizabeth could hear over the reports of some middle-eastern bombing.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. 'Oh, hello, dear. You’re back. What was that?'
'Jack seems to think we’re going for a pizza.'
'I’m not sure whe
re he’s got that idea—'
'But, granny, you said! This afternoon. You said we could!' Jack was already adopting the uniquely shrill outrage of a child deprived of his inalienable human rights.
'I don’t think that’s quite what I said—'
'Don’t worry, mum. If that’s what Jack wants, we can go out. I don’t really feel up to cooking tonight anyway.'
'Well, if that’s not a problem for you, dear.'
'No, mum, it’s not a problem for me. Don’t worry.' Kate lowered herself wearily on to the sofa and watched as Elizabeth eased herself comfortably back into her armchair. In exchange for Kate paying a generously high rent, Elizabeth had offered to provide child-care while Kate was at work. From time to time, Kate found herself wondering whether this arrangement was quite as mutually beneficial as it had first appeared. 'Do you want to come too?'
'That’s very kind of you, dear. But I might just enjoy a quiet evening to myself.'
Of course you might, Kate thought. I might, too, if the chance were ever there. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had an evening to herself. Or, at least, an evening to herself when she didn’t have to catch up with work.
She waved Jack out of the room. 'Get out of your school uniform, then. And we’ll see about that pizza.'
'I hope that’s all right, dear,' Eizabeth said, as usual expressing concern only when the die was firmly cast. 'You’re looking a bit tired.'
'Always a tonic to hear that.'
'You need something to perk you up, that’s all I can say.'
Kate recognised where the conversation was heading. 'Something to perk you up' was one her mother’s code-phrases which could loosely be translated as 'a man'. 'I’m fine,' Kate repeated.
'I still think that you and Graeme—'
Kate took a deep breath. 'Mum. You need to get this into your head. Graeme and I are finished. Forever. We’re not going to get back together. Not for you. Not for anyone.'
'It’s not about me, love. I’m just thinking of what’s best for you. '