On Eden Street

by Peter Grainger

  She said, ‘No. They’re a great couple, made for each other. Must be nice, having someone like that, someone to make you a cup of Ceylon tea when you get home.’

  Waters said, ‘No. I don’t need another introduction to one of your lonely friends.’

  ‘I know you don’t,’ she said archly, ‘because there’s someone already. I know the signs.’

  ‘Sometimes you do talk rubbish.’

  ‘But not all the time. And that wasn’t a denial, was it? Who is she?’

  Waters drove more quickly now they were back on the Hunston road, making a point of concentrating on doing so. A minute or so passed before Serena said, ‘Because I’ll find out in the end, anyway.’

  He ignored that and said, ‘What did you make of Joseph Ritz recognising both photos? I can see why he might have met Murfitt, but why Michael Wortley? We’ve no other evidence he was ever on the streets of Kings Lake.’

  ‘Don’t know… But if he can put them together in any way, that’s a big step forward. It’s weird how Wortley seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I reckon that has to be intentional.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  After a pause, Serena said, ‘Pretty obvious tactic, distracting me with the case. I’ll go along with it for now. Maybe Brother Joe is about this afternoon?’

  He’d already considered and dismissed the idea.

  ‘DC has obviously set this up and persuaded him to talk to us. We’ll keep to the script and see him Monday morning.’

  ‘And are you telling Freeman about this afternoon?’

  That was a good question. He must have driven half a mile or more before he answered it.

  ‘No. It’ll keep until we’re back in the station.’

  Detective Constable Serena Butler had a number of annoying habits but the most annoying of all was being right about her detective sergeant. “There’s someone on your mind” she’d said, and it was true.

  Waters arrived back at his flat at around five thirty that afternoon. Immediately he sat down in the lounge, no music, no television, no laptop and no phone, and told himself this had to be sorted. Something must be done. If necessary he would do what Smith might in a complex case, get a piece of A4 paper, draw a nice straight line down the centre – with a ruler, naturally – and list the problems and the possible solutions.

  The number of potential problems was, apparently, infinite but he tried to consider each one as it arose. If he asked Miriam out, where could they go? On a Saturday evening, it was his habit now to walk down to The Blue Note. He could call her and say causally that he would pick her up and they could go together, just an hour or two, listen to the music, chat and meet a few of his friends… But what about the dog? Did the club allow dogs? By law, almost all establishments must do so, but was a jazz club appropriate, whatever the law said? Would Miriam feel uncomfortable without the dog?

  And, if it came to it, did the dog like him? Waters recalled that moment when he had half-reached out to Miriam and the animal’s whole attitude had changed in an instant. If he and Miriam ever got, you know, cosy, would Ben be watching? If they had to lock him away, this dog might soon become a little resentful…

  Perhaps not the club on a first date, then. It would be a date, wouldn’t it, whatever the pretence? She had twice now pointed out she had given him her mobile number, and she had perhaps already taken offence that he hadn’t called her. She’s only blind, for heaven’s sake, she’s like a normal girl in every other respect. Presumably. But there are lots of unanswered questions. If she’s a graduate in music, knowledgeable about Bach, for example, what is she doing running a florist’s shop in the backstreets of Kings Lake? What is she doing living in Fairhills, which is, as Smith might say, a little Bohemian, to put it politely?

  He went to the window and stood with his hands in his jeans pockets. There were a few spots of rain on the glass – it was already the wettest September for several years, the news had said that morning. Even so, maybe just a walk somewhere, which would solve the Ben problem. There was a delivery van parked at the rear of the bakery, waiting to pick up a few baskets, probably. The youth behind the wheel was rolling a cigarette, completely unaware that he was being observed, and as Waters watched the process, he knew it was a joint – he saw the sprinkling of something on top of the tobacco. Possession is still an offence, and driving under the influence a more serious one. He could go down, make an arrest, call a squad car or take the youth in himself. He had made plenty of arrests now in much more challenging situations than this would be. But that would be the rest of the day done, and there are times when you turn a blind eye, if you want any sort of life at all.

  The flat felt small behind him, especially after the visit of that girl and her partner this morning. He took down his waterproof and pulled to the door behind him before going down the stairs and out into the street. When he passed the van on his way down to the quay, the youth behind the wheel nodded, unconcerned. One of the greatest gifts you can have as a detective is not looking like one.

  The port of Kings Lake is still surprisingly busy. The great ships of the past are long gone but there is a constant scurrying of waterside life as boats go up and down and across from little quays, landing stages and sheds by the estuary. Far down river, Waters could make out the place at Riverside where he’d discovered the money hidden in Philip Wood’s fishing boat. He could still hear Murray on his phone behind him saying, ‘He’s only gone and found something in the hull, DC!’

  But that was already years ago. I’m twenty-eight next birthday, he told himself. That’s not really young any more. I’m selling my first property now, not buying one.

  The tide was in and high, lapping against the stone wall of the jetty. He leaned over the railing and stared down, but the water was thick and muddy, so he was only staring at it, not seeing into it. Sometimes you cannot see but you must still act. From here, from this very spot, a boat could take you anywhere in the world, but you’d have to get into the boat first to go anywhere at all.

  He looked across the river again and noticed a herring gull perched on a huge rusty buoy. The baleful yellow eyes were watching him, and there was something in its bill. When the bird turned side-on, Waters could see it was a starfish, one of the little orange ones you find stranded on the beach at low tide. The bird was making no attempt to consume it, just holding onto it because it could. There were other gulls in the air beyond this one, and as soon as you noticed them you heard too their perpetual cries, the distant, mournful cries of desolate, lonely places. Somewhere far downriver, someone gave three blasts on a ship’s horn.

  His mother would say, with a worried look, well, if she’s the one for you… His father would, at some point, have a serious word and tell him to think carefully about exactly what he was taking on, though he had thought of little else in his free time since ten o’clock last Monday morning. Five days? Was that all? Three short conversations?

  The gull lifted its wings and slipped into the air, still holding onto the starfish. Waters watched until it was among the others over the river, a white speck against the greys of water and sky. Then he took out his mobile and found her name under ‘M’ – he hadn’t bothered to put in the ‘Josephs’. Now the moment was no more than a press of the thumb away.

  There was a new crying of gulls across the water, a crescendo, and he paused to watch them and listen. He’d looked it up, of course. She had been the sister of Moses and Aaron. It was a Hebrew name of debated meaning. Rebellious. Wished-for child. Sea of bitterness, sea of sorrow… And then he could hear her voice and realised he must have pressed it anyway.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘In exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, it’ll be one week since we arrived on the scene. We’ve made progress, we’re steadily filling in the blanks but it’s just a bit too steadily for my liking. It’s time we made the great leap forward.’

  Waters had thought, does Freeman know where that comes from? Does she realise how many millions
died the last time someone suggested making one of those? He knew nothing about her background other than some details about Freeman’s career in the police force. Her mother suffered from dementia and she helped with her care – she’d told Serena and him that, after they arrested Graham Fletcher – but whether she had been to university or had another career before becoming an officer he had no idea.

  ‘And in exactly one hour and fifteen minutes I’ll be in a management meeting. I should be back here by lunchtime. Tom has suggested we take some pictures of Murfitt’s newly-discovered abode – I’m sure Chris has a more convincing explanation at the ready than the one we’ve just heard – but they don’t need to be courtroom quality, so he’ll send one of you out with a Polaroid disposable from lost property. Serena, you’ve got some comeback on one of the photos you left around the town?’

  It was a potentially awkward moment. Waters kept his eyes away from Serena and did his best to look neutral, but she handled it well. Yes, she said, someone had got in touch, and she’d arranged to meet them this morning – it was a man from one of the homeless hostels.

  Freeman said, ‘Sounds hopeful. Taking someone with you?’

  He’d spoken up then, not wanting anyone else to be given the job.

  ‘Ma’am? I think this is a man I’ve met before, on a previous case. It might help if he sees a face he recognises, given the circumstances.’

  Waters saw the frown and felt the pause as Freeman considered it. She was thinking to herself, what circumstances? But it was only momentary, and if she came to any conclusion, she didn’t share it.

  ‘Fine. Call in with anything useful. The rest of you need to look at the map Tom has made of CCTV in the area. This has been bugging me. All we have is the clip as they approach Murfitt on the Sunday night, and the one of them talking to him the day before. The area is well-covered but they manage to avoid all the other cameras on the Sunday night. Did they get lucky or have we under-estimated them? Have we missed a vital camera? Where did they go after the attack, and can we work out some sort of route from the fact they didn’t appear on another camera? They must have had a car. Where was it parked? Or did someone, a third party, pick them up? I don’t suppose they caught a bus…’

  She’d stopped and thought that over, too; Freeman had a habit of thinking aloud in the middle of a conversation, and as a listener you had to spot these moments.

  ‘…Obviously not at that time of night.’

  Murray said, ‘What about a taxi, ma’am?’

  ‘Good. Follow up that idea but do it after you’ve given the bank and the phone company another gentle nudge, John. But not too gentle. Here endeth the briefing.’

  They drove to Waterfall Road in Serena’s car. On the way, she said to him, ‘Did you do anything nice over the weekend, apart from taking me to see DC?’

  He answered, ‘That was the highlight, of course. The rest of my weekend was a disappointment, in comparison.’

  She nodded and said, ‘I totally understand. But you know you can always call me if you need to chat, if you’re feeling low.’

  Waters said, ‘Yes. That’s one of the things that keeps me going through the dark times. Thank you.’

  He knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. She wasn’t hurrying to get to their destination, and it wouldn’t be just because they were avoiding the CCTV nightmare back in the office. After a suitable pause, Serena said, ‘Not a problem sir.’

  He smiled and glanced at his phone but there wasn’t another message since the one he’d received last night. He read it through again while he waited for Serena.

  ‘So that couple didn’t call back with a ridiculous offer for the flat? It wasn’t all a ploy?’

  ‘No. They really hated it, or she did, the girl. They won’t be back.’

  ‘Oh. It’s just…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, you seem pretty chilled this morning. Last week – and I’m saying this as friend, sir, not as your subordinate – you were a bit on edge. Like you had something on your mind.’

  ‘Did I?’

  It was best to keep one’s own contributions to the minimum on these occasions. It would be over sooner that way.

  ‘Mmm. I expect on Saturday you went to the jazz club and met your weird friends. Just the usual crowd, was it?’

  Serena looked around at him and he nodded.

  ‘And on Sunday? What did you do with yourself all day?’

  She had deliberately adopted the tone she used when interviewing someone she didn’t want to frighten too much – the tone of a concerned older sister with only the faintest hint of menace.

  ‘I went for a walk.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Roydon Common.’

  ‘And is there anyone who can corroborate your story?’

  They had turned into Waterfall Road, and ahead on the right Waters could see a long brick wall with an entrance but no gate. There was a hand-painted sign, ‘The Wesleyan Centre’, fixed to the wall at a slight angle, just enough off true to make you feel the need to stop and put it straight.

  He said, ‘We’re here. Pull in, I think there’s parking inside.’

  She did so but said, ‘There is, I’ve been here before, remember? Just to be clear, I’m taking the answer to my last question as maybe.’

  There was an area of tarmac with room for about a dozen cars but the place hadn’t been that busy for a long time. Here and there, weeds had broken through the surface, thistles, ragwort and nettles, and someone had made a desultory attempt to knock them down before wandering off and leaving the rest standing, shedding seeds that would make the problem worse next year.

  Serena reversed the car and parked close to the wall. They were facing an old chapel of some sort with a hall attached to one end – there was a double door, one half of which appeared to be wedged open, and along the wall were six identical windows. The brickwork of the arches was immaculate and the building would probably stand for another hundred and fifty years with little attention, but the faith that had built this place, Waters thought, has long since crumbled into dust. He’d never met anyone who admitted to being a Methodist.

  Parked near to the open door was a blue Ford Escort estate that had also seen better days. Serena said, ‘Last week I met a couple of volunteers. One was a middle-aged woman with a conscience and a bike, and the other was a student, I’d guess. That car wasn’t here. Looks as if he’s turned up.’

  Then a man was backing out of the doorway, his arms around a black plastic dustbin. When he’d manoeuvred it through the space, he turned ninety degrees to his left and carried it bodily towards the corner of the building, where an assortment of other bins and bags stood ready for collection. He wore only a white singlet, dark jogging bottoms and trainers, a man of average height, with broad, sloping shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch. Much of his dark hair had migrated south; he was mostly bald but his bare arms and back were hirsute, and there were tattoos on the thick forearms that held the dustbin. When it was planted down heavily with the others, the man turned and walked back towards the doorway. He didn’t appear to have noticed them at all.

  Serena said, ‘Looks as if I’ll get to meet a resident this time. Let’s go and find out where the boss is.’

  Waters said, ‘No need.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s Brother Joe Ritz.’

  The kettle began to rattle as it boiled on the metal tray. Joe had found three mugs of assorted styles and sizes, and he washed them in the sink that had just one tap before drying them on a tea towel that had the green logo of Kings Lake General Hospital in one corner – best not to ask.

  There were two chairs in his office, and Waters and Serena occupied these; it wasn’t clear where Joe would sit when the drinks were made. The room was barely big enough for three adults but it was functional and not untidy, a description that Joseph Ritz might have applied to himself, if pushed to give one.

  Without turning around, and as he busied himself with jars
, spoons and milk cartons, he said, ‘Yes, your old sergeant was right. You and I have met before.’

  Waters said, ‘At Abbeyfields. It was a couple years ago.’

  The coffee was instant of course, but at least the milk went in first – the old sergeant would have approved. After a few seconds, Joe said, ‘Brothers Jeremy and Andrew… I heard that Jeremy has been released.’

  ‘Last year,’ Waters said, ‘he only did the minimum term. He’s never been in touch with anyone at the Friary?’

  Joe said, ‘Not to my knowledge. If he had, we wouldn’t have turned him away.’

  The mugs were placed in front of them – a large, stoneware thing for Waters and a small one with pink flowers for Serena. He tried to catch her eye but she ignored him, saying instead to Joe Ritz, ‘How long have you been operating this place as a hostel?’

  He perched himself on the corner of his desk, reminiscent of their latest DCI, and said in answer, ‘Never. If we called ourselves a hostel, we’d soon be in regulatory deep water. There are people in suits who take these matters very seriously. We’re a night shelter – we don’t have to tick so many boxes that way. We still have to tick some, and we’re always a few weeks away from being shut down. But that’s how it’s been for years – about six years. Closing us down would mean some bad publicity for the local authority, and then other people in suits questioning their lack of provision. So, we rub along.’

  Waters said, ‘And DC told me you’re also in charge of the friary now. You took over from Brother Jeremy.’

  Instinct or experience or some subtle blend of the two had told Waters not to ask about the photographs straight away. Joe Ritz was sounding them out as much as they were doing the same thing with him, and Smith had suggested the information the man might have for them was not straightforward.

  Joe said, ‘Well, I’m not sure anyone’s in charge. But there was no one else who had any experience of running anything, not even an under-elevens football team, so it fell to me, and now they can’t be bothered with replacing me. If a proper leader ever turns up, he can have the job tomorrow.’