by Alex Walters
He carried the coffees back into the MIR and placed one beside Joe, who nodded his thanks. Murrain settled himself at his desk and continued working through the stack of e-mails that had accumulated over the previous twenty-four hours. He'd picked up and responded to all the urgent ones—mainly from various senior officers seeking yet more content-free updates—the previous night. But there were numerous others relating to other live cases or past cases progressing through the judicial pipelines, or just to the interminable administration that went with his line management role. He spent a productive half hour or so working through them, responding to some, deferring others and deleting the rest.
As the clock passed nine, he dialled the number Winters had forwarded on to him. A female voice answered.
'Mrs Morrison? DCI Murrain from Greater Manchester Police. I'm calling in response to the incident you reported yesterday.'
There was a pause. 'Oh, yes. Charlie.'
'Your son?'
'Yes. Look, I don't know if we should have bothered you, really. It was my husband— Charlie's a very imaginative child. I don't know…' She trailed off.
'I think we should come and talk to you anyway, Mrs Morrison. And to Charlie. It won't take long.' He'd encountered this kind of reluctance before though the reasons varied. Often, it was nothing more than a desire not to get involved or not to waste police time. In this kind of case, it sometimes felt like a form of denial, magical thinking to ward off possible harm. As if by pretending nothing had happened, she might protect her child.
'I'm not sure that there was anything really—'
'Quite possibly not,' Murrain said gently. 'But I think we need to be sure. Would you be available for us to come and talk to you, and to Charlie, this morning?'
'Well, I don't know. My husband works on a Saturday morning.'
'Was your husband present when the incident occurred?'
'No. He was still at work. But I didn't really see—'
'In that case, we probably don't need to speak to your husband. If you could just spare us a few minutes, that would be marvellous.'
'If you think it's necessary.'
'It would be very helpful to us, Mrs Morrison. My apologies for any inconvenience.'
They agreed a time and Murrain ended the call. He sat for a moment with the phone still clutched in his hands, staring at nothing. He felt for a moment as if an image were coalescing in his mind, but it refused to take shape. Something half-familiar.
'You OK?' Milton asked.
'Yes. But that call. It was odd. She seemed keen to avoid talking to us.'
'Most people are,' Milton observed. 'For one reason or another.'
'That's what I thought. But—I don't know. Just as I ended the call. I got something. Something quite strong. Not just a feeling but—well, almost an image.'
'Go on.'
'You know how it is. Well, you don't, but I've told you. It's like waking from a dream. A minute ago it was clear. Now it's fading. But it was a sense of—I don't know—of Mrs Morrison. And someone else. Someone with her. Someone who matters.'
***
The drive to Hazel Grove took them only about fifteen minutes in the early Saturday morning traffic. Murrain drove past the Morrisons' house and pulled in further down the street, wanting to get some sense of the place before they met Mrs Morrison and her son.
Hazel Grove was a sprawling residential area surrounding the busy A6 south of Stockport, much more suburban than its name suggested. Away from the A6 itself, it was the sort of area that would be attractive to young families. Neat estates of detached and semi-detached houses, decent-sized gardens, wide streets. No doubt there were well-regarded schools and good transport links. Not the sort of place that appealed to Murrain, who liked to feel closer to open countryside, but he could see the attractions.
The street itself was quiet, though there was a steady stream of traffic along the road beyond, heading up towards the main artery of the A6. That was presumably where, according to the account Winters had provided, the school bus had dropped young Charlie. Charlie was accustomed to walking the last fifty or so yards by himself. It might be no more than coincidence, but the circumstances were very similar to those surrounding Ethan Dunn's killing. A school bus. A child walking alone for only a few minutes. A waiting van.
'What do you think?' Milton said from behind him.
'Who knows? Let's go and see what young Charlie has to say.' He led the way up the Morrisons' driveway, past a parked Ford Fiesta, and pressed the doorbell. The house and garden looked tidy, but without the obsessive neatness that had characterised the Dunns' home. This place looked lived in. There was a half-deflated football at the edge of the lawn, a child's bicycle visible behind the gate at the side of the house.
It was a few moments before the door opened and a woman in her mid-thirties peered back at the them. Murrain held out his warrant card, but the woman was already opening the door to invite them in. She looked keen to get this over with.
'Thanks for sparing the time, Mrs Morrison. We won't keep you any longer than necessary.' Murrain followed her into the house.
'If you think it's really worthwhile.' She gestured for them to enter the sitting room. 'Take a seat. Can I get you a tea or coffee?'
Murrain would normally have refused, but instinct told him they'd benefit from giving Mrs Morrison a few moments to calm herself. She seemed unexpectedly on edge. 'That would be nice. A coffee, please, if it's no trouble. Just white without.'
'Same for me, please,' Milton said.
Once he could hear the sound of the kettle being filled in the kitchen, Milton said: 'I think she was hoping we wouldn't stay long enough to drink a coffee.'
'Seems a bit jumpy.' Murrain looked around. Like the exterior of the house, the room looked neat but far from sterile. There was a pile of toys in one corner, a stack of children's books on the low coffee-table, a scattering of unsorted DVDs under the television.
After a few minutes, Mrs Morrison returned with a tray topped with three coffee mugs. Murrain and Milton rose to take their coffees and waited as Mrs Morrison took hers and sat down facing them.
'I really hope we're not wasting your time,' she said. She was a short, slim woman with blonde hair. Good-looking, Murrain thought. The sort who'd have been able to have her pick of the men when she was a little younger.
'Definitely not, Mrs Morrison,' Murrain said. 'You'll be aware of our ongoing murder investigation?'
'That poor child. A bit too close to home.' She looked up and peered at Murrain. 'I saw you on the local news. With the parents.'
'You can see why we need to talk to you. Even if this incident turns out to be nothing. We need to check. Any possible lead could be helpful to us.'
'I don't know if Charlie was exaggerating. You know what children are like. I think he might have heard about the other case while we were watching the news. You think they're not listening but they take it all in.'
She was talking too quickly, Murrain thought. 'Is Charlie prone to exaggeration?'
'He's just a child. And he's more imaginative than most.' She gestured towards the pile of books. 'He reads a lot.' She made it sound like a vice.
'You think it's possible he just made up this story?'
'It's not that he lies. Maybe something happened. There was something that scared him. I just don't know if it's quite what he says. His story—well, there are parts of it that don't really make sense…' She trailed off.
'Are you OK for us to speak to Charlie? We'll be careful not to frighten him.'
'I told him you were coming. He was quite excited by the idea of talking to police officers.'
'He'll probably be disappointed we're not in uniform,' Milton observed.
Mrs Morrison rose and poked her head around the living room door. 'Charlie. The gentlemen are here to talk to you.'
They heard a clattering of feet on the stairs. A moment later, a small head peered around the door. 'Are you really policemen?'
Murr
ain nodded solemnly and held out his warrant card. Charlie came tentatively into the room and peered at the document. He jabbed a finger at the photograph. 'Is that you?'
'It doesn't look much like me,' Murrain acknowledged. 'But yes. I'm a detective. Do you know what one of those is?'
'Like Sherlock Holmes.'
'Exactly. We're hoping you might be able to help us in our investigation.'
'Will I get a reward?'
'I'll see what I can do,' Murrain said. He'd had plenty of experience in interviewing children and, during the short drive over, had asked Milton to stop at a newsagents so he could purchase a couple of bars of chocolate. 'We just need to know about what happened yesterday. When you got off the school bus. Can you tell us?'
'Think so.' Charlie lowered himself down on the carpet in front of Murrain, with a serious look on his face.
'Where does the bus stop?'
'Just at the end of the road. Then I walk the last bit by myself.'
'You must be a big boy, then,' Murrain said. 'Do you usually walk by yourself or are there other friends who walk with you?'
'Mostly on my own. There's a girl who sometimes gets off there. But she's younger and with her mum.'
'But they weren't there yesterday?'
'No. They don't always get the bus.'
'I know Pam, the mother,' Mrs Morrison offered from across the room. 'She usually picks up Lizzie in the car on her way back from work. But she doesn't work Fridays so she often walks up to the school then gets the bus back.'
Murrain nodded. It was possible that someone could have noted that routine, known that Charlie would be by himself. 'So you walked up the street on your own. Then what happened?'
'Then he grabbed me.'
'Right. Where was this, Charlie?'
Charlie waved his hand towards the window. 'Just outside.'
'How did he grab you?'
'He grabbed my arm and he pulled me—' Charlie stopped as if the reality of what he was describing had just hit him. 'Do you think he wanted to kidnap me?'
'That's what we want to find out, Charlie. Where was he pulling you? Did he have a car?'
'There was a van. With its back doors open.'
Murrain glanced across at Milton. He'd been feeling a low-level pulse through his skin all the time that Charlie had been talking. It grew no stronger now. 'Do you think he was trying to pull you into the van?'
'That's what I thought,' Charlie said earnestly. Then he smiled. 'But I managed to pull away. He hadn't got my arm properly because I had my anorak on. So I got free and then I ran home. Mum always leaves the front door a bit open so I just ran inside.'
'That was clever of you, Charlie,' Murrain said. 'Did the man try to follow you?'
'I don't know.' For the first time, Charlie looked slightly shamefaced. 'I was too scared to look back.'
'You did the right thing,' Murrain said. 'You were very clever and brave. Can you tell me anything about the man? Did you see what he looked like.'
Charlie rubbed his eyes, presumably to signal that he was thinking hard. 'I don't know. He had a—thing around his face.'
'What, like a mask?'
'Not really. Like a sort of hat.' He looked across at his mother. 'I used to have one when I was little. That granny knitted for me.'
'A balaclava?' she offered.
'Yes. One of those. So I couldn't see much of his face. But I thought I knew him.'
Murrain leaned forward, keeping eye contact with the boy. 'You thought you knew him? How did you know him?' He sensed that Charlie wanted to look away, to seek some guidance from his mother, but he stared back at Murrain as if mesmerised.
'I don't know,' Charlie said, finally. 'I thought he was a friend of mum's—'
'I told you the story didn't make sense,' Mrs Morrison interrupted. 'How could it have been anyone I knew?'
Murrain looked up at her. Suddenly, momentarily, he'd felt the same sensation he'd felt back in the MIR. Something, some image. Some figure. 'I don't know, Mrs Morrison,' he said. 'How could it have been?'
'Well, it couldn't, could it? That's the point.'
Murrain turned back to Charlie. 'Why did you think it might be a friend of your mum's, Charlie?'
'Well—' Now Charlie had looked to his mum, as if hoping that she might interrupt again. 'I don't know really. I thought he looked like someone I'd seen coming out of the house once.'
'Is that possible, Mrs Morrison?' Murrain asked. 'Can you think of anyone? I mean, not necessarily a friend. But someone who might have been to the house for some reason?'
The image in Murrain's head had faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, but he felt surer than ever that there was something here worth pursuing.
'Off the top of my head, I really can't think of anyone. I mean, I suppose it's possible that this person's been hanging around and Charlie's seen him. I can't say that I've noticed anything though.'
'Is there anything else you can tell us, Charlie?' Murrain asked. 'How big was this man? As tall as me?' He pushed himself to his feet. Murrain was a large, heavily-built man. 'Or was he trim and fit like Detective Sergeant Milton?'
Charlie shuffled back on the carpet and regarded the two men carefully. After a moment, he pointed to Murrain and said: 'More like you. But not as tall.'
'That's very helpful,' Murrain said. 'Anything else you can remember? What was he wearing?'
'I don't know, really,' Charlie said, apologetically. 'A coat, I think. Maybe an anorak.'
'OK. And what about the van. Did you notice anything about that? What colour was it?'
'Blue, I think, dark blue. I noticed because that's my favourite colour.' Charlie smiled.
'That's really good, Charlie.' Murrain had sat himself down again. 'You were very brave yesterday. And very clever. And you've been very helpful to us in our investigation.' He reached into his case and produced the chocolate bars. 'You definitely deserve a reward.' He smiled at Mrs Morrison. 'Hope that's all right, Mrs Morrison. Given how helpful Charlie's been to us.'
'You shouldn't really—'
'No, I know. But Charlie deserves our thanks.'
Charlie was gazing at the chocolate as if he'd been handed a vault-load of treasure. He looked up at Murrain. 'Are you going to catch him?'
'With help like yours, I'm sure we're going to, Charlie. Thanks again.' He looked back at Mrs Morrison. 'We won't take up any more of your time, then, Mrs Morrison. Thanks for all your help.'
'I just hope we haven't been wasting your time,' she said.
'I'm sure you haven't. I don't know if what happened to Charlie's connected to our case, but every possible lead is worth following up.' Murrain followed her towards the front door, Milton lingering behind them. Charlie had already disappeared upstairs, clutching his new-found treasures.
'I don't even know whether anything really happened,' Mrs Morrison said, opening the front door. It was clear that now they'd finished speaking to Charlie she just wanted them out of the house as quickly as possible. 'All that stuff about it being someone I knew.'
'You really can't think of anyone that might be?'
'No, it's nonsense. Why would I know anyone like that?'
'I'm not suggesting you do, Mrs Morrison. But it could be it's someone who visited the house. Someone working on the house, maybe? A builder? Plumber? Someone delivering something. There are lots of possibilities.'
'I can't think of anyone.' She was almost ushering them out of the door. Murrain could sense she was looking over his shoulder, peering down the street. Looking for what?
Murrain handed her a business card. 'If anything occurs to you, you'll give us a call, won't you?'
'Yes, of course.' It was obvious that the card would be dropped in the bin the moment they'd left.
'And thanks again for your time. Thank Charlie again for us.'
'Yes, no problem. Thank you for coming out.'
The door was almost slammed behind them. Murrain stood gazing round the front garden, almost reluctant to
leave, as if he were walking away from something important. Milton was already halfway down the drive, heading for the car.
There was definitely something here, Murrain thought. Not necessarily anything straightforward. Maybe not even something directly relevant to their case. But something to pursue.
He hurried after Milton, catching up with him as they reached the street. 'She was lying, wasn't she?' Milton said. 'I don't need your gifts to know that.'
'I think so,' Murrain said. He was trying to make sense of the impressions forming and fading somewhere just beyond his conscious mind. 'What puzzles me is quite what she was lying about.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
'Are you OK?' Sue sat up and watched in the dim light as Kevin Wickham opened his eyes. 'You OK, Kev? You were making strange noises. Even stranger than last night, I mean.' She laughed faintly and pressed her warm, soft body against his.
She still felt half hungover, but it was coming back, like an image resolving itself on a computer screen, an abstract scattering of pixels coalescing into a clear picture. The night before. She had no idea whether they’d done the right thing but, looking back, she thought it had been inevitable from the moment they left the pub together. If she’d been more sober, she’d have registered it in Brody’s parting words and expression. 'Have a good evening, you two. Nothing I wouldn’t do.' Brody’s intonation had implied that this injunction involve no serious constraint.
Sue’s house was along the street at the far end of the village, tucked away in a quaint courtyard behind a small cluster of shops, including her own stationer’s. 'I can just fall out of bed into the shop in the mornings,' she'd said to Wickham as she led him into the house. 'Just as well—I’m not a morning person. Don’t open till ten. If I’m feeling lazy, I grab a coffee and a bacon sarnie in the cafe on the way past.' She paused and laughed. 'It’s not a bad life down here, you know.'
She'd been in this place for a few years now. It was just a small cottage, furnished in a homely way, with ornaments and pictures that she'd intended to reflect every aspect and moment of her current and past life. She felt cocooned each time she stepped in through the front door.