Waters exchanged a look with Serena before he said, ‘Presumably they’re not closing us down after a week. I don’t think we’ve been doing that badly.’
‘No. The DI wasn’t giving much away but it’s something to do with the case.’
Management meetings were much more likely to be about discussing budgets, five-year strategies and mission statements than individual cases. This, if true, was a little unusual. He said to Murray, ‘We’re ten minutes away, John, we’ll be there in plenty of time. Thanks for the update.’
When she was sure the call had ended, Serena said, ‘Well, I think you can stop worrying about John Murray now.’
‘Have I been?’
‘Yes. But you needn’t anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he just called her “the boss”.’
‘And if don’t believe it, I have the scars. Would you like to see?’
She was showing him anyway, lifting her thick, dark hair away from her head above the ear on the right side and then pressing it flat. Waters could see a thin red line on her scalp, some four or five inches long. Miriam said, as she lowered her hair, ‘A subdural haematoma, which was the least I could have expected, really. My head broke the windscreen.’
Waters had said then, ‘How long were you trapped in the car?’
‘About forty minutes, but it felt like forty years, of course. They told me afterwards I’d been lucky it was in the summer. By the time they got me out, the water was up to my waist but the drain would have been full in winter, and I’d probably have drowned.’
Ben had returned by then. He sat leaning against her legs, as if he sensed this was a difficult moment, and looked up expectantly at Waters, as if he too was ready for the next question. After a story like that, there had to be more questions.
‘And the man you were with? Erich? Did he regain consciousness at all?’
‘No. I managed to find his arm and felt his wrist. There was a weak pulse at first. He moaned a few times but it was incoherent. After a few minutes, I knew he’d died.’
It was late afternoon on the common. The robin had stopped singing a long time ago and the rooks had all departed to a roost somewhere in a wood. Other walkers had crossed the heath and passed the time of day as dog-walkers do, but now it was just the two of them, still seated on the same pile of birch logs.
Waters looked at her face in the moments after she said “I knew he’d died”. She was as beautiful as ever but deliberately impassive, making no attempt to find him in her darkness but looking away while he made up his mind about her – he guessed that’s what was going on. It was a dreadful story and for some reason she was ashamed of or embarrassed by her part in it, though he couldn’t see why. He wondered whether she had made up her mind to tell him this even before they’d taken the walk this afternoon.
He said, ‘Who found you?’
‘A farmer. He was in a tractor on the road and high enough to see the lights of the car in the water. He was quite an old man but he climbed down the bank and waded in. He tried to get the doors open. When he couldn’t, he got a chain around the axle and used his tractor to pull the car halfway up the bank to stop it sinking any more. He called the emergency services and then he came back down and talked to me, like people do, to keep you conscious. I went to thank him a few weeks later. His name was Ralph Hobbs.’
‘And you were conscious, all the time?’
‘Yes.’
Blind, trapped in a crashed car, up to her waist in water and knowing that her boyfriend had just died in the seat next to her.
‘What about the head injury?’
‘I blacked out in the ambulance as they were taking me in. I had an operation to relieve the pressure of the bleed onto the brain. I lost several weeks of memory, which they tell me is common with that injury…’
Miriam had paused then, and he knew something important was coming. In those seconds, he looked out across the common and saw that a thin, white mist was forming in the hollows and in the still spaces beneath the birch trees.
She said, ‘I was very low for some time afterwards, and I used to wish they hadn’t bothered – the surgeons, I mean. I know that’s a terrible thing to say, even now.’
‘It was a terrible experience.’
‘One of the first things I remember thinking afterwards was, for most of my life my father had been saying to me, Miriam, your life is just one car crash after another. And then it was. For real. You should know that I’m a great disappointment to him.’
She had told him earlier about her childhood, growing up in Oxford. Academically gifted – not her words but it was plain enough to anyone who listens for a living – and musically talented, she had won a place at the university in her home town. Her parents, she said, had been delighted because this would make things so much easier. She could live at home and…
‘Anyway,’ she said with a shrug, ‘I decided to go to UEA instead. This made it all impossibly difficult in their eyes, but I’d been coping with blindness since I was eight. If I’d stayed at home – well, if I was ever going to achieve any sort of independence, it had to be then. And I was a pain in the backside to them, I was horrible sometimes. I’m the youngest of four and the other three are all high-achievers. I think I set out not to be.’
Waters said, ‘You were eight when you lost your sight? How? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘I don’t mind. It’s nice to talk. I’ll tell you something else first, though. You know I said the accident was three years ago?’
‘You said, three years last June.’
‘Yes. So, there were a few months getting my head straight – literally, it felt as if the head injury had bent my brain! I went home for a month and then back to Norwich, where Erich and I had the flat. I’ve got two really good uni friends there and they helped me with everything. I told my parents I’d sell the flat and they thought I was finally going home to Oxford. But things did get sorted out and then I got the compensation offer for the accident. It was an obscene amount of money, mainly because I’m blind, I think. They took pity on me, and I took their money. Do you have a disapproving look on your face?’
‘No. I’m smiling.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure…’
But it was the sheer force of something in her, the nerve, the courage it must take to go on facing an invisible world, confronting it instead of hiding away, provoking that world even, and refusing to back away from the consequences. She was, he thought, Katherine Diver notwithstanding, the most original person he had ever met – or the most original woman, at any rate.
Miriam said, ‘So, what I was trying to say is, I bought the lease on the florist’s shop because I knew nothing about flowers and because it seemed improbable. And unconsciously, I suppose, because it would totally perplex my parents yet again. And then I had to get somewhere to live nearby, and I bought a house in Fairhills because the estate agent suggested it was a bit of a dodgy area. Do you think it is, by the way?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
She seemed quite pleased, his professional opinion carrying more weight in such a matter than most, maybe. He’d looked at her then and thought the temperature was falling and he should get her back to the car – they had walked a long way from it. The long, expensive-looking black cardigan was thick and warm but probably not enough on a chilly autumn night.
Miriam said, in a different tone, ‘I have to take some responsibility for what happened. We’d been to a party, and Erich had promised me he wouldn’t drink. He didn’t but he had taken coke that I didn’t know about. This all came out during the inquest, which was awful. It was the first time I met his parents – they came over from Austria. We, that’s Erich and me, had agreed months before that we weren’t doing anything like that again. As far as I knew he’d stuck to it, but on that night he… He took a line right before we left. He shouldn’t have been driving.’
She really was clearing the decks, wasn’t she? Ther
e was a moment of quiet, before he said, feeling uncomfortably like a detective, ‘But you hadn’t taken anything that evening yourself?’
‘Not even a drink, because Erich had said he wouldn’t, as he was driving. I’ve been teetotal and clean since the night it happened. My brain still isn’t quite right, sometimes. But you’ve probably already worked that out for yourself.’
Serena Butler pulled on the handbrake. They were at the last set of traffic lights before Lake Central police station. A taxi pulled up on their left, one of Dolly Argyris’s, and the driver recognised Waters and put up a hand – he nodded in return. Back in the city, back in this Monday morning world. Serena said, ‘Deep in thought. This case must be even more complicated than I’d realised.’
He said, ‘I’ve a feeling it’s about to get more complicated still,’ and then the lights changed.
When he’d pulled up outside her house in Fairhills – a neat little terrace and not nearly as “dodgy” as perhaps Miriam imagined – she turned to him and said, ‘I feel like I’ve unloaded too much on a first… A first whatever-it-was. I hope I didn’t spoil your afternoon.’
‘No, not at all. The time has flown by. It’s getting dark already.’
But not for her, of course. So many of the things we say without thinking take on new resonance, conventional phrases and meanings develop strange harmonics when you are with someone who has lost their sight.
She said, ‘I’ve just remembered – I never told you. It was meningitis. It destroyed my optic nerves in a matter of hours and then departed. The doctors said it was an unusual case. And I’m not going to ask you inside, by the way. Not tonight.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘I haven’t been out with anyone since the accident, not properly. A psychologist would say I’ve been left with trust issues. It isn’t easy for me to get into a strange man’s car.’
He wondered whether she could sense a smile, and said, ‘Not that strange, really.’
Ben was on the back seat and growing impatient. He pushed his head forward between them, as if reminding her it was time to go, and Miriam told him to sit back down. Then she said, ‘I know we might not meet again, I understand all that. But there’s something I would like to do. I can’t see faces but I can work out what people look like, if they’ll let me. Would you mind?’
She was holding up her right hand, the fingers long and slender. He said, ‘Go ahead. But I haven’t shaved since early this morning.’
She began with the left side of his face, not probing at all but with a slow, very light touch as she read the contours down to his chin, and then back up the other side. She touched his hair, his eyebrows and then came slowly down across his nose and lips. On her own face was a look of concentration. When her hand came away, Waters discovered he had stopped breathing.
She said, ‘Thank you. Patsy told me you were not a fright. What happened to your nose?’
‘That’s a long story. It would need at least another two-hour walk on the common.’
‘OK…’
Then she was searching for her bag and the white stick she had folded, and he wondered if he had embarrassed her in some way. He said, ‘Can I see you to the door?’
She stopped her hands, breathed and said, ‘I don’t need someone to look after me. I just need to make that clear.’
Waters had said then, ‘It is already and abundantly crystal clear.’
She showed him her eyes fully then, strikingly hazel eyes with a shot of sea-green somewhere in the depths, and she said, ‘If Ben wasn’t here, I’d probably suggest a goodbye kiss, but I’ve no idea how he’ll react…’
‘We should proceed with caution, in that case.’
‘Yes, officer. Certainly, officer. Please escort me to my door.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Detective Inspector Greene brought in a tray of drinks, and he knew what everyone preferred – he must have made a list or even a spreadsheet at some point in the previous week, which was a little unnerving. But DIs don’t usually do this and Waters suspected it wasn’t going to be a regular thing; he thought it more likely that Freeman had suggested it because she had some important news about the investigation. When they arrived back in the incident room, she’d been focused on reading pages of text on her laptop, and had only nodded as they entered the room. Waters sat down and caught John Murray’s eye with a question – the silent answer confirmed his own thoughts that there had been a development of some sort.
Denise Sterling was last to arrive, and before she had taken her seat, Freeman said, ‘OK. Chris and Serena, one of the homeless charities called you back. What was it about?’
Waters told them about Joe Ritz, missing out any reference to Smith, and explained the work The Wesleyan night shelter did throughout the year. He said the man who ran the shelter had recognised the photographs Serena had left behind, even though he didn’t meet her on the visits she had made.
Freeman said, ‘This Joe character. Is he at the shelter every day?’
She was wondering why the call back hadn’t come sooner. Waters said, ‘No, ma’am. The place is run by volunteers for most of the week.’
Freeman nodded, and he continued, ‘They keep a log, and the people who stay overnight sign in. Neville Murfitt’s first night in the shelter was the 22nd of April. On the 23rd, two more men arrived, and one of them signed his name as M Yates, which is a surname you’ll all recognise. This was Michael Wortley. Joe Ritz identified him from the photograph without any hesitation.’
Greene was operating the interactive whiteboard, and said, ‘The 23rd – the same day that you and John established he left Norwich. So, we can be pretty certain he caught that bus. Do we know what time he arrived at the night shelter?’
No, Waters said, making a mental note – it was probably impossible to gather too much detail for the man who would be operating the desk in this and all future inquiries.
Freeman said, ‘Murfitt and Wortley were present at the shelter together. For how long?’
Waters answered, ‘Two nights. They would have met. The shelter has up to six beds in one large room – it’s an old chapel. They can curtain off a section if they have a female occupant but rarely do. It seems to be known as a men’s place. It’s not long after the dates in question that Murfitt first appears as Corporal Michael Wortley on the streets of Kings Lake. I think it’s a safe assumption that Wortley’s Army ID changed hands during their time together in the night shelter.’
He saw both Murray and Serena watching him and guessed their thoughts, that there is no such thing as a safe assumption – perhaps, then, a theory that is likely to be correct. Freeman said, ‘I’d like to know how that happened, though. Wortley used a false name, so he’s already trying to cover his tracks… I’m going to explain why he was doing that in a very few minutes, I’m afraid. Did he give the ID card to Neville Murfitt? Did he sell it to him? I suppose it’s an asset of some value to someone intent on doing a bit of begging. Or did Murfitt get really unlucky and steal it?’
The DCI looked straight at Waters, and he realised that the most interesting thing Joe Ritz had told him wasn’t going to come as a complete surprise to her. Had she learned something over the weekend or was it from the meeting she’d attended earlier this morning?
Waters said, ‘Joe Ritz didn’t shed any light on that, but he did tell us something that has to be relevant to the case. On Michael Wortley’s last night at The Wesleyan shelter he was the only person present, apart from Joe himself. The other two men had moved on, including Neville Murfitt. The shelter doesn’t encourage long-term stays, it gets them into bother with the authorities. On that last night, which was the 25th of April, Joe invited Wortley into his office and they talked. Serena has the details noted down but the shortened version is that Wortley told Joe he had been in the Army and that he’d been living in Norwich.’
He paused and looked around, unsurprised to see he had everyone’s attention. Serena had opened her notepad, ready, no doubt,
for supplementary questions from Detective Inspector Greene.
‘I mention those details because they suggest Wortley had got to know Joe Ritz and possibly to trust him – at any rate, he seemed to be in the mood to tell the truth. He then went on to tell Joe, without going into as much detail as we might have liked, that while in Norwich, he had worked security at a night-club which had led on to him providing similar services for, in Joe Ritz’s words, some people on the other side of the law. Joe didn’t know exactly what Wortley had got involved in but he thought it was serious; he had the definite impression that Wortley had left Norwich because he felt threatened. And that, obviously, makes perfect sense as far as what happened to his vehicle was concerned.’
Waters saw the look that passed between Freeman and Greene. Then the DCI looked at Waters directly and said, ‘Unbelievable…’, shaking her head a little as she did so.
He could not see where that had come from, and responded with, ‘Really? It sounded convincing enough to Serena and me, ma’am.’
Freeman said, ‘No. You’ll see what I mean in a moment. Finish the report. Was there anything else from Mr Ritz?’
‘Yes. Wortley thought that leaving Norwich might not have put an end to whatever was going on – he said as much to Joe. He thought they might go on looking for him. Joe thought Wortley might even be warning him that someone might turn up asking questions.’
Freeman said, ‘And did they?’
Waters could see she already knew the answer.
‘Yes, ma’am. A couple of weeks ago, a man arrived at the shelter while Joe Ritz was there. He said his name was Wortley and that he was looking for his brother who had had an emotional breakdown after leaving the Army a few months ago and ended up on the streets somewhere in the Kings Lake area. Joe said he didn’t recognise the name, but he said to us that he wouldn’t have told the man anything even if he had done so. He didn’t like the look of him.’
On Eden Street Page 21
