Waters said, ‘Did he tell you anything useful?’
‘Difficult to be sure. His English isn’t great. It got noticeably worse when I asked who else works there and might have seen something.’
Murray said, ‘He’ll have some illegal workers. Most of the ethnic places in Lake do.’
Sterling said, ‘That’s what I thought. Anyway, as far as I could tell, Mr Zhang has seen the man in the doorway before. I couldn’t make out how long he’s been around but, according to Mr Zhang, it’s not the first night he spent in that doorway. He mentioned the dog more than once – “You take dog”. That wasn’t a question – more like an order.’
Murray raised his umbrella, looked about and said, ‘What dog?’
Waters told the story and Murray just looked dubious – this was one of his finest qualities. At the end, he said, ‘A blind girl and a dog called Ben came out and rescued half a dozen of Lake Central’s finest from another dog called Lola?’
Waters said, ‘Yes, John. You had to be there.’
Then Freeman was back with them, saying she’d heard some of what Denise had said, and asking whether this Mr Zhang was ready to sign a statement. The detective sergeant caught Waters’ eye as she answered their boss; ‘No, ma’am. It was just an initial chat. We were concerned he might try to open the door.’
Freeman said, ‘But the owner knows the victim – sorry, but he is a victim of something, isn’t he? The owner recognised him?’
Exchanges with DCI Cara Freeman could take on a staccato quality. It was sometimes like facing one of those machines that serve tennis balls but with each delivery some unseen hand has notched up the speed, until one catches you full in the face. Waters realised that of the officers present here, only he had any inkling of where this could lead when it occurred in the midst of an investigation.
Denise Sterling said, ‘He certainly recognised him. I can’t say whether he knew him, ma’am.’
‘But you have just been in conversation with him?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Well, we need to know whether this Mr Zhang knew the deceased or whether he just gazed at him through his window. Go back and get enough for a statement. If it helps, explain to Mr Noodles that he won’t be opening his restaurant any more this week until we’ve had his full cooperation. If he needs a translator, we can find one. OK?’
‘Ma’am.’
Freeman turned to Waters and Murray.
‘Statements. Let’s hit this street while memories are fresh. Less than twenty-four hours ago, this bloke was wandering up and down, making a nuisance of himself. This morning, he’s dead. Worse – he’s dead on our patch. Every eye in Central is going to be watching and waiting for us to cock it up. Nobody likes a smart-arse and that’s what they think we are right now.’
Over Freeman’s shoulder, Waters could see Maya Kumar on her way back. He fought down the impulse to wave her away until Freeman was done here.
‘So, start with the places nearest to the doorway where he ended up, those with a direct view. Let’s find out his history on this street for the past few weeks at least. When did he first show up? What do people think they know about him? In particular, what was he doing yesterday, and who was he seen talking to? Take notes, make sure they can see you are and that they understand they’ll be signing something before long. Anything good, let me know straight away.’
Maya joined the group and Freeman gave her a warm smile. Waters winced but nothing else was said – just a warm, friendly smile.
Freeman hadn’t quite finished. She said, ‘I’ll stay here and line up the support services when they arrive, so you know where to find me. While I’m doing that, I’ll get the number for this regiment. It is a real one, isn’t it?’
Waters confirmed that the Royal Anglians were indeed not a figment of the dead man’s imagination.
‘Good. Maybe we’ll get to meet some men in uniform… Last, CCTV could be critical. Wilson’s mobile number. Chris, can you text it to me, on my work mobile?’
He said that he would if she’d confirm her number for him.
Without blinking or hesitation, Freeman said, ‘It’s on the sheet DI Greene gave out this morning.’
Waters was quicker with people now, and saw instantly that he had wandered into quicksand – keep very still and be prepared to fling yourself backwards if sinking. He half-closed his eyes and said nothing.
Freeman said, ‘The sheet with all our contact details that everyone was supposed to add into their devices before leaving the room. Did anyone actually do that?’
An awkward moment followed by a short, embarrassing silence. And then Murray put up one forefinger on one giant fist, and Freeman said, ‘Good. John, text me Wilson’s number, please. Maya, team up with Denise. Off we go, people.’
The four of them stood in front of the two businesses immediately opposite the doorway where the screen had been erected. Waters glanced back and saw that Freeman was already on her mobile phone, either talking to John Wilson or tracking down the phone number for the regiment. The uniformed men from the patrol car nodded but didn’t speak as the detectives passed them; they were soaked by now but continuing to do a thoroughly good job at keeping the public moving by at a steady pace. It’s funny, thought Waters – they probably don’t know who Cara Freeman is yet but they’ve picked up how this is being handled. There was to be no standing around, no chatting, not even any hands in pockets.
Denise Sterling said, ‘We could toss a coin.’
The left-hand premises was the betting shop, and on the right was the florist. Inside the bookie’s, a man in a white shirt and an unfashionably wide and garish tie was watching them, his thin, white face between posters advertising special deals on today’s sporting events – a race meeting in Newmarket and the odds on who would become the next manager of a football club that Waters had at least heard of.
He said, ‘We’ll take Flower Power. I still don’t think John believes the story about the dog.’
Sterling said, ‘Fair enough. Just to say, I don’t like bookies.’
‘Why not?’
Waters was aware of Freeman – she wasn’t near enough to hear this conversation and hopefully it would look as if they were talking strategy before beginning the interviews.
‘My ex was a gambler. He started off small but ended up losing us our house. It’s why we split up.’
After a suitable pause, Murray said, ‘It wasn’t this bookie, was it?’
Murray wasn’t familiar with everyone’s back story yet.
She said, ‘No. But they’re all the same – leeches. Parasites on the poor and vulnerable.’
Murray took a look at everyone before he said, ‘Well, that’s a point of view. I don’t mind the odd flutter. And I once won a fiver off DC.’
Waters thought, yes, it was always a fiver but I never actually saw any money change hands. They’d better get moving, though; Freeman had caught him out on the phone numbers and he didn’t need to feel that uncomfortable again today. He said, ‘Well, we’ll begin with the florist and work our way north on this side of the street. You head down the other side.’
Sterling nodded and set off for the door of the bookmaker’s shop, and Maya Kumar followed like her shadow in the rain. It was dripping off Murray’s umbrella and onto Waters’ shoulder – he had the choice of either standing a little too close to Murray and remaining dry or standing well away with his hood up. He said ‘Ready?’ and Murray nodded. At some point, Murray would deliver a verdict on all this but it would be in his own time.
Chapter Six
The ceiling was lower and the shop stretched further back than one might have expected, creating a narrow space filled with lights, mirrors and colours – every colour under the sun, Waters supposed, though many of the blooms might be out of season and grown under some sort of artificial light these days. He didn’t know for sure because he knew next to nothing about flowers.
The older woman had heard the electronic buzz as they�
�d opened the door, and she was on her way from a rear section of the premises, wiping her hands on a towel. When she saw them, she recognised Waters but still looked surprised. ‘Again?’ she said. ‘We’ve only just said goodbye to another one of you lot. We gave her all our details.’
Waters said, ‘I’m sorry for the duplication but it’s a developing situation, as you can imagine. We’d like to speak to everyone who might have seen…’ and then he hesitated, aware of the other girl though she was nowhere to be seen. ‘Who can tell us anything about the man who has met with an accident over the way. You told us his name was Michael. We’d be very grateful for any other information. It’s Patsy, isn’t it?’
Smith had taught him the value of remembering and using people’s names. The woman finished drying her hands and then folded the towel neatly into four. She nodded and said, ‘Come on through.’
They followed her into the rear of the shop, which was a preparation area with three tables, a bench along one wall and two sinks. There were rolls of different wrapping papers and foils attached to dispensers above the bench; scissors and shears were held up on the wall by magnetic strips. It was as neat and well-organised as a surgeon’s theatre before an operation.
The blind girl sat at the table furthest from them. She was removing the lower leaves from the stems of red roses, and as they arrived she was beginning a new one. Waters saw her fingers finding the cut end and then tracing their way along the stem, pressing thorns sideways to detach them and removing leaves until twelve inches of bare stem remained. The entire business took just a matter of seconds. He wondered whether she’d realised other people had entered the room, and then she said, ‘Any other information about Michael – that’s what you just said, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Miss Josephs,’ with a nod to Murray, who had taken out his notebook and pencil.
‘Miriam. Any information? That could take a while. You’re Detective Sergeant Waters, aren’t you?’
He said that he was, and then she asked the name of the other gentleman who was there with him. Murray was a big man but he moved as silently as any cat – how did she know there were two more people in the room, and that both were men? Waters glanced at Patsy, not concealing the frown, but she only shrugged her own lack of surprise.
He said, ‘My apologies. This is Detective Constable John Murray from Kings Lake Central police. He’s going to make a note of anything that helps us with our investigation. We’ll be asking some of the people we interview to sign statements.’
Thinking, how does she do that sort of thing? Has she ever seen her own signature? How does she know what she signs? Do we have to produce statements in braille?
Miriam Josephs said, ‘Are you going to interview us separately? Does that make any difference?’
It was a good question. Waters said, ‘I don’t think that will be necessary at this stage. Are you happy to answer questions? If it’s…’
Difficult? Awkward because of your disability? Does being interviewed by strange men you cannot see make you feel uncomfortable? He realised this was the first conversation he’d ever had with a blind person.
She said, ‘I’m going to assume we don’t need our solicitors. We’re not suspects yet, I think. If you keep your questions very simple and short, I’ll probably be able to cope.’
Not one of his thoughts had been put into words but she had heard them anyway. Murray was no help – he simply sent back a look that said you’re the senior officer, it’s up to you.
Miriam felt the pause too, and said, ‘I can begin, if you want to know what I know about Michael. It isn’t much.’
Waters said that would be helpful, and then she told them the man had first appeared on Eden Street, as far as she could tell, about three and a half months ago, towards the end of May. She knew this because it was not long after Patsy had started work at the shop, and Patsy had nodded her agreement. He didn’t have the dog then – Lola arrived one morning a couple of weeks later. She could remember that day because Ben had behaved differently as she passed the doorway – it had been a Saturday, the Saturday of the wedding at St Bardolph’s church when all the men had worn matching red carnations.
She said, ‘So I stopped and we talked about the dogs, as people do. That was the first time I had any conversation with Michael. After that, we had a word once or twice a week.’
Murray spoke for the first time: ‘Was there ever anyone else with him?’
Then the girl did that disconcerting thing – she glanced in Patsy’s direction as if she could see her as she said, ‘Oh my goodness! You’re even taller than Detective Sergeant Waters!’
Patsy grinned as the two men looked at each other, as if to check that the blind girl was right. Waters said, ‘Yes, he is. How tall am I, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Miriam made a mock-serious face, suggesting she needed to think about that one. Then she said, ‘Six feet one or six feet two, I’d say. Your friend must be another two or three inches over that.’
Waters always admitted to six one but it depended which shoes he was wearing on the day; Murray, he knew, was six feet five. He said to her, ‘How do you do that?’
She put down the stem she’d been holding, placing it with those she had prepared previously – her little finger found the base of the bunch and edged them together so they were all in a line.
‘No trigonometry is involved. I could be naughty now and tell you all sorts of stories. But the truth is, my brother Daniel is six feet tall. If you sound taller than him, you probably are, and if there are two people talking next to each other, it’s easy to hear the difference.’
She was enjoying herself, and enjoying the attention, Waters thought, but not in a selfish way. He couldn’t imagine her being selfish, and he noticed the odd colour of her eyes again, paler still in this dimmer artificial light than they had seemed outside, the colour of hazel.
Murray said not unkindly, ‘So then, how tall was Michael?’
Miriam cocked her head to one side a fraction – ‘A big man who doesn’t say much and who likes to get on with the job…’ which Waters thought was a fair description of John Murray from anyone.
‘Most days he stayed sitting down but sometimes we talked for longer, and then he stood up. Five feet nine perhaps – about my own height.’
Murray said, ‘What else can you tell us about him?’
‘That he was probably overweight. He struggled and puffed to get up, like an old man but he wasn’t that old. I’d guess he was in his forties. I think he’d been on the streets for a while because his clothes smelled very stale. If you have no space, you can’t store spare clothes, so you keep wearing the same ones. Sometimes he smelled of drink – I mean alcohol, of course. More beer than spirits. But he was always quite coherent. I never remember him sounding drunk, and I don’t think he used drugs.’
Waters watched as Murray wrote this down – it seemed as valid as information given by a sighted person. Miriam had paused, and Waters guessed she was digging deeper into impressions that she never thought would be required by anyone else.
‘I think he used to be a soldier. I can’t sense that,’ and she smiled in Waters’ direction, ‘but I remember someone telling me what was written on a piece of paper he used when he was begging.’
‘That was me,’ Patsy said, ‘first week he showed up. He had this bit of board saying about his time in the army. Sometimes he wore a camouflage T shirt, part of his act sort of thing.’
Murray said, ‘An act? You didn’t think he was an ex-soldier?’
Patsy said, ‘No, not saying that… But maybe he wasn’t. He used it to get sympathy and cash. Same with the dog, they just have an angle, don’t they?’
‘But he was all right with the dog,’ Miriam said firmly, ‘she was looked after as well as he could on the street. You can tell that as soon as you touch them. She was a happy dog. She is a happy dog,’ turning towards the back of the room, ‘but soon she’s going to notice he’s gone for good.’
Miriam said, ‘That’s about it. I can’t tell you what he looked like because I never read his face – we didn’t have that kind of relationship – but I suppose I don’t need to. You can see for yourselves. Have you taken him away?’
No, said Murray, but he thought that would be happening in an hour or two. He looked at Waters, who knew he was still staring at the girl; listening to her speak and wondering about her life in absolute darkness had had a strange effect on him. Waters said, ‘How would you have read his face?’
She held up her small hands and flexed the slender fingers. She wore no rings.
‘With these.’
He imagined that, the trust needed on both sides. We rarely touch faces, even of those we say we love. How would his own face feel to someone who had never seen it?
It was John Murray who moved things forward again, asking whether they’d seen anyone different with Michael recently, whether he had been around every day over the past week, whether anything out of the ordinary had happened on Eden Street that might in some way be linked to the death of a rough sleeper. And, inevitably, when had they last seen him alive – after which, Murray apologised in an unembarrassed way and Miriam told him not to worry, Patsy could answer that one.
Tom Greene had done an excellent job on his first morning and things were moving along nicely. The photographer had arrived, done her work and gone, with a promise to have everything available online by the end of the day – not the man they usually use, Greene had said, he’s in America getting divorced, but this lady has worked crime scenes before. Freeman had asked Greene whether there were any particular advantages to getting divorced in America, and he said he didn’t know.
On Eden Street Page 5
