by Rachael Blok
Why hadn’t she called the police? The figure following her in the car park – someone is snipping at her sanity; calling up her demons.
Clutching her phone, she pounds down the stairs, which lead directly into the hall. The entrance to the house sits behind the bar and to the left; the house climbs upwards and over the pub and main entrance.
As she runs into the lounge, something is missing. She stands still, her breathing heavy in the room.
What is it? The feeling of something lacking.
There’re no footsteps, she thinks. No padding of Jam’s feet. No snuffle at her ankles. Even getting a glass of water in the night will raise Jam to her side. And that’s if she hasn’t snuck up to curl on Ana’s feet already.
Walking into the bar, her foot stabs with something sharp, and she steps back, peering forward and padding the wall with the heel of her hand for the light switch.
‘Shit,’ she mutters, her fingers finding the light; the sudden glare of the bulb makes the red of the blood on her foot sharper. There is glass, broken and scattered. She leans to pull a shard free, and winces as it stings. She reaches for the blue roll of tissue that sits on the bar top. They must have left a glass out, and Jam has knocked it over, scared herself.
‘Jam,’ she whispers. ‘Here, girl. Come on.’
She clicks her fingers, her eyes still blinking in the yellow glare. But there is nothing.
‘Christ, Ana, what are you doing up? I heard a noise,’ Maisie says, her voice coming from behind Ana.
‘Don’t move! There’s broken glass. Can you go and get some shoes for me? I’ve left them by the house door.’
‘Hang on.’ Maisie vanishes and reappears, handing Ana a pair of thick-soled flip-flops, and she slips into them.
‘Why are we up? Tell me why we’re bothering with this in the middle of the night?’ Maisie is tousled in sleep, dressed in a crumpled sleeveless band T-shirt. Her earrings catch the gleam of the bulb, flashing at the top of her right ear.
‘I can’t see Jam anywhere. She’s knocked a glass. It looks like she’s hiding. I want to check she’s OK. She never usually comes in here at night. She wasn’t in my room when I woke up.’
Maisie walks through the bar, Ana following her slowly, her foot stinging.
Jam is nowhere. Her bed is empty.
‘Has she got outside?’ Maisie asks, sounding sleep-drugged, but more alert. She steps forward quickly, breaking into a run. She knocks a chair as she does, which falls behind her, banging to the ground, but she doesn’t break her stride.
‘Ana, the door!’
The panic in Ana, which had started to recede with Maisie’s presence, resurges. She tips forward, catching the edge of the bar and pushing herself into a run, following Maisie.
The back door to the pub garden, leading to both gardens, is open. And Ana knows she locked it. Someone’s been here. But there was no sign of anyone in the house…
In the garden they both call, quietly at first, and then loudly, as their voices disappear into the dark, unanswered. Ana wants to get her phone from the house and call the police, but not until she’s found Jam.
‘Jam!’
‘Jam!’
Ana runs to the end of the garden, the small strip that leads down from the back of the house, the private strip of land that is not part of the pub garden, and Maisie darts out among the tables, the toadstool seats and the children’s slide.
Someone has opened the back door. Someone has let Jam out.
‘Jam!’ Ana calls, walking slowly to the end of the garden, near the new compost heap, built recently to try to make use of all the food scraps from the pub. Maisie had been pushing for it for a year, and their mum has finally got it going now Jess is here to lift some of the pub duties.
It’s by the compost heap that she can see Jam.
And it’s the shape in which she lies that grinds Ana’s footsteps to a halt. The way her head is tipped back, as though she’s been caught in deep laughter.
Moving again, tears already falling down her cheeks, Ana whispers her name, and it lands on the soil softly.
‘My sweet girl,’ Ana coos, as though calming her. She reaches out and strokes her coat, but she can see that Jam won’t feel her again. Her eyes are open, unblinking in the pale light of the moon. They are glassy, and around her mouth vomit spills. Ana reaches out her hand and sweeps her eyelids closed.
‘Jam,’ she whispers again, and she buries her head into her coat, and cries.
17
Friday 15th June
MAARTEN
The station is loud with shouting. Maarten’s head reels.
He’s stayed the night with Liv and now she is sleeping. He’s been home to see the girls, seen them into school. With Liv awake, they are keen to see their friends, Sanne to get her cast signed. Liv’s mum has offered to stay for another week.
The danger has passed.
It’s almost 9.30 a.m. and the shouting is loud. He’s been up for hours and his head reels.
‘It’s just not appropriate!’ He can make out Sunny’s voice.
What on earth?
Passing Adrika, who has her head down and is striding towards the loos, he finds everyone standing around, watching the unfolding argument taking place on the open-plan floor. Sunny is puce, facing a woman who speaks firmly and has hair that flames red and catches all the light in the room. Luckily, he can’t see the new Super anywhere. Tiredness makes him woozy.
‘I was doing my job. Please don’t shout at me,’ says the tall woman, whom he hasn’t seen before.
Sunny shouts back, ‘I’m not shouting! And it wasn’t your job. You should have called us!’
‘What is going on?’ Maarten drops his bag on a desk nearby.
They don’t pull their eyes away from each other for a moment, locked in mutual rage. Sparks still fly. The air crackles.
The rest of the team begin muttering and moving away, heads bowed. But Sunny and this woman are still in a face-off.
‘My office.’ Maarten opens his door.
They come in, Sunny like a child caught in a fight: hands clasped, head bowed. But the woman looks at him coolly. She’s tall, and her hair is twisted up into a grip. She’s about Adrika’s age and she wears glasses with thin black rims. There is something about her – the way she wears her clothes? Things hang sharply from her, curl round her. Younger than him, but she looks as though she runs Google. Maarten briefly wonders if she is the new Chief Super he has heard about.
He rises and holds out his hand. ‘I’m DCI Jansen. And you are?’
‘DI Carroll. From Holt Police. Call me Harper, please. I ran the initial investigation into the death of Leo Fenton and your office called me to ask if I would share the file with them, as they have a potential ID on a body found. And I kindly offered’ – a glance to Sunny – ‘to come and go over the case.’
‘Er, hang on. You’ve missed out a big chunk here. You haven’t mentioned that you called the Control Centre direct and put in a request for them to organise a crime scene without having the courtesy to call us first.’
‘What?’ Maarten looks at the DI. ‘You’ve requested SOCO? On what?’
‘Not exactly,’ she says. ‘I was called this morning, very early, by Ana Seabrook.’
‘And she is?’ Maarten says, glancing at his notes. The name is familiar but the details of the case haven’t sunk in, and he hasn’t had a coffee yet.
‘She’s the partner of Ben Fenton, sir. The brother of Leo Fenton, a possible ID on our body.’
‘Right. And how do SOCO come into this?’ Maarten still feels like he’s missing parts to this argument, like he’s started at the end of the day, but it hasn’t got going yet. ‘Look, sit down, both of you. And stop this. I feel like I’m sorting out a fight at home over a biscuit. Sit down and calm down.’
They both sink into chairs, with Sunny muttering a ‘Sorry’. The DI looks composed, waiting to speak. She’s taller than Sunny. He sits hunched but she is upright, unab
ashed.
Maarten is reminded of the opening of an old black-and-white film, of the stars duelling at the start and ending up married. He bites his lip to stop himself laughing. They are a very unlikely couple.
This lack of sleep must be making him giddy.
Sunny’s expression changes quickly, like he remembers he’s left the iron on. ‘Sir, I’m sorry. I heard she’s woken up. We’re all so pleased.’
Harper, seeing Sunny’s face, remains quiet, head cocked to one side, watching Maarten.
‘Thank you. Look, I’m rushed today. I need to get back to the hospital later. I don’t want to have to deal with egos adrift. Quickly, DI Carroll, Harper, continue.’
She speaks smoothly, as though there has been no interruption. ‘Ana Seabrook was distressed. She said that someone has killed her dog. And she believes it’s related to the case. I thought, given that Leo Fenton is a possible ID, that it would be best to treat the dog as a crime scene. So I called your Control Centre and set off. I’d arranged to come down today anyway.’
‘But you must have known you can’t authorise a crime scene?’ Maarten asks, part bemused and part impressed by the expectation.
‘No, not me. But I followed protocol. They’d send a PC out regardless first to assess the scene, and they’d check in with you. I’m not delusional, I didn’t demand the full-scale investigation, I just wanted to set the ball rolling. It was 5 a.m., your officers wouldn’t have been here then. There was no one to consult and we all know that time is of the essence.’
Maarten nods slowly, conceding that this makes sense. ‘And have we heard what the initial on-site inspection has turned up?’ He addresses the question to Sunny.
‘I called Niamh but she hadn’t heard. She said she’ll let Taj know if there’s evidence that it’s related to the body in any way – it’ll be his crime scene anyway, if it’s connected to the case.’
Maarten nods. There is nothing the DI has done that was out of order, except make a courtesy call. Sunny’s nose is clearly out of joint, but then looking again at DI Harper Carroll, he would guess not much about her manner is designed to ingratiate. And this is something he understands well. The English value politeness above many things, occasionally above efficiency and practicality.
He feels a stab of sympathy for DI Harper. She had behaved well. But she had forgotten to apologise for it.
‘Right. Well, we need to wait for Taj. I can see you’re already convinced, Harper, so why don’t you wait around. Sunny, you can go and bring Adrika in and I want a team catch-up. And no offence, Harper, but my team first. If you’d like to head over there,’ he gestures, ‘I’ll get someone to make you a coffee and find you somewhere to sit. Thank you so much for driving down. Your input today is going to be of enormous value.’
She nods and rises, and Sunny shows her out, going to find Adrika.
Swivelling in his chair, Maarten turns on the computer. There are three meetings he is supposed to be in today, including the always depressing Resources, but he cancels them all. The Super had been kind on the phone.
Adrika and Sunny re-enter and Adrika turns on the interactive whiteboard, filled with notes.
‘Adrika?’
‘We have a body, but no identity as yet. A possible suspect of Leo Fenton, based on a potential soil composition match of that found with the body and the area of Leo Fenton’s death, and also the fact that his body was never found. He was born in St Albans, and the partner of his brother lives here, in Ayot. We’re waiting on Forensics for anything further. Leo Fenton was declared dead a little over eighteen months ago. Two years ago, he was camping overnight with his brother, Ben Fenton. When Ben woke in the morning, Leo wasn’t there. Ben was covered with Leo’s blood, as was the tent. There was no one else around; no subsequent proof of life of Leo Fenton. According to Ben, a cyclist who passed their camp could testify that he and his brother had a civilised evening, but no other witnesses report seeing a cyclist on the coastal path at that hour. Ben Fenton was held on remand and went to trial, now convicted for his murder. They were camping near the sea, on secluded yet public land, near a small cliff that led down to the beach. The jury found him guilty of killing Leo and throwing him over the cliff to get rid of the body. The body was never recovered. Traces of blood were found at the edge of the cliff, as well as a trail of blood in that direction. Items of his were found on the seabed. It was an unusual case, but there was an inheritance sum at stake, and the lack of alternative DNA at the campsite presented Ben Fenton as the only suspect. His statement about the cyclist was dismissed as fiction in court. Apparently the lawyer was very convincing – pulled up a lead case from 1955, that of Michal Onufrejczyk, where no body was found, only substantial amounts of blood at the scene. Fenton has maintained his innocence. Lead detective in the case was…’ At this point she pauses and Maarten looks up. ‘…DI Harper Carroll.’
‘And DI Carroll has briefed you both on the details?’
‘Yes, sir. However, the murder weapon was never found. And this morning, she phoned in a further suspected crime scene.’
‘She didn’t mention anything that would suggest foul play?’ Maarten says.
‘Well, she’s only going on the call she received from Ana Seabrook, who was mainly distressed about the death of her dog.’
‘So the dog was stabbed?’ Maarten asks.
Adrika shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. We’ll know more soon.’
‘If we can find some correlation between the body and a possible other crime scene in Ayot, then this will make it much easier to progress. We can search for the identity of a John Doe for a very long time.’ Maarten taps his pen again. ‘What I don’t understand,’ he says, ‘is why Seabrook called Carroll. Why would she even think she’d be involved in this case?’
Sunny lifts his arm in agreement, making a slice with his forearm. ‘Exactly my point! Carroll should have directed her to us.’
Maarten shakes his head. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. It doesn’t really matter who does what, as long as it gets done. Carroll hasn’t broken protocol. My question is why Seabrook would call her and not us, at 5 a.m. – were they friends?’
‘It seems…’ Adrika is doing a bad job of keeping her voice steady, Maarten observes. ‘It seems that DI Carroll and Ana Seabrook developed a friendship during the case, and Seabrook still had DI Carroll’s number. They seem to have become close.’
Maarten taps the pen on the desk as he looks at the notes he’s made. ‘So, we have a body, which we suspect is a murder victim of two years ago, and now we suspect we have further activity on the case, involving a dead dog?’
He gazes out of the window. The air conditioning in the police station makes this the only place in St Albans at the moment where he feels cool. No one is allowed to open the windows, which he still finds bizarre in the summer. Don’t let the heat in. It feels a bit like the war.
‘Any witnesses? Fingerprints? Anything from the graveyard that will shed any light on the case?’
‘Not so far. We have eyewitness accounts of a van, and there is CCTV, but the number plates had been caked in mud. We assume deliberately. There was no useable image of the driver of the van in any of the footage.’
‘And was Ana Seabrook ever a suspect in the case?’
‘I don’t know, but I can check.’ Adrika makes a note.
‘She was a bit jumpy when she came in to speak to us yesterday,’ Sunny says.
‘Really?’ Maarten glances at his notes, adding a line. ‘Jumpy how?’
‘She had a text message halfway through. She glanced at it – I’m not sure she even read it, but she went white as a sheet. Like she’d seen a ghost. She didn’t really recover herself in there.’
‘Did you ask her?’ Maarten asks.
Adrika shrugs. ‘I wanted to. I gave her the opportunity to tell us if it was important, but she wasn’t going to offer anything up. And we don’t have anything concrete to go on. I can’t ask to see her ph
one.’
‘No,’ Maarten agrees, nodding slowly. ‘And yet here she is again.’
‘You think she’s involved? That maybe she was an accomplice to the actual murder?’ Sunny asks.
‘I think we need to consider it. And the body. But we need to think about why, and why now, two years later. If someone commits murder, and let’s say that Ben Fenton is innocent, then why hang on to the body and drop it into the lap of the police two years later? What is there to gain from it all? The answer is like the body – buried deep. We’re meant to dig for clues. I’m certain of it. I bet if Seabrook’s involved there will be other evidence. If we do end up going round today, then keep your eyes open.’
Sunny dips his head, stares at his feet. ‘Sorry about earlier.’
Maarten shrugs it off. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ He stands, stretching, and his phone rings.
‘Taj,’ he says as he answers. He nods. ‘See you in about half an hour.’
‘We’re on,’ he says. ‘Let Carroll know.’
Checking his watch, he thinks of the things he needs to do before he collects the kids from school. He’s asked Jane to get some clothes together for Liv. The doctor had said she’s likely to stay in for at least a week to be monitored. Shock can be a dangerous thing.
Glancing through the glass of the office, he sees Harper Carroll by the window. A cluster has gathered around her. Things are picking up pace.
*
It is lucky, Maarten thinks, that the gardens are separate. The public garden is accessed via the main door and the car park. They have swept most of that and it’s been determined that the dog made its way out of the back pub door and only went into the private garden for the house, so it’s easier to keep it separate. There has been some tampering with the lock on the back door.
The scene is sun-soaked. Faces are slowly turning red. Half-empty bottles of water are strewn on a far table. The suits and plastic of the crime scene make the whole thing feel hotter.
Despite the heat, Ana Seabrook sits in the kitchen of the pub, shivering. SOCO are almost finished inside the pub, but the family are still kept out of the way.
