The man shook his head. “I don’t want nothing to do with it, mate.”
“It’s OK,” Johnny replied. “We just want to talk to him in connection with a case.”
The man looked up at the first-floor window. “He’s nothing but trouble. I keep asking the landlord to get rid of him but…”
“We’ll be quick,” said Mike.
The man grunted and went back inside his shop.
Johnny banged on the door again. “It’s the police, Danny. Let us in.”
After a few minutes the door opened. A skinny man in his twenties stared out at them. He wiped his hand across his eyes and yawned. “What d’you want? It’s early.”
Johnny held up his badge. “DC Chiles, DC Legg. Do you know a woman called Sam Chaston?”
The man screwed up his face. “Sam who?”
“Sam Chaston,” replied Mike. “You went to visit her yesterday.”
The man looked at Mike with narrowed eyes. “Who says?”
“Our colleague,” said Johnny. “DCI Clarke. She was visiting Sam when you turned up in your car, then drove off in a hurry.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We checked your plates against the system,” Mike said.
“Are you going to let us in?” asked Johnny. “I don’t think you want the guy downstairs listening in on all this.”
Rogers smirked. “He can listen in on anything he bloody wants to, I don’t care about him.”
Johnny pursed his lips. “So how d’you know Sam?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Sam Chaston,” said Johnny, patiently. The bloke was winding him up, and he knew it. All he had to do was stay calm and repeat himself. “The woman you went to visit yesterday.”
“Sam Chaston?”
Johnny gestured at Mike, who took out his phone. He found a photo of Sam and held it up.
Rogers leaned forwards to peer into it. He smelt musty, like he hadn’t washed for a few days, and his breath smelled of beer. “Oh, yeah. Sam. I don’t know her surname.”
“How d’you know her?” Johnny asked.
Rogers shrugged. “Don’t know, just do.”
“So why did you go and see her?”
“Just did.”
“She looked scared of you.”
“How d’you know? You weren’t there.”
“Our colleague said Sam looked terrified when you turned up.”
“That’s her problem.”
“Is she your girlfriend?” asked Mike.
Rogers laughed. “Of course she’s not my bloody girlfriend.”
Johnny pushed the phone closer to Rogers. “How d’you know her, Danny? This is part of a murder inquiry.”
Rogers raised an eyebrow. “She’s dead?”
“No,” said Johnny. “But somebody else is. Somebody she worked with.”
Rogers cleared his throat, then scratched his nose. “Oh, now I remember. She’s a mate of my girlfriend, Jasmine. That’s how I know her.”
“So why did you go and see her?” Johnny asked.
A shrug. Rogers sniffed. “I returned something, went to give it back.”
“But you didn’t return anything. You jumped back in your car and drove off.”
“What you talking about?”
“You ran away,” said Mike.
Rogers looked at him. “I don’t bloody run away from anything, mate.”
“You saw our colleague, DCI Clarke,” Mike replied. “Then you got back in your car and drove off.”
“Oh, yeah,” Rogers said. “I remembered, I didn’t have it.”
“OK,” said Johnny. “So what was this thing that you were supposed to be returning?”
“I dunno, I didn’t have it did I?”
“So did you come back here and get it?” Mike asked.
Rogers eyed him. “No. It was a book. I didn’t have it. Jasmine hadn’t given it to me after all.”
“What book was it?” asked Johnny. He gave Mike a look. Danny Rogers didn’t strike him as the book type.
A shrug. “Just a book. Some sort of girly trash that Jasmine wanted to lend her mate.”
“OK,” said Johnny, “So you weren’t returning something to Sam after all? You were lending something to her?”
“Yeah,” replied Rogers.
“And if we talk to Jasmine about it, she’ll corroborate your story?”
Rogers looked at him. His eyelid twitched. “Of course she will. Ain’t no story.”
“Good,” said Johnny, “Where does she live?”
Rogers stared at him for a moment. His gaze went up to the upstairs window. “She lives here with me. What d’you expect?”
“Is she at home now?” asked Johnny.
“She’s at work.”
“Where does she work?”
Rogers shrugged. “Can’t remember, she got a new job last week.”
“What time does she get home?” asked Mike.
Rogers scratched his head. “When does anyone get home? Half five, six?”
“OK,” said Johnny. “Expect us then, we’ll come back and talk to her.”
“You don’t need to talk to her,” said Rogers. “She hasn’t got anything to tell you.”
“She’ll be able to tell us if you were visiting Sam Chaston to return her book. She’ll be able to tell us if she knows Sam Chaston.”
Rogers shrugged. “Whatever.” He backed into the doorway.
Johnny put his hand in his pocket, about to give the man his card.
“I don’t want nothing off you, mate,” said Rogers. “I’ll tell Jasmine to expect you.” He shut the door in their faces.
Johnny turned to Mike. “He’ll call her. Make sure they get their stories straight.”
Mike nodded. “We need her mobile number.”
Johnny knocked on the door. “Danny?”
He heard thundering, feet going up the stairs.
“He’s not coming back,” said Mike.
Johnny sighed. Dennis would give him a grilling for not getting Jasmine’s phone number.
He looked at Mike. “He’s not.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Steve Haskins balled his fists in the small of his back and stretched as he looked out to sea. Today was promising to be a warm one. A faint breeze came off the water and the sun had burnt off the clouds from earlier this morning. It was ten am and already he was sweating.
He turned towards his wife Sukhi, who was pulling deckchairs out of the beach hut.
“Hang on, love. I’ll help with that.”
She put one down and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “I keep getting tangled up in them but I’ll get there. You keep an eye on Max.”
“It’s OK,” he replied. “I’ll do the deckchairs, you play with Max.”
She sighed. “I play with Max all day every day. It’s your turn.”
“Fine,” he said. He turned to see Max running along the beach. He was chasing a ball, giggling.
“Maxie!” Steve called.
His son ignored him. He swerved to one side and ran towards the other end of the beach huts. Steve took a step forward as his son disappeared past the huts.
Damn.
“Max!”
Steve heard a clatter behind him, Sukhi dropping a chair.
“What’s happened?” She’d caught the sharpness in his voice.
“Nothing, sweetie. He’s hiding round the back of the huts again.”
“I wish he wouldn’t do that.”
He turned to her. “I’ll get him.”
The space behind the back of the huts was tight, perfect for a three-year-old. Steve didn’t relish going in there after him, he still had the scratches from yesterday.
He strode past the row of beach huts. Sukhi was quiet now, watching him no doubt.
“Max!”
He heard a yelp from behind the huts. His heart lurched.
“Max! Where are you?”
Sukhi was behind him. �
��Did you hear that?”
Steve turned to her. “He’s messing. Don’t worry.”
Another yelp. Sukhi clutched his shoulder. “He’s that way.”
He raised a finger to his lips. “Shh.”
“Daddy!” came his son’s voice. Steve felt his muscles loosen. “He’s right over here. He’s fine.”
“I don’t like him going around there. Have you seen the rubbish?”
Steve had. It was filthy behind those beach huts, probably a public health risk. The company that had rented the hut to them claimed the area was cleaned regularly, but it was a natural collecting ground for rubbish. Behind the huts was a steep slope to the cliffs above. People would toss rubbish over from the top, dirty buggers. Steve had gone behind there yesterday, looking for Max’s ball. He’d spotted things he’d rather not think about.
“Max!” he called, his voice firm. “Come out now!”
“Daddy!”
Steve gritted his teeth. Max’s voice seemed to be coming from behind their own hut. There was a small gap between it and the next one along. Narrow enough for Max to get through, but not for Steve.
Why the hell did they leave gaps like that down the side of beach huts? Why didn’t they fence them off?
“I’ll go to the end,” he told Sukhi. “Work my way around.”
He ran past the row of beach huts and skidded around the far end. He inserted himself into the gap between the end beach hut and the grassy slope behind and started wading through the accumulated rubbish.
Not looking down, he pushed ahead. “Max, Daddy’s coming,” he called. “It’s OK!”
“Daddy!”
Steve could see a shape moving up ahead. Max was halfway along the row of huts, past their own. He hurried as best as he could in the confined space. His foot hit something wet and soft and he bit down a wave of nausea.
Max was closer now, his face visible. He turned towards Steve, his face blotchy.
“I’m coming Maxie. It’s all right, I’ve got you.”
“Daddy! Daddy, the man!”
What man? Max felt dread grip his chest.
“Keep away from the man,” he said.
“Man’s asleep, Daddy.”
Oh my God. There was a tramp sleeping around the back of the beach hut and Max had found him.
“Come here, Max,” Steve said. “Come here, come to Daddy.”
Max turned and made for Steve. His small body hit Steve’s legs, and Steve gripped him tightly. “It’s all right now Maxie, you’re safe now. Where’s the man?”
He looked past his son, ready to confront the stranger. “Where is he, Maxie?”
Max turned around and pointed. He was crying. “He’s there, Daddy, he’s asleep. Why is he asleep?”
Steve peered through the gloom. Sure enough, there was a shape lying on top of the litter behind their own beach hut. He took a step forward.
“Maxie, you go back to Mummy.”
Max didn’t move. Steve considered pushing him through the gap between their beach hut and the next one. But he had no idea if Sukhi was out there waiting for him.
“Max,” he said, his voice shaking. “You stand behind me, don’t look.”
Steve took a step towards the man. He was grey-haired, facing sideways from Steve, the skin pallid on the back of his neck. The edge of one eye was visible: open, staring up towards the sky.
Steve swallowed. Overcome by a reflex, he kicked out and hit the man, pushing him away. The eye was invisible now.
“What’s wrong with him, Daddy? Why is he there?”
“It’s alright, Maxie, don’t worry about it. Come on.”
He looked at the man again. He wore a smart suit and a red tie. He wasn’t a tramp, nor a holidaymaker.
“Come on, Maxie.”
Steve turned and shunted his son along the gap behind the beach huts as fast as he could, breathing heavily. Finally, he emerged at the end like a cork popping out of a bottle. He and Max stumbled out together.
Sukhi was waiting for them. “Maxie! My gorgeous boy.” She held her arms out and Steve handed him over.
“There’s a man behind there,” he whispered to his wife.
“A man?” she looked from him to Max. “Did he hurt Max?”
Steve shook his head. “Have you got your phone?”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Call 999.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Turn right,” Dennis said. “You can park along here.”
Lesley knew they weren’t far from Elsa’s flat, but still she didn’t know these roads. They were on the clifftop in Boscombe, east of the centre of Bournemouth. To her right was the sea, to her left the town.
“Where now?” she said.
Dennis pointed. “Take a right, car park’s there.”
She parked the car overlooking the cliffs. Ahead of the car was nothing but air. “I can’t see anything.”
“It’s too steep,” he replied. “They’ll be down there.”
She nodded and got out of the car. Once again, this was a pay and display car park. She ignored the signs and turned back to the sergeant. “How do we get down there?”
“Follow me.”
She followed Dennis, to a zigzagging path leading down the cliff. They walked along it, gravity pulling them downwards.
“Bloody hell, this is… goodness, this is steep,” Lesley said.
Dennis smiled at her. “You’re trying, at least.”
“I’m very trying, Dennis,” she replied.
They reached the bottom. Ahead of them was the entrance to Boscombe pier, ice-cream shops and souvenir stalls. To either side the beach stretched away from them. Bournemouth beach was one of the longest unbroken stretches of sand along the south coast. Seven miles, Dennis had told her. She hadn’t had many opportunities to see it, despite it being only a few streets from Elsa’s flat.
Dennis looked past her and indicated with his head. “Cordon’s there.”
She turned to see a police cordon on the concrete walkway in front of a row of beach huts. The tape fluttered in the breeze. Holidaymakers were gathering on the beach, people staring in the direction of the cordon. Today’s entertainment, she thought with a frown.
Behind the cordon Lesley spotted Gail and one of her techs. She slipped under the tape and nodded at the crime scene manager.
“What have we got?”
“Middle aged man,” said Gail. “Found dead behind these beach huts.”
“Have you been round there?” Lesley asked.
“I have. It’s not pretty.”
“The scene, or the man?”
“Both.”
Lesley grimaced. “Take us round.”
“It’s tight,” Gail told her. “You have to go along to the end of the beach huts and then squeeze behind them.”
Lesley shrugged. “I’ve done worse.” She was relieved not to be on an exposed clifftop or in a muddy field.
“You’re going to need these.” Gail handed her a pair of wellies.
Lesley waved them away. “We’re not in a field.”
Gail looked down at Lesley’s feet. “Trust me. You’ll be glad of them.”
Lesley was wearing her new leather ankleboots. The boots Gail had handed her were black, tall and solid.
Lesley slipped off her shoes and put her feet inside the wellies.
“Where are mine?” Dennis asked.
“I haven’t got another pair,” Gail said. “These are my spares.”
“OK,” Dennis sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to risk my trousers.”
Gail shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Come on then,” Lesley said. “Let’s see him.”
“Follow me.” Gail led them to the end of the row of beach huts. The huts were set back from the promenade, on a raised concrete platform. They had white roofs and the walls of each were painted a different colour from its neighbours. Around half of them looked like they were in use, but the inhabitants had been asked to leave the area.
They climbed a flight of steps onto the platform and walked around the side of the last beach hut. Gail squeezed into a gap between it and the cliff.
“I told you it was tight,” she said.
“You weren’t wrong.” Lesley elbowed her way along the space, keeping up with Gail. Dennis was behind her. “Do we reckon they brought him in this way?”
“No.” Gail’s voice echoed in the confined space. “He was pushed off the cliff.”
Lesley looked up. The cliff was different from the chalk promontory at Old Harry Rocks. Here, the cliffs were redder, made of clay. They sloped steeply instead of being sheer, and were covered in thin grass. Despite the slope, it was steep enough to throw a heavy object.
Gail stopped and Lesley almost crashed into her. “Here.” Gail pointed downwards.
Lesley couldn’t see anything. “Where is he?”
“Right here. Sorry.”
The space was dark and confined. Lesley couldn’t see past the CSM.
“Hang on,” Gail said. She leaned into the cliff, trying to move out of Lesley’s way. Lesley peered over her shoulder.
Beyond Gail, on the ground between the cliff and the wooden hut, was a man. He had thinning grey hair and a round face. He faced upwards, but the narrow angle between hut and cliff, together with the uneven surface created by the detritus underneath him, meant that the only part of him she could see clearly was the back of his neck.
Lesley cocked her head. “What’s that on the side of his head?”
Gail struggled to turn in the confined space. “Looks like an injury. I don’t want to move him till the pathologist gets here.”
Lesley raised an eyebrow. “Where is Whittaker, anyway?”
“He’s here,” Gail said. “He texted me a few moments ago.”
Texting, thought Lesley. So Whittaker did recognise the twenty-first century. “So where is he?”
“He’s waiting on the other side of this beach hut.”
“He’s what?”
“He says he’s not coming round the back here.”
Lesley looked up to the sky. Heaven help me. “He’s a pathologist, he needs to look at this body before we move it.”
Gail shrugged. “You don’t need to convince me.”
“So can we move him before the pathologists have checked him out? Maybe one of his team can do it?”
The Clifftop Murders (Dorset Crime Book 2) Page 11
