“Yeah,” I said, “but I can’t help it.”
A stooped figure shuffled through the doorway behind her. Releasing Cathy, I embraced my mother. Every time I saw her, she seemed a little frailer than before. It had been clear for a while that something was wrong, but despite our protestations, she had refused to see a doctor until a month ago. “How are you?” I asked although I didn’t expect an honest answer.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she replied.
We both knew that to be a lie. The specialist had diagnosed the lung cancer a fortnight earlier, and she was due to start a round of chemotherapy the following week. A ten-year smoking habit starting in her early twenties was the probable cause. She had stopped immediately as soon as she discovered she was pregnant with Cathy, but the damage had already been done.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“No, you sit down, Mum,” Cathy said. “Let me sort it out. The kettle has just boiled.”
I followed my mother into the lounge. She lowered herself slowly into an armchair, wincing as she did so. She questioned me about my job then switched to her favourite theme.
“What else have you been up to?” she asked. “Any girlfriends?”
I rolled my eyes. “None at the moment.”
“I probably don’t have that long left. You’d better get a move on if I’m going to have any more grandchildren.”
The subject of grandchildren was a regular topic of conversation. Only since the diagnosis had she added the morbid aspect. Cathy spared me any more of the inquisition by entering the room carrying a tray on which rested three steaming cups of tea.
We chatted about the girls’ activities and the latest gossip from the neighbours before the subject turned to the murders. Reluctantly, I recounted how I had been in the vicinity around the time the killings took place. I omitted any mention of the note.
“Did you see anything?” my sister asked, a worried expression clouding her face.
“Nothing. It was all very unexciting. I only heard about it afterwards on the news.”
Cathy frowned. “That’s probably just as well. Who knows what might have happened had you bumped into the murderer?”
My mother patted my hand and tried to lighten the mood. “Are you a suspect?”
“That’s exactly what I asked the policewoman when I gave my statement earlier this morning,” I replied, laughing, “but apparently, not.”
“What’s it like living in the crime capital of the world?”
I shook my head in puzzlement.
“Well, two murders in a population of about two hundred is one per cent. There can’t be too many places where the murder rate is that high.”
“I think we’ll be alright. We’ve got our own patrol force headed up by rat dog lady.”
Cathy let out a snort of laughter. “I’m sure you’ll be safe with that ferocious animal to guard the neighbourhood.”
A pause developed in the conversation.
“How are things with you?” I asked to break the silence.
“Fine apart from you know who.”
“There’s no prospect of reconciliation, then?” I didn’t want to reveal that I had spoken to my brother-in-law less than twelve hours earlier.
“The bastard wouldn’t even pick up the phone when I called him this morning.”
“Maybe he was in the shower,” I suggested.
“What? For an hour and a half? I think he’s just ignoring me.”
I said nothing, but a flutter of worry wormed its way into my stomach.
Chapter 13
I placed the key in the front door of my house, feeling slightly less upbeat than I had upon leaving the police station. The decline in my mother’s condition had shocked me; she seemed far frailer than one might expect of somebody in their sixty-fifth year. Despite the specialists’ optimistic prognosis, for the first time, I seriously considered the possibility she wouldn’t recover.
After Elena disappeared, she became the glue that held the family together. My father lacked her strength and went into a decline after the abduction. It took a while, but I have little doubt that the events of that night and the gradual withering of hope afterwards triggered the fatal heart attack three years later.
Losing both a sister and a father before the age of thirteen hit me hard. I’m not one for self-analysis, but I can’t help thinking the loss of two immediate family members during my formative years played a big part in my inability to build meaningful relationships. Whenever I became close to somebody, negative questions would coalesce in the dark corners of my mind. How would I cope if I lost them? Would I crumble like my father? Invariably, the doubts caused tensions in the friendship, leading to its ultimate demise.
I would gladly have traded everything I possessed to get my sister and father back, but one small consolation was my father’s life insurance policy. It left us relatively well-off and provided me with the capital to purchase a house when my trust fund matured at the age of twenty-one.
I was so lost in my thoughts I failed to notice Mrs Owens hurrying up behind me. I only noticed her presence when the dog emitted a high-pitched yap.
“Hello, Alex,” she said, her face flushed with excitement. It seemed we were now on first-name terms although I didn’t know hers.
I tried to force a positive tone into my voice. “Hi, Mrs Owens. How are you?”
She ignored my question. “Two men were here.”
I shrugged. “Two men? Who were they?”
Once again, she failed to answer. “They rang your doorbell then went around the back. They stayed there for at least ten minutes. I’ve no idea what they were doing.”
I registered the first twinge of concern. “Did you call the police?”
“That’s the thing. I wrote down their registration number and waited by the gate. I made sure I got a good look at them when they returned.”
“What happened?”
“They were chatting to each other. They didn’t carry anything out, so I assumed they weren’t burglars. I asked them who they were. The taller of the two said they were policemen, but neither of them wore a uniform.”
“Did you ask for identification?”
“The shorter one showed me a card, but he flashed it so quickly I didn’t get a chance to examine it properly. It did say police at the top though.”
I frowned in puzzlement. “You’re telling me a pair of policemen came to visit. I wasn’t in, and they left. I don’t see the problem.”
Mrs Owens shook her head as if I was being particularly stupid. “Yes, but why did they want to talk to you? And what were they doing for ten minutes around the back of your house?”
I didn’t intend to tell her about making a statement at the police station. If I did, I’d never get rid of her, and the news would spread through the village in a flash. “It’s a mystery, Mrs Owens. I’m sure they’ll return if they need to speak to me. Now, I’ve got some jobs I have to do. Thanks for keeping me up to date.”
The woman seemed taken aback. “Oh ... right. I’ll let you know if I see anything else suspicious.”
“’Bye,” I said, slipping through the front door and closing it behind me.
I picked up the two letters on the doormat, both apparently junk mail, and carried them through to the kitchen. Dumping them on the work surface, I pondered what Mrs Owens had told me. Had the police thought of another question after reading my statement? Had they learned about the note? And why did they spend ten minutes in the back garden?
For a moment, I toyed with the idea of using the business card in my wallet to call Susie Mayhew, the policewoman who had interviewed me three hours earlier. A smile crept onto my face at the prospect of talking to her again. But what would I say? She had my contact details if she needed to ask any more questions. I decided to leave it for now.
My mind turned back to the murders. Had they made any progress in the investigation? Perhaps there would be an update on the news websites. As I headed along the hallway
towards the study, my nose detected the faintest presence of a strange smell. It was so incongruous that at first, I couldn’t place it. I frowned, trying to identify the source. Then it came to me: cigarettes.
The scent was so faint. Was I imagining it? I remembered the butt in the ashtray at Jamie’s house the previous evening, but what I was picking up now differed subtly from that of stale smoke. I wracked my brains. Suddenly, I identified what made it so distinctive; it was the same musty odour that lingered on the clothes of the regular smokers amongst my pupils.
My thoughts spun back to what Mrs Owens had said. The two men had been behind my house for ten minutes. Had they come inside?
I carried on down the hall to the guest bedroom. The top part of the window was open, but the gap was far too small for anybody to fit through. I sniffed several times, failing to pick up the same scent. Perhaps I was imagining it.
On impulse, I hurried back to the front door and out into the garden. I followed the route that Mrs Owens had described to the rear of the house. Standing outside the window to the guest room, I cast my gaze around the frame: no sign of tampering. I was about to give up when something caught my eye on the gravel by the brickwork. I bent down and poked the half-smoked cigarette butt with my foot. As a non-smoker, I couldn’t explain how it had arrived there.
The evidence was stacking up. It seemed at least one of the men had entered my property. One person could corroborate my theory. I jogged back to the front gate and stared both ways along the road: no sign of Mrs Owens. Desperate for an answer, I turned left and sprinted towards her house. The dog was already inside, and she was taking off her boots as I raced up. She whirled around in alarm at my approach.
“You gave me a fright, Mr Parrott.” It seemed the period of detente was over, and we were back to surnames.
I wasn’t in the mood for niceties. “The two men who you saw earlier—did either of them smoke?”
“Why do you ask?”
When I didn’t answer, she scratched her ear for a moment, deep in thought. Her face brightened. “Now you mention it, one of them had a cigarette in his hand. I remember thinking it would be unfair on the other man if he smoked in the car.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Let me think. The shorter of the two was roughly your age, early to mid-forties, and carrying a few extra pounds ... the same sort of physique as you, I suppose.” She flashed a wry smile. Clearly, she hadn’t forgotten the dog incident and was making the most of the opportunity to get her own back. “The taller man was a lot thinner, almost gaunt I’d say.”
“You said you recorded the registration number. Do you still have it?”
“Oh, yes. I write everything down. You can never tell when it might be useful as evidence. That’s one of the things I’m going to recommend that everybody does at the neighbourhood watch meeting. It starts in forty minutes. You will be there, won’t you?”
I made a non-committal grunt. She flicked through the notebook until she found the correct page. “Do you have something to write on?”
“Can I borrow your pen, please?”
She handed it over, the suspicious look indicating she doubted whether I would return it. As she read out the characters, I wrote them on the palm of my hand. When she had finished, I repeated them back to her.
She nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s right. May I ask why you need it?”
“I just want to check up on something,” I replied, returning the pen.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”
“Maybe,” I mumbled as I retreated and headed across the road to my own house.
Chapter 14
What the hell was going on? Had the police searched my house? If so, what were they looking for, and why hadn’t they left any notification? I had noticed nothing missing. The only evidence they had been inside my property was the faintest odour of cigarettes and Mrs Owens’ observations. Before doing anything else, I needed to understand my rights.
I returned to the study and started up the computer. Once it had booted, I opened a browser window and typed UK search warrant absent into the address bar.
The first hit was an item with the title, Powers the police have to search premises and search warrants. As my eye ran down the page, I picked out several key facts. In most cases, officers required a warrant signed by a magistrate before searching a property. The article listed a number of exceptions, including the prevention of a breach of the peace, to save a life, and to arrest someone in connection with certain serious offences. As far as I could tell, none of those circumstances applied.
Reading the piece more carefully, I discovered that provided the police held a warrant, they had the right to force entry in the absence of the occupier. If I was correct in my suspicions, it seemed to be the only logical answer. But what crime did they suspect me of committing, and what evidence did they possess to convince a magistrate to issue a search warrant? And did it relate in any way to the murders?
I selected another web page from the list of results, but it only confirmed what I had already learned. For several minutes, I sat with my head in my hands, debating what to do next. Maybe I was worrying unnecessarily; it was possible the two men had remained outside, and the smoke wafted in through the open window. Was my sense of smell accurate enough to distinguish the difference between stale smoke and the odour of a smoker’s clothes?
I still had Susie Mayhew’s card. Perhaps she could provide me with some answers. I removed it from my wallet and tapped the digits into my mobile.
She answered after only one ring. “This is Sergeant Mayhew. May I ask who’s calling?”
“It’s Alex Parrott. We spoke earlier this morning at the station if you remember.”
The faint sound of male voices emerged from the background noise although I couldn’t distinguish individual words. She was obviously in an open plan office.
“Of course I do, Mr Parrott. Have you remembered something else you can tell us?” I may have been misinterpreting the tone of her voice, but she seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me.
I hesitated for a second. “Actually, I’m not calling about the murder case—or at least I’m not sure it’s related.”
“Okay. What’s this about, then?”
“I visited my mother and sister after talking to you, so I didn’t get home until just after eleven o’clock. As I was opening my front door, one of my neighbours told me that while I’d been away, two men came into my garden and round the back of the house. They stayed there for ten minutes, or so she said.”
“Okay.” A note of scepticism tinged her voice. “I’m not sure what you’re telling me. Have you been burgled? Because if that’s the case, you need to call the main station number, and they’ll put you in touch with somebody who can investigate.”
“No, it’s not that. Or at least I don’t think it is. Apparently, the men informed my neighbour they were from the police. One of them showed her a badge or something.”
“You mean a warrant card?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I’m afraid not. The neighbour told me she didn’t have time to read any of the details. She did write down the registration number of their car though. Anyway, as I said, they were round the back and out of sight for about ten minutes. When I entered the house, I picked up the faint smell of cigarettes. I’ve never smoked, so I suspect at least one of them must have been inside my property.”
“Let me get this straight.” Her tone was business-like now. “Two men visited your home while you were away. They told your neighbour they were from the police, and you think they may have entered without proper authorisation.”
“That’s correct.”
“I don’t understand how this connects to the murder case.”
I felt my face redden. “Um ... I’m not sure it does. I was just wondering ...”
A sigh came from the other end. She lowered her voice. “Look, Mr Parrott,
I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ll help you out this once. I can check the system to see whether any search warrants are open on your property. I’m fairly certain I won’t find anything because if there was something, it would’ve popped up when I entered your details earlier.” The tap of keys rose above the sound of background voices. She asked me to confirm my address.
The silence stretched down the line. After what seemed like an age, she spoke again. This time, her speech contained a definite frosty edge. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I suggest you call the main switchboard. Goodbye.”
The muted click signalled she had hung up. I checked the screen and returned the mobile to my pocket, shaking my head in confusion. What had just happened? Did her response mean there really was a search warrant on my property?
The hammering of fists on the front door soon answered my question.
Chapter 15
Leaving the computer running, I made my way to the front porch. The loud knocking reverberated through the house once again. “This is the police. Open the door, or we will use force.”
I twisted the latch and pulled the handle towards me. Three men stood on my doorstep. Two of them were empty-handed, but the third held a sheet of paper.
“We have a search warrant for this property,” he said, thrusting the form in my face. The heading read, Warrant to enter and search premises. Below that came my address and a scrawled signature. “Please step aside, sir.”
The policeman stared at me from beneath a flat police cap. His uniform comprised a zip-up, sleeveless jacket over a black shirt. He wore a radio clipped to the left side of the jacket. The other two were dressed in plain clothes, both wearing long-sleeved shirts over denim jeans. Even though I had never met either of them before, I immediately recognised them as the men Mrs Owens had described. The taller of the pair had a thin face topped by an unruly mess of dark hair, greying at the temples.
The shorter man was in his mid-forties, and as my neighbour had reported, more than a few pounds overweight. Up close, his bulbous nose and ruddy complexion portrayed the look of a drinker. As I stood back, he dropped the cigarette he was smoking on the paved bricks of my drive and ground the butt with his heel.
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