The Moth Man (Alex Hastings Series)

by Jennie Finch

  These pleasant thoughts were interrupted as she spotted a figure through the window. Peering through the net curtains, she strained to make out details. He was standing in the shadows of the tree by her gate and it was difficult to make out his face but Ada was convinced it was the same young man who had got into a shouting match with Kevin on his last visit. Now, she wondered, what was he doing, standing in the rain and staring at her house?

  ‘Ada – I was asking you to put on some more of that damp paper,’ said Tom coming through the door. ‘Oh – what you looking at?’ he added, seeing her at the window. He walked up to stand behind her, following her gaze out towards the canal.

  ‘Who’s that then?’

  ‘I dunno but he was here a while back, standing and staring. Was Kev as saw him off then.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be doin’ the same if it’s all right with you,’ said Tom and headed for the front door. He struggled with the various latches and locks, pulling at the swollen wood before finally wrenching the door open. By the time he set foot on the porch the shadowy figure was gone. Tom stood in the middle of the narrow road, looking both ways but there was no sign of movement. The watcher had vanished, seemingly into thin air.

  Tom walked back into the kitchen, thoughtful and a little anxious.

  ‘Say he’s been round afore?’ he said.

  Ada frowned out into the dusk. ‘Can’t be sure mind but looks like him and ’e was standing in the same place. Just looking. Seemed a bit odd the first time.’ She looked at Tom anxiously. ‘Don’t think is that weirdo do you? That one as runs at the windows?’

  Tom was wondering just that but he didn’t want to disturb Ada unnecessarily. It could have been someone else – someone looking for Kevin, not realising he’d gone back to the Fair, or even just a casual walker. Maybe it was just someone caught out in the rain, sheltering for a moment before continuing their journey. Somehow he wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Would be a brave man as tried running at your house Ada,’ he said forcing a smile. ‘What with Mickey and Mouse and yer trick with that letter box, reckon any bugger tryin’ it on ’s likely to be running off singing in a right high voice.’

  Despite her lingering anxiety, Ada laughed at the thought before turning her attention back to the recalcitrant fire. It was getting into the fine weather, she decided. They didn’t really need it even on wet evenings such as this.

  ‘Maybe might be better to try cleaning out the chimney later in the week?’ she suggested, opening the window wider to let the last of the smoke out of the room.

  Tom agreed, secretly pleased at her assumption he would be around. If he were honest with himself, he would gladly spend most days at Ada’s – and a few nights too, though that was still far away in the realms of wishful thinking. His main concern was ensuring the watcher really was as harmless as they were making him out to be, preferably without alarming her too much. Ada was a formidable woman but her house was isolated, out on a dark and lonely part of the Levels and she had nothing as useful as a telephone to call for help in the event of anything suspicious.

  As he drove home he was surprised just how much he felt for her. After the loss of his beloved Bella he had assumed that part of him was gone, buried with his wife, lost with their shared dreams. Yet despite his grief, which was still so sharp he woke some nights to find tears in his eyes, he felt his isolation melt away before Ada’s friendship. They had been friends as children and now it seemed as if they had never been apart.

  He whistled softly for company as he rattled across the old stone bridge and turned onto the road leading home but all the way he kept looking out for any sign of the mysterious figure. If he spotted him, he thought, he’d stop and have a quiet word. Just the two of them, man to man.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There was nothing to it really. With Bert’s help, Brian and Charlie had the battered metal detector working in a few hours – a few hours where, without realising it, the two lads actually learned something useful. When the lights on the handle lit up and a loud whistling came from the speaker, roughly soldered back into its place on the back of the machine, they could scarcely contain their delight and it was with some difficulty Bert dissuaded them from heading out to hunt for treasure at once.

  ‘Tis late,’ he said. ‘Look – ’tis raining out and I don’t reckon would be a good thing, getting it wet. Is working now but ’ent to say is as good as new. Would be a right shame, getting it broke again. And I don’t see you finding another battery in a hurry neither, so better wait ’til you’s got a plan. Use it a bit sparingly, I would.’

  Reluctantly the unlikely duo let Bert lock the metal detector away in a cupboard for the night and set off, full of grand plans, to seal their new friendship with a few glasses of ‘natch’. Bert watched them off the premises, shaking his head as he locked the heavy metal gates shut behind him. A couple of ‘natches’ and they’d be good for nothing in the morning, he thought. Silly buggers – they never seemed to learn. Just as well they weren’t heading out onto the Levels. Cider and the marshes didn’t mix, despite the frequency with which the local youth combined them.

  To everyone’s surprise, both Brian and Charlie were waiting on the doorstep when the first officers arrived the next morning. Despite looking a bit bleary-eyed they were anxious to lay hands on the metal detector and as soon as Lauren located the key to Bert’s cupboard they grabbed their prize, heading off under its considerable weight to see what the day might reveal to them.

  ‘Silly sods,’ muttered Lauren. ‘Look at ’em. Gonna give theyselves a hernia, lugging that great old thing around.’

  ‘Well, it keeps them out of mischief anyway,’ said Gordon who had arrived just too late to offer the pair a lift to wherever they were going.

  Lauren snorted in disbelief. ‘Can’t think how,’ she said. ‘Soon as they spot something they’ll be over fences and diggin’ up some farmer’s field. Will be trespassing and criminal damage at the least they’ll be adding to they records.’ She climbed down from her stool at the counter and disappeared through the office door, her disapproval obvious in the set of the shoulders.

  ‘Sadly I fear Lauren may be correct,’ said Gordon to Sue who was signing in for that morning’s court duty.

  ‘I can think of a lot of ways they might be gainfully employed,’ said Sue. ‘Unfortunately, tramping the Levels with an antique metal detector comes rather a long way down my list. Still, at least they’re not hitting each other. That’s an improvement.’

  ‘Who’s not hitting one another?’ asked Alex as she pushed her way through the front door.

  ‘Brian and Charlie,’ said Gordon. ‘Off across the Levels looking for treasure.’

  ‘Silly sods,’ said Alex. ‘Any sign of Samuel yet? He’s due in for an early call – says he’s got a job interview in Taunton later this morning.’ She looked around hopefully but there was no-one waiting for her. With a small sigh of resignation, Alex hoisted her bag over one shoulder and headed for her office.

  ‘See you,’ said Sue as she grabbed the court pack – a folder containing details of the cases due up on that day along with police notes and reports from the probation service or social services. A quick look through the paperwork was essential as the duty officer could be called on at any point and was expected to have at least a passing acquaintance with the defendant and their circumstances. Sue was relieved to see there were no breaches listed for her. They were supposed to be presented by the breaching officer but this was not always the case, as Alex had discovered in the case of Martin Ford.

  In the solitude of her office, Alex unlocked her filing cabinet and unloaded the contents of her bag into the bottom drawer. Resisting the temptation to glance around, she pulled a few loose files over the bottles lying on the bottom and closed the drawer carefully to prevent the glass clinking too loudly. It was a risk, she knew, but she had such a good plan for the final sessions of her alcohol education course and if only she could demonstrate the benefits then Gordon m
ight reconsider his ban. At least, that was the theory. Now she just had to work out how to get a television screen into the centre for an evening.

  Absorbed in her planning, she failed to note the passing of time until roused by the phone on her desk.

  ‘I got your 10.30 waiting,’ came the disapproving voice of Alison, Alex’s designated assistant. ‘He’s getting a bit agitated but seeing as I’ve not see Samuel come out yet I won’t let him come through.’

  Alex blinked at her watch, startled by how quickly the morning had gone. She flipped open her diary and checked the listings. There was Samuel, down for his 9.30am appointment but clearly he’d neither turned up nor bothered to call to let her know he couldn’t make it. Damn – a confrontation with that cold, indifferent client was not what she needed now. Everyone was trying to keep a clean sheet – all clients attending, no breaches and – please – no reoffending. Whatever the new senior was like, she was unlikely to get a good first impression from an officer’s poor record.

  ‘Right,’ said Alex thinking quickly. ‘My fault – I’m supposed to see him at the hostel. Check on his progress at the same time, see what Peter Marks makes of him. Who’ve you got there …’ She glanced at the list of appointments again. ‘Matt? Right, send him down will you?’

  Matt was no problem. A hard-working young man who had run foul of the archaic and (in his view) nonsensical law surrounding payment through a gas meter. Short of change one particularly cold evening, he had opened his meter, used a coin from it twice and put in a note to remind himself to make up the difference after the weekend. Unfortunately he forgot and when his landlord emptied the box he reported Matt for theft.

  Matt’s defence was spirited and contained a lot of common sense. People with other types of meters paid in arrears, he pointed out. They could pay in instalments and run up large bills. No-one charged them with theft. He’d left a note and obviously intended to pay – he just didn’t have enough 50p coins. Was he supposed to sit and freeze in the dark all weekend? The answer, it seemed, was yes.

  Despite his anger at the verdict, Matt had proved to be a model probationer. He attended regularly, took advantage of the sessions available to him in the day centre and landed a job at the chicken factory where he plucked and gutted dead birds day after day. Alex was full of admiration for his staying power – many workers lasted a few months at most, using the additional income to pull them out of a financial hole. Matt was saving his money in the hope of moving on to college and a better future once he’d earned a decent reference from his employers.

  In some ways, she thought as he left the office, the spell on probation had been a good thing for him. He’d had access to help and support, got a bit of funding for his future education and had a chance to talk through his plans with someone who cared. It was exactly what she had expected when she first started the job. If only, she mused, if only there were more Matts and fewer Brians …

  Arriving at the hostel later that day, she knocked at the office door, peering round to find it empty. Unsure of the layout, she wandered down the main hall to a large open room furnished with half a dozen wooden tables and some battered plastic and metal chairs. There were crumbs on the tables, she noticed. A large metal tea urn stood on a trolley next to the window with a tray of heavy off-white mugs. Some had been used and left next to the unused (she hesitated to label them clean) beakers. No milk or sugar, she noted. Or spoons. Rather odd all round.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said a male voice and she swung round to see the warden, Peter Marks, standing in the door of what she assumed was the kitchen. His glasses were steamed up and he looked decidedly hot and bothered. ‘Ah, yes. It’s Alex isn’t it,’ he said holding out a rather damp hand. How can we help you?’

  Alex shook the proffered hand rather reluctantly, managing a slightly sickly smile. ‘I’ve come to see one of my clients,’ she said. ‘Samuel Burton. Do you know if he is here?’ She felt a flash of annoyance at how stiff and formal she sounded and tried to mitigate the effect by smiling again.

  Peter Marks sniffed and rubbed his clammy hands on his shirt.

  ‘He’s sick, so he says. Upstairs in his room. We let him stay in today but that’s a special concession and I’m not happy about it. It’s not as if he even makes an effort. After all, he’s been here a month now and not achieved a single thing.’

  Apart from managing to rub along in this place without reoffending, thought Alex, but she kept her smile pinned in place and waited. After a few moments Peter cracked.

  ‘Go on up,’ he said, waving towards the stairs. ‘Second door on the right, down the corridor.’

  Alex managed an almost-civil nod and headed upstairs. The smell of feet and cheap aftershave got more noticeable with each step and was strong enough to catch in her throat as she turned down the passage. Lit by a window at the far end, the corridor was dingy and managed to be both cold and stuffy. Truly an exceptional piece of design, she thought.

  She tapped on the second door and waited but there was no answer. Knocking a bit louder, she leaned forwards, straining to hear if there was any sound from inside the room. Catching what sounded like a cough, she rapped on the door a third time calling out as she did so.

  ‘Samuel? It’s Alex Hastings. I thought I’d just check and see how you are.’

  There was another cough from inside which Alex decided to interpret as assent and she opened the door, steeling herself against the expected rush of smells normally encountered in these situations. To her surprise the room was bright, lit by an open window facing the door. The air was relatively fresh and faint sounds of birdsong drifted in, mingling with the sound of an occasional car.

  Samuel was lying in bed, propped up on two pillows and he certainly looked ill, with red eyes and flushed face.

  She took a couple of steps into the room. ‘I was a bit worried when you missed your appointment,’ she said, adding ‘You’re so reliable normally and I know you had an important meeting today. How are you feeling?’ Bloody silly question, she thought. From the look of him he was feeling awful.

  ‘Can I get you something? What have they given you for your temperature?’

  Samuel managed a short, barking laugh at this before he began to cough again. ‘They haven’t given me anything,’ he said when he caught his breath. ‘I had some aspirin in my things so I took that. I got some water from the bathroom last night. One of the other blokes left a glass behind when he left, fortunately.’

  ‘Hasn’t anyone been up to check on you?’ asked Alex. She looked more closely at the cabinet next to Samuel’s bed. It was neat, tidy and – clear she realised. Surely he should have a cup or plate from breakfast, unless they’d already been moved but judging from the lax way most things were handled in the hostel that seemed rather unlikely.

  ‘I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ she said and turned away, trying not to slam the door behind her. In no mood to be tactful or conciliatory, she swept down the stairs and up to the tea urn. It was hot to touch and she sorted through the beakers, selecting the least grubby one before taking it into the kitchen and rinsing it under the tap. The water was lukewarm at best but a quick scrub with a cloth served to make the cup acceptable.

  The tea, by contrast, was certainly not. When she turned the tap a stream of grey, cloudy liquid ran out. Alex hastily shut off the urn and moved across to the windows to get a better look. If anything, it looked worse in bright light. She sniffed at the contents of the beaker. It smelt a bit like tea so she risked a sip, promptly spitting it back into the cup in disgust. Tea, yes but with milk – sterilised milk from the taste – and a huge amount of sugar already added.

  Scrubbing the cup clean again, she put it on the kitchen counter and began rummaging through the cupboards, locating tea bags in one and sugar in another. The milk was presumably kept in the fridge but this, inexplicably, was locked shut with a huge hasp and padlock. Muttering to herself, Alex headed for the office.

  ‘Did you see him?’ asked Peter Marks lookin
g up from the book he was reading.

  Alex was in no mood for social niceties. ‘Has he had any breakfast?’ she asked.

  The warden shrugged, unconcerned and unheeding of the storm heading his way. ‘He’s never too bothered with meals here at the best of times,’ he said, turning his attention back to the paperback on the desk. ‘Hardly ever eats here anyway.’

  Alex leaned over and plucked the book from his hands, resisting the temptation to rip it in half down the spine. She had considerable reverence for books, even tawdry pot-boilers like the one now resting in her hands. Closing it, she set the novel gently on the desk before turning round to inspect the rows of keys hung on the wall behind her.

  ‘Which is the key to the lock on the fridge?’ she asked. ‘And why is it locked anyway?’ She was overstepping her boundaries here but she really didn’t care. The hostel was supposed to provide safety and security for the most vulnerable offenders as well as a system of monitoring for the most dangerous. From what she had seen over the past few months, Highpoint probation hostel seemed to manage neither.

  ‘There are problems,’ said Peter Marks stiffly. ‘Problems with certain residents who will simply eat everything they can get their grubby hands on. I found one lad in the fridge, half-way through a block of cheese. A catering block mind – a kilo of cheese! We had to throw it away after he’d been gnawing at it and I’m trying to provide decent meals on a very restricted budget as it is. I don’t think you really appreciate just how difficult it is.’

  ‘The fridge key?’ repeated Alex.