by Jane Isaac
Kathryn, the detective, had questioned her, the same questions she’d been asked at the farmhouse earlier, and compiled them into a statement. ‘Statement.’ The very word induced a wave of unwarranted guilt. She thought back to the kitchen that morning, the broken glass in the door. She hadn’t done anything wrong. It was she who had woken up bleeding on the floor. Although jabs of fear kept poking her in the side. What happened last night? If only she could remember.
The sound of a phone ringing pulled Nancy from her thoughts. She blinked, sat forward just as the detective said, “Excuse me,” rose and left the room.
There must be some news. As she stared at the door, willing the detective to return, a bony hand curled around her forearm.
“You all right, love?”
Nancy turned to face her mother, “I’m fine.” But she wasn’t fine. Her head was thick and fuzzy, her stomach was churning inside.
She laid back into the pillows, thought hard. Maybe the fire had nothing to do with Evan. Maybe he’d been caught up somewhere, and later he would turn up at her door in his truck, plaster that wicked grin on his face and say, “Fancy a night out?” Her life would be complete once more. They would enjoy more nights out, picnics on the lawn, walk the dogs together.
The door loosened on the latch, clicked open. Nancy craned her neck, listening hard for traces of the detective’s voice. But any sound was drowned out by a commotion in the corridor: a patient screaming, soothing voices trying to placate. She tried to decipher the sounds but they merged into a distant din.
Her mother’s incessant picking at the skin around her fingernails was starting to grate. “Cheryl, why don’t you go and have a smoke?” she said. “I know you want one.”
Her mother didn’t flinch at being called by her first name. ‘Mum’ conjured up images of a woman holding their child’s hand as they took them to school, standing at the gates to meet them at the end of the day, cooking them tea, reading them a story at bedtime. And Cheryl would be the first to admit, she’d never done any of those things.
She cleared her throat and scratched the gap in her parting. “Shall I wait for the detective to come back? Just in case?”
Just in case. Just in case Evan was dead. Her mother had never known the meaning of diplomacy. Nancy took a deep breath and fought to keep her voice even, “No, really. I’ll be fine. You’ll only be a few minutes.” She patted Cheryl’s hand in the most affectionate gesture she could muster.
Cheryl grabbed her black leather bag at the side of her chair and removed a packet of Dunhills and a green plastic lighter. “Well, okay then.” She held them up as she dashed out of the room. “I’ll just have a quickie.”
Nancy rested her head back on the pillow as the door slammed behind her. Cheryl was hopeless without her cigarettes. This was difficult for someone like her, to be removed from her home, sit here with Nancy in this room and be denied the comforts she relied upon so heavily.
A flashback: standing in a line in the primary school playground, next to the hopscotch markings and the coloured climbing frame, waiting to be collected at the end of the day. The other childrens’ mothers were young and fresh faced with broad smiles and colourful clothes, some with ponytails bouncing as they approached. Nancy’s grandmother sported the same smile that lit up her face and made her beautiful. But her attempt at smart clothes were worn and dated, and she walked with an arthritic limp. Nancy wasn’t the only one collected by someone other than her mother. Another boy in her class had a mother who worked in London and a childminder collected him. Although his mum was still able to come to parents’ evenings and school concerts. Nancy had struggled to understand her mother’s gaping absence when she was young and by the time she reached her teenage years she bitterly resented Cheryl’s occasional visits, when empty bottles lined the chairs at home, ashtrays overflowed and the thick stench of alcohol filled the air.
Oddly, Evan viewed things differently. He had more of a sympathetic approach to her mother’s condition, emphasised to Nancy that this was an addiction. She needed help, treatment, like any other patient in this hospital and over the last couple of months, Nancy had tried to be more tolerant, allowing the early seeds of a relationship to develop. Evan was perceptive like that. He knew things about people. Tried to help them.
The sound of the door opening pulled her back to the present. She looked up to see Kathryn.
The detective’s mouth turned up very slightly as she approached the bedside.
“Have you found him?” Nancy held her breath.
“Not yet.”
“What about the body?” she asked, trepidation prickling her voice. “Do you know what happened… in the barn?”
“We’re looking into it, working on an identification. Please try to stay calm and rest. I’ll tell you more as soon as I can.”
A crack of thunder sounded in the distance. It sent the birds flapping off the rooftops in panic. Nancy watched them disappear into the sky. She closed her eyes, tried as hard as she could to pull on her memories from the night before. But instead of order, a mixture of confused thoughts raced around her mind, dissipating into a cloud of nothingness.
Chapter Six
Jackman was leaning down, plugging in his mobile phone charger behind his desk when a knock at the door caught his attention. Keane’s face appeared, his mouth stretched into a wide smile that exposed a wide gap between his two front teeth. “Just to let you know, we’ve traced Evan Baker’s sister, sir. Hampshire police have been out to see her. She’s living in Southampton, coming up in the morning to do a formal identification.”
“Good. Was she able to tell us any more about him?”
Keane shook his head.
“Probably in shock,” Jackman said. “Might get a bit more out of her tomorrow.”
“Doubt it. The detective I spoke to said she claims she hasn’t seen him in six years. We’ve gone through his phone and he’s made no calls since yesterday. Last text was sent to Nancy’s phone at 5pm.”
After Keane had left the room, Jackman swivelled his chair and stared out of the window into the car park below. The lack of phone activity strengthened the notion that Evan Baker could be their body. But what struck him was the dearth of information about him. He appeared to keep himself clean: no police record and no intelligence on file. They’d done the normal checks and so far been unable to trace anyone who knew him well, apart from a distant sister. Was he really such a private person, or did he have something to hide?
He turned back and idly stared through the slats in the open blind. As his eyes focused, he could see the incident room was a hive of activity, buzzing with the wealth of calls the press appeal had prompted. Jackman loved the excitement of working a new case, uncovering clues, piecing together events. It reminded him of his earliest days in homicide in the Met. With over one hundred murders a year the unit had been busy, fast moving. Warwickshire saw fewer murder cases, but when they did they were accompanied by the same fizz of excitement as everyone pulled together, worked extra hours and put in the inevitable legwork to solve the case.
His phone interrupted his thoughts. A text message from DC Russell.
Nancy is being kept in hospital overnight due to the head injury.
He chewed the side of his mouth. Nancy was close to Evan. Even if she couldn’t remember what happened on Sunday night, perhaps she was now feeling well enough to furnish them with background details on his friends and local associations so that they could build up a pattern of his life.
He clicked the button, called back. “Hi Kathryn, thanks for your message. What’s happening there?”
“They’re keeping her in overnight for observations due to the head injury.”
“Do you think she’s up to doing an ID on the victim?”
A short silence followed. “I’m not sure. She’s still very confused.”
“Any more insight into what happened last night?”
“Nothing. I’ve been trying to gain a little of her background
, but she’s very vague. Doesn’t seem to know anything about his family either.”
As Jackman ended the call, his phone rang again. It was Mackenzie Oliver, the pathologist. He didn’t waste time with introductions. “Any news on an ID?”
“We’ve traced a sister. She’s coming up in the morning. How did you get on with preliminaries?”
Jackman heard the rustle of paper in the background. “We’ve done his hands and fingernails. They’re too badly burnt for prints. There’s a crack in the back of his skull. Possibly the cause of death.”
“Could that have come from the rafters collapsing on top of him?”
“Doubtful. Looks more like a definite blow. Deep. Consistent with a blunt instrument. If it wasn’t enough to kill him, it would more likely have knocked him out. The front of his body shows some bruising too.”
“Do you think he put up a fight?”
Mac hesitated a moment. “Not sure. It doesn’t look like the defensive bruising we’d usually find on a victim’s arms. More concentrated on his torso. As if he’d been dropped. Possibly when he was placed in the barn or when something fell down onto him.”
Jackman looked up to see Davies marching through the incident room in his direction. She was animated, shouting something across the room, her face flushed. “Thanks, Mac.” He rang off, reached the door almost as she did and pulled it open. “What’s up?”
“Obnoxious guy in the front office downstairs. Claims to be the owner of the cars in the barn. Will only speak to whoever is managing the investigation.”
***
Eamonn Benwell was a tall man of middle years with dark features and a protruding Adam’s apple that wobbled as Jackman introduced himself. He strode into the interview room, clearly affronted by their surroundings. “What is this?”
“I’m sorry, this is the only spare room I could find,” Jackman said.
“I’m not being taped, then?”
“Not unless you want to be.”
A muscle flexed in his jawline. “When am I going to get my cars back?”
Jackman sat and invited Eamonn to sit on the spare chair opposite before he spoke. “This is a murder investigation, Mr Benwell. The cars at the scene where the body was found have to be forensically examined.”
“How long does that take?”
“I can’t say at the moment. Our priority is to ascertain what happened. Everything at the crime scene needs to be carefully examined.”
Eamonn threw his head back. “You don’t think they used my cars?”
Jackman shrugged a single shoulder. “I couldn’t say at this stage.”
“Can you at least tell me what state they are in? They said on the news there was a fire.”
“I can confirm there was a fire at the barn. The body was located away from the vehicles, but there is some damage. That’s all.”
Eamonn sat forward, placed his head in his hands.
“What sort of cars are they?” Jackman asked.
“Classic. American.”
“I’m sure they’ll be covered on your insurance.”
Eamonn raised his gaze, incredulous.
“They were insured, weren’t they?” Jackman said.
“Of course. But insurers won’t give me my cars back. The Corvette L88 is a special edition… took me years to find one.” Beads of sweat were collecting on his forehead.
Jackman watched him a moment before he spoke. “How long have you known Evan Baker?”
“I first met him in The Fish pub earlier this year. I go in there a couple of times a week to unwind.” He lowered his eyes. “Just recently I’ve had a few marital problems. My wife and I separated. I moved out and had nowhere to store the cars. When I told the landlord he suggested I approach Evan to see if there was anywhere they could be stored on the farm.”
“Had you spoken to Evan Baker before that night?”
He shook his head. “I’d seen him, sitting at the end of the bar by himself, head in a book. He rarely spoke to anyone.”
“What happened when you broached the idea?”
“He was reluctant at first. Said it wasn’t his decision, he was only house-sitting. He brightened up when I said it was only for a short while and I’d pay him.”
“How much did you pay?”
“Forty quid a month. Seemed to work well. Until yesterday.”
“How did you pay him?” Jackman asked.
“I set up a direct debit from my business.”
“Which is?”
“Steel fabrication. I have a factory on Timothy’s Bridge Road.”
“And where are you living now?”
“I’m renting a flat on St Peter’s Way. It’s close to work, but only temporary. Somewhere my kids can come and stay until we get the finances sorted. I’d planned to move the cars then too. Arrange for some proper storage.”
“Do you go up to the barn at all?”
“Occasionally. Not as much as I’d like. The cars have been stored there since March and I’ve probably been up half a dozen times. We’ve been so busy at work I haven’t had time to take them for a run in a while.”
“How do you get access?”
“I have to contact Evan. He meets me there, unlocks the barn and makes sure he’s back there when I return.”
“He didn’t give you a key?”
He shrugged a single shoulder. “Don’t suppose it was his to give. I was just grateful for somewhere to store them.”
“Did you ever see anyone else there?”
“No. The track’s always empty. You wouldn’t go up there if you weren’t heading to the barn.”
“What’s the generator for?”
Eamonn shrugged. “Maybe he was thinking of heating it over the winter, stop the cars from seizing up. He’s not much of a talker.”
Jackman watched him a moment. Although tense, his body language was open. He looked like he was being honest, telling the truth. “How well do you know Evan?”
“Like I said, I saw him in the pub. At the barn occasionally. That’s all.”
“Did you ever go to the farmhouse? Or meet his girlfriend?”
“I never went to the farm. No need. I have seen his girlfriend, I think they call her Nancy. He brought her to the pub sometimes.”
“How did they get along?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did they argue a lot, or seem happy?”
“Didn’t see them arguing but I didn’t really pay attention. They were just other people in the pub.”
“What about friends, mutual acquaintances, family?”
“He seems a bit of a loner. I haven’t seen him talk to anyone else, apart from his girlfriend.”
Jackman pressed his lips together, leant forward. “Eamonn, where were you between the hours of 10pm and 3am on the night of Sunday the 9th of August?”
Eamonn looked indignant. “I worked Sunday and had an early night. Why?”
Jackman ignored the question. Silence hung between them.
“We have a big job on at the moment with a penalty clause,” Eamonn continued. “I’ve pretty much spent the last few weeks at the factory, weekends too.”
“You have witnesses?”
“None of my guys came in on Sunday. And I walked home. So, no. No witnesses.” He enunciated every syllable. “You don’t think the body in the barn is Evan, do you?”
“Do you?” Jackman replied.
“When it was reported in the press they just said a man.”
“We are still waiting for a formal identification of the victim, but Evan is missing. Can you describe him for me, approximate height and weight?”
“God!” Eamonn looked physically taken aback. It took him a moment to recover himself. “Er, blond, average height. Slim-ish.”
“I’ll need specific details.”
“Of what?”
“Makes and registration numbers of the cars. Dates when you spoke to Evan, visited the barn and took the cars out. Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt
him?” Jackman asked.
Eamonn shook his head, any ounce of earlier belligerence now melted. “Like I said, I really didn’t know him well at all.”
***
The detective stood and excused herself to go to the ladies. The emptiness of the room induced an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Anxiety clawed at Nancy’s chest. What she really needed right now, more than anything, was Evan.
She pictured the barn in her mind. All she knew was that there’d been a fire. Somebody had died. Frustration ate away at her.
The door clicked open. She raised her eyes hopefully and gave a relieved smile as a familiar face entered.
“Nancy, what happened?” The young woman rushed to her bedside and embraced her in a tender hug. She pulled back slowly and saw the wound on Nancy’s forehead. “Ouch, that looks sore.”
It was such a comfort to have her best friend here. She’d known Becca since they started secondary school together, nine years earlier.
Nancy could feel tramlines gathering on her forehead as she stared back at her friend. “Have you heard anything… from Evan?”
Becca shook her head slowly. “How are you?”
“I don’t know. Tired. My head feels heavy. Did you call him?”
“I did and left a message. Try not to worry. Have they done any tests?”
“They do nothing but tests and ‘observations’.”
“At least they’re looking after you. What a horrible thing to happen.”
“I’m worried it’s him, Becca. The body in the barn. They won’t tell me anything, but Evan’s missing. I’m sure they think it’s him.”
Becca patted her arm. “Come on. You mustn’t think like that.”
Becca’s dark hair was arranged into a long French plait swung over her left shoulder. Nancy watched her wind the end of it around the fingers of her free hand as she spoke. Becca had always faffed with her hair. Although their buses came from opposite ends of town, the girls met at the school gates every morning and invariably, Becca would be fixing or refixing her hair as she waited for her friend. Nancy wondered whether Becca would have followed her into floristry if it hadn’t been so easy with them both working in Becca’s mother’s shop and later sharing the flat above together. She would have been far more suited to hairdressing.
