The Comforts of Home

by Susan Hill

  ‘Bingo,’ Serrailler said.

  ‘But is it him?’

  ‘I think it could well be, but this on its own isn’t enough of course.’

  ‘That’s as clear a picture as I can get. If I pull it in closer it’ll just blur.’

  ‘Go back to where we first pick up the car.’

  ‘Ford Focus, I think,’ Fern said. ‘Light colour. Older model.’

  ‘Driver’s clearer but still not identifiable enough – I’d put money on this being Russon. It would help in court but it isn’t conclusive.’

  She moved on and stopped again. ‘Ah – thought so. Number plate.’

  ‘Well spotted … not quite all of it. Let’s see if we can improve on that.’

  But all the subsequent views of the car showed less. Simon made a note of the best they had, which lacked the first letter and the last two numbers.

  ‘That’s almost certainly a Y.’

  ‘No … J.’

  ‘You don’t usually get a J at the end. Y is common.’

  ‘We need to keep them both for now. Can you try and track this down please? ANPR should find it for you in a trice. Email me what they come up with.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nothing else today – we struck gold early on but I may need you later, if nothing more urgent comes up.’

  ‘Famous last words but it’s quite quiet at the moment, guv. Where are you going?’

  Simon hesitated, partly because it could have been regarded as an inappropriate question from a rookie DC to a Chief Super, but mainly because something occurred to him.

  ‘I need you to get info from ANPR first, and if it’s helpful, it might be interesting for you to come with me. Good experience for you to sit in.’

  ‘On what, guv?’

  ‘An interview in prison.’

  He left the station straight away. He was still officially on sick leave and the last thing he wanted to do was breathe down the necks of CID. Fern Monroe would get any information about the car in double-quick time – she was keen and efficient, and he could work with her, so long as she didn’t forget that she was in her first job.

  He walked round to Adelaide Road and took the side entrance into the park. It was a dull, cold day and there were not many people apart from two mothers with toddlers, duck-feeding, and a few of the elderly regulars. Stan Barnard was not among them. Serrailler went to a bench halfway round, and then walked briskly back – it took him just over a minute. From there across the road to the block of flats was half a minute. It was very little time for anyone to notice the man and woman, whoever they were, leaving the park together, but Stanley Barnard had and it had taken more than five years for them to find that out.

  He walked down through the shopping arcade, and out in the direction of the cathedral, adjacent to the Lanes. He had wanted to buy a new book about Leonardo da Vinci, which the bookshop would get for him in a couple of days if it wasn’t already in stock.

  He almost turned towards it, then stopped. He wanted the book but not urgently. He was fabricating a reason for going in there, tantalising himself with the chance of seeing Rachel again. But why? And if she was there, what would he say to her?

  No.

  Instead, he made a call to the prison, requesting an interview with Lee Russon that afternoon. An hour later, DC Monroe sent him an email.

  Not enough info on car number plate to recognise categorically but they came up with 24 close enough to be worth pursuing based on what we have. Am checking now. Might be a slow job?

  But by the time Simon arrived back at the station he found that she had easily eliminated half of them as being nowhere near a match for the car make and model, and two others because they had been recorded as off the road and destroyed.

  ‘Leaves me with ten, guv.’

  ‘Take each one and go carefully. I’ll look as well.’

  Five down, she stopped. ‘Look at this … it’s all the numbers we can make out clearly. It’s the right car. Light colour. But nothing is coming up under owner, tax or insurance info. Just blanks.’

  Simon thought for a moment. It felt right. They were near. Nearer than near. But there had to be more.

  ‘Speed cameras?’ Fern said.

  ‘Good call. Find every one within a radius of ten miles and focus first on the west side – Starly Road. Then look for those at the bypass end. Black Earl Grey tea?’

  ‘Thanks, guv.’

  The machine was out of china tea so he went down to the canteen. There was a queue, at the end of the shift, but while he was waiting, Fern Monroe burst in through the doors, calling as she came. ‘Guv – got it. I’ve got it!’

  Serrailler frowned as odd people stared round, and turned away from her until he had got their teas, before taking them across to a window table on the far side.

  ‘Guv –’

  ‘DC Monroe, I know this is on police premises, not a public cafeteria, but even so, best not shout all our secrets to the entire force.’

  She looked annoyed but sat down and took a sip of her tea. It was boiling hot but she appeared not to notice.

  ‘So – what have you got?’

  ‘There are three speed cameras within two miles of the park on the Starly side – the first was out of order on that Wednesday, but the second camera picked up our car, pretty certain it was him but he wasn’t speeding. The third camera is in Gulliver Road.’

  ‘Runs along the top of the park.’

  ‘Yes – the camera is on the straight, before you get to the left-hand turn into Waterloo Way which leads to the side of the park and that block of flats.’

  ‘Well known for speeding – people going away from the town centre, using it as a bypass, which it isn’t, it’s a residential road – wide though, and often there are cars parked on both sides.’

  ‘Our car was caught on that camera speeding towards the turning, which he took a bit fast. This time, the camera got him full on and also as he was speeding away from it. It clocked him and he was issued with a ticket. I’ve asked for a copy and note of address and when it was paid.’

  ‘If it was paid.’

  ‘Well, yes. The result won’t be as quick as the ANPR was though – separate department and not fully digital at this date.’

  Serrailler drank half of his tea and then looked across the table. ‘Good work, DC Monroe. This is what you need to have – attention to detail, perseverance – plus never lose sight of the big picture, and never ignore your hunches. Just don’t rely on them, to the exclusion of all else. Sermon over. Finish your scented tea – we’re off to Leverworth Prison.’

  Lee Russon had been notified in advance that he was to be interviewed and immediately asked for his solicitor. The request had been refused but now they were in the small room with him – Serrailler across the metal table, DC Monroe on a chair against the back wall some yards away – he asked again.

  ‘You don’t need your solicitor, this is a talk. You’re not under caution, you are not charged with anything, you can refuse to answer any of my questions, and you are free to go at any point – just ask.’

  Russon was leaning against the back of his chair so that it rocked. He had his arms folded across his chest and a sneer on his face.

  ‘All right, then, no worries, I haven’t a clue why you’re here but I haven’t done anything – haven’t really had a chance, have I? So I’m fine without the legal team. Who did you say you were? I don’t remember you.’

  ‘No, we haven’t met. Detective Chief Superintendant Simon Serrailler. This is Detective Constable Monroe. She is sitting in but not taking part. Is that all right with you?’

  Russon shrugged but gave Monroe a quick up-and-down, before looking away.

  ‘I want to talk to you about cars, Lee.’

  ‘Try a garage.’

  Simon ignored him. ‘Specifically, cars you have owned in the past ten years. Specifically, one car, but let’s go through them.’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘Sorry?’
r />   ‘Had a lot of cars, me.’

  ‘How many is “a lot” – over ten years? Try to be exact, if you can.’

  Russon closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He stayed like that for several minutes and Simon did not nudge him, did not speak, just waited.

  ‘Twelve. Fourteen. I dunno.’

  ‘That seems a lot.’

  ‘Does it? Why does it?’

  ‘I know some people like to change their cars regularly, especially if they buy new and have a sort of rolling deal, exchanging every two years. Is that what you did?’

  ‘Don’t take the piss.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Bought. Sold. Normal I’d say.’

  ‘Maybe. All right, you bought a banger, drove it into the ground, tarted it up and sold it to some monkey, bought another –’

  ‘You accusing me?’

  ‘No. Just saying what probably happened.’

  ‘Fat lot you know.’ Russon swung his chair fully upright suddenly, bumping against the table as he did so. He leaned on it and stared at Serrailler. ‘That it?’

  ‘I’ve hardly started.’

  Russon rolled his eyes.

  ‘What was the last car you owned?’

  ‘Still on cars, are we?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Try hard.’

  The man spread out his arms.

  ‘OK, let me help you. Colour – black? Silver? Blue? White?’

  ‘I had a black car. And a white van. I had a maroon car. I had –’

  ‘Which were you driving on the third of June 2009 … when you were caught on camera speeding in a thirty mile per hour area and issued with a ticket?’

  ‘I never got a ticket.’

  ‘The camera never lies, Lee. Which car?’

  ‘Told you. No idea about speeding and tickets. Wasn’t me.’

  ‘Which car did you own on and around that date? Come on, don’t mess me about, You know.’

  Russon tipped his head back and closed his eyes again. ‘Time goes slowly in here,’ he said. ‘Not that you’d know. It’s a very, very long time ago.’

  ‘But nothing much has happened during that time. It was your last car, wasn’t it? So you’ll remember.’

  ‘My last car, was it?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Which car was that?’

  ‘Oh, you tell me. Make and model. Colour. Registration number.’

  ‘Bad memory, me.’

  ‘It was a beige Ford Focus, wasn’t it?’

  He shot the question out quickly and saw the flicker of surprise on Russon’s face before he closed his expression down.

  ‘Registration beginning APW …’

  ‘I told you, I had dozens of cars.’

  ‘On that third of June you only had one – a beige Ford Focus. What happened to that car, Lee?’

  ‘How should I know? Five years ago and I’ve been in here, no cars in here.’

  ‘Did you dump it? Did you set fire to it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fed up with this, this is getting boring.’

  ‘You left the car outside the block of flats in Waterloo Way. You crossed the road and went through the side entrance into Adelaide Road Park. Not long after that you were seen emerging by the same route with a young woman, aged about twenty-five, who I believe to have been Kimberley Still.’

  Russon sat bolt upright, his hands gripping the table. ‘Hang on, hang on. “You were seen”? By who? Who saw me with whatever her name was, who says they saw me?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Lee, but you could tell me.’

  He watched Russon weighing everything up, as he stared down at the table. He could continue to say nothing, know nothing, remember nothing – plead innocent. He could give the wrong answers, or partially wrong. Or he could give out the information. Serrailler knew he was now trying to work out exactly what that would mean and what would happen next. He could make a shrewd guess but, depending on what he had actually done with the car, he couldn’t be sure what Serrailler himself knew, and if he knew anything troubling, then how, how?

  He looked at the copper. He didn’t know anything – or nowhere near enough. He’d picked up a few bits, God knows how or why, but that wasn’t a problem. Keep his head, that’s all he needed to do. Give away nothing.

  ‘The car, Lee?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Just the colour will do for a start. Just give me the colour.’

  ‘Can’t remember. Maybe black?’

  ‘Try harder. Or the make?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Bit careless to get a speeding fine on that day of all days.’

  ‘Didn’t get one.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you said.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Where did you take her, Lee?’

  A split-second pause, before the man closed down again. But there had been the flicker of shock in his eyes.

  ‘What did you do with her?’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Where did you take her in the blue Mondeo?’

  ‘It …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That was it, wasn’t it, a blue Mondeo? That’s the one we’ve got a note of.’

  The man was biting his lip, holding himself back, wanting to say ‘No, I never had a blue Mondeo’ but forcing himself not to, wanting to show Serrailler he was talking out of the back of his head but not doing it.

  ‘Or was it the Ford Focus? Sorry, my mistake. Yes, of course. You took Kimberley over to the Ford Focus when you got her out of the park – we know that for sure. Where did you drive off to? Pretty fast, wherever it was. Did you get another speeding ticket, Lee?’

  Russon stood up. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I want to leave now.’

  ‘All right – just tell me it was the Ford Focus and I can tick that off the list.’

  ‘What list? What are you talking about?’

  ‘My list. We’ve got the car, we can have that confirmed, just thought it would be helpful of you to tell me as well.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’ve got the car? How can you have got the car, there’s no way –’

  ‘No way what?’

  ‘I want to go. If you don’t let me out of here I’ll have you.’

  Serrailler stood up calmly and walked to the door, opened it, ushered Lee Russon out to the waiting warder. ‘Thanks, Lee. You’ve been very helpful. I may need to talk to you again.’

  There was a silence from the corridor, and then footsteps away.

  Serrailler turned back into the interview room.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Excellent. He’s got the wind up. He doesn’t know what I know, and he’s worried. Let him sweat. Come on, Monroe – you can tell me your thoughts on the way back.’

  Fifty-seven

  It had made Lee Russon angry and for a few minutes it had worried him, but when he got back he had calmed down, told himself that in spite of some of the questions, the cop did not know anything worth knowing – definitely nothing that could lead to the truth. But the reason they were raking through the cold files again was obvious. They ought to have better things to bother about than reading interviews in the paper with the Still woman, trying to stir it all up.

  Mrs Still. He couldn’t stop smiling.

  In the shack, everything was ready and all he had to do was pass the time until dark. He found an old Wordsearch magazine under a pile of newspapers and did the few puzzles that he’d missed, only that didn’t take long. He was good at wordsearch. Very, very good.

  So he did the only other thing that would help him pass the time; drank two cans of Strongbow and went to sleep.

  ‘Marion?’

  ‘Hello, Bren, how are you? I rang you yesterday but you weren’t there.’

  ‘No, I was out for
the evening with Clive and Vicky. The pub quiz evening. Anyway, I was just calling because I can’t do Thursday as usual, so could we make it Friday? I thought we might try the new Italian place, it looks really nice, we walked past it last night. How would you feel?’

  ‘Yes, nice idea. Why not? It’s good to try out somewhere new and I like Italian so long as it isn’t pizza. Always gives me heartburn.’

  ‘It’s that pastry-bread base. Can be quite soggy. But they have lots of other things, I stopped to look at the menu. Shall I book us a table for seven?’

  ‘Would you? That’s kind. Everything all right with you?’

  ‘Oh yes, but the other thing I wanted to ask was if you’d had any more problems with noises out in your garden at night? Because if you have, you do know you can always come and stay here, any time, you only have to just ring – the bed’s always made up.’

  ‘I know and that’s so kind of you as well. But actually, it’s all been quiet, thank God. Not a whisper. I think it was a fox out in the garden myself. I read in the Gazette that they’re becoming a real problem in towns. They don’t know what to do about it.’

  ‘I hope they don’t start putting poison down.’

  ‘Yes, but what else is there? They wouldn’t shoot them in a town, and people have had them walk through patio doors into their houses. It’s no joke. They spread all sorts of germs and illnesses as well.’

  ‘Make sure yours stay out in the garden then.’

  ‘Oh yes. I have to go, the oven timer just pinged. But I’ll see you Friday, Brenda, really looking forward to it.’

  Dave went down to the club at half six, got a pint, and ticked his name off on the sheet. He was fourth. He wouldn’t drink more until after the games were finished, it upset his focus, and this wasn’t just a friendly, this match was important. He saw a couple of the others over by the bar, and went to join them. They were smart – clean shirts, clean jeans or trousers with a crease, hair brushed and gelled. They were pumping themselves up. So was he. They were going to win.

  He raised his glass. They replied.