by Peter Helton
‘Did he seem different at all, lately? Scared, preoccupied?’
‘He seemed to have things on his mind. Yes, now that you mention it.’
‘But he didn’t voice any concerns …?’
‘Nothing like that.’
Austin’s mobile chimed a text alert. He checked it. ‘His car’s just been found.’
‘OK, good,’ McLusky said. He turned back to Lamb. ‘Can you think of anything else that may throw light on his disappearance?’
Lamb shook his head. ‘No, I can’t. If I could throw light on it I’d have thrown it. And now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’ He took off his bathrobe and dropped it on the chair, pushing past Austin to the edge of the pool. ‘Call me when you actually know something.’ He dived heavily into the water and swam to the other end where he heaved himself out and without looking back disappeared through the door his wife had used earlier.
There was a moment’s silence during which Austin flapped the air with the sides of his open suit jacket to cool himself. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Good exit,’ McLusky said. ‘Nice bit of theatre. We’ll talk to him again later. Let’s get out of here, unless you fancy a swim.’
‘In an empty, heated private pool?’ he said as they walked out. ‘Wouldn’t mind.’
‘If we have to question him again you can take your cozzie.’
‘I haven’t had a swim since my last holiday.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘The Lakes. The water was bloody freezing. But I had to try it once.’
McLusky could not remember when he had last taken a holiday. Oh, yes, he could: three years ago with Laura. Italy. Too hot, too many art galleries. ‘OK …’ They were back outside in the yard. A blonde girl wearing boots, black jeans and a black jacket was stuffing a cello case into the back of the grey Mini Countryman. McLusky skipped over, showing his ID. The girl, who looked about nineteen or twenty to him, acted unimpressed and got into the driver’s seat but she left the door open. ‘You’re here because of Stephen. Dad’s chap? I’ve just heard.’
‘You’re Mr Lamb’s daughter?’
She gave a brief nod. ‘Chloë.’
‘Did you know Stephen well?’
Raised eyebrows and a smile. ‘Not my type, Inspector. Best ask Dad. I have a rehearsal,’ she said, reaching across to close the door.
McLusky laid a hand on the sill. ‘Where does your father usually park his car?’
‘His Lexus? In there, next to Mum’s.’
‘It’s not here now yet your father is. Why is that?’
‘Oh, didn’t he tell you? Stephen pinched it.’
NINE
‘Knickers? Are you serious?’ DS Jack Sorbie was so disturbed by DI Fairfield’s news that he found it hard to concentrate on his driving.
‘Careful, Jack, you nearly knocked that cyclist over.’
‘Well, he should try looking in his mirrors and using his indicators. I have a court appearance to prepare for, not to mention our usual insane workload, and the super sends us to catch a bloke who nicks women’s underwear off people’s washing lines. Tell me I’m dreaming this because it has all the hallmarks of a nightmare.’
They were driving across town to see ACC Anderson’s wife at home, top of Fairfield’s list of the underwear thief’s victims, though of course not the first victim, only the most high-profile one. Fairfield was hoping that the sooner the ACC was satisfied that something was ‘being done about the pervy little scrote’ the sooner she could return to duties more fitting to an inspector of CID.
‘You haven’t read the reports, then. He’s no longer content with taking underwear from washing lines; he’s breaking into people’s houses. While the women are there.’
‘Yeah, all right, all right. I did skim the reports. Does he stick to certain neighbourhoods? Posh underwear round here, I expect.’
Fairfield flicked the tablet computer she was holding with a fingernail. ‘No, he’s all over the place. We’ve no idea how he chooses his victims yet. Turn right here, I think.’
‘I know the way, ta,’ Sorbie said and turned into the leafy street of solid detached houses. ‘So how are we going to catch him? Does the perv leave samples of his DNA behind for forensics? If you know what I mean by his DNA?’
‘He doesn’t. But forensics isolated fingerprints at the houses where he broke in. He’s not on file, though.’
‘Still, handy if we do get him.’
‘When, Jack,’ Fairfield admonished despite feeling no more confident about it than he did. It’s this one,’ she said, pointing at a house. ‘Blencathra.’
Sorbie found a parking space opposite. ‘And what’s a Blencathra when it’s at home?’
‘It’s a mountain in the Lake District. Did you never watch Wainwright Walks?’
‘You’ve lost me again.’
‘Easily done, Jack.’
Assistant Chief Constable Anderson and his wife lived in a solid suburban house with a large garden and a double garage. It was surrounded by a neatly clipped hedge and protected by a wrought-iron gate. So this was what one could look forward to if one’s CID career plans came to fruition. Automatically she assessed the security aspects of the property and even before she had crossed the road knew that neither hedge nor gate would keep burglars or prowlers out. The hedge was a burglar-friendly privet and the gate carried so much ornamental scroll-work it was practically a ladder. There was a state-of-the-art CCTV camera prominently visible on the front of the house but when Fairfield rang the bell beside the gate it remained stubbornly pointing away from her at something in the deep front garden.
‘Hello?’ The disembodied voice coming from behind the speaker grill above the bell sounded confident.
‘Detective Inspector Fairfield and DS Sorbie, we have an app …’ Noisily they were buzzed in. ‘… ointment,’ Fairfield said belatedly, raising her eyebrows at Sorbie and walking in.
‘I really don’t know why both of us should have to do this,’ Sorbie said.
Fairfield stopped. ‘If you want to do it by yourself that’s OK with me.’ She walked on up the drive.
‘It’s not that. It’s just … if you’re going to be discussing underwear and stuff, the women are just going to be embarrassed with me there as well.’
‘How considerate of you,’ Fairfield said. ‘It’s not because you are embarrassed of course. Good afternoon,’ she said briskly to the woman who had opened the door. She had briefly met the ACC’s wife before, at a police function.
Sarah Anderson was fifty, with uniformly nut-brown hair, wore too much make-up but dressed in immaculate and understated fashion. She raised a polite smile. ‘I remember you, DI Fairfield,’ she said, waving away the proffered ID. ‘Sergeant Sorbie.’ She acknowledged Sorbie with a slight nod and from then on pretended that he wasn’t there.
‘You’ve had a nasty scare,’ Fairfield began.
‘It was nothing, really.’ Once they were all seated in her generously proportioned drawing room Sarah Anderson retold the story briskly; how she had forgotten to take in the washing, much of it delicate things, including underwear and stockings, and then went to fetch them late in the evening since rain had been forecast. It was dark and she hadn’t bothered to put on the patio lights. ‘I hadn’t turned on the kitchen light yet, there was enough light coming from the corridor which is probably why he didn’t know I was coming. It was when I opened the door to the garden that I switched on the lights and nearly ran straight into him. He was right by the house.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was slightly built but he wore a balaclava and black clothes.’
‘How tall would you say?’
‘I really couldn’t say. He was sort of loping along when I startled him and he was busy stuffing my stockings into his jacket. He started to run off, stumbled over the stone border out there but didn’t actually fall. He ran off into the back of the garden and disappeared. The officers that came before said he probab
ly came through the hedge. You can squeeze through in some places where it isn’t as dense as it should be. I think the trees shade it out here and there.’
‘Would it be all right if my sergeant had a look round your garden?’
‘Of course. Through the French windows.’
Through the French windows Fairfield could see a large expanse of lawn and a broad border, showing a few drifts of early flowers. ‘What about eye colour?’
‘Oh, I remember those, they were blue. And startled, obviously.’
Fairfield made a note. Behind them Sorbie let himself into the garden. ‘Did he say anything to you at all?’ she asked.
‘No, he made a sort of “wah” sound of surprise – quite a childish sound, I thought later – then he ran off.’
‘Did you say anything to him?’
‘No, I was too shocked really. Until he was gone, then I could have said quite a lot to him, I promise you.’
‘So he took your stockings? All of them?’
‘A couple of pairs. I’d hung up three.’
‘Two out of three. Mm. Anything else?’
‘Nothing else, no. I really don’t see what the fuss is all about. We already had a constable and a sergeant out here. He’s unlikely to come back and it wasn’t as though he’d attacked me.’
‘No, but these things have a habit of escalating and you’re not the only victim. He has sneaked into people’s houses, too. Is there anything on your CCTV?’
She comically pursed her lips, shook her head and smiled. ‘My husband only had it installed yesterday and I have no idea how to work it. I’m not looking forward to the tutorial either. It makes me feel as though we are under siege.’
Sorbie came back into the room, shrugging his shoulders behind Sarah Anderson’s back. On a small side table a phone rang. ‘If you would excuse me while I answer that,’ she said.
‘Oh, Mrs Anderson, I think we’re finished here anyway, we’ll let ourselves out if that’s OK. You’ve been most helpful, thank you for your time. And we’ll keep you informed, naturally.’
Outside a wind had sprung up, driving grey clouds across the sky. ‘Anything of interest in the garden?’
‘Yeah, a plastic gnome that was the spitting image of the super. Sitting on a toadstool. You?’
‘Nothing, really. He’ll never be caught like this, I’d bet my pay cheque on it. He’ll be caught in flagrante delicto or by accident, mark my words.’
Austin and McLusky watched as Chloë drove away, the rear window of her car obscured by the cello case. The second leaf of the gate opened automatically for her and closed rapidly as the Mini disappeared down the lane towards the village.
‘His personal assistant nicks his Lexus and he forgets to mention it.’ McLusky turned around and stood facing the main building. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘Oh aye, minor detail, easily forgotten. Are we going back inside?’ Austin asked.
McLusky made a non-committal sound while thinking about it. He found a half-eaten chocolate bar in his jacket pocket and took a bite from it, then took a drag from his cigarette.
‘Smoking and chocolate bars at the same time now. It’ll end in tears, Liam.’
‘It won’t as long as I don’t get the two mixed up. No, we’ll leave it for the moment. Deedee was doing a background check on Bothwick and Lamb, let’s first see what he digs up.’
Back in Austin’s Micra McLusky called DC Dearlove for the background check.
Austin started the engine. ‘Back to Albany Road?’
‘Oh no,’ said McLusky, ‘I’m very happy here. Relax.’ Austin quickly checked that the answer hadn’t been sarcastic – not always a given – then turned off the engine, folded his arms and sank down in his seat. He was quite used to McLusky sharing only half of his thoughts, or sharing them in his own sweet time.
‘Yes, Deedee, shoot,’ McLusky said down the phone. ‘And could you stop eating crisps for a moment?’
‘Mini pretzels,’ Dearlove corrected him. ‘OK, we have nothing on file for either of them. Bothwick is Bristol born and bred, studied economics at Bristol Uni. Flat in Clifton, but we knew that.’
‘Find out the status of his mortgage et cetera. David Lamb, anything interesting?’
‘Varied career. Got rich in property developing, in Clevedon and Portishead mainly, went into politics and has ambitions, by all accounts. Somerset Council Deputy Chief Executive. That’s a big deal, apparently. Married with a son and a daughter. Son’s up at Oxford, reading history, daughter is heading for the other place, to study music.’
‘All right, Deedee. Lamb drives a Lexus. Get the reg and try and find it because it appears Bothwick drove off with it. Pinched it, according to Lamb’s daughter. Jane says we have Bothwick’s own car – where was it?’
‘Outside his own flat, sir,’ said Dearlove. ‘It’s with forensics now.’
‘Waste of time, it’ll be as clean as Barbara Steadman’s BMW. Only, Bothwick’s car was where you might expect to find it, unlike hers. Another difference. OK, cheers, Deedee.’
Afternoon had turned to early evening with a sudden change of the light. Austin’s stomach gurgled in protest. McLusky had managed to subdue his appetite with chocolate and nicotine and sat humming contentedly while they watched the house. After twenty-five minutes of McLusky’s humming, just as Austin took a deep breath to ask if he could a) stop doing it and b) tell him why they were still there, a taxi came up the lane. The taxi slowed and stopped in front of the gate. The driver spoke into his mobile and the gate opened.
Once the cab had gone in McLusky said: ‘Pull back fifty yards. We don’t know which way he’s going so get ready for a u-ee in case the cab goes the other way.’
Austin reversed swiftly up the lane and stopped by the side of the road. Engine off, eyes on the gate to Lamb’s property. They didn’t have long to wait. Soon the blue cab emerged into the lane and drove sedately away from them. ‘Was it him?’ asked Austin as he started the engine.
‘Couldn’t be sure but I expect so. Get going.’
Austin accelerated away and soon regained sight of the cab. ‘If I hang back too far we’ll easily lose him but if I always keep him in sight on these narrow lanes he’ll soon spot us.’
‘The cab driver sees a baby blue Micra, how threatening is that? And Lamb himself is hopefully too preoccupied. I don’t think he even knows what car we came in. You’re doing fine.’ After a while he added: ‘Are you sure I can’t smoke in here? Tell you what, I’ll smoke out of the window.’
The lane soon emerged on to a wider B road. The cab moved north and Austin hung back, giving the target a lot of room, even allowing a white van to overtake and insert itself between them. They lost the white van when they crossed the A370 and soon found themselves back on narrow country lanes with fields to either side of them. ‘Can’t be far now, these lanes don’t lead anywhere much,’ McLusky said. While under suspension he had taken the opportunity to explore the city and the country surrounding it on his own terms, not driven by any investigations. He had crisscrossed it, absorbed it and held in his mind not only the network of its streets, its landmarks, pubs, restaurants, but also the patterns its denizens wove across it, the ever-changing, ever-evolving web of drug dealing, prostitution, late-night violence and muggings, its music scenes, student populations, artistic enclaves and ethnic groupings. Barely a year after arriving on the force his mental picture of the city and the surrounding towns and villages was every bit as accurate as any of his colleagues could boast. McLusky was always happiest while moving about the city streets, trying to walk in other people’s shoes, alive or dead, the victims’, the perpetrators’, the fearful bystanders’ shoes.
They passed a working farm, the smell of fresh manure mingling with that of McLusky’s cigarette. A short while later the cab turned up an even narrower lane. ‘Easy now,’ McLusky cautioned. Austin slowed the car. As they rounded the bend an isolated cottage came into view, with the cab stopped in front. Off-road be
side the cottage stood a silver Lexus. ‘Squeeze past and keep going until we’re out of sight and earshot,’ McLusky said, getting out of sight himself by sliding down in his seat until his seatbelt tried to strangle him.
‘Think he clocked us?’ Austin asked.
‘Doesn’t really matter,’ said McLusky. ‘I just want to creep up on him and shout boo in his ear to see what happens, that’s all.’
The cottage stood near the edge of Cook’s Wood and was itself surrounded by trees on three sides. Having left the car in front of the gate of a field entrance they jogged back to the house along the lane. They hurried, in case Lamb only stopped long enough to fetch his car. They had worried unnecessarily; the car was there, and no sign of Lamb.
‘So here’s his Lexus,’ said Austin. ‘But what’s he up to?’
‘Let’s have a look-see, but quietly.’
Bramble Cottage was built from dark freestone in an L-shape, and was slate-roofed. A wooden patio with two garden benches and a cast-iron chiminea sat in the nook of the L. The house was surrounded by a small neglected garden consisting mainly of grass and a few anaemic daffodils. Standing forlorn in one corner of the lawn a rotary dryer devoid of clothesline pointed its bare arms at the sky in supplication. A glassless coldframe housed a desolate collection of empty flower pots.
Ignoring the front door they approached like thieves through the garden, keeping close to the wall, McLusky in front. At the first window he peered in. The sitting room looked comfortable but impersonal; no sign of Lamb. The furniture looked too cheap for Lamb, and not baroque enough for Bothwick, which meant the place was borrowed or rented. He moved on, signalling Austin to follow. He rounded a corner and soon found himself at the back, peering into the kitchen window. The kitchen too had a 1980s holiday cottage look; in his mind’s eye McLusky could see the sad assortment of cutlery in the drawers and the floral-pattern enamel cooking pots in the cupboards. McLusky made himself small at the window as Lamb entered the kitchen. He was carrying an open hold-all which he threw with some force on to the table in the centre. Each cupboard he opened he closed again with impatience or frustration. McLusky ducked away and shooed Austin in front of him.
