Crossed Out

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  What both Shakti and Brian Smirthwaite had noticed from the evidence seen so far, was the distance she seemed to have created between herself, her neighbours and her colleagues; none seemed to know her well, even though they generally spoke positively about her. Her colleagues had nothing but praise for her work ethic and professionalism but none said that they really knew her. They had never socialised. Even at Christmas, she was either away or reluctant to become involved. She kept herself to herself.

  Shakti read through the references received by the hotel when Tracy applied for the job; they were exemplary. She was an enigma.

  Brian flicked through a file. “Do we know if she’s married? Kids?

  “Divorced.” Shakti held open the correct page.

  “You’d think if she were as tall as they say that she’d have been spotted sooner. So what have you unearthed that’s caught your attention?”

  Shakti slid the photocopied note across the table and then sat back. “The original is with Forensics. Look at the date it was received.” Her voice had an air of triumph but there was also an element of uncertainty.

  Brian noted the date and read the three lines. He too then sat back and stared at Shakti. It was clear to her that he was assimilating what he had just read. There was a moment’s silence. He read it out loud:

  She’s not gone anywhere.

  She’s just stopped walking these streets,

  a shadow of her former self… maybe… you just don’t see… do you?

  “It was found in a folded newspaper on a bench on Montpellier Hill yesterday and handed to an officer on foot patrol. The finder was somewhat confused by the date and headline of the paper but discovering the note made him realise its importance, in fact, he was quite upset.” Shakti slipped a photograph of the cover of the local newspaper across the table, the headline was clear. Missing! Followed by a photograph of Tracy Phillips.

  “That’s the first reporting of her disappearance! I remember it. We’ve had nothing since. Nobody saw anything, nobody’s seen her, no relatives have come forward. It’s as if she vanished off the face of the earth in a puff of dust. She’s not named but it’s a real teaser, it has to mean her.”

  “As I said, fiction or fact?” Shakti folded her arms. “The newspaper’s in perfect condition, as if printed yesterday.”

  “What would we do without the support of the public in cases such as these?” Brian’s words sounded sincere but the question as to the true identity of the person mentioned within the note was yet to be answered. It could have been interpreted another way. “Has someone been to see this…” he looked at the notes. “… Mr Baker, the chap responsible for handing it in?”

  “Brought in to eliminate his prints from the paper and the note, he was accompanied by his daughter-in-law. She was well pissed off I can tell you. Kept going on to him about wasting police time. No CCTV facing the bench on which the newspaper was deposited and we’re checking to determine whether the person who left it can be spotted on the other cameras in the area.”

  “What’s to say your thoughtful member of the public isn’t the guy who left it? After all, it’s not a straightforward case.”

  Shakti smiled. She had just landed that for which she had been fishing. “I think we’ll pay him a visit.”

  Cyril turned off the computer and moved to a more comfortable chair at the far side of his office. He removed an envelope from his jacket pocket. It had been there since he had collected it from the mat on arriving home the previous day. His stomach fluttered as he brought the envelope up to his nose and sniffed gently like a sommelier with a classic wine trapped within the tastevin. He ran his fingers over the dark blue, handwritten script clearly stating that the letter was addressed to a Mr C V Bennett. The handwriting was beautiful, almost copperplate in style. Care had clearly been taken in the presentation, even the stamp was placed perfectly. He brought out a magnifying glass from the top drawer to look more carefully at the postmark. It was a smudge, impossible to decipher. His index finger was drawn back to the letter ‘V’. The fluttering in the pit of his stomach now churned, an amalgam of uncertainty, anxiety and anticipation. Few people knew his full name; of those who did, some had passed away and others knew better than to mention it. Cyril Vaughan Bennett. Cyril, he could live with but… Vaughan! He shook his head. Strangely, he knew from whom the letter had come and although it brought a degree of trepidation, it also brought a flush of uncertainty as his mind tumbled back too many years to a past he thought he had left behind for good. A violin’s shrill notes suddenly played in his head, flushing it with memories of his childhood. He closed his eyes, visualising the rise and fall of his mother’s elbow as she bowed the violin's strings, and in his mind’s eye he could see the lark ascending.

  7

  Brian observed the bungalow. The garden had recently received attention but it was purely cosmetic; it did not demonstrate the care of a dedicated gardener. Shakti rang the bell. Within a few minutes the door opened, secured by a short chain, and a face appeared in the gap.

  “Mr Baker?”

  The elderly man raised his eyebrows and then smiled.

  Shakti held up her ID. “We rang you earlier to say we were coming. This is DC Brian Smirthwaite.”

  Shakti watched as Mr Baker propped both of his walking sticks by the door before it was closed and she heard the chain slip off the track. The door opened fully. Graham Baker collected his sticks and walked down the hallway. A stick in each hand steadied his slow progress. They passed two closed doors to the right. “This one.” He directed with his left stick as if giving a road signal indicating his next faltering manoeuvre. He turned to see Smirthwaite close the door.

  “No need for the chain. I’m sure that I’m secure with two of our finest in the house.”

  He entered the lounge and they both followed.

  “Sit, sit. Sorry I took so long to get to the door, takes me an age to get out of my chair. I’d been watching for you, too. Must’ve dozed off. Any luck with the newspaper?”

  “You left a statement at the station about how you found the newspaper. Can you tell us again, please, Mr Baker?”

  Smirthwaite took out his notepad and pencil.

  “Ready?”

  Graham Baker smiled and nodded. “Every Tuesday my daughter-in-law drops me off at the bottom end of St Mary’s Walk and there’s a bench I use whilst she does her shopping. It’s good to get out and watch the world go by. I don’t get out enough, I’m told. Then we either go for lunch in one of the pubs or up to Betty’s. However, this week I decided to take a little exercise. I had an accident a while back, damaged my spine. The reason for these.” He half-heartedly waved the two sticks. “Anyway, there’s another seat just up Montpellier Hill, it’s on the footpath facing the garden. There’s a large, stone ornament, like a vase on a pedestal, full of spring flowers, you know the one I mean, and I thought I’d sit there for a change. It’s away from the road and quieter. The paper was there, tucked between the slats of the bench. I thought nothing of it, in fact, I was pleased to find it until I opened it and saw the headline and then the date. The note was inside. I got this shiver down my back, strange really. I remember putting it down as if it were going to bite. I saw a policeman and shouted for his attention. You know all of this.”

  “Did you see anyone leave the paper or watch you once you’d picked it up or see anyone move away when you called the police officer?”

  Graham Baker shook his head. “My daughter-in-law said I was making a fuss and I should’ve just dropped it in the litter bin.”

  “We’re grateful you didn’t.”

  It was obvious that there was little else to glean from the conversation and Smirthwaite and Shakti insisted on seeing themselves out.

  “Must have some kind of home help, bloody immaculate that house. A place for everything and everything in a place, made me think of Cyril,” Smirthwaite said quietly as they made their way to the car. He was really thinking out loud.

  “He h
as a wife, according to the records. Didn’t you read the full file that I handed you?”

  Smirthwaite pulled a face. He knew that he had been a little excited by this latest information and he admonished himself inside for the slip. “Wonder why his wife doesn’t go out with them?”

  “Probably the daughter-in law takes him from under her feet, that’s why the house is immaculate. Men tend to get in the way!” She turned and winked at her partner.

  Graham Baker stood back from the window but watched through the net curtains until they had driven off. He turned and looked at the two walking sticks resting against the chair and smiled.

  The brown terrier chased the ball thrown at some force and speed from the plastic ball launcher. Considering the size of The Stray and the extent of uninterrupted open space, the throw was poor as the ball crashed into the branches of a tree and ricocheted to the right. The dog stood momentarily confused but soon spotted the ball fall and roll to a standstill. It dashed the short distance, eager to collect its prey before suddenly stopping, more interested in the ground than the ball.

  “Annie, fetch!” Barbara Doyle commanded. The dog, all wagging tail, continued to ignore the commands and the ball, it was far more interested in digging than retrieving. Barbara trudged across the grass. “Leave! What have you found now?”

  Part of the turf had already been removed, flung backwards by frantic paws. Annie turned proudly revealing the small wooden cross that dangled from her mouth.

  “Drop!”

  The firm command had an immediate result. The terrier dropped the cross and ran to the ball. It was only then that the owner saw the plastic bag for the first time. She picked it up and the cross came with it swinging like a pendulum. When she identified the bag's contents she dropped it, more in confusion than revulsion. She was aware that some people practised strange rituals to commemorate the memory or the passing of a family member and thought Annie had disturbed such a memorial.

  From the appearance and the condition of the wooden cross Barbara concluded that it had been there for some time. Had the dog retrieved the ball, it would still be secure, semi-hidden in the ground. She studied the tightly packed bag and confirmed that it was hair. She looked round but there was no one there other than a group of children kicking a football some distance away. Annie put down the ball and barked before backing away, keen to have it thrown. Picking up the cross, Barbara noticed that the black, plastic centre stud of what had once been the poppy was still attached and some lettering was still visible. It failed to make a word but she could guess, Remembrance. What was clear was the number ‘12’ marked within a circle. She turned it over in her hand and the bag dangled like a transparent flat fish from the end of the line. Barbara was now confused and upset but out of respect she put the vacuum-sealed bag back into the ground along with the cross and reverently patted the soil and turf into place. She stood and for some reason lowered her head and whispered a quick, “Sorry.” She backed away towards the excited dog.

  Within minutes the ball was in the air and the dog was again in chase, this time well away from the disturbed soil.

  Barbara had eaten nothing; she had only toyed with the food that was on her plate, moving it methodically from one side to the next. Her husband kept looking up at her. The dog, Annie, waited patiently in the expectation that her untouched meal would be transferred into her bowl.

  “Penny for them. You’ve not been yourself since I came home. What’s up?”

  Barbara looked at Annie who immediately wagged her tail. Saliva dripped from her mouth in anticipation that food was soon to come her way. Barbara then looked back at Colin.

  “Something strange happened today when we were out on The Stray. It’s silly and probably nothing but I just can’t seem to shift it from my mind.”

  Colin leaned across and covered her hand with his. “So what was it, love?”

  She could see the worry on his face and smiled in the hope that it would lighten the mood. “Annie found it. Accident really. She dug up what appeared to be a memorial cross, you know the ones they plant at the Cenotaph on Armistice Day, the ones with the poppy attached. From the state of it I’d say it’d been there for a while although I’ve walked there many times and never seen it before.”

  “Could kids have removed it from one of the war memorials and dumped it there?”

  Barbara shook her head and paused. “When I took it from Annie it was attached to a plastic bag by what looked like fishing line.” She could see Colin’s expression change as he was assimilating the information. “It was what was in the bag that made me uncomfortable…” She didn’t wait for him to ask. “Red hair.”

  Colin squeezed her hand. “Are you sure?” His question was delivered slowly with a degree of doubt but he could see from her expression that it was true. “So what did you do with it?”

  “I just thought that people have some strange ways of remembering a loved one who’s passed away and that it was a small, personal memorial. Maybe it wasn’t human hair maybe that of a dog or a cat. I don’t know. Anyway, I felt uneasy so I just put it back.”

  “Have you mentioned it to anyone else?”

  Barbara shook her head and started to cry. “Sorry it’s me being stupid but if it were a memorial...”

  “Bloody hell, love, it’s something and nothing. It’ll be kids messing about, nothing for you to get upset over. You’ve done nothing wrong.” He came round the table and held her. Annie too sensed her distress and rubbed against her legs. “Let’s clear away and then take Annie out. You can take me to the spot. If it’s kids it’s probably gone by now. It’ll put your mind at rest.”

  Barbara linked Colin’s arm and he could sense her growing more reluctant as she approached the spot. Annie tugged on the lead.

  “Look after the dog.” Colin handed her the lead and moved over to the spot marked by the recently disturbed soil. He crouched and looked at the weather-beaten cross, protruding from the grass. He gingerly picked it up feeling the pull as the fishing line tugged at the buried bag. Moving the soil with his fingers he released the bag and stood, the cross in one hand and the bag in the other. He turned to look at Barbara and smiled in the hope of reassuring her that everything was fine. However, his gut told him a different story. He removed his mobile phone and dialled.

  DC Stuart Park had finished the Sudoku and his coffee before he read the four reports that had been highlighted for his attention. At first they registered little, the only connections being the Remembrance crosses and the mention of a fine nylon not dissimilar to fishing line, connected to three identical sealed bags. The first report seemed purely incidental as it concerned a disturbance that had uncovered a small wooden cross not far from the town’s main Cenotaph. The other three had been found in different locations, the last being the result of a direct call. Stuart looked at the images of the crosses and the transparent packets. There was a further forensic report pending on the bags’ contents but he did have clear photographs showing the poor condition of the crosses and the numbers clearly written on them, 12, 1 and 13. Details of the two specific location sites were included. Two more of the finds had been left at Craven Lodge, the town centre Police Office, and another had been handed to a traffic warden, so only a vague identification of these three locations was known. Stuart made a note of the caller’s address before contacting the PCSO who had dealt with the disturbance that led to the discovery of the first cross.

  Within the hour he was standing in front of the Cenotaph alongside PCSO Lee.

  “This one, why the interest?”

  Stuart lifted it from the ground with his gloved hand brushing off some loose soil to reveal the number 9. The thin line dangled from the base. He placed it in a plastic bag and sealed it.

  “This is the fourth cross located this week; we have the other three. Did you find anything else below or near the cross when you discovered it?” Stuart asked.

  “To be honest, didn’t look. Is there something else?” The officer pull
ed a face. “Like what?”

  “Can you show me where you found it?”

  Within minutes, they had crossed the diagonal path on The Stray and were seated on the bench. “You can still see the swathe of damaged crocuses. Can leave nothing alone. Not managed to find the youth either. Probably low on the agenda.”

  Stuart slipped on another glove and gently lifted the soil following the curve where flowers had once grown. He saw the short remains of the fine line. Taking out his phone, he snapped a couple of images before turning the soil. There it was, the small plastic bag containing the scarlet hair. “Bingo!”

  The PCSO looked at the object. Recalling his initial impression he laughed, believing now that it more resembled a dirty jellyfish. “Goodness me, I thought at first it was a condom!” He laughed again, staring more closely at the object but then as he discerned what was in the bag his demeanour changed.

  “Is that what I think it is?” PCSO Lee peered at the packet.

  “Human hair, scarlet, dyed, mixed human hair,” Stuart emphasised.

  “Right! I’ll not dare ask.” PCSO Lee simply shook his head. “The longer I do this job the fewer things surprise me.”

  On returning to the station, Stuart Park filed his report and checked that the latest find had been couriered for analysis. All he could do now was write it up into HOLMES and add the details to his whiteboard.

  8

  Cyril looked in the mirror and checked to make sure that he had missed nothing whilst shaving. He hated to see small areas of growth like those often left on Owen’s face, through careless shaving. On some occasions they had been missed more than once and were extremely noticeable and distracting. Yes, he was fine. He tied the bow neatly, finally twisting it as it tightened and balanced. He then adjusted his shirt collar. If he had to wear a bow tie he was definitely not wearing one attached by elastic.