“You can make it up to me when he’s gone or when the murder’s solved. Whichever comes first. Hopefully the former.” Adam halted halfway out of the lounge door. “What does he eat for breakfast?”
“Whatever we put in front of him. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Beggars. Adam shivered. “Maybe that’s how it started with your dead woman. Row with the other half, or with her parents. Sofa surfing until her mates got fed up with it. Nobody realised she’d slipped out of the loop until it was too late.”
“Now who’s putting two and two together and getting five?” Robin edged over to give him a hug, encumbered by mugs and plate—and a dog that wanted to be involved—but a hug nonetheless. “We won’t let him end up on the streets.”
“Good. Only I wouldn’t want him to end up living here permanently, either. I mean, he’s a nice bloke and all that, but three’s a crowd. Four . . .” he added, glancing at Campbell.
Robin grinned. “Yeah. Better get practicing our relationship advice.”
The rest of the evening had passed without event, Anderson being extremely sheepish when he’d arrived—with a bag only big enough to last him a few days, Robin had noticed with relief—and not really wanting to get into explanations. They’d given the bloke a beer, chatted about Abbotston Alexandra’s prospects for the football season, watched the news, and then gone off to bed. Very British, playing things on the principle that if one didn’t mention them, they might just go away. Only Campbell had made some allusion to the problem, nestling by Anderson’s legs and putting his head in the man’s lap, looking up at him with eyes that seemed to say, You poor bloke. Would you feel better if you gave me a pat or two?
They’d gone to bed, slept, got up, had breakfast, all being terribly polite to each other, and then set off to their respective places of work, with Anderson promising—as he left the house—that this was only a temporary arrangement and that they’d talk more about it that evening.
When Robin arrived at Abbotston station, he was whisked off to talk to the assistant chief constable, his immediate boss being on holiday. By the time he escaped and made it to the incident room, Pru was already at work, as were a team of constables, two of whom had been sent to complete the last of the interviews with the Culford staff, leaving another two to trawl through missing-persons lists and various reports which had come in from members of the public, although it appeared the latter were of little use. People saying that they’d always thought there was something odd about that play area, how their kids said it gave them the shivers, how they’d seen odd-looking blokes hanging around there ten years ago, looking at the children. Those, and similar stories which didn’t link up in terms of time frame or content, were politely noted and filed away.
Robin didn’t entirely ignore them, of course. There was no way to tell in advance when some disregarded scrap of information might turn out to be crucial. It was just possible that the odd-looking blokes might have been sussing out a potential crime scene, although it was more likely they were myopic metal detectorists in an attempt to work out the best place to locate a coin hoard, or even forgetful types who were simply trying to work out where they’d left their glasses.
Something concrete on the scientific front should come in soon. Abbotston was the location for the county’s forensic department, and although many of the tests were outsourced, they could still handle a lot of the routine stuff internally, and Grace could call on a wider range of experience than some of her contemporaries in other counties. What she couldn’t do was make tests results appear instantaneously.
“What’s the latest on Becky Bairstow?” Robin asked when he’d called Pru into his office. The missing London archaeologist had to be top of his priority list.
“There’s nothing so far to stop her and our corpse being one and the same. No obvious conflicts of age or hair colour or whatever.” The “whatever” would have included scars or tattoos. “We could get some DNA from a relative or compare dental records. Sorry,” she added, raising her hand apologetically, “teaching my granny to suck eggs, there. I’ve been spending too much time recently talking to students on the forensic course at the university. I go into over-explain mode.”
“You’re forgiven.” Robin looked out of the window, at rooftops and scudding clouds, thinking of the person—a worried boyfriend—who’d rung the report in. That wasn’t going to be an easy interview. “No other leads on identification?”
“Not so we’ve heard.”
As if on cue, the phone on Robin’s desk began to ring. Hearing Grace’s cheery tones down the line, when he answered, brightened his day.
“Let me put you on the speakerphone,” Robin said. “Save me repeating everything.”
“Cool beans.” Grace went on to relate that the doctor who’d done the postmortem was dealing with a traffic-accident victim, so they’d have to put up with her initial feedback if they wanted information now. Robin was secretly delighted; Grace told it in layman’s terms and had a nose for what was important. She reported that they still had no idea who the girl was, so they might have to do a facial reconstruction if other leads petered out. The teeth would provide a good matchup, though, as she had three crowns and some other fillings.
“Everything suggests she was in her twenties, had never been pregnant, and was placed there between June and October of last year.”
“Any indication that she had been somewhere else originally?” Robin asked.
“Balance of probability. Sorry to be so vague, but we’ve got various tests going on and we won’t be sure for a while. All those things we used to believe about patterns of blood settling aren’t as definitive as we held them to be, but my gut instinct is that she’s been moved, in the first few days after death. After rigor mortis passed off and after the face got nibbled a bit.”
Robin, watching appreciatively as Pru jotted all of this down, enquired, “Have you identified the cause of death yet?”
“Yep. She’d been hit with that old favourite of crime stories everywhere, the blunt instrument, at least twice, front and back of head. Where the face had suffered some damage, it was hard to see the other blow at first. There’s a hint of bruising round the neck, but not enough to cause death, and no obvious indications of much else, including no signs of disease. We’re running toxicology tests too, but—again—don’t hold your breath. Could just be a simple belting.”
“If such things are ever simple.” Robin rolled his eyes at Grace’s choice of words. She pulled no punches. “Anything in her pockets? A bus ticket or a receipt stuffed away in a corner?”
“No. I suspect they’ve been completely cleared out. Not even a scrap of jewellery on her. No evidence of recent sexual activity, either, so this doesn’t look like a sexual assault that turned nastier, or a night of adventurous fun that went wrong.”
Robin didn’t think there was anything adventurous—or alluring—in some of the games people played in bed, but in view of the bruising, they had to consider it. He thanked Grace and ended the call.
Pru glanced up from putting in a final full stop. “So, day trip to London?”
“Looks like it, although in an ideal world we’d get the dentistry compared first, just in case it isn’t her. But chicken and egg.”
Pru nodded. “We won’t be able to get the name of the dentist without talking to the relatives, so I guess there’s no way of avoiding it. Do you want me to ring the person who reported her missing?”
“No, I’ll do that. Unless the statements from the people at Culford villa contain something more promising in terms of an identification.”
“Probably too early for that. Ben’s collating them, and I think the last few have only just got in. Give him ten minutes.”
“That’s time enough for a loo break and a coffee.”
On Robin’s return, he paused at the entrance to the incident room, watching his new team. They didn’t exude the same air of quiet purpose that the constables at Stanebridge had, although he’d wait to see their result
s before judging them. The fact that they stirred into animation as soon as they spotted him wasn’t encouraging, but he gave them a smile as he made his way to his own office, which led off the main one. A fresh-faced constable, bearing a pile of paper—he seemed about fifteen, so who knew how young he’d appear to the public—followed him, slipping through the inner office door, which was ajar. Robin had made it plain from the start that he really did have an open-door policy and hoped it would be made use of.
“You wanted an update on these, sir?” the constable asked.
“Yes. Now all the team are back in house, it’ll be time to brief them, and if there’s anything in those statements I should know about beforehand . . .” He didn’t need to add, I should bloody well know about it.
“Not so far as I can see. No names of potential victims cropping up. Nobody’s noticed anything odd in the last year, either.” Ben shrugged. “I haven’t gone through all of these twice over yet, as I’ve focussed on getting an initial impression. Clare, who you took a statement from yesterday, is by far the best informed, as you’d imagine, although she didn’t have a lot to add to what we know.”
Robin nodded. She’d been friendly, obliging—providing a comprehensive list of everyone involved with the site and thereby facilitating a quick start to the legwork—but she’d not been able to shed any light on anything to do with the burial, apart from the information about when the play area had been dug over. It sounded like the volunteers had been equally unenlightening.
“Nothing catching your eye?”
“No. I’m not turning up any inconsistencies apart from what you might expect with the natural vagaries of memory.” Ben grinned. “One of the volunteer guides swore the Community Payback people had been up to no good, but everyone else said they were very helpful. Sian something or other—she’s a local librarian who covers on holidays so Clare can have time off—said they were absolute sweeties.”
Robin took an appraising look at the constable. He was still sussing out his team, working out their strengths and weaknesses. You always needed someone who could go through piles of stuff without getting bored and missing a crucial detail. Would Ben—with his strangely avuncular approach, appreciating the nature of the people behind the words of their statements—be the person for that role? “Did you think all the statements would tally?”
Ben narrowed his eyes. “Would it sound daft if I said I’d be worried if they did? Agree one hundred percent, I mean.”
“Not daft at all.” That reflected Robin’s viewpoint. “Tell me more.”
The young constable visibly bloomed under the endorsement from his new boss. “Do you watch football, sir?”
“Yes, although I prefer rugby.”
Ben, clearly wrong-footed by having chosen the wrong sport, quickly rallied. “Same thing applies. Four people watch the same game and they all remember it a bit differently, especially when you get into why people did whatever they did or whether they played well overall. If I had four people who agreed down to the last detail, I’d think they’d prepared their stories in advance.”
“So would I. You carry on with those statements, and then we’ll see if we can find you something a bit juicier to follow up.” Robin left his chair, clapped Ben’s shoulder, and set off to brief his team.
The main office, now the incident room, had a display board dominated by all the usual trimmings of photos, locations, and time. He’d often wondered how much use the things were, apart from acting as a visual aid when addressing people; did they really help solve a case—a constant reminder of the victim and the justice owed to them—or did they just become wallpaper?
Robin shared what he’d heard from Grace, listened to what—very little—else had turned up, and let Pru both pin up the picture of the missing woman, Becky Bairstow, and relate the meagre details they knew about her.
“If no better bet has turned up by late afternoon, I’ll make arrangements to see the boyfriend today.” Robin scanned the faces in the room. “Meanwhile, we carry on eliminating other possible identifications. Any questions?”
“Cowdrey’s going to be delighted when he comes back off his holidays to find this on his plate.” The glee in Constable Alison Cosgrove’s voice was unmistakable. Chief Superintendent Cowdrey had come over from Stanebridge after the Abbotston night of the long knives, in order to steady the ship and root out any existing pockets of less-than-exemplary practice. While Robin was ninety-five percent sure they’d got rid of all the truly rotten apples, the not-trying-hard-enough atmosphere, added to the residual mistrust and sense of feeling hard done by, would take longer to rectify. The most difficult part of any job was changing attitudes.
“Chief Superintendent Cowdrey to you. Or sir,” Robin snapped. “I don’t want to hear different. And he will be delighted if he finds you lot have got off your arses and are putting your backs into things. By which I mean all of you,” he added, eyes once more scanning their embarrassed faces, “not just Cosgrove.”
Robin ignored the faint rumble of dissatisfaction around the room. He didn’t mind if people didn’t like him, but that was a privilege to be earned. Time-wasters and time-servers didn’t have it, and sitting round on their arses doing sod all earned them nothing.
“Yes, sir,” Cosgrove muttered at last, and Robin left them to it. He planned to take Pru back to the site, to get a better feeling for the area and talk to the contractors who’d removed the play area, before dealing with the Becky Bairstow thread. They’d get a decent coffee en route—better than the one Robin had got from the station machine—so the caffeine could perk up their brains.
He’d just pushed his chair back from his desk when Ben, eyes as bright as Campbell’s when he’d found a piece of cake under the breakfast bar, poked his head round the office door again. If Ben’s acumen matched his enthusiasm and willingness to please, something might be afoot.
“I may have saved you a trip to London, sir. To see Becky Bairstow’s boyfriend.”
“If you have, you’ll get my gold-star-of-the-day award.”
“You’ll make my head swell, sir.” Ben, obviously trying to hide a grin, cast a glance over his shoulder at his colleagues, more than one of whom was eyeing him warily. “We’ve already got her dental records. Or at least we will have when they get here. I’ve been running a few checks, and a body turned up in January in Nottingham—some backwater of the Trent, I think—which they thought was her. So the Nottinghamshire CID spoke to Andy Hales, who’s the boyfriend, got her dentist’s name, and were able to eliminate her.”
“Good work.” And what a relief.
“It will be when the records get here. Apparently they only had a paper copy—the dentist was a bit of a dinosaur and a stickler to boot, so either didn’t have, or wouldn’t send, an electronic record.”
Robin, aware there was a problem which wasn’t being made clear, said, “But that wouldn’t stop the Nottinghamshire boys and girls scanning the paper and sending the scan, surely? What’s the hold up?”
“They can’t find the records.” Ben rolled his eyes. “They think they’ve been misfiled. I got them to give me the dentist’s contact details, but I haven’t managed to get hold of him yet, either. I’ll keep trying.”
Robin nodded, appreciative of an officer who didn’t just bring problems, but engineered solutions. “Okay. Keep me informed. Good job.”
“Ta.” Ben slipped back through the door, before his head became too large to get through it. Robin gratefully got his gear in order and waited for Pru to return from the ladies’ loo. Andy Hales could wait until they knew whether they’d found his girlfriend—meanwhile, they’d see what else Culford could tell them.
Sam Pryce, the contractor’s representative, was already at the villa site when they arrived at the car park, chatting to a uniformed policewoman who was both holding all the access keys to the site and keeping rubberneckers at bay. Pryce appeared to be happy enough passing the time of day with her, although Charlie Howarth, sitting in his car wi
th a face like thunder, seemed less than impressed at events.
“Pru!” he yelled from the window as she and Robin got out of the car. “This officer won’t let me on the site. Can you work the oracle for me?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ve shut the site down entirely so we can go over it with a fine-toothed comb.” Pru sounded friendly but firm. “Didn’t you get my email?”
“Yes, but I thought you’d make an exception.” Howarth’s unctuous smile got Robin’s fists twitching.
“No exceptions, sorry,” he snapped. “Why do you need to get in?”
“I left some paperwork there, and now I need it. Head like a sieve.”
Easy enough to test the truth of that statement. “Tell us where you left it, and we’ll get it for you.”
“Not sure. Either in the main office at the villa or where the diggers had their bolthole. Big blue file.” Howarth was out of the car, as though he intended to keep them company.
Robin could be incredibly unhelpful if he wanted, making a case for not interfering with anything until all the forensic work was done, but Howarth would have to be incredibly thick not to see that he was being unnecessarily obstructive. Time had passed and any subtle clues would surely have been trampled under a parade of feet or been swept away into the bin months ago. He’d offer to get the file—assuming it existed—and he’d have a quick look through it as well.
“I’ll fetch it if I can find it. Wait here, please.”
With a glance and a raise of the eyebrows at Pru, Robin set off to introduce them to Pryce and obtain clearance from Grace to visit the site. He left his sergeant to get the interview with Pryce going, then went to the main office, where he was amazed to discover that there was a big blue file on the desk. He flicked through the contents, but they all appeared to be financial: a pile of invoices along with some notes about Culford villa and its profitability. Income from school trips and the like was matched against outgoings, the bottom line being that the place was struggling to break even without external funding, none of which was a surprise.
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 4
