‘“Eaten bread is soon forgotten”, my old Dad always used to say, Mr Smith,’ Skeeter replied sarcastically, the disdain clearly audible in her tone.
As a result, there was a brief moment of silence as Smith looked down at his clenched hands.
‘What about her drinking? Is that just her or is it because she found it hard living in an unpredictable relationship?’ April enquired whilst leaning back.
‘It’s been a problem ever since I’ve known her. Fit as a flea but can she shove it away when we’re out! Can drink until she falls over. Never suffers from a hangover, see. That makes a massive difference. Me? I lose two days if I drink heavily. She can go from comatose in the evening to bright as a button and training within six hours. Used to piss me off no end I can tell you. Wasn’t natural.’
‘Did she have affairs?’ Skeeter asked, her voice quiet. Her eyes remained on the paper in front of her as if she had the answer there and was waiting for him to either confirm it or make a mistake.
‘Not that I’m aware of but who knows, other than Carla?’
‘The other guilty party I would assume, Mr Smith.’ She brought her eyes to meet his but he quickly looked away, either through guilt or embarrassment about which eye to focus on. ‘We heard that when you were living at the flat on Lord Street you did on occasion lock her out. Tell us about this.’
‘Fucking Gaskell!’
From being totally calm, even having just been admonished, he turned immediately, his anger clear in his venomous tone.
‘The word is “occasionally”. She’d start getting angry, querying where I’d been and it would escalate. She’d become violent, throw things, break stuff, so I’d open the door and carry her out. She was usually drunk, very drunk.’
‘And you put her out on the street in that condition?’
‘She was no weak female when she was like that. I’d defy any man to approach her with the wrong intention as they’d receive more than they’d bargained for believe me. I knew her.’
‘Interesting wording. “Was”, “knew” – past tense, Mr Smith. I’d say, “is” and “know” unless I knew something others didn’t. Funny that. I’ll just make a note.’
‘Was, is. It’s the same.’ Smith took a swig from the bottle.
‘Did you ever hit her?’ It was April who continued the interview. As one officer stopped the other started, each voice carrying a different tone to raise or lower the intensity of the questioning. It was as they had planned.
The next silence was prolonged. ‘Yes, or a simple no is all we ask at this stage.’
‘Possibly.’
‘What? You possibly did or you possibly didn’t? Which is it? Yes or no, Mr Smith?’
‘Yes. I think she riled me to get me in an angry state so that I’d lash out. She’d then demand sex. Often she’d start removing her clothing … my anger kind of turned her on.’
‘When you put her out, she wasn’t in your words, “turned on” then I’m guessing?’
Smith remained silent for a moment. He shrugged his shoulders as if unable to answer accurately.
‘How long did you wait before you let her return?’
‘It varied. Gaskell, the landlord, used to let her in. She’d go to his place and then come home. I’d get a knock and an apology.’
‘So, how long would she be with Gaskell?’
‘An hour or so but sometimes she’d be there all night.’
Skeeter looked at April. ‘So, you’re stating that you were happy that your drunken partner who might or might not be “turned on” was being entertained in a neighbour’s flat all night – all night, Mr Smith?’
‘He was looking after her not entertaining her. You make it sound so sordid,’ Smith protested and for the second time they saw his anger escalate as he clenched his fists.
‘Did she ever have sexual relations with Gaskell?’ Skeeter leaned forward.
‘How the hell do I know?’
‘Intuition, sixth sense, uncertainty, possibility, likelihood. She was drunk, probably angry with you, undoubtedly “turned on” and wanting to get back at you. You believed that was her intention. When you parted you eventually realised how attractive a woman you had let go. You heard about or saw her with other men. You were jealous then but did the jealousy turn to rage? We can see now from our chat that you can quickly become angry. Did your anger culminate in violence as it has in the past?’
Skeeter glanced at April as if inviting her to pick up the baton. The tension was now palpable. The smile had been replaced with a scowl and his whole body had stiffened. Veins were clearly visible to either side of his neck and his temples. His face was flushed.
‘Are you blaming me for her disappearance? Are you seriously accusing me of killing her?’
‘Nobody has mentioned anyone being killed, Mr Smith, other than you.’
It was now open for Skeeter. ‘Did you put her out again – permanently this time because you realised that you’d lost her and she was getting along just fine without you? New flat, new men in her life, yes, plural and of course her friends. She didn’t need you and she would no longer come running home?’ Skeeter’s question was direct and purposefully designed to rile.
‘No! Utter rubbish. We’d finished. I didn’t see her for ages before she went missing. I told the officer that the first time I was interviewed. You’ll have it in your records.’
Skeeter opened the file and slid a still photograph of him standing in the shop. ‘You’re with Carla there. Is that you and is that Carla?’
He looked at the photograph but did not pick it up. He then nodded.
‘We need you to speak as gestures can be misconstrued on film.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, we have your initial statement which now seems to be contradicted by that evidence. You told us a lie, an untruth. Why was that, Mr Smith? What exactly are you hiding?’
Chapter 10
On hearing the news on Cameron Jennings’s murder, following so quickly after Carla’s disappearance, Stuart Groves felt disquieted. The details were here in black and white. He had taken the Liverpool Echo from the newspaper rack and his friend’s face had stared back. That face was the same face that had been here, in the café not long ago, arguing about whose turn it was to pay. ‘When in life does the average man personally know anyone who’s been murdered?’ he mumbled to himself, loudly enough for a woman on the next table to look his way, frown, before moving her chair a little further away. Not many people ever do fortunately and here he was, within a matter of a few days, finding he had one friend missing and another murdered. He immediately felt as though the sword of Damocles was hanging above his head.
He did not look to check, instead he looked out of the café window at the light drizzle flushing Lord Street. He thought about Cameron and a simple question looped in his mind: why him? Turning back to the report brought even more confusion. For one thing, Cameron was never an early bird so to be murdered at that time in the morning was absurd. The place seemed to make no sense either. Yes, he was a runner so he might be out along Marine Drive. But, was he out running? He ran later in the morning usually. He looked at the photograph of the shoes featured in the article, clearly identified as evidence. He never wore that type of footwear and he certainly never ran in brogues not even for a bus. He felt a strange tumbling within his stomach and made a dash for the toilet.
Lucy and Tony Price pulled off Strand Street and into the underground parking area for Liverpool One, the large conglomerate comprising shopping centre, leisure facilities and accommodation. The specified parking area was on the first level. It had to be said that neither found the apartment block inspiring as it seemed to be constructed mainly from glass. Interestingly, it was within a hundred yards of the Merseyside Police HQ.
The entrance hall to the apartments was airy and contemporary. To the right was an area holding elegantly designed post boxes, row upon row, each numbered. Two dark grey leather settees were positioned next to the concier
ge’s desk. He had watched with interest as they emerged from the carpark elevator.
Tony nodded before walking to the bank of ten buttons under the label ‘Floor Eleven’. He pressed button four.
‘Taylor,’ the voice announced with unusual clarity for an intercom.
‘Mr Taylor, you’re expecting us at two.’
The lock on the door clicked and swung slightly. ‘Just take either lift.’
‘Hold the door, sir. Your car registration, if I may. We don’t want to find it clamped on our return, do we now?’ The concierge smiled, a smile that could curdle milk but was well intended. Tony looked at Lucy in the hope she would know. She checked the key fob and read it out. ‘Thank you. Your first time here I see.’ With that he returned to his seat and continued to monitor the three large CCTV screens.
Arriving on the eleventh floor had been less of a challenge than they had thought and apartment 114 would have been clearly visible even without Simon Taylor standing outside the door.
Once inside the apartment Tony could not contain his enthusiasm for the view from the expanse of glass that seemed to fill the far wall. A small balcony ran along its full length. Tony whistled low and slow as he moved closer, his admiration made very apparent.
‘Sir, that is some view. May I?’
‘Please, allow me.’
Taylor slid open the door and Tony walked outside. The whole of the riverfront was laid before them stretching from the Albert Dock along to the Three Graces and then beyond. The view the apartment captured was that of the iconic Liverpool waterfront and the UNESCO World Heritage site for which it is famous.
‘I bet it’s a special view in all weathers and at night, Mr Taylor. I’ve seen it from our police building further down the road but the balcony makes all the difference.’
‘On a clear evening it is truly special, when the sun has set and Mother Nature’s illuminations blend with the complementing lights of the waterfront. Yes, it’s stupendous. The real beauty is in the subtle daily change of the light and how that plays on the colour of the river. It’s loving art that makes me see these things – an artist’s eye you might say. Sorry! I’m being rude. May I offer you tea or coffee?’
‘Thanks, but no. We just need to chat about your time in Craufurd Gaskell’s flat,’ Lucy answered, eager to proceed.
Tony had moved inside and taken a seat next to Lucy.
‘Craufurd, yes. I was there for a short time. I had a contract for four months although I didn’t stay the full term but I paid up fully. It was when I was waiting for this to become available. City living suits me and my business but I’d seen the Southport apartment having attended a party there and liked the whole ambience of the space and its general position. Being close to the Atkinson Gallery was a key consideration. So, for short term it suited me. It became available at the right time you could say.’
‘You knew both previous tenants then?’
‘Initially, no. Strange circumstances how I met Carla, yes, Carla Sharpe and her partner was I think, Colin Smith?’ he hesitated.
‘Callum Smith,’ Lucy corrected.
‘Sorry, you’re right, of course. Callum. Bonny fellow. As I was saying, I was staying in a hotel and one evening I saw Carla sitting on a bench on Lord Street. She looked a little worse for wear shall we say, so I asked if all was well. She said she was taking the air. She pointed to her flat. Anyway, we just started to chat for maybe five or ten minutes and then she walked across the road. Within minutes she’d gone in and I thought no more about it until I saw her with friends in a pub a couple of nights later. A Friday, I believe it was. Surprisingly, she’d recognised me sitting on my own and came over with a bottle of wine, she said it was for my kindness. It was sweet of her even to remember me. It was then she invited me to a party later. I accepted.’
‘How many times did you go to the apartment?’
‘Two, maybe three at most.’
‘Did you meet either Callum or Carla socially outside their home?’
‘I bumped into Carla at a restaurant in Formby, The Bistro. I’d gone with a friend for lunch and she was there with Craufurd. I had to look twice but I was sure it was her. I didn’t go over. Well, you just don’t know the circumstances do you?’
‘Do you know when this was?’
Taylor picked up his phone and checked the diary. ‘Yes, the 15th of last month. That’s a Thursday, I believe. Yes.’
‘Have you seen her since, or either Callum or Craufurd?’
‘I called in to see Craufurd only last week about some paintings he needed for a commission on which he was working. You’re aware that I buy and sell art works for a living? Craufurd is an interior designer and since meeting we have worked on a couple of projects together. We communicate mainly over the ether, the internet rather than meeting in person, that way you save so much time. He shows me the space he’s trying to fill and I send him the images of the art works I know to be available.’
‘Did you know about Carla going missing?’
‘I did, it’s been on the news and Craufurd telephoned to let me know. As I’ve said, I barely knew the woman but it’s still extremely distressing considering the circumstances.’
Tony slipped a photograph of Jennings onto the table in front of Taylor. ‘Have you seen this man before, Mr Taylor?’
Taylor stood, collected a copy of the local paper and placed it in front of Tony. ‘Snap. Funny isn’t it. We have a Carla, a Craufurd, a Callum and a Cameron. Thank goodness I don’t have a ‘C’ at the start of my names.’
‘Let me rephrase that. Have you met Jennings?’
‘In all honesty, I couldn’t say. I don’t know him personally and he’s neither within nor on the periphery of my friends. I don’t like the term “inner circle”, it’s the dubious connotations.’ He tapped the frontpage headline. ‘But reading that, nor is he likely to be.’
The interview was winding to a close, and Lucy and Tony stood before thanking Taylor for his help. Tony took a last look from the window.
‘Great that. Stunning!’ his accent suddenly seemed even stronger.
Neither Tony nor Lucy spoke as the escalator dropped them in the lobby. The head of the concierge popped over the screen but quickly returned as if he were expecting a single round from some hidden sniper to come his way. Within minutes they were driving past the Liver Building.
‘Your thoughts, Tony?’
‘Beautiful flat.’
Lucy shook her head and sighed. It could wait.
Chapter 11
It was a curious sight as more birds fought to be near the head of the scarecrow than the farmer had ever seen. Even though he was positioned some distance away both the noise of the birds’ calls and the frantic flapping could be heard within the tractor’s cab. It was mainly the gulls along with some rooks or were they crows? He could never differentiate even after living a rural life since childhood. He found identifying those birds within the Corvid family difficult unless it was a magpie or jay. Those he definitely knew. Within the frantic confusion, their screams were both piercing and eager. Having been distracted long enough, his curiosity got the better of him and he turned off the engine and climbed down from the cab. Trudging towards the field containing the scarecrow, he collected a stick from the hedge. Should have made a bloody scaregull if that’s what these noisy blighters are. He checked the polythene laid on the earth as mulch to keep the soil warm and stop evaporation of the moisture. It rippled serpent-like in the light breeze, but was held firm by the number of soil bags placed around the edge. The condensation clearly clouded the inner surface.
It was the smell that first hit him, not the smell of freshly turned earth that had filled his nostrils this past hour but the distinctive smell of something dead. It slapped him when it penetrated his nostrils and there it lingered. Pausing, he looked across the field’s corrugated surface. He had often found the odd fox or deer that had been clipped on the main road by a passing vehicle. The animal usually managed to limp away o
nly to die a few hundred metres from the road, but as far as he could see there was nothing.
Approaching the standing figure, he started to swing the stick in a circle above his head, calling out to disperse the birds, making them take flight before they returned their own call of annoyance at being disturbed. The flash of black-blue wings, an almost iridescent sheen blazed a contrast against white-grey clouds. The gulls’ brazenness and screaming took more effort to disperse. Many of the birds settled in the trees and along the far hedge, some fifty metres away. Those birds brave enough remained close. The air grew still apart from the occasional disgruntled bird call and a light buzz. The farmer scanned in the direction of the sound but could see nothing. Placing a finger in his ear, he waggled it before listening again. It had gone. ‘Bloody ear wax,’ he muttered turning his gaze back to the scarecrow.
The smell became a stench, a pungent mix not dissimilar from a cocktail of bad eggs and rotten cabbage. It was then that he noticed the differences in the scarecrow. After all, he had made the thing and put it there a couple of weeks before, as he had done each year. That was not the jacket nor the trousers. Although they were similar in type, they were clearly not those in which he had dressed the mannequin. He paused as a flush of uncertainty rose from his stomach spawned by the smell that seemed to vanish momentarily. The head on his scarecrow would never flop, it was fixed to the torso. He noticed that the body had sagged too as if the whole thing had been crucified and the arms and shoulders were carrying the full weight. The mannequin weighed little.
Removing his handkerchief, he held it to his nose and mouth before venturing closer. Rounding the end of a hedge, it was there he located the source of the smell, the rotting remains of what could be seen to be a young deer. Moving round its semi-buried carcass he walked further to stand facing the scarecrow. It took a few moments before realising at what he was looking. It was definitely human and it was definitely dead. The smell, now carried away from him on the light breeze. He lowered his handkerchief. The CDs swivelling from the ends of the sleeves and between the legs, catching and flashing the reflected light, seemed to be the only living things. The cap was on the floor and the woman’s hair seemed matted to her skull. The goggles hung from one side exposing the face, a face that had been the centre of the pecking and feeding frenzy. What they had taken in one end they had released from the other; bird droppings littered the head and shoulders.
Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2) Page 7
