by Mark Dawson
“I’ve got to get going, love,” she said. “Off to the pictures tonight. It’s our anniversary. The old man will kill me if I’m late.”
He waited until she had left and then brought the cabbie who knew Eddie another cup of tea.
“Do you know where they found the cab?” Milton asked him.
“If you said the name, I might,” the man said, screwing up his face as he tried to recall it. “It was on the news.”
“Littleworth?”
“Could be that. Rings a bell.”
Milton thanked him.
The shelter emptied out as the night went on, and Milton found that he had a little time to himself. He took out his phone, plugged it in to charge, and opened the map application. He entered Littleworth into the search bar and watched as the screen scrolled to the left until the sprawl of Oxford filled most of the screen. The location marker was planted between the villages of Horspath and Wheatley, the terrain around Littleworth marked out as farmland and the village itself not much more than a collection of houses gathered around a tangle of streets. There was nothing there that looked remarkable, no reason apparent why Eddie would have chosen it as the location to kill himself save that his sister lived there.
That was worth investigating, Milton thought. The sister. What did she know?
He would finish his shift, get a little sleep, and then pay her a visit.
Chapter Twenty-Two
MILTON HAD bought a car a few weeks earlier. It was an old Volkswagen Polo that he had found on AutoTrader.com. It was ten years old with ninety thousand miles on the clock and he had paid five hundred pounds for it. It was scruffy and scuffed, there was a dent in the driver’s door and the windscreen bore a crack that meant it would fail its next MOT, but Milton was happy enough with it. It was reasonably clean and the engine was in decent condition. Milton wasn’t an extravagant man, and, even if he had more money, he would not have been tempted to exchange it for something flashy. No-one was going to notice the car, and anonymity was important to him. Ostentation went against habits that had been ingrained over the course of the last fifteen years.
It was fifty miles from London to Littleworth. Milton followed the M40 north-west, driving under the cowl of a slate grey sky that promised more rain. He passed Beaconsfield and High Wycombe, his phone directing him to Wheatley services. He turned off and followed London Road as it tracked the motorway, passing through Wheatley until he reached the turning for Old Road. It was a narrow one-lane road, little more than a track. There was a collection of farm buildings just before the turning, and Milton had to slow to let a large tractor exit. He drove west, passing a large pink house hemmed in by a high hedge, and kept going. The landscape quickly became bleak and exposed. A telegraph wire ran along the left of the road and pools of standing water had gathered from the recent storms. He passed under the wires suspended between tall electricity pylons and continued on. The fields to his left were planted with rape. The view to the right was obscured by a hawthorn hedge.
Eventually, he came to another house. He slowed and stopped, took out his phone, and looked again at the photograph on the local BBC News report for the suicide. He was in the right place. He was almost at the end of the lane, so he continued on until he reached the junction with the Oxford bypass to make sure that there was nothing else that might be of interest. He did not find anything, so he turned the car and drove back to the turning. He stopped twenty feet away, pulled to the side and got out of the car. Rain started to fall almost at once. He drew his coat around him and approached the house.
It was unremarkable. A short drive led from the lane for six feet until it terminated in a cast-iron gate. The pillars were surmounted by decorative lions, and beyond the gate was a parking area and then the house itself. Milton took out his phone once more, wiped the rain from the screen and looked at the photograph again. The taxi had been parked off the road, inside the property, the gates open.
Milton put the phone away and looked around. It was quiet and still, with almost no noise save for the rain drumming on the roof of the parked car and the mournful cawing of a crow as it flapped overhead.
The gates were closed now. An intercom was set into the right-hand pillar. Milton pressed the button to speak. He heard the buzz as the intercom announced his presence to the house, but there was no response. He waited for a moment and then pressed the button again. Still nothing.
Milton stepped into the middle of the drive and peered through the gates. The house was a large bungalow, constructed with two wings that sprouted from a central hub. The curtains had not been drawn, but Milton could see no signs of occupation. He pushed the gates, but they were sturdy and did not give. He looked up: the gate was six feet high, and he could have scaled it easily, and probably without being seen, but he didn’t think that he would find anything of interest. The house looked empty; most likely it was.
He wanted to speak to Eddie’s sister, but it wouldn’t be today.
He drew his coat around him and hurried through the rain back to his car.
#
THAMES VALLEY POLICE had responsibility for Littleworth. They were based in Oxford, just seven miles to the west. Milton followed the bypass and arrived at the constabulary headquarters thirty minutes later. The building was on St Aldate’s, opposite the Crown Court, and Milton parked his car in the car park. It was a beautiful Georgian building made from warm limestone, three storeys tall and with plentiful wide, generous windows. Milton went to the entrance and made his way inside.
“Hello, sir,” said the clerk behind the desk.
“There was a death,” he said. “At Littleworth. A cabbie killed himself in his car.”
The woman nodded her recognition. “That’s right. How can I help you, love?”
“I’ve got some information that might be useful. I was hoping I could speak to the investigating officer.”
“Let me see who’s dealing with that.” The woman turned to her computer and brought up the information she needed. “You need Detective Inspector Bruce. Let me see if he’s around. What’s your name?”
“Smith.”
“Take a seat, love.”
There was a row of plastic chairs lined up against the wall, and Milton did as he was told. He watched the woman speaking on the telephone and noticed her eyes as they glanced up from the screen to take him in. He looked away. He wasn’t fond of police stations. They had the same smell the world over: disinfectant and sweat. The walls were painted green, the same shade that you always seemed to find in municipal buildings, and a cork board had been festooned with leaflets on crime prevention and posters of men and women wanted for questioning. There were two other people waiting. One, an older man, was anxiously massaging his hands. The other, a woman—the man’s wife, perhaps—was staring at the posters on the wall with an expression of quiet anger fixed to her face.
Milton looked at his watch. Ten minutes had passed. He could have telephoned, but he knew that he would be able to derive more information on the investigation if he spoke to the officer responsible for it in person.
A young boy was led into the waiting area by a uniformed officer. The man and woman stood. The man looked relieved. The woman went over to the boy, who couldn’t have been much older than twelve, and grabbed him around the bicep.
“Ow,” he complained, “that hurts.”
“We haven’t even started yet,” she said in a voice that was loud enough for Milton, the officer and the receptionist to hear.
The woman hauled the boy to the exit. The man apologised, thanked the officer, and followed in his wife’s wake.
“Mr. Smith?”
Milton looked up. The man who had addressed him was older, mid-fifties, and wearing a cheap suit that had started to shine a little at the shoulders, elbows and knees. His face was wrinkled, his teeth had been yellowed by nicotine, and his hair, or what was left of it, had been swept across his balding scalp.
“Sir? I’m Detective Inspector Bruce.”
“You have information on the suicide out at Littleworth?”
“I might. Maybe.”
“Well, we can certainly have a chat about it. Would you come this way, please?”
Bruce led Milton along a corridor. There were two doors on either side; Milton guessed that they were interview rooms. Bruce tried one, saw that it was occupied and apologised to the people inside, tried a second and held the door open so that Milton could go through. It was a small room with a table and four chairs. The table was too small for all of the chairs to fit around it, so two of them were angled toward it; Bruce folded them up and put them to one side. There was a digital recorder on the table. The single window, which was large, was covered by a plastic blind that absorbed the dull sunlight from outside.
“Take a seat, please, Mr. Smith.”
Milton sat in the seat farthest from the door with his back to the wall. He liked to be able to see all of the room. It was force of habit; he didn’t even realise that he had done it.
Bruce sat down in the other chair and smiled at Milton. The policeman’s face was marked by a scattering of old acne scars from his youth, and his eyes glittered with a shrewdness that put Milton on edge.
“Are you the investigating officer?”
“I am.”
“CID are handling it?”
“That’s right. Why is that surprising?”
“Is there anything suspicious about it?”
Bruce shook his head. “No, Mr. Smith, not really.”
“And you’re a detective inspector?”
“Yes. What’s your point?”
“I’ve never heard of a D.I. being put on a suicide.”
“Are you an expert on police matters, Mr Smith?”
“Wouldn’t it normally be a detective constable?”
Bruce noticed that Milton was the one who was asking questions and shook his head, moving the conversation back in his direction. “Look, I can’t say too much, Mr. Smith. The investigation is still ongoing.”
“But?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you came here to say?”
Milton nodded. “It’s Eddie Fabian, isn’t it? The dead man?”
“Yes, sir. Did you know him?”
“A little.”
“Can I ask how?”
Milton paused. He was reluctant to say, but he knew that he would have to, eventually. “We both have—had—a problem with alcohol. I met him at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting that I go to.”
“I see. Did you know him well?”
“Not very. But I did see him on the evening he died. I think it’s possible that I might have been one of the last people to see him alive.”
“Where was this?”
Milton explained about the shelter and how Eddie had come in search of a conversation.
“And how was he?”
“Agitated. Something was on his mind.”
“Did he say what it was?”
Milton would never have shared the contents of their conversation if Eddie had still been alive, but, now that he wasn’t, it was better that he speak up. Milton related the story that Eddie had told him. He told him about the abuse and how he had come face to face with one of the men who had abused him. He said that Eddie had decided to speak to a journalist in an attempt to bring his abuser to justice, and that a man had broken into his house and warned him against it. Milton explained that he had agreed to meet him the following morning to help him go through with it. “And he never showed up,” he finished. “I found out what happened to him afterwards. That’s why I’m here.”
“And you say he was attacked?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“He didn’t say.”
Bruce took notes. “And he didn’t speak to the police about it?”
“No. He said he’d never had much luck with the police.”
“So?”
“He said he was going to go and stay with his sister. That’s her house, isn’t it? The place he was found?”
“Yes. But she wasn’t there last night.”
“So why would he come out here if she wasn’t here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he had a key.” Bruce looked at his notebook. “What time did you see him?”
“A little after midnight,” Milton said. “When did you find him?”
“We were notified in the morning. I was there just after six. The local farmer found him. He saw Mr. Fabian’s cab with the engine running. He saw the hose. He looked inside, saw Mr. Fabian, and called us. I went down with my duty sergeant.”
“And you’re happy it wasn’t suspicious?”
The detective looked at him curiously. “Why would you say that, Mr. Smith?”
“I find it quite difficult to believe that he would have killed himself. I don’t think he was suicidal when he left me.”
“You said yourself that you didn’t know him that well.”
“Not particularly.”
“Then I’m afraid I would say, with respect, that that’s not an assessment that you’re qualified to make. I’ve seen more than my fair share of suicides. Sometimes, you ask around and people aren’t surprised. The person’s been depressed. Something has happened to them that gives them a reason to do away with themselves. They’ve lost their job, their wife has left them, or their husband has shacked up with someone else. Normal things. Other times—and it’s more often than you might think—it comes completely out of the blue. Maybe this is one of those times.”
Milton let that go. Bruce was right. It was sometimes difficult to tell. Milton had seen suicides before, too. A soldier he had been friendly with had topped himself after it had become apparent that he was not going to pass selection for the SAS. Rather than return to his own regiment, he had taken himself off into the woods outside Hereford, tossed a rope over the low-hanging branch of an old oak, and strung himself up. There had been others, too, that Milton had made to look like suicides. He had sometimes stayed in situ long enough to watch the aftermath, to make sure that nothing was amiss, and he had seen the reactions of friends and relatives. Some were shocked. Others were resigned, as if the death had been expected.
But Eddie was different. There was something about his death that Milton couldn’t square.
“You said it yourself. He was dealing with a difficult situation. He said he had been abused. Maybe that was why he had to drink. Maybe he couldn’t handle it any more.”
“Did you take photographs of the scene?”
“We did.”
“Can I—”
“No. And there’s nothing to see, really. There was nothing suspicious there at all.”
“Just a quick look?”
Bruce shook his head firmly. “No, Mr. Smith. That’s not appropriate.” He stopped, regarding him for a moment. “What did you say you did again?”
“I didn’t say. I’m a cook.”
“I think, Mr. Smith, that it would be better if you stuck to cooking and left this to the police. If there was anything out of the ordinary, we would have seen it. Really.”
Bruce closed his notebook and pushed his chair away from the table.
“Hold on a minute,” Milton said.
“Mr Smith?”
“Are you going to look into what he told me?”
“About the man he said he had in his cab? Did he tell you his name?”
“Leo Isaacs.”
“I can ask around.”
“Ask his family.”
“Yes,” he said. “I will do that. But don’t expect anything to come out of it. I spoke to them yesterday. None of them mentioned anything like that.”
Bruce stood, but Milton stayed where he was. He thought of the Maserati and the Range Rover with the blacked-out windows. He had memorised the registration details of the second car. Milton could give that to Bruce, but what would he say? That he’d seen two vehicl
es pull out and follow Eddie’s cab? It might have been late, but it was Russell Square. It was a busy area. There was nothing unusual about any of it. Were they even following? Most people wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but then, he reminded himself, most people did not have his training or his instincts. He knew that there was something odd about what he had seen, but he knew, too, that he wouldn’t be able to persuade Bruce. It would be better if he looked into it himself.
Milton stood, too. “You’re right,” he said. “If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know.”
Bruce collected his notebook and opened it again. “Do you have a number I could contact you on?”
Milton recited his phone number and Bruce wrote it down. He closed the notebook again, slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket and led the way back outside.
The waiting area was empty.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Smith.”
“Not a problem.”
“Did you come up from London?”
“I did. I thought it would be better than calling you.”
“Well, I appreciate it. It’s an awful situation. It’s good of you to put yourself to the trouble.”
“Do you know when the funeral is?”
“There’ll be a forensic post mortem to determine the cause of death, and then his body will be released to the family. It’ll probably be three or four days.”
Bruce put out his hand and Milton took it. Milton knew, without question, what would happen now. Eddie’s death would be classed as a suicide. There would be no follow-up work and no investigation. Milton, by coming here, had inadvertently made that more likely. He had given Eddie a motive to do what he had done. Would Bruce even ask Eddie’s family about what Eddie had told Milton? Probably not. Bruce wouldn’t want to upset them.
No.
This was a straightforward case of someone who was clearly upset with life—upset enough to have a problem with drink—deciding enough was enough and topping himself.
