by Carol Wyer
Lucy and Murray were still taking a statement from a man who sat on the edge of an ambulance trolley. Somebody had given him a mug of tea, and steam curled up over his shaggy beard and moustache as he sipped. He stopped to cough – a long, hacking cough.
When he’d recovered, Lucy introduced him to Natalie. ‘This is Evan Robertson. Evan, this is our boss, DI Ward.’
He lowered the drink and Natalie could see he was far younger than she’d initially taken him for. He was probably no more than thirty-five. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I hauled back my blanket and found her. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to put the blanket back exactly as I found it,’ he said. His voice surprised her even more than the bright, azure eyes that looked intently at her. It was educated and pleasant to the ear although he sounded slightly breathless. He coughed again after speaking and took another sip of his drink.
‘You hadn’t seen her before?’ Natalie asked.
‘Never set eyes on her.’
‘You came back to where you sleep because you felt unwell. Is that correct?’
‘That’s right. I’d been out on the streets since ten this morning. I spent most of the time hanging by the Grey Goose pub, but I felt really lousy. I’ve had this cough for ages and it’s wearing me down. I thought a few hours’ kip would do me good. I returned to my spot soon after four.’
‘How long have you been sleeping there?’
‘Only a few days. I couldn’t get into the shelter. It was full.’
‘Did nobody give you the names and addresses of other shelters to try?’ asked Natalie.
‘They did but I chose to go it alone for a while, although after this, I’ll try one of the other places tonight.’
‘Have you seen anyone suspicious around these parts?’
‘No. I’ve been alone here every night. It’s very quiet.’
‘No gangs?’
‘No.’
‘What about during the day?’
‘I don’t know what goes on then. I usually leave my gear here and head into town to try and beg some food.’ He took several sharp breaths and then cupped the mug even more tightly.
‘What about volunteers? Do they come by?’ Natalie knew a few organisations often distributed warm meals and blankets.
‘Yes. The first night I spent here, a young woman came by. She gave me some soup, a blanket and this hat.’ He tapped the plain black beanie on his head. ‘She didn’t come back.’
‘What did this woman look like?’
‘In her twenties. She was tall, willowy, very pale-faced.’
‘Did she tell you her name?’
He shook his head.
‘What colour hair did she have?’
‘I don’t know. She was wearing a woollen hat and a long, hippy-like skirt with a fringe and a shawl.’
His use of the word ‘hippy’ brought Hattie to mind. It was worth checking. ‘Murray, will you ask Ian to send across a photo of Hattie? See if Evan recognises her.’ With that she thanked the man and moved away from the ambulance, indicating Lucy follow her.
‘He seems well-educated. How come he’s on the streets?’ she asked quietly.
‘Bad luck. Wife divorced him, lost his job which meant he lost his flat, then got into drugs. He’s clean now but still unemployed. The paramedics are taking him to hospital to get him checked out. They think he’s got pneumonia.’
‘I take it he didn’t have much information for us,’ said Natalie.
‘Nothing terribly useful other than what he told you.’
‘Mike said he removed some empty bottles that he thinks belonged to Evan.’
‘That’s right. Evan isn’t a hundred per cent certain if all the bottles were his. He’s been buying cheap booze from the off-licence a couple of streets away to keep him warm at night.’
‘If Forensics come back with anything from the bottles, we’ll check out that store. Can you ask Ian to check all of Fran’s social media accounts to see if she left any farewell message or hinted she was suicidal?’
‘Will do.’
‘And get onto Merseyside Police. Somebody over there needs to notify her parents, then we’ll talk to the students who live on Eastview Avenue again.’
Murray called Natalie’s name. She strode back towards the ambulance. Evan was bent over, coughing again. The photo of Hattie was visible on Murray’s mobile. Murray nodded. ‘It was Hattie who came by.’
‘Find out who she was volunteering with and if she was alone.’
Hattie again. They needed to find her urgently but where on earth was she? Lucy had established the woman could be volatile and had attacked Ocean, and although there was a chance Hattie might have attacked Gemma out of jealousy, Natalie couldn’t work out why she’d kill Fran. Yet the body was in a doorway in an area where Hattie had been doing volunteer work. Hattie had to be found.
Chapter Seventeen
Sunday, 18 November – Evening
The vicarage at Little Beansfield was an individual, black-and-white, timber-framed cottage with a black-arched doorway, over which an untamed winter clematis climbed, its dangling tendrils like wafer-thin bunting, wafting in the breeze. Thick evergreen pyracantha covered much of the front of the house, and bunches of orange berries bounced gently on thin stems against the dark leaves. Natalie switched off the headlights and plunged the road and house into inky-black darkness. Here there were no street lights and even the star-studded sky did not illuminate the driveway. She pulled out a torch and flashed it in the direction of the house, the beam landing on the latched wooden gate, and climbed out of the car into the cool evening. The wind lifted her hair and cooled her neck, caressing it with feathery strokes. Lucy had lit her torch as well and shone it ahead of them, the light picking up tiny weeds growing between cobbled stones that led to the front door.
Natalie unhinged the gate, which groaned mournfully, like a weary soul in pain. The sound, amplified in the stillness of the night, was immediately seized upon by a hissing scream that halted her in her tracks. Trying to locate the direction from which the noise had come, she shone her torch over the leaf-covered grass until it came to rest in a corner of the garden, its light scattering over the lightly rippled water of a large pond. There was no one visible yet she had the sense of somebody watching her. The beam swung over the bushes and trees and, catching the rustle of crisp leaves on a branch, she was in time to spot a large owl as it took off from its perch in the shadows.
‘Wow! That’s huge,’ said Lucy. ‘Why did it make that noise?’
‘Don’t know. Probably defending its territory.’
Not living in the countryside, she was unused to such night-time noises. The ones with which she was familiar were all man-made. She rang the doorbell and almost immediately a light snapped on upstairs. ‘Coming!’ shouted a muffled voice. More lights were turned on, the door opened and a grey-bearded face peered out.
Natalie spoke. ‘Mr Caldwell?’
‘Yes.’
She lifted her ID card. ‘I’m DI Natalie Ward, in charge of the investigation into an attack on Gemma Barnes, and this is DS Lucy Carmichael.’
He stepped back to allow both officers space to enter. The place was welcoming, the pungent aroma of burnt wood from a recent log fire filling the narrow, dark hallway, which was brightened by numerous paintings of landscapes and a large standard lamp that emitted a soft orange glow.
They followed him into a room – a study with wooden bookcases and a green leather swivel armchair, a glass-topped table with ornate legs and feet, and a matching leather settee with cushions on which were embroidered ducks. The desk was pushed under a net-curtained window – highly polished and clear of clutter with a notebook open on it and an ornate lamp over it. It was the sort of old-fashioned office Natalie would expect to see in the Houses of Parliament or a grand house.
Mr Caldwell spoke calmly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘We’re searching for Hattie. We’re unable to locate her and we think she might have valuabl
e information she wished to share regarding the attack on Gemma Barnes, but she failed to make a pre-arranged meeting. Have you any idea at all as to what she might have wanted to tell me?’
He placed his hands behind his back, entwined his fingers and pondered the question. ‘Sadly no. I can’t think why she contacted you. She said nothing to me about any attack, but she’s not very good at staying in touch. Or, should I say, we’re not very good at staying in touch.’
‘She never mentioned Gemma to you?’
‘Only in passing. I know she’s one of Hattie’s housemates.’
‘You didn’t know about the attack on her?’
‘Alas, I didn’t. I’m a little behind with the news at the moment.’
‘I’m afraid she died.’
‘Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever visit Hattie at the house on Eastview Avenue?’
‘Once when she first moved to it. We went out for lunch together and I stopped off for a cup of tea.’
‘Did you meet any of her housemates?’
‘They were all out at the time so no, I didn’t.’
‘You’ve not been back to the house since then?’
‘Hattie’s a grown woman. She doesn’t want or need her septuagenarian father dropping by every week. Besides, it gets difficult to know what to talk about. She’s a young sociology student and I’m an old fossil who spreads God’s word.’
‘You do see each other though, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, she comes by during the holidays. Her room here is always made up for her and she’s always welcome, but to be perfectly frank, there’s not much for a young woman in this quiet village, which is probably why she left in the first place.’
‘To marry Ocean?’
‘She fell head over heels in love with him. I was happy for them both even though she moved away to live in the eco-commune.’
‘Did you visit them there?’
‘A few times but I always felt a little awkward – an outsider – even though they were all welcoming enough.’
‘Do you know why she left the commune?’ Natalie asked, aware of what Lucy had told her.
‘I do and it surprised me. It transpired Ocean was keen on multiple relationships with his female followers and Hattie wasn’t the only woman he wanted to be with. She wasn’t prepared to stand for that and upped and left. She divorced him soon after. It was a sad state of affairs. I’d really taken to the man but, well, Hattie’s my daughter. Anyway, Hattie came back and wanted to get some qualifications. It wasn’t easy for her, sitting A-levels at night school while holding down a job, but she did it and was accepted into Samford University to study sociology, and I’m very proud of her.’ Mr Caldwell’s story didn’t really tally with Ocean’s version and Natalie still had a muddled picture of Hattie.
‘Can I ask, who funds Hattie’s education?’
‘Ah, that’d be me. I used a small inheritance I was bequeathed from an aunt a few years ago to pay for her accommodation and fees. I’m also able to give her a small allowance to live on, and she manages well. She’s not silly with money.’ His face brightened with pride.
Lucy had been listening quietly and now asked, ‘Do you know any of her friends’ names or where any of them live?’
The man shook his head. ‘That’s the thing… I don’t.’
‘She never told you anything about any of her friends?’
‘I vaguely know first names like Charlotte or Yvonne, but I don’t know who they are or anything much about them. Charlotte has a dog, I think, and Yvonne went to Edinburgh – to The Fringe – with Hattie, but I don’t know any more than that. I’m very sorry.’ He rubbed a shaking hand across his wispy hair and Natalie felt a pang of sorrow for the man. He knew very little about his daughter yet cared very deeply for her. The gap between them was wide and she hoped she’d never face such a void with Josh.
She steeled herself and said, ‘This might seem an odd question but has Hattie ever lost her temper with you?’
‘Hattie!’ His face broke into a smile. ‘She’s the most mild-mannered person you could ever hope to meet.’
‘She’s never raised her voice or fallen out with you?’ asked Lucy.
‘No.’ The smile was still there.
‘Or complained about any of her housemates to you?’
The smile faltered. ‘No. What are you suggesting?’
Natalie replied, ‘We’re trying to establish why Hattie might have gone off without telling anyone where she’s gone, and why she isn’t answering her phone.’
He sat back with a small chuckle. ‘Because she’s Hattie. That’s her nature. She goes off on a whim and wanders back a few days later. She’s a free spirit. Exactly like her mother.’
It was a good hour later, after talking to Mr Caldwell, that Natalie and Lucy stood outside 59 Eastview Avenue, the house three doors down from where Gemma and Fran had lived. They wanted to talk to the person who had known Fran the best and could maybe help them decide if she had committed suicide.
Rhiannon answered the door, a pair of huge round glasses balanced on her snub nose. She peered myopically at Natalie, Lucy and the university counsellor – a woman in her thirties called Katherine, who Natalie had requested accompany them – and invited them inside.
‘There’s nobody else here but me,’ she said.
‘It was you we wanted to talk to. Can we go into the sitting room?’ Natalie asked kindly.
‘Sure. I’m in the middle of writing an essay. It’s due in tomorrow,’ the girl burbled as she walked, obviously nervous about the intrusion. The singsong voice became hesitant and she asked, ‘Have you found the person who attacked Gemma?’
Natalie refrained from answering and followed Rhiannon into the sitting room – much like the one in the house where Fran and Gemma had lived, but furnished even more sparsely, with a couple of beige beanbags strewn on the floor, a green armchair and three hardback chairs that were better suited to the kitchen. There was no television in this room, only a CD player, thick with dust.
‘Sit down, Rhiannon,’ she said, indicating the armchair and choosing one of the chairs for herself. Lucy and the counsellor did likewise, pulling up the wooden chairs with cushioned seats and forming a semicircle around the girl. Rhiannon flopped into the armchair and rested her hands on her thighs. Natalie noticed the recently applied false nails – long yellow talons, seemingly at odds with the grey sweatshirt that read Girl with Curves, long mustard cardigan, black leggings and fluffy boot slippers. Behind the lenses, her eyes were made up with cream and gold eyeshadow, her eyeliner on perfectly, eyebrows groomed and her foundation flawless. Rhiannon took care with her physical appearance but it struck Natalie as odd that she should make such an effort if she only intended working on an assignment. Maybe she rather liked one of her fellow housemates and hoped to impress them when they returned.
Natalie had waited until she’d heard that Fran’s parents had been notified about their daughter’s death before returning to Eastview Avenue, and she now had to learn what she could from Fran’s closest friend. There could be no beating around the bush and no way to soften such a blow. ‘I’m afraid that I have bad news. Fran is dead. I’m very sorry. I know you were close.’
The girl threw her hands up in front of her mouth and gasped loudly.
‘Is there anything we can get for you, or anyone we can contact?’
‘No… no.’ Her eyes began to fill. ‘This can’t be happening. I saw her earlier. She was fine. I don’t understand.’
Natalie tried to calm the girl by talking quietly. ‘You’ve met DS Carmichael and this is Katherine Weber. She’s one of the university counsellors and she’ll stay with you for a while after we leave.’
The reply was a feeble, ‘Okay.’
‘If you feel up to it, I’d like to continue with a few questions. They won’t take long.’
The tears had spilt over her
lashes and she didn’t stop them. ‘I’ll… try.’
‘Thank you. Can you tell me when you last saw Fran?’
‘This morning… about ten. I went to her place.’
‘How long did you stay there?’
‘Only a quarter of an hour. I had to get on with my work.’
‘Did Fran say if she was going out?’
The girl blinked back more tears and swiped at her cheek. ‘No. She wanted to finish reading one of her set texts and prepare for a tutorial. I’ve not spoken to her since then. I’ve had my head down, working on an essay.’
‘I see. Tell me, was Fran unhappy at all?’
‘Yes… no… I mean… sort of. She got a lot of grief from her ma about not visiting her grandmother often enough, but she didn’t want to go back.’
‘Was there any reason for that?’
‘Her grandmother’s got dementia and Fran couldn’t bear seeing her in that state. She visited a few times last year but every time she went, she’d come back to Samford depressed, and I think her grandmother has got much worse since then. Fran had such a shitty time growing up and had so much trouble she had to move out and live with her gran. She hated going back to East Toxteth and being reminded of her old life.’
‘What sort of life was that?’
‘A rubbish one. She told me some pretty scary shit about what it was like living there. She knew if she went home, she’d be dragged back into all of it again – the gang culture, the drugs and watching her back all the time. We talked about renting a place together during the Christmas holidays when term ends. That way we could both stay in Samford. We were going to try and get jobs.’ She pressed her fingertips against her forehead and Natalie coaxed her on.
