Hey, Sherlock!

by Simon Mason

  Garvie was lying supine on the sofa, eyes shut, as his uncle passed by.

  ‘So,’ he said without opening his eyes, ‘has your man solved it yet?’

  Uncle Len halted and grunted disapprovingly. ‘You know the constraints he’s working under. They won’t give him any resources. But he’s a fine detective, he works all hours. He’s making good progress.’

  ‘For example?’

  Uncle Len frowned at his nephew. ‘He spent the morning sweeping the woods with a volunteer force he’d organized.’

  ‘Result?’

  ‘He was unlucky with the downpour the previous night. We have some black threads, which could be from Amy’s trousers. Otherwise, it was mainly rubbish.’

  ‘What rubbish?’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘What usual?’

  His uncle looked at him lying there, and felt the familiar irritation. But he remained calm.

  ‘It’s surprising what rubbish finds its way into a wood. A tooth mug. Deflated football. Shoe-care kit. A car radio, wrapped in a plastic bag. A bathing costume, can you believe it? All sorts of things.’

  Garvie made no response and his uncle moved away towards the door.

  Garvie said, ‘What shoe-care kit?’

  Uncle Len hesitated. ‘Usual sort of shoe-care kit. You know, the sort of complimentary thing they sometimes slip into the shoe-box.’

  ‘What brand?’

  ‘I don’t remember, Garvie.’

  ‘What colour?’

  His uncle sighed. ‘Buff, I think. Thick black lettering.’ He stared at his nephew lying there so unmoving, eyes still closed. ‘Why?’

  But Garvie said no more, nor made any movement, and, shaking his head, Uncle Len turned and left the apartment.

  At eight o’clock his mother came into the living room wearing a knee-length dress with a stripy black flower pattern on a white background, and white buckled high-heeled ankle-length boots. Round her throat she had a looping silver necklace and matching loops in her ears, and her straightened hair was done in a short, puffy bob, side-parted and streaked with henna-coloured dye. Her burgundy lipstick matched her toenail polish.

  ‘Well?’

  Garvie opened his eyes. They showed his astonishment, an attitude he tried otherwise not to show. He sat up.

  ‘Oscars cast party then, is it?’

  ‘Night out with the girls from work. Who knows who we’ll meet? A cocktail or two, and maybe a dance in town.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why not? You think I can’t dance?’

  ‘No, it’s just … What about tea?’

  ‘You’ll have to get tea yourself.’

  Something about his mother dressing up to go out was unsettling.

  ‘Aren’t you going out, Garvie? It’s Friday night.’

  No comment.

  ‘Your friends all busy again?’

  Nothing to say.

  But she was still looking at him.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I was meaning to talk to you. Dr Roecastle asked me about you at work this morning.’

  Garvie got off the sofa and headed for his room.

  ‘Garvie!’

  He turned. ‘You know she’s psycho, right? I can’t help it if it’s her nature to make all these unreasonable complaints.’

  ‘As it happens, she wasn’t complaining. Yes, I know. I was shocked. She asked me if it was true you helped the police in their investigations into those murders.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said she ought to ask Inspector Singh.’

  He looked at her. ‘What else? You said something else, didn’t you?’

  ‘I told her you were rude, difficult and interfering, and as smart as all hell when you want to be. And at the end of the day you’re my boy and anyone with a problem with you has a problem with me. OK?’

  He thought about that for a while.

  ‘What do you mean, “difficult”?’

  ‘Don’t fight me, Garvie. All that’s done. I can’t tell you what to do, and I damn well can’t tell her what to do. So as far as I’m concerned her daughter’s disappearance is nothing to do with me. It’s just, I can’t help feeling sorry for her.’

  ‘That’s where you’re going wrong.’

  ‘You think she doesn’t deserve my sympathy.’

  ‘She doesn’t need any help thinking about herself. First she was pissed off. Then she’ll be alarmed. Pretty soon now she’ll be hysterical.’

  ‘Well, I hope she can stay positive. And I think Raminder will find her daughter soon.’

  ‘He doesn’t have enough help.’

  ‘He’s a good detective.’

  ‘Debatable.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against him. He’s bright, resourceful, hard-working. Everyone says so.’

  ‘Uptight. Got no sense of humour. Misses things. I bet they all say that too.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You should. He missed the fact she stood outside in the rain for half an hour before she went into her house.’

  He didn’t wait for her reaction, just went into his room and shut the door; and shortly afterwards he heard her leave.

  Now it was midnight. Garvie lay on his bed. Hands behind his head, unblinking, staring up at the ceiling. Police sirens in the distance, fading away and washing back again.

  Abdul had called earlier to tell him that the cabbie dropped Amy off outside her house at eleven forty. According to Dr Roecastle, her daughter got into the house at eleven minutes past twelve. The walk up the drive took a couple of minutes at most. So, after the taxi dropped her off, she stood outside in torrential rain for half an hour.

  That was interesting.

  An unknown term in a series of events.

  He thought about sequences, the way they worked. Like the Fibonacci series, one of the simplest. Fn = Fn-1 + Fn-2. In other words, each new number in the sequence is the sum of the previous two numbers: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89 … Fn increases exponentially, each increase bigger than the one before. Ordinary, but alarming. Like little things suddenly piling up without warning. Tiny risks leaping out of control. Danger, one minute so small you hardly notice it, the next minute off the scale.

  An unknown term in a series of events about to spiral out of control. Half an hour in the pouring rain, talking to someone who had given her his coat to wear. Talking about what? Unknown. But ten minutes afterwards she was running for her life through the woods.

  Interesting.

  One o’clock came and went. Two o’clock. He heard his mother come in quietly and go to bed. He lay there, unblinking, listening to the silence, thinking about sequences.

  16

  Saturday morning Singh was at his desk, as usual. The duty officer called him just after ten o’clock to let him know that Damon Walsh had not returned with his vehicle registration papers.

  At once Singh had a bad feeling.

  ‘Have you contacted him?’

  The officer on duty hesitated. ‘The phone number he gave in his paperwork is unobtainable.’

  ‘What about the address?’

  ‘He’s not known there. We’ve tried it.’

  Singh sat there quietly, staring at the blank wall of his makeshift office.

  ‘Next of kin?’

  ‘None. All we’ve got’s a contact in the database from his prior conviction – someone called Paul Tanner.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A baker at one of the supermarkets in Strawberry Hill.’

  ‘Address?’

  The duty officer gave it to him. ‘Out in the sticks. Near Tick Hill. By the way,’ he added, ‘a Dr Roecastle has called for you. Twice already.’

  Singh didn’t say anything to that. He put down the phone and left the room.

  Along the northern stretch of ring road, between the white high-rise of the hospital and the cramped low-rise of Tick Hill, was a turn-off signposted only Childswell Garden Centre. A narro
w road ran uphill between fences for a hundred metres or so, then forked. There, Singh turned onto an even narrower road, no more than a track. On either side the brambly scrub was thick and green, and he jolted slowly onward for a quarter of a mile until the track petered out in a small gravelled clearing in front of a new bungalow built of brick and wooden panels.

  He got out and stood in the breeze. Traffic on the ring road buzzed like distant surf. A ploughed field rose from the back of the house and climbed towards a copse of trees on the horizon. In the oaks surrounding the bungalow pigeons rattled their wings and cleared their throats. So close to the city, but so rural, it seemed a forgotten spot of peace. Straightening his turban, Singh breathed in the sweet air and felt a rare moment of calm. He walked through a pretty garden to the front door, and knocked.

  The fenced-in lawn curved round the back of the building. There was a barbecue cabin and an awning under which Singh could see fitness equipment. The grass was strewn with toys and building materials.

  A small woman with a baby on her arm answered the door and stood rocking it gently while he talked.

  ‘He’s in bed,’ she said. ‘He does nights.’

  ‘I apologize,’ Singh said. ‘It won’t take long. He’s not in trouble,’ he added. ‘We’re simply hoping he can help us with an enquiry.’

  He followed her down a passageway to a bright living room, and waited there among more toys until a man appeared. He was in his middle thirties, with dark hair cut army-style and a wide-open pleasant face, heavy stubble, thick above his upper lip, dark against pale skin.

  Singh stood. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mr Tanner.’

  ‘It’s all right. I can’t always get to sleep straightaway. Takes a while to wind down after the shift. I get so stiff working the ovens.’

  He winced as he sat down. He swallowed a paracetamol, and a small boy ran in and he grabbed him, mussed his hair until he squealed with laughter, and set him on his feet again.

  ‘All right, now go and keep your mother company. I’ve got to talk to this gentleman here.’

  The boy ran off, laughing.

  Singh said, ‘This is a nice spot.’

  ‘We’re lucky. I’ve done most of the work myself. Couldn’t afford it otherwise.’

  Singh smiled. ‘I just want to ask you a few questions about a young man you might know.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Damon Walsh.’

  At once Paul sighed. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘We don’t know he’s done anything yet. We’re trying to locate him. A girl has gone missing. It’s possible Damon may know something about it.’

  Paul considered this, rubbing stubble with his hand. ‘Poor Damon.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He can’t seem to stay out of trouble.’

  Singh took out his notebook. ‘OK. Tell me about him,’ he said. ‘How do you know him? From the supermarket?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine Damon holding down a job. No.’ He paused. ‘Is this off the record? I know that you have to be careful about data these days.’

  Singh hesitated only a moment. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Damon has already volunteered the information that he spent some time in custody and on the youth offender programme.’

  ‘OK. That’s where I know him from, the Y.O. Back in the day I was a social worker. Made redundant with the cuts. But, anyway, a lot of the job was liaising with the police – a guy called Bob Dowell was my contact there – and one of the things I did was help supervise sports and leisure on the programme.’ He smiled. ‘I miss it, to be honest. Thing about young offenders is, they don’t get the same support as most people. They make mistakes and there’s no one to help them out. They need someone to put an arm round their shoulder, have a quiet word with them.’

  Paul knew little about Damon’s background. He’d heard of an older half-brother somewhere but didn’t think they were in touch. He had the impression his parents gave up on him early on. After that, there were minders and mentors, foster parents, unofficial ‘guardians’. Everyone on the programme had to have a sponsor to look after their interests.

  ‘None of them took to Damon long-term, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  Damon had been difficult at school, an anxious child. He was easily led into trouble, at first petty burglary, later drugs. When he was fourteen he’d been convicted of possession of an illegal substance with intent to supply.

  ‘Typical Damon. He tried to sell some pills to a plain-clothes policeman. The guy said he was so friendly and hopeful he almost bought them.’

  ‘What was he like on the programme?’

  ‘What you see with Damon is what you get. He’s flaky, chaotic, thoughtless, massively unreliable, easily tempted. Nervous, very nervous. But he’s an innocent, really. Sweet, even. He just falls into one thing after another. I liked him. I’ve seen him a couple of times since he got off the programme. He was the worst footballer I ever coached. No co-ordination at all.’

  Singh made notes. ‘You said you’ve met him since the programme?’

  ‘Yeah. Last time was quite recent. He wanted some advice, he said.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He was thinking of buying a van. But he didn’t have any money.’

  Singh wrote again.

  ‘You say there’s a girl involved,’ Paul said. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. He’s always been popular with the girls. Good-looking, I know. But he appeals to their protective side, I think. They want to save him from himself. Of course, he’s a mother’s worst nightmare.’

  Singh nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  Paul thought. ‘You know that part of his course was anger management?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think so. You could check. Damon’s this real gentle guy most of the time, dopey even. Then something happens. He gets frightened for some reason and he loses it. Anyway, that’s what I was told. Never saw it myself. Is any of this helpful?’

  ‘Very helpful,’ Singh said. ‘Thank you. Now, do you have any idea where I might look for him?’

  Paul rubbed his bristles. ‘I think I’ve got his number. Wait. Yes, here it is.’ He handed Singh his phone, and Singh shook his head. ‘He gave us that already. It’s no good.’

  Paul snorted. ‘Typical Damon again. He’s probably had his contract cancelled.’

  ‘You don’t know where he might be living?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. He moves around a lot.’

  ‘OK. Never mind.’

  Paul shook Singh’s hand. ‘Look, I know Damon can make some stupid mistakes. But he’s a good kid at heart.’

  ‘Thank you again for your time. I hope you can sleep now. One last thing. If Damon contacts you again, please get in touch straightaway.’

  Paul hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  Outside the house the sun was bright, the air tart with scents of the surrounding vegetation, and Singh stood there a moment checking his phone. There were three missed calls from Dr Roecastle.

  He hesitated. The only person seriously helping them with their enquiries had disappeared and Singh did not feel confident of finding him again. He would have to tell Dr Roecastle this. She would, he knew, be deeply disappointed. Her attitude towards Amy’s disappearance had changed dramatically, and her anger with the police was obviously a sign of her belated, deep anxiety about her daughter.

  But he was, above all, a dutiful officer. Apprehensively he got back into his car and headed again towards Froggett.

  17

  Saturday morning, Garvie had to put in a few hours fencing at ‘Four Winds’. Weekend overtime. The custom ball-and-collar finials on his panel needed finishing. At midday he stopped and went down to the house to wash up. He’d missed Singh’s visit earlier but as soon as he went inside he was faced with the result of it.

  There was a noise from down the hall, a harsh, explosive sound like fat spluttering in a frying pan. Pausing at the open living-room door, he saw
Dr Roecastle sitting bunched up on a sofa, head in hands, shoulders heaving, weeping bitterly.

  Before he could move on, she lifted her head and stared at him, her tear-streaked face frozen in a look of agonized incomprehension.

  ‘Wait!’ she croaked at him angrily.

  Garvie waited, keeping his eyes on her in case she did something unpredictable.

  ‘They’ve let him go!’ she blurted out in a voice crackly with mucus.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The suspect.’

  ‘What suspect?’

  She was as hysterical as he had feared; she’d exploded all at once into desperation. Her face jerked when she spoke. ‘A man with a criminal record. Been seen in his van in the woods. Twenty-four years old. Said he was her boyfriend. Asked me if I’d heard of him. Damon. Damon Walsh. No!’ She looked at Garvie distraught. ‘She’s only sixteen. He’s been stalking her,’ she went on, ‘waiting for an opportunity to …’ She swallowed, panted. ‘They think he might have taken her and put her in his van, and …’

  Garvie waited, and she went on again. ‘The police had him, they actually had him in the station, and they’ve let him go. He’s fooled them. Given them a false address, vanished. They have no idea where he is, where he’s keeping Amy.’ Her wild eyes were on him.

  Garvie said at last, ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  She cleared her throat and swallowed. ‘You were right, what you said before. I should have been more scared. Now I am. I’m more scared than I’ve ever been.’

  Garvie’s silence acknowledged this, but he said nothing.

  ‘You don’t like me,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t like you either.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Your mother works at my hospital.’

  ‘I know where my mother works.’

  ‘I talked to her yesterday. About what you did, helping with those police investigations.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that too.’

  ‘Your mother told me that—’

  ‘I’m rude and difficult. Yeah, I know.’

  ‘And interfering.’