by Colin Garrow
It was just after six when I got back to the office. Ken was leaning against the doorpost watching Carol gather her things together.
I looked at the old man. 'You're not doin the desk tonight, are ye?'
'Might as well. I'll only sit at home doin nothin otherwise. The evenin-shift lads'll be in shortly.' He glanced at Carol. 'So where are yous two goin to be?'
'Not sure yet,' I said. 'I'll text ye later.'
'Aye. Keep yersel's safe.'
Outside it was starting to get dark. There were a few people around, here and there, mostly heading for home. Others stood in pub doorways, wreathed in clouds of cigarette smoke. A few young couples strolled along the Esplanade, and a gang of kids jumped up and down on one of the benches me and Lizzy had sat on earlier. There were no obvious psychos, hockey-stick wielders or men in striped jerseys. But just because I couldn't see them, didn't mean they weren't there.
'Maybe we should stay here? Bring some sleeping bags over, an that?'
Carol stared at me. 'What the fuck for?'
I glanced up at the office window. 'In case they come back.'
She moved her head slowly from side to side. 'Ken's a lovely bloke and that, at least, he is compared to Ronnie, but he's big enough to look after himself. And I divvent want to end up with me face bashed in and a knife in me tits.'
'Aye, I'm sure you're right.'
She gave me one of her looks.
I laughed. 'What?'
'I know you - if we find Ken lying in a pool of blood tomorrow mornin, ye'll be blamin me.'
I took her arm. 'Come on.'
'Where we goin?'
'Somewhere else, that's where.'
We stopped off at mine, then Carol's, picking up essentials and enough supplies for what I hoped would only be a few days. Then, taking a round-a-bout route, I headed for the proposed hideout, doubling back a few times in case we were followed, but unless the bad guys were unbelievably devious, I reckoned we were in the clear.
It was proper dark by the time we arrived. I stopped to pick up the keys then took the anti-clockwise road. Pulling the car up onto the grass verge, I switched everything off and waited for Carol's inevitable reaction.
'You're fuckin jokin, Terry?'
'What's wrong with it?'
'It's a caravan.'
I leaned forward and pointed. 'See that big fancy one down the end there? That's where old Ma Carver lives.'
'And what? Ye think she's goin to protect us?' She wasn't exactly angry but there was a definite tension in her voice.
'Look, it's just somewhere to stay for a few days.'
'And in the meantime you're goin to find out who murdered Ronnie, before some psycho-bastard kills us in our beds?'
'I can take you somewhere else, if ye like?'
She sniffed in a way that suggested she appreciated the gesture, then shook her head. 'If I wake up dead tomorrow, I'll be really annoyed.'
'That your new catchphrase, is it?'
She faked a smile and got out of the car.
While Carol unpacked her things, I did a quick recce of our new abode. There was only one door and the windows were lockable. On the roof was a vent, which, if my expectations of disaster had been particularly high, I might have blocked up, lest some kind of explosive device happened to find its way into our lair. But given that the killer's modus operandi so far related only to knives and hockey sticks, I thought we'd be fine.
I closed the curtains and made myself aware of the location of the nearest weapons (rolling pin, French cook's knife, corkscrew), and set about knocking up a spag bol. Carol checked out the TV and found a few DVDs. I was glad to see she seemed to have calmed down a bit, so while waiting for the spaghetti, I opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Relaxing in front of the box was exactly what I needed.
While we waited for the spaghetti, I told Carol about the car with the blacked-out windows, though didn't let on just how worked up about it I was. There was no point in us both being jittery. I thought about showing her the newspaper cutting of Andersson as well, but reckoned she had enough to think about for now.
It was after eleven when Johnny Depp finished putting the world to rights. The wine was gone and Carol's yawns were getting infectious. She started making moves towards the bedroom. We hadn't discussed sleeping arrangements but since she'd already stashed her things in the only proper bedchamber, it wasn't hard to guess who'd be sleeping on the put-me-up.
There was a moment of awkwardness as we negotiated toilet facilities, then we said out goodnights and Carol disappeared into her room. I sorted my bedding and stretched out for a few minutes, going over everything in my head, but there were still too many unanswered questions. Not feeling as relaxed as I'd expected, I didn't bother getting undressed. My mind sifted through the various pieces of the puzzle that were sliding around in my brain, and at some point over the next half hour, I dozed off.
Something poked me in the chest.
And again.
I opened my eyes.
My first thought was that I couldn't remember switching the lights off. I blinked in the gloom and rubbed my face. As I turned over, I found Carol crouching by my bed, dressed only in skimpy knickers and a t-shirt. Her eyes were wide and she held a quivering finger to her lips.
Her voice was low and her fear was palpable. 'I think there's somebody outside.'
'Fuck.' I scrambled out of bed and pulled my shoes on. 'Ye saw them?' I crept over to the nearest window.
'No, I didn't want to look in case...you know?'
I nodded and carefully lifted one side of the curtain. The orangey glow from the light at the corner of the road seemed unusually vivid. I dropped the curtain and listened. For a moment, there was nothing, then the quietest of thuds, like someone dumping a couple of rubbish bags.
'What is it?' said Carol, her face pale in the darkness.
I tried to focus on where the sound was coming from. Carol started to speak, but went silent as the noise came again. This time is was more defined - something sloshed against the side of the caravan then a whooshing sound came from a spot a few yards from where we stood. I stepped towards the longest window. Carol grabbed my sleeve.
'It's okay.' I held up a finger, silencing her. Stepping carefully, I took hold of the two corners where the curtains met and jerked them open.
It seemed as if the flames leaped upwards right on cue, filling the window with dazzling, orangey light.
'We're on fire!' Scrambling across to the tiny kitchen, I yanked the extinguisher off its hook on the wall, and pulling out the pin, grasped the apparatus firmly in my right hand. In the back of my mind, I was vaguely aware of thudding footsteps, as if someone was running away. I reached for the door key.
'No!' Carol pulled me back. 'What if they're waiting?'
I dithered for only a moment, but the thought of the pair of us playing the main roles in a human version of barbecued ribs was enough motivation to make up my mind. Unlocking the door, I picked up the rolling pin and pointed at the kitchen knife. 'Grab that.'
'Divvent giv iz a bloody knife - I might stab somebody!'
'Fine.' Yanking the door open, I remembered too late that it would've been sensible to check for heat first. The piles of rubbish against the decking were well alight. As the blaze surged upwards, I jumped back, knocking Carol over. The fire licked around the doorframe, singeing the carpet. In front of us was a wall of flame.
'Water! Get water, quick!' I struggled to my feet as Carol crawled to the sink. Fumbling with the taps, she twisted them feverishly. 'There's nothing coming out.'
'We'll have to jump over it, okay?'
Her lower lip trembled, but she nodded.
We stood there, Carol slightly behind me, bracing ourselves for the ordeal. 'On three - one, two, three!' I cleared the flames easily and fell against the wooden railing at the side of the step, but Carol had caught her shirt on the doorframe and was dragged back inside. Dropping the extinguisher and rolling pin, I jumped over the threshold. S
lipping a hand round her waist, I picked her up and leapt back through the flames, landing in a tangle of arms and legs on the grass.
Picking up the extinguisher again, I pulled Carol to her feet and took a few steps backwards. Taking in the scene, I counted six separate fires on this side of the caravan, all strategically placed under windows and around the door. The sheer pace of the inferno as the flames engulfed the entire van was incredible. If we'd left it a few seconds longer we'd have been baked like an overdone Sunday lunch.
I got the extinguisher to work and aimed the spray at the foot of the nearest fire, but whatever fuel our tormentor had used seemed immune to water. The noise of our escape must have disturbed our neighbours, as already several pyjamaed individuals were hurrying towards us with buckets and fire blankets.
Carol was still gripping my arm when Inspector Brown sauntered over to where we stood at the door of one of our neighbours' chalets.
'Can't leave you two alone for a bloody minute, can I?' She turned towards what was left of the blaze. The fire brigade had started packing up their gear while a lone officer picked through the skeletal remains of the black, crispy mess, all that was left of the caravan.
'Wonder the pair of em weren't burnt to a fuckin cinder, if ye ask me.' One of our neighbours, Peggy Jamieson, gave Charis a stern look as if it had been her fault. 'Comin ter summat when folk can't 'ave a bleedin holiday without some arsehole settin fuckin fire to em.' She took Carol's mug off her. 'Want another un, luv?'
Carol nodded and the woman went back inside after giving Charis another hard stare.
'Don't suppose either of you saw anything?'
I shrugged. 'We heard noises, but no. Nothing.'
'Excellent.' She went off to talk to one of the fire officers. Most of the folk who'd been standing round watching were starting to drift away, but a familiar face moved towards us.
'Might have been useful if ye'd let us know yous were here.' He nodded at the remains of our short-stay accommodation. 'Lucky escape, I'd say.' His face was grim and I thought I detected a hint of actual concern in his dark eyes. 'Anyway, Mrs Carver wants to know if you'd like to bunk up at hers.' Ralph Shiny-Head looked at me, then at Carol and back to me.
'That's very kind of her,' I said, 'but I think we'll make our own arrangements. Thanks.'
He nodded and walked away.
'That's the baldy feller ye were on about?' said Carol.
'That's him.'
'Seems like a canny bloke to me.'
'Well, now he does, yeah.'
'So what's next, Mr Ideas man?'
Chapter 7
'Mind, we're not making a habit of this, right?' Charis waggled a finger at me. 'I'm a copper, not a social worker.' She shared out what was left of the bacon between Carol and me, then settled down to eat her toast.
It was eight o'clock in the morning and the kitchen was bright and airy. The view over Jesmond Dene was almost idyllic and it was hard to believe the chaos of the night before had only been a few hours ago. I glanced at Carol who, like me was wearing an old dressing gown, but she was concentrating on her breakfast.
'Ye been here long?'
Charis nodded. 'About six years.'
'Nice place.'
'Aye.'
'Just you, is there?' I tried to make it sound like I was making conversation. Charis looked up.
'Ask a lot of questions, don't ye?'
'Well, until a few days ago, I hadn't seen ye for years, so...'
'My partner died.' She swivelled round in her chair, avoiding eye contact. I wondered if we were talking male or female.
'Sorry. That must've been hard.'
'It was.'
Carol gave me a kick under the table. I stuck my tongue out at her.
Our host poured more coffee. 'So my DC should be here shortly. I want to go over everything.' She glanced at me. 'And I do mean everything. Whatever it is you're not telling, you can stop that shite right now.'
'We will have to go into work, though,' I said. 'Can't expect Ken to manage.'
'I don't think that's a good idea. If someone's genuinely trying to get rid of the pair of you, there's no reason to think they'll stop just because it's daylight.' She tapped a finger on the table as if thinking it through. 'However, I'm sure Mr Thompson won't object to us hangin on to you for a couple of hours.'
'You're not takin us to the cop shop, then?' Carol sounded relieved.
'Better not. Don't want some fucker burnin the place down.' She grinned.
Charis's office took up the whole of the top floor of the house. There were masses of shelves crammed with police-related textbooks, crime novels and box files. In the centre of the room were two large desks pushed together to form a flat surface, on top of which Charis had laid out a dozen photographs taken after the caravan fire.
Detective Constable Ramshaw struggled up the stairs with a tray of coffee and biscuits. I wondered if he always got the shit jobs. I moved a couple of folders so he could put it down.
Charis stood back and surveyed her handiwork. 'The pictures of the caravan are obviously just those I took last night on my phone, but seein as you were both there, they're not so important.' She leaned forward and picked up one of the images. 'Apart from this one.'
The photo showed a section of grass near one corner of the caravan. 'So this is a possible footprint, and so far, it's the only clue we've got. Not exactly protocol, but I wanted to share this information, otherwise we're never going to work out what's going on.'
'What're these?' I said, indicating the two folders.
'Autopsy reports on Frank and Ronnie.' Charis glanced up. 'You two okay with this?' She was all business. Matter of fact.
We both nodded.
'Right. Frank Armstrong was not murdered. However, we believe he did not die at home. I mean, it's conceivable he might've stretched out and had forty winks on the table and then suffered a heart attack, but I think that's unlikely. The position of the body suggests someone placed him like that. The medical examiner puts time of death at around midnight on Friday, give or take a couple of hours. So he probably died somewhere else.'
'If he wasn't murdered, why bother moving his body?'
'Good point, Mr Bell.' She paused. 'I have my own theories of course, but what do you think?' Her gaze flitted between us.
'Maybe...' I shrugged. 'Maybe he died somewhere...'
'Embarrasin?' Carol was looking at me. 'Like if it was, ye know, in somebody's bed, or somethin?'
Charis leaned on the table. 'How well did you know him? I mean, could he have been having an affair?'
'Don't see how he'd have the time,' said Carol. 'He was workin eight til six most days - and on top of that, he was on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights til late. You know, two, three o'clock in the mornin, sometimes.'
'Almost as if he didn't want to go home,' said Charis.
DC Ramshaw cleared his throat. We all looked at him. 'According to the work sheets we took from the taxi office, the night he died wasn't particularly busy. At least not for him. He only did ten jobs.'
'That's right.' Charis looked pointedly at Carol.
'Aye, but some of them would've taken a while, like the ones he did on account.'
The inspector exchanged a look with her constable. 'The Andersson account?'
Carol nodded.
'Yes, unfortunately, we can't get hold of Mr Andersson to verify those –'
'But it was Elise Andersson he picked up that night.' From the looks on their faces I realised I'd said this out loud.
'Go on,' said Charis.
I took a breath, then told her about my pickup on Monday, the conversation with Elise and her sort-of confirmation that Frank had dropped her off.
When I'd finished, Charis glared at me. 'I'll need that address.' She slid her notebook across the table.
'I don't know the number,' I said, scribbling down the street name. 'Though I could find the place again.'
Inspector Brown pulled a face and closed her eyes fo
r a moment. I caught Ramshaw's sly smile before he clocked me watching and resumed his usual deadpan-serious-copper look.
'Anyway,' said Charis, 'according to the log, Frank did two jobs on that account and a couple more over a period of nearly three hours. Why did he only do four jobs? I mean, it was Friday night. Should've been plenty folk about.'
'It depends where he was. If he'd stayed on the rank it'd been busier.' Carol shrugged. 'Sometimes it's just one job after another for all the drivers and they have to do them as quick as they can. Other times, it isn't an issue. Frank might've just sat waitin for the next one to come over the radio.'
I glanced at Carol. 'If he wasn't all that busy and there was nothing on the rank, he probably took a break.'
'There aren't any breaks logged on the sheet for that night,' said Charis. 'Would drivers normally let the person on the desk know?'
I shook my head. 'We're supposed to, especially if we get out the car, but it often doesn't happen. An when it's quiet, it doesn't really matter anyway.'
Charis didn't bother to hide her annoyance. 'Excellent.'
'There's something you haven't mentioned,' I said.
All eyes turned to me. 'About Frank,' I added.
'Go on,' said Charis.
'When I was at his house, on Saturday morning, his car wasn't there.'
The inspector nodded slowly, like she'd been expecting this. 'Yes.' She blinked several times, then, 'Funny you haven't brought that up it before.'
I shrugged. 'Only just thought of it. Anyway, you didn't say anythin.'
Charis folded her arms. 'This isn't a game Terry, ye can't just offer up the occasional fact whenever it pleases you.'
'Huh,' said Carol. 'I didn't think of it either. So is it my fault as well?' She glared at the police officers, daring them to deny this obvious fact.
'The point is,' Charis went on, 'the car not being there backs up the theory that Frank died somewhere else. When we find the car...' She tailed off.
We continued in this vein for a while longer, then our police pals got an urgent call. I'd brought my car this time, so with Carol still wearing the dressing gown and a pair of Charis's trainers, we headed for the coast.
