Beneath the Ashes

by Jane Isaac

  “We’re working our way through local companies, but it’s a mammoth task,” Davies said.

  “Nothing from the drugs squad?”

  More head shakes.

  “As it stands at the moment we’ll have to let Eamonn Benwell go,” Jackman said with a heavy sigh. “We’ve got Nancy coming in today, so hopefully that’ll give us something. We’ve checked missing persons. Chase those DNA results again, will you? I’m sure once we know who the victim is, it will open up some more leads.”

  ***

  The letterbox woke Nancy the following morning. After a night of broken sleep, she’d drifted off as the early morning light streamed into her bedroom. She could hear intermittent shuffles downstairs and muffled voices in conversation in the shop below. She lay there for a while, trying to clear a space in the tenacious mist that dogged her mind.

  She grabbed her mobile phone from the bedside table. It was Wednesday, 10.30am. The last few days merged together. Two text messages lit up her screen. She opened the first from Becca.

  Gone to work. Text me if you need anything.

  Good. She was grateful to Becca for taking yesterday off to look after her, but it was a relief to have some peace today to work things through. She needed time to think. The second message was an unknown number.

  Thinking of you. Give me a call when you are feeling better. Rx

  Ryan again. Becca must have given him her new number. She tried to suppress the new wave of anger rising inside her.

  What she really needed was a coffee, an injection of caffeine to kick-start her brain into action. Nancy hauled herself out of bed, plodded through to the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. As the steam rose and swirled into the air, she moved around gathering her mug, making the coffee.

  It wasn’t until she walked back through to the hallway that she saw the white envelope on the mat. She placed the mug on the side, picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was addressed to NANCY in wide typed letters. She pulled it apart, tearing the letter inside in her clumsy haste. It took a while to retrieve it and place it together before she could read.

  Debts pass to next of kin.

  Nancy turned the paper over, looked back at the envelope and reread the words. Her knees weakened. She moved through into the lounge and lowered herself onto the sofa. The only next of kin she had was Cheryl. She stared at it, barely able to comprehend.

  Nancy stood, pulled the new mobile from her pocket and dialled her mother’s number, clutching her elbow with her free hand, shuffling from one foot to the other as it rang out several times before the voicemail kicked in. She went back through to the kitchen, leant up against the side and looked at the note again. This could only mean one thing. But Cheryl had promised. Sat beside Nancy’s hospital bed, she had said she hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in almost two months. The news was intended to cheer Nancy’s spirits and it certainly had the desired effect.

  Just like the last time.

  Nancy recoiled as the memories came flooding back. After Gran’s funeral Cheryl vowed to seek treatment, spending two weeks in a clinic to clean herself up. Nancy was wary when she was discharged and moved in with her, yet Cheryl worked hard to gain her trust. She went to the supermarket, cooked fresh meals, none of that ready-made stuff her gran disapproved of. She spent her days cleaning the house, listening to Nancy share the gossip at the florists over dinner in the evening, even got up and made her breakfast before she started work, although she didn’t need to.

  It lasted almost two months. Until Cheryl disappeared.

  Nancy had been frantic. She’d phoned around friends, mutual acquaintances, walked the streets looking for her. Becca and her mother joined the search. They alerted the police. Even now Nancy could remember the raw feeling of fear that at any moment officers might arrive at the door, explain that something terrible had happened, some cruel twist of fate had taken her mother away, just when she’d got her back.

  Four days passed before Cheryl returned, slotting her key into the front door one evening as if nothing had happened. Nancy remembered how she’d rushed out to the hallway. And froze. Cheryl’s clothes were filthy. She’d peered up at Nancy through a lank fringe, her eyes dark and sunken. Nancy had seen that look before. Now she understood why her gran had shouted at Cheryl so many times over the years, thrown her back to the streets to ‘sort herself out’ when she’d turned up at their door. She’d fallen back into the clutches of alcohol once again and it would take nothing but a minor miracle to bring her mother back.

  Nancy had grown accustomed to the hollow reassurance, the false promises. From as young as eight, she’d sat on the stairs and peeped through the bannisters at her mother and gran arguing. Yet this time Cheryl had been so enthusiastic, seemed so convincing.

  But the more she turned it over in her mind, the more Nancy was sure it could be the only possible explanation. It would also explain why Cheryl hadn’t been in touch since she left hospital.

  There was a time when a letter like this would have scared Nancy, left her mind spinning at what events might befall her if she didn’t comply. Now she just felt numb.

  She would have loved a normal mother. Those brief intervals in her life when her mother had been clean had represented some of their happiest moments and she cherished them like a baby’s comfort blanket. But it wasn’t meant to be.

  During their short time together, Evan had cautioned Nancy to be gentle, comforting, try to help her mother, wean her off the drink. Against her better judgement, formed by years of disappointment, she’d been persuaded by his words. But this now… This was too much.

  Only Cheryl could be selfish enough to create a drama like this amidst her own daughter’s anguish. Nancy ripped the note in half, and half again, and several more times before she shoved it in the bin. This time she wouldn’t be there to pick up the pieces.

  A knock at the door startled her. She pulled her robe across her chest, tightened the straps as she made for the door. Instead of pulling it open, she stood back and called out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Kathryn.”

  Nancy picked at the locks and opened the door, only to be met with a smile from the petite detective. “How are you feeling today?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The basic equipment to set up this kind of operation costs around £2,000.” The slick detective in the sharp black suit turned and looked at the photos plastered across the wall behind him of the inside of the container found at the barn. “Fans and ventilation, heat lamps, lights – looks like quite a sophisticated operation. Pretty easily available online, or if you know the right people. You’d expect a crop worth around £5,000 every ten weeks or so.”

  Janus’ chair squeaked as she sat back. They were gathered in the incident room with Mike Clarke, head of Warwickshire Drugs Squad, who’d driven over from Leamington to discuss the discovery at the barn.

  Jackman shot Keane a look. “Any sign of big withdrawals in the victim’s bank records?”

  Keane shook his head. “There’s little cash in there, and not many payments either in terms of direct debits or standing orders. His salary’s quite meagre, paid once a month. I’m guessing it includes his lodgings. The owners pay the farm bills and he uses their Land Rover as his vehicle so he doesn’t need much. He withdraws cash a couple of times a week, but not in huge quantities. We’ve gone back over the last twelve months, before the Lawtons left, and can’t find any significant payments. Although there is that stack of used notes, just over £2,000, that CSIs found at the farmhouse.”

  Jackman couldn’t help but think of the cash they found in Eamonn Benwell’s flat. “On face value the victim didn’t seem to lead the lifestyle one might expect of a drug dealer,” he said. “They usually plough their cash into flash cars, property, anything to avoid placing large payments into the bank. Which suggests he’s either stacking the cash up somewhere, or he had help.”

  “That’s not unusual in this sort of operation,” Mike said. “
Towns are generally split into patches, controlled by organised crime groups. Most law-abiding sorts never see it, but if you delve deep enough you’ll find them. Setting up an operation like this without help isn’t likely to last long without the right people getting involved or backing it.”

  “You’re suggesting the victim provided the space and someone else is reaping the rewards?”

  “Not quite. He’ll either set up a new supply chain, or he’s contributing to one already established. If it’s established, he’ll be paid for the use of the barn with each crop he yields. And it would explain why you can’t trace the building firm who installed the container, or the generator. They’d do it off the books, be paid for their discretion.”

  “What about the Lawtons’ bank accounts?” Jackman said to Keane.

  He shook his head. “Direct debits for farm bills, utilities – nothing of any significance. They have a personal bank account which has about £16,500 in it and pays what looks like their monthly credit card bill and travel expenses, and a savings account which shows a few chunky withdrawals, but no large injections of cash.”

  “Is it possible a rival gang discovered the cannabis farm?” Davies said. “Burnt it down, with Evan in there to send a message?”

  “Possible. These guys are very protective. They don’t like anyone else muscling in on their business.”

  “What can you do to help us?” Jackman asked.

  Mike paused, looked at the photos again and turned back to his audience. “We’ve got our source handlers out there, talking to people in the field as we speak, to try to see who this operation belonged to or who supported it. If they were supplying locally, the discovery of this farm is going to leave someone short for a while – hopefully we can find out who and where.”

  “How long do you think that’ll take?” Janus asked.

  “Hard to say, but we’ll keep in touch, feedback any information as soon as we have it.”

  “What about the missing firearms?”

  “Nothing yet. We’re still working on it.”

  Jackman ignored Janus’ loud sigh. He briefly shared Eamonn Benwell’s account, their findings at his flat. “Is Benwell known to you, at all?” Jackman asked.

  Mike thought for a moment. “It’s not a name I’m familiar with. But of course I’ll share it with my team.”

  “Is there any way of knowing how long the cannabis farm has been there?” Jackman said.

  “The equipment doesn’t look particularly old. Part of the crop looks almost ready to harvest, although it might not be the first one. I’ve seen many cannabis farms,” Mike continued. “Some were in factory units, others in backstreet houses where the whole ground floor was taken over by little pots of compost and heat lamps. Someone was paid to look after them, living in one room of the house on their own while managing and harvesting the crop. But it’s a risky business in a residential area with people coming and going. Being stuck out there where police cars and helicopters rarely venture. It’s ingenious.”

  Jackman turned to face the room. “We know the victim’s been managing the farm since the Lawtons left in November. He must have access to their suppliers. I think generators like this one run on diesel. We need to find out who he is getting it from and whether there has been a spike in his diesel spend.”

  ***

  “Let’s talk about Sunday, the day in general.” Detective Russell sat back in her chair.

  Nancy leant her arm on the corner of the sofa. Her heart had sank to new lows when she had opened the door to the detective that morning, and was asked to come down to the station and answer more questions. After passing through the stark entrance she’d expected to be led into a small room with a table in the middle, plastic chairs and a bare light bulb in the ceiling like on the TV crime dramas she’d seen. But this was more like somebody’s front room with carpeted flooring, curtains at the windows and comfy cushions on the sofa.

  “How was Evan’s mood on Sunday?”

  Nancy hesitated, struggling to see the relevance. “Same as normal.”

  “Did he talk to anyone at the pub, or on the way?”

  “Not really. We were having a meal together.”

  “What about in the last few weeks? Have you noticed a change in him at all?”

  Nancy fidgeted, glanced at the camera in the corner. It was odd being watched from afar, and strangely disconcerting. “No.”

  “Why don’t you tell us how you first met Evan?”

  “He came into the shop one day, left me his number. I’ve already told you this.”

  “We’re just building up a picture of his life,” Russell said with a kind smile. “It’ll help us to fill in the gaps. When was your first meeting?”

  She swallowed. “The 13th of May.”

  “Can you remember where you met?”

  “At The Fish.”

  “The same place you visited the night he disappeared?”

  She watched Russell pull her notebook out of her case and click her ballpoint pen before she answered. “We rarely went anywhere else.”

  “Was there a reason why he chose to go there? It certainly wasn’t the closest pub to the farm.”

  “I think he liked their beer.”

  “But he had to drive there.”

  She shifted in her seat. “He liked the atmosphere. We used to play pool in the covered area outside. Sometimes we sat beside the river. Evan didn’t like crowds.”

  “What can you tell us about his friends?”

  “I never really met any of them.” Nancy shuffled awkwardly. In truth, she’d asked him several times whether he’d like his friends to join them. But he always refused, said he preferred to have her to himself. She’d been flattered at the time. But now she thought of it, he never really mentioned friends. Yet he knew everything there was to know about her: when her gran died, her mother’s situation, where she lived. He’d even met Becca, although he’d never stayed over at her flat. When she’d asked, he always said it was easier if she stayed at the farm.

  “What did he think of your friends?”

  “He only met them a couple of times. He was very busy at work.”

  “What about friends at the pub? You said he went there a lot. The landlord maybe?”

  “He did talk to him. Sometimes. But I wouldn’t say they were close.”

  “What about other workers on the farm?”

  “There are two casual workers, Stephan and Luca. He tends to text them jobs, send them off. He was the only permanent one.”

  “So you never met any of his friends?”

  Nancy could feel Russell’s eyes boring into her. “We were a bit consumed with each other, I suppose. It was all very new. And I only saw him a few times a week, the summer is a busy time on the farm.”

  “What about family?”

  “He talked about his mother.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Northampton, I think. He was planning to take me to meet her when things quietened down on the farm.”

  “No brothers, sisters?”

  “He has a sister. Hasn’t seen her in years, didn’t like to talk about her.”

  “Did you ever hear him use a different name?”

  “No. I thought Evan was his name. That’s what people called him.”

  “People?”

  Nancy rubbed the side of her head. The criss-cross questions were starting to make her feel disoriented. “The landlord at the pub. People like that.”

  “How long did he say he’d been at the farm?”

  “About two years. He did some casual work and they offered him a full-time job. He did seem close to the owners, Janine and Ronnie. He said he’d introduce me to them when they came home.”

  “Did he ever talk about what he did before working at the farm?”

  She shook her head. “He wasn’t a big talker.”

  “What, never?”

  Nancy was starting to feel uncomfortable. Evan was a very private person, she’d tried to respect that.
When she’d asked questions he’d always said that what was important was the here and now; he didn’t believe in dwelling on the past. She remembered him telling her about an old friend he’d lost to a heroin overdose, some years ago. They’d been close, the scars ran deep. She’d guessed that was why he was so good to her mum, he knew how to deal with addictions, was patient.

  “What about where he used to live before, old workplaces, friends, family?”

  A memory crept into Nancy’s mind. Almost a month after they’d got together. She was sitting at the side of a field, watching him repair the fencing. The sunlight was warm on her skin as she sat splitting tiny green stems to make daisy chains. The conversation had been idle. Nancy talking about her grandmother, the long evenings they shared watching films on television with chocolate and popcorn. Evan listened in silence, smiled when she said they’d watched Sense and Sensibility at least a dozen times.

  Nancy had looked across at him, closing one eye to cut out the dazzling sunshine. “What about your mum?” she’d asked. Evan didn’t respond, almost as if he hadn’t heard her. He continued to work the fence. “Come on, I’ve told you all about my family. What about yours? I don’t even know your mum’s name, where she lives.”

  She lifted her hand to shade her eyes. The muscles in his back tightened. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  Evan sucked on his forefinger a moment, his forehead creased in pain. “It’s nothing,” he said. “The hammer slipped. We’re done here.”

  He’d collected his tools and made off towards the Land Rover, leaving Nancy to scurry after him. The change in his mood, the dent in his usual affable manner, only served to make her feel more determined. She’d pressed him on the way back about his mum, they’d bickered. He didn’t want to talk about his family and she couldn’t understand why. Suddenly, he’d stopped, braked hard in the middle of the country road. She’d flown forward, then back as he reversed.

  “What are you doing?” She placed her hand on his thigh. He’d pushed it away, roughly.