by Alex Walters
She should call the police. But what could she say? She had no evidence of any intruder other than an unlocked door and an old photograph. She had no evidence that Hulse's death was anything other than, at worst, self-inflicted. And she couldn't begin to explain the possible significance of this photograph without compromising herself and, more importantly, Wickham.
She stood staring out of the window at the bright autumn sunshine. From the garden below, she could hear the sound of Jack still running tirelessly round the lawn. At last, she took out her mobile and thumbed through her contacts.
The call was answered almost immediately, as if Wickham had been sitting waiting for her call. 'Kate?'
'Kevin, there are some things I need to talk to you about. Sooner rather than later.'
There was a brief silence. 'When I saw it was your number, I thought you were calling to cancel.'
'I've considered that option too,' she said. 'But, no, I think we need to meet. I know it's short-notice, but what about tomorrow. Same place. Whatever times suits you.'
'Fine by me,' he said. 'Lunchtime?'
'About one, then. We can grab a bite.' She tried to make it sound casual but she knew the tension in her voice would be evident.
'Is everything OK?'
'Everything's—well, no, not OK. But we can talk about that tomorrow.'
'Is this about me?'
'No—or, at least, I'm not sure. It's a long story.' She stopped, conscious how enigmatic she was sounding. 'Look, it's not something you need to worry about. Just something I need clarifying. I'll explain when we meet.'
'If you say so.' He sounded unconvinced. 'Tomorrow, then.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Monday morning started badly for Murrain and rapidly became worse.
He was already feeling at his lowest. He'd slept badly, the same insistent headache nagging behind his eyes. He'd tried to describe it to Eloise the previous night—like a loose connection in an electrical circuit, he'd said, sparking and sparking but not producing any power. She'd nodded indulgently over her glass of wine. They both knew that when Murrain was in this state, the only response was to ride it out, wait for the moment either to pass or come to some kind of fruition. There was no way to guess which outcome was more likely.
Eloise had been up before dawn, off to some conference in London where she was due to give a presentation on the force's recent organisational restructuring. How to do the impossible with bugger all money without pissing everyone off, she'd wanted to call it, but had eventually settled for something less provocative. Murrain had dragged himself out of bed to make her coffee and toast, knowing that he was well beyond sleep in any case.
His mood wasn't improved by his journey into the MIR. The Monday morning traffic, worsened by heavy rain, slow moving even at that early hour of the day. He arrived already feeling exhausted and dispirited. The bleak 1970s block of the old police station was no more attractive than the rain-washed grey stone of the surrounding villages. The drop into the valley beyond felt like it might be the end of the world.
Murrain was first in, and he contented himself with sipping on a hot coffee and working his way through the pile of e-mails that had somehow accumulated even since the previous afternoon. Wanstead turned up as always just before eight, and the room slowly filled. It was always interesting to observe the atmosphere in an incident room, Murrain thought. You could almost read the progress of a case from the buzz, or the lack of it, around the place. Today, the place felt almost dead. Milton and Donovan arrived at almost the same time and were chatting with relative animation but, as Wanstead was keen to point out, there might be other reasons for that.
When Bert Wallace arrived, Murrain wandered over to her desk. 'Morning, Bert,' he said, the name as always sticking momentarily in his throat. 'Just wondered if anything came out of your Hazel Grove interviews?'
She looked up nervously, as if expecting him to give her a telling off. 'Not much, to be honest. Spoke to as many of the neighbours as I could track down. Nobody seems to have seen anything. It's not a busy road, but there's enough traffic that no-one registered a van particularly.' She paused. 'There was one thing.'
'Go on.'
'It's probably nothing.' Wallace was still feeling awkward about having drawn Murrain's attention to Kevin Wickham. He'd said nothing more about Wickham since they'd interviewed him, except to tell her that it was in hand. She'd interpreted that as meaning that she'd probably wasted their time, even if Murrain was too polite to say so. 'It was just something that a woman from across the street said. She was a fairly elderly lady. Got the impression she was a bit of a curtain-twitcher, you know?'
'I know.' Murrain smiled. 'They often make the best witnesses.'
'When I mentioned the Morrisons, she looked disapproving. She wouldn't say anything at first, but after we'd chatted for a while she relaxed and became a bit more gossipy.'
Murrain smiled. He knew that Wallace had the skills to get the most out of any interviewee. 'And?'
'She was reluctant to say anything directly. None of her business, all that. But she dropped enough hints. She obviously thinks that Mrs Morrison is having an affair.'
Murrain sat up. He'd caught the same glimpse then, that same half-formed image. The persistent hum in the back of his head had momentarily intensified. 'Really? She'd seen someone at the house?'
'She reckoned so, though there was nothing particularly helpful. I'm sure she's kept watch very dutifully, but all she could say was that there seemed to be a man who turned up at odd times of the day. She'd only seen him from a distance. Fairly big, heavily-built, she reckoned.'
Murrain stretched out his own hefty frame. 'Interesting. The young lad reckoned that the man who tried to grab him looked more my build than Joe's. Don't suppose this mysterious caller was considerate enough to drive a van?'
'Apparently not. Just a car. A shooting-brake, she called it.' Wallace's shrug indicated her bafflement at the phrase.
'What we might call an estate,' Murrain explained. 'And she didn't have the number?'
'No, nothing like that. To be honest, I didn't know how seriously to take it. She was obviously the type who likes bad-mouthing their neighbours, given half a chance. It was all a bit vague, and it wasn't clear that this man had visited much. Could all be perfectly innocent.'
'Could well be,' Murrain agreed. 'But probably worth another chat with Mrs Morrison when we get a moment. Perhaps in the day when her husband's not likely to be around.'
'Shall I do that?'
Murrain nodded. 'Yes, but if I get chance in a bit, I'll try to come with you. I'd like to see her reaction when we raise it.' He smiled, not wanting her to think that he didn't trust her to handle it herself. 'You know what I'm like.'
As it turned out, though, the morning was busier than he'd expected. The first call came just before ten. Murrain had finished working his way through the e-mails and was reviewing the plans and schedules for the investigation when he saw Wanstead gesturing across the room. 'Call for you,' Wanstead mouthed, as he made the transfer to Murrain's phone.
'Kenny? Pete Warwick.'
'Crikey, Pete. Don't expect you to call this early. Thought you'd be on your rounds. Or playing golf or something.'
'I've sacrificed it all for you, Kenny. You know me.'
'I know you only too well, Pete. That's why I don't expect you to do anything just because I've asked you to.'
'Usually I make a point of doing the opposite, obviously. But this time I've decided to make an exception. You asked me to give you a view on this body. The Hulse chap.'
Murrain was genuinely surprised, though he made sure it didn't show in his voice. When he'd asked Warwick to expedite the Hulse case he'd been thinking in terms of days rather than hours. He knew how much pressure Warwick was under. 'Don't tell me you've done it already?'
'Well, not properly. I don't want to start setting any precedents. But I've had a preliminary look.'
'And?'
'I got on
to it because—well, to be honest, because I thought I'd be in and out in five minutes. I assumed it was an open and shut case from my point of view. Some poor bugger gets hit by train. Cause of death: being hit by a train. There you go.'
Murrain felt a frisson under his skin. 'I'm sensing a "but" coming.'
'A big one.'
'Namely?'
'That he wasn't killed by the train. Well, not exclusively. I think he was already well on his way—unconscious at least—by the time the train hit him.'
'How come? And how can you be sure?'
'That's the thing. It's a hundred-to-one shot that it was detectable. If the impact of the train had been even marginally different, it would have destroyed any other evidence. You might get Ferby's people to give a view on this, but it looks to me as if, by some fluke, the head avoided the worst impact of the train. Not that it did the poor bugger much good.'
'The head?'
'Yeah. The torso was pretty badly crushed, but head was surprisingly unscathed. Relatively speaking, you understand. Except that on the side of the skull, there was a fairly severe injury that, as far as I can judge, wasn't caused the impact of the train. More likely be some sharp instrument.' There was a silence as Warwick allowed Murrain to digest this. 'I can't be absolutely certain, of course.'
Warwick was famous for surrounding his conclusions with caveats and reservations, just to ensure his own backside was covered if further evidence emerged. Murrain knew that he wouldn't offer a view like this without being absolutely sure of his ground. 'So what are you saying?' Murrain pressed. 'That he was injured before the train hit him?'
'That's the way it looks to me,' Warwick said. 'I'll need to do a full examination, of course, but as I say my initial view is that the injury was caused by a blow to the head from some sharp instrument, with the assailant striking from behind. It would have been a pretty severe blow. Enough to render him unconscious. Maybe enough to kill him, though not immediately. It probably took the train to do that.'
'Jesus,' Murrain said. 'So we're talking murder. Or at least manslaughter.'
'That's your territory, old son. But I'd say so. Hard to see that a blow like that, in that setting, could have happened by accident.' He paused, clearly conscious that his words had been uncharacteristically definitive. 'Like I say, it's impossible to be absolutely certain. But that's where I'd put my money.'
Murrain took a moment to respond. The throbbing in his head had already changed tone. The connection, whatever it might be, was growing stronger. 'I'd like to say I'm grateful, Pete. And I am grateful to you for expediting it. But frankly the last bloody thing I need right now is another murder enquiry.'
'We aim to please.'
The nagging headache was coalescing into something more familiar. A sense of meaning. A sense of connection. Something about the Hulse case suggested it wasn't a one-off, that there was some link, however tenuous, with the Ethan Dunn killing. He couldn't imagine what that link might be but he was already growing increasingly certain it was there.
At the same time, he could provide no substantive evidence to support his hunch. There was no reason to link the two cases. The only option would be to initiate a new investigation, ideally with one of his own team as the SIO. Given the high profile of the Dunn case, DS Winston might need some persuading about the wisdom of their taking on more work. Not that resources were likely to be readily available elsewhere.
Wearily, Murrain gestured to Wanstead to join him so they could set the wheels in motion. The formalities would be dependent on Warwick's confirmation of the apparent cause of death, but there was every reason now to treat Hulse's death as an unlawful killing.
The second phone call came half an hour later, as he and Wanstead were still working their way through the actions needed to kick off the Hulse investigation. Murrain had already set up a meeting with Winston and wanted to make sure he'd got all his arguments prepared in advance.
This time, the call was from the Head of the Force Control room, a police staff member called Tony Willis who Murrain knew slightly, mainly because Eloise had been responsible for Willis's appointment following her restructuring of the FCR a couple of years earlier. A first-rate manager, she'd reckoned, and Murrain knew that those were few and far between in this environment.
'Kenny?' Willis said. 'Sorry to bother you. This isn't the sort of report I'd normally forward straight to you, but in the circumstances—'
'No problem. What is it?'
'We've had a report. A missing child. Just called in this afternoon.'
'You did the right thing, Tony. In the light of the Dunn case, we can't afford to take any chances, even if it's a false alarm.'
'No, well, that's what I thought. But it's not just that. I mean, that's why it was escalated to me. But then the name rang a bell. The child's been reported missing before.'
Murrain sat up straighter and exchanged a look with Wanstead, who was clearly overhearing enough of the dialogue to follow the gist. 'Go on.'
'It's a boy called Myers. Luke Myers.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Murrain glanced at his two colleagues, and then along the street. 'If he doesn't answer soon, the neighbour's will start asking questions. We don't exactly look like Jehovah's Witnesses.'
'Maybe he's out,' Colin Ashworth suggested.
'Maybe,' Milton said. 'But that's his car parked over there.'
Murrain held up his hand. 'I hear movement.'
After a moment, the door was opened and Kevin Wickham stood facing them. He glanced quizzically between the three men. He had clearly recognised Murrain from their previous meeting, but he'd then focused on Ashworth standing at the rear. He nodded, as if Ashworth's presence had simply confirmed his expectations. 'Mr Ashworth. What can I do for you?'
Ashworth stepped forward. 'Afternoon, Kevin. You don’t want us hanging about on the doorstep, do you?'
Wickham held open the door, allowing the party to troop past him. 'Through there,' he said. 'On the left.' It was impossible to read his expression.
The three men traipsed through into the sitting room. It was a neat-looking room, but, apart from a couple of well-stocked bookcases, had the anonymous air of a furnished rental. Murrain and Milton lowered themselves on the two ends of a sofa like ill-matching bookends. Ashworth seated himself at the dining table, and began flicking through a notebook. Without looking up, he said, 'You know what this is about, Kevin?'
'Haven’t a clue,' Wickham said. 'You'll have to enlighten me.'
'Fair enough. You know me, Kevin. And I believe you've met DCI Murrain. This is DI Milton.'
Wickham nodded. 'Go on.'
'You don’t need to worry, Kevin,' Ashworth said. 'Or I hope you don’t. We just need to ask you a few questions.'
Murrain nodded impatiently. 'Thanks, Mr Ashworth. Shall we take over now?' Without waiting for a response, he turned to Wickham. 'Just so you understand, Mr Wickham, this isn’t a formal interview. Not at this stage.'
Wickham nodded, still expressionless. 'But they must be serious questions,' he said, 'especially given that Mr Ashworth’s here.'
'We need to handle this with care given your background. Mr Ashworth is here to advise us on those aspects.'
'Ah.' Wickham shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'So you know?'
'We didn't know before, Mr Wickham,' Murrain said. 'We do now. It rather changes things, don't you think?'
'Not from where I'm sitting. I didn't set out to mislead you. Mr Ashworth will tell you—'
'We understand your position,' Murrain said. 'And we understand why you said nothing. But I'm wondering why you didn't inform Mr Ashworth immediately that we'd been talking to you. That might have been wise. In the circumstances.'
'There aren't any circumstances, as far as I'm aware,' Wickham said. There was an edge to his voice now. 'I’ve no idea why you’re here. I've no real idea why you came here before.'
'We spoke to you in connection with Mrs Susan Myers, Mr Wickham.'
&nb
sp; 'So you said.'
Murrain looked up at him and said nothing for a moment. 'She has a son. Luke.'
'We talked about this. I hardly know him. Like I told you, I hardly know Sue, really. I’ve met Luke a couple of times now but that's all.'
'When my officer interviewed you and Mrs Myers originally, she was under the impression you were a couple.'
'We never said that, whatever impression your officer formed. Sue was looking for moral support. She just wanted someone there with her.'
'And you were the only one available?'
'I guess so.'
'I see.' Murrain left the words hanging, eventually forcing Wickham to break the silence.
'Perhaps you’d like to explain why this might be any of your business. Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve really no idea why you’re here.'
Murrain rose slowly to his feet and began to prowl around the room, peering at the rows of books on the bookshelf, the few ornaments arranged artlessly around the room, the scattering of DVDs on the floor beside the television. 'We told you before that we're investigating a murder locally,' he said at last, not bothering to look back at Wickham.
'That little boy. Yes.' Wickham looked across at Ashworth. 'And, of course, now you think I must have something to do with it. I suppose that was inevitable.'
'We’re exploring all avenues, Mr Wickham. But that's not the main reason for our visit. The reason we're here is that Luke Myers was reported missing this morning.' He turned and gazed unblinkingly at Wickham, watching his expression. Waiting for some sensation.
Wickham stared back, his face blank. 'Luke—' He stopped. 'I don't understand.'
'Neither do we, Mr Wickham. Luke apparently disappeared from home this morning. His mother was upstairs. It's half-term, so she'd got someone else working in the shop. She left Luke playing in the back garden. Just for a few minutes, apparently, while she went to bring down some washing. When she came down, he'd disappeared. That's all we know at the moment.' He paused, still watching Wickham closely. 'It took her longer than it should have done to report it because of the previous false alarm. She didn't want to look a fool. She went round checking with the neighbours. Phoned his friends. Phoned her ex. Couldn't see why he'd have left the garden without telling her.' He paused. 'She didn't call you?'