by Sullivan Tim
'At home? Were you living with your parents?' said Cross.
'Yes. Till I moved here,' she said.
'When Kostas says things were difficult there – is he right?' Ottey asked.
'Yes,' she said, almost in a whisper.
'In what way?' Ottey asked.
'Just usual stuff. I needed a break,' said Debbie.
'What did you think about Alex's plans for London?' Cross asked. He noticed that she was about to answer but gave the slightest of looks towards Kostas and then decided against it. 'Did you discuss it with him? Were you going to go with him?' Again, a look to Kostas.
'It wasn't happening any more. He wasn't doing it.'
Ottey was about to ask another question when Cross, who had been watching Debbie closely, stopped her.
'Actually, I think we have all we need. Josie, perhaps you could give Debbie your card. Call us if you think of anything. Or tell your family liaison officer,' he said.
'Alison?' Debbie asked.
'Yeah, Alison,' said Ottey, who was trying to figure out why Cross had brought the interview to an abrupt close. When they got into the car, Cross turned to her.
'Debbie living with Alex's family? Is that normal?' he asked.
'Not exactly normal, no. But not unheard of. Depends on the circumstances at home. Single mother. New stepfather. Could be anything. Why did you stop me back there?'
'She didn't want to talk in front of Kostas. Actually, to be more accurate, she didn't want to talk in front of the mother. The woman had obviously said something to her. That's why she went upstairs to get her so quickly.' He thought for a moment. 'Whatever it is, she'll be in touch. She seemed very young. How old do you think she is?'
'I don't know. Eighteen, twenty. Parents?' she said.
'I've no idea. They could be any age.'
'I meant shall we pay them a visit?'
'Oh, I see. Yes, that would be the logical next step.'
Chapter 5
They pulled up at a house in Eastville. It was on a small, narrow street, on a slight hill. A series of semi-detached houses that each had a lane to the backyard along one side. Ottey turned to Cross and said, 'Remember, they probably don't know anything about this.'
'So don't blurt it out,' he said, repeating what she'd told him before. They rang the doorbell. After a few moments, a woman in her thirties answered the door. She looked tired, with big black bags under her eyes. She was wearing a pink towelling track-suit and was smoking a cigarette. Ottey showed her warrant card, as did Cross, standing behind her.
'DS Ottey and DS Cross. May we come in?'
A man now appeared behind the woman, slightly older, early forties. His hair was cropped short, as he was obviously going bald.
'What's this about?' he said.
'You are Debbie Swinton's parents, yes?'
'Oh my God, has something happened to her?' the woman asked.
'No, no, not at all,' Ottey replied.
'You'd better come in,' said the man.
The front room was clean, if a little vulgarly furnished. The tops of the walls, where they met the ceiling, were brown from smoking. There was a large glass of white wine on the table in the middle of the room Cross couldn't help but notice it as he walked in.
'What are you looking at?' the woman said aggressively.
'Your wine glass,' Cross replied, not in the least bit embarrassed.
'What about it?'
'I was just thinking how early it was to be drinking. Then I thought that this probably wasn’t unusual for you,' he said. She was about to reply when the man stepped in.
'Perhaps you can tell us how we can help you,' he said.
'We're investigating the mur...' Cross started before Ottey interrupted him.
'Cross...' He stopped immediately.
'I'm afraid we have some bad news, about Alex Paphides. You do know Alex?' Ottey said.
'Yes,' replied the woman.
'I'm sorry to inform you that he's dead.'
'Oh my God,' the woman sat down on the sofa as she took this in.
'Murdered,' said Cross. Ottey looked at him. He just didn't get it. She knew, for him, it was just a piece of information that they needed to impart so that they could get on. He never thought about the feelings of whomever he was talking to. It just didn't occur to him.
'When?' asked the man.
'About two weeks ago,' Ottey replied.
'He was our Debbie's...' said the woman. But she couldn't finish the sentence.
'So we understand.'
'Could you please tell me your names and your relationship to Debbie?' said Cross, getting out his notebook.
'Murder?' the man asked.
'Yes,' said Cross.
'I'm Andy, her stepfather, and this is Jean, her mum.'
'When was the last time you saw him?' Cross asked.
'Couple of months ago?' Andy replied.
'You're sure?' Cross asked.
'Yes,' he answered.
'What about Debbie? When did you last see her?' Cross went on.
'Same,' said Jean.
'I see... So you didn't approve,' Cross stated.
'How d'you mean?' Jean asked defensively.
'Of the relationship,' Cross said.
'Well would you?' she said, stabbing her cigarette out with some force into an ashtray, as if to reinforce her point.
'I have no idea,' he said truthfully.
'He's over thirty,' she said, as if pointing out the obvious to someone who was being a bit dense.
'He's Greek,' said Cross, as if this maybe had more to do with it.
'That's got nothing to do with it,' said Andy.
'You calling us fucking racist?' said Jean.
'He's not calling you anything of the kind,' said Ottey, interceding before this got out of hand. Jean reached for her wine glass and took a large swig. She then lit another cigarette. She did this without thinking, on autopilot. Like it was something she did dozens of times a day.
'She's sixteen,' said Jean. This came as a surprise to both detectives. They certainly hadn't thought she was that young when they met her.
'I see. She looks older,' said Cross.
'She does,' said Andy, agreeing with him. 'I think it makes her think she's a lot more grown-up than she really is.'
'Is that why she moved out?' asked Ottey.
'Yeah, she said we made her feel like everything she did was wrong,' he explained.
'A criticism,' said Jean.
'Does she know about Alex?' asked Andy.
'Yes,' Ottey replied.
'Is she okay?' he went on.
'Upset, obviously,' she said.
Andy sat down opposite his wife. 'We should...' he began.
'She knows where we are,' Jean said bitterly. Andy looked at her. This obviously wasn't the time to have this conversation. Her reaction hadn't surprised or shocked him in the least. He looked up at the detectives.
'Could you tell her we're here for her? Maybe she needs us now,' he said.
'Of course,' replied Ottey. She turned to Cross, indicating that they should leave. But his attention had been taken by a large incomplete jigsaw on the table behind them.
'A jigsaw. Quite a difficult one with all that sky. Not much detail there to help you.' Everyone was looking at him, slightly puzzled, which he took as his cue to go on. 'Invented around 1760, in London, by the cartographer John Spilsbury. To teach geography, interestingly.'
'Is that a fact? I didn't know that,' said Andy politely.
'Yes. They used to mount maps on wood, then cut them up along the countries' borders. They were known as "dissected maps" before they became jigsaws,' said Cross.
'That is interesting,' said Andy.
'I think so,' said Cross.
* * *
'He seemed much more concerned about the girl than she did,' said Cross when they were back in the car.
'I can understand that. She's her mother. He's her stepfather,' Ottey said.
'So you would
assume she should be the more worried, wouldn't you?' he said.
'She is. It's just hidden. By her anger.' He thought about this for a moment and then shook his head, slightly.
'This is one of those moments where I consider myself fortunate to be childless. If I had any children, I would be in a state of permanent confusion,' he said.
'Which would make you no different to any other parent on the planet,' replied Ottey.
'Really? Gosh. No wonder parents look permanently exhausted,' he said. They drove on for a bit. He had decided not to go back into the office. When they arrived back at the Major Crime Unit he went straight over to the bike shed. She parked and caught up with him just before he was about to leave.
'You going to Raymond's tonight?' she asked. He looked at her inquiringly. 'It's Thursday night. You always go to your dad's on a Thursday,' she explained.
'Yes, I am,' Cross replied.
'Please give him my best,' she said.
'I will,' he said and cycled off.
'See you tomorrow!' she called after him. He didn't reply.
Chapter 6
Cross arrived at his father's flat a little later, carrying their regular Chinese takeaway with him. He left his bike in the cluttered hallway and found his father typing on an old portable typewriter. It wasn't so much that he didn't use modern technology – indeed he had several laptops of varying age and condition in his vast collection of stuff, populating every inch of space in the flat – he just said that he thought more clearly when he typed. You had to think before you typed, he said. Before you committed to paper. With a computer, erasing was so easy and autocorrect had made people lazy, in his opinion. If they actually had to get out a bottle of Tippex (for younger readers, a white liquid you painted over your errors, like nail varnish, and then typed back over), wipe off the gunk that always accumulated round the top of the bottle, despite all your best efforts to keep it clean, then apply it carefully and wait for it to dry – people might be a lot more careful.
They ate their meal in customary silence while they watched Mastermind on the TV. Raymond recorded it for his son, under the illusion that it was his favourite TV show. He was wrong. George had no favourite shows, although if he did, it would doubtless have been some form of quiz. After George had cleared up and was preparing to leave, his father dropped what was, for Cross, a bombshell.
'I won't be able to do this Thursday, or the next for the foreseeable future.'
Now for anyone else, this would just be a small matter. But not for Cross. He didn't like change, and this was, for him, a change of seismic proportions.
'What do you mean? We always have dinner on Thursday nights.'
'I know, but I thought maybe we could change it.'
'Why?'
'Because I have another commitment now. At Aerospace Bristol late afternoon, so I won't be back in time.'
'What are you doing at the museum?'
'I'm doing a tour and giving a short talk. It's what I was writing when you arrived.'
Cross thought for a moment, then said, 'You'll have to ask them to do it on another night. Thursday isn't possible.'
'I did. It was my first thought. Well, maybe not my first. But I knew you wouldn't like it, so I asked. But it's the only evening of the week that works for them. They have a very busy schedule,' his father said.
'Then you'll have to say no.'
'I would really like to do this, George. It's something for me to look forward to.'
'You don't look forward to seeing me?'
'You know I do. But you always say I should get out more. This'll engage my brain. I'd really like to do it, son. We could meet on Wednesday for a while.'
'I have organ practice on Wednesday. We meet on Thursday because it's a midpoint between our spending Sundays together. We worked it out. It's the optimum point in the week. Tuesday will be too early, Friday too late. No, you can't do it.'
To anyone else, Cross would've just sounded like a spoilt child, rather than a mature man in his fifties. But it had nothing to do with him wanting to get his own way. It was more that he relied on this routine. Raymond knew that once Cross thought it through he would, albeit reluctantly, agree. He didn't like things sprung on him, that was all. He needed notice, time to process how he would cope with this new disruption.
'But we could see each other next Thursday.'
'Good.' Cross turned to leave, thinking that he'd made his point and that they would have dinner as usual the next week.
'You could come and see me give the talk and we could get dinner on the way home. It'd be a bit later than usual, but I thought maybe you'd like to do that. Come along and give the old man some encouragement. Maybe give me a few notes and pointers after.'
'No. I don't think so,' said George, and left. As ever Raymond wasn't upset. He'd known in advance that this would be his son's reaction. As with everything with George, it would take time. Negotiation. But they would find a way. George's problem was that he just couldn't understand why his father didn't see the impracticalities of this new and, to him, unnecessary complication.
* * *
It was still bothering him the next morning at the MCU. Ottey picked up on it, but he wasn't one to discuss personal matters at work. He didn't think it was the right place for it. Over lunch in the canteen maybe. In the pub after work definitely, not that Cross ever went to the pub. For him, during work hours it bordered on the unprofessional. So when she asked what was bothering him, he was reluctant to discuss it at first. Finally, he told her that his father was being unreasonable. She didn't respond immediately, because her reaction was to want to give him a bloody good shake and tell him to grow up. But she knew that would be neither helpful nor useful.
'If it was my dad I'd be thrilled he was doing something, rather than just sitting around, festering his way into old age.'
'Isn't your father deceased?'
'Yes.'
'Then no wonder you'd be thrilled.'
She laughed, despite the fact that she was sure it hadn't been intended as a joke. 'Why don't you just go along and see him?'
'Because, as I've already said, that's the night we have dinner.'
'So change the night.'
'It's not that easy.'
'Surely it can't be that difficult.'
'I rather think you're straying into personal matters here.'
'And what's wrong with that?'
'We should talk about the case. It is, after all, what we're paid to do.'
'I can't understand why you're being so difficult.'
'Indeed you can't.'
She looked at him, not quite understanding what he was saying. He looked straight at her to clarify.
'Understand,' he repeated. An email pinged noisily into his desktop. He glanced over and then leant forward. 'It's from Clare.' He read it carefully, then again.
'What is it?' Ottey asked. But he was concentrating too hard. Then without warning, he suddenly leapt up from his chair and grabbed his cycling gear. 'George!' she protested, but to no avail. He was gone. She looked quickly at the email still open on his desktop. 'Okay...' she said, as if whatever she'd read was a bit of a game changer, and followed George out, intercepting him at the bike shelter.
'One word, George: "partners". We'll take the car.'
Having proclaimed this authoritatively and been followed by him to her car, she realised as soon as she turned the key in the ignition that she didn't actually know where they were going. The email had been from Clare, the pathologist. In it she'd said that the results had come back from the toxicology tests and they were a little surprising. Alex had tested for several what she had described as "performance-enhancing" drugs and abnormally high levels of testosterone. Most of the drugs, Cross discovered later, having spoken to Clare on the phone, were orally ingested. But some would have been injected. On closer examination she'd found injection sites in his leg. These weren't immediately apparent because of the state the body was in when it was discovered. He had bee
n a regular user apparently, so the first thing Cross wanted to do was re-examine his flat.
They got the flat keys from Kostas and searched the place from top to bottom, with the aid of a couple of uniformed policemen. There was absolutely nothing there. Cross had another look at the bike. He examined the tyres and the bike generally.
'This has never been ridden. It's brand new,' he said.
'Perhaps he bought it for the L'Étape,' said Ottey.
Cross looked around the flat carefully. He wasn't looking for a stockpile of drugs. He was trying to build a picture of this young man, from the details of the apartment. It was clean and uncluttered, and had the feeling of not being really lived in. Not so much like a hotel, more like a set in the furnishing department of IKEA or Habitat. All perfectly co-ordinated. Like it had been ordered online and then unpacked and placed, exactly like it was in the brochure photograph. A large LED TV screen on the wall opposite the leather sofa. A Sky box. A Playstation. This was a bachelor pad. There were a few prints on the walls but, most striking of all, a racing bike was hung in pride of place above the sofa. Battle-scarred, it was obviously a relic from a past cycling victory.
In the bedroom Cross noticed all Alex's clothes hung up neatly, freshly pressed. This young man cared about his appearance. This appealed to Cross' sense of organisation. He was particularly taken by the way Alex had organised his underwear and socks. Folded and stacked up neatly, side by side. It reminded him of the sock-display drawer in the menswear department at the old Maggs & Co store in Bristol. It was a wooden-framed glass drawer that slid out, with as much ease and perfectly formed manners as the salesman demonstrating his wares. The soundless mechanism was as subtle as the man's quiet patter. If Cross had been on his own he would have examined the way the socks, in particular, were folded. But even he knew that he would never be able to live down being caught going through a victim's underwear drawer.
The kitchen was the only area in the flat that felt used and properly lived in. No surprise there as Alex was a chef. It formed part of the open living room and was filled with knives, oils and well-seasoned pans. Cross liked that expression. A "seasoned" pan. He liked the implication of dedicated care and thoroughness.
