by Nick Louth
Despite his best efforts at sublimation, ten minutes later he found himself sitting in his own Nissan Note with a greasy takeaway burger in a box on his lap, at the entrance to Marlpit Close, staring at the house where Liz had grown up. This was exactly where he used to sit on the Kawasaki all those years ago, revving idly, watching; for what? Something to give him hope. And in 30 years, Liz had grown up, glimpsed a fabulous career, got married, had kids, lost the best part of her happiness, and then in all probability been killed by her husband. He, meanwhile, was still sitting at the end of her street eating junk food, listening to Simply Red and mooning about what might have been.
Once the burger was finished, and all the effort of those watery laps offset in cholesterol and grease, he drove home the slow way, which just happened to go past The Bell. He slid the car into one of the few slots available in its massive new car park, got out and looked the place over. When he and Liz used to go there, it was a quiet rural pub in a forgotten fold of the Surrey hills. They had found a favourite garden seat, a rustic wooden bench overlooking a pond, him with a pint and her with wine, and maybe sharing a bag of salt and vinegar Twists. That was all gone now. The pub was now part of a well-known chain, and the old country lane was a commuter rat run. A children’s play area with climbing frame and slide, all safety-conscious and built on chipped rubber fragments, had consumed half the garden and swallowed the pond. Behind it and adjoining the pub, where the rustic garden benches had once been, stood an enormous conservatory dining room full of well-to-do pensioners eating, by the look of the blackboard, caesar salad and goat’s cheese filo pastry parcels. A past destroyed, bit by bit.
Gillard strolled into the bar, the oldest part of the pub, looking in vain for the equivalent of the green whorled curtains, the rose wallpaper, or some other nostalgic hook on which to hang his engulfing melancholia. ‘What can I get you?’ asked a short barmaid with wavy chestnut hair and a lip-ring that almost spoiled her smile.
Caught unawares in his reverie, he scanned the pump clips and bought a pint of IPA. As the barmaid turned away he glimpsed a tattoo of a curling red rose on her shoulder. ‘Four twenty-five,’ she said impatiently, apparently for the second or even third time, swinging her shoulder away from his stare and substituting into the line of his gaze a small, pale open hand into which for one stupid second he thought of placing his own.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, fumbling for money, and finally finding a fiver.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, as he retreated from the bar, slopping half the pint over his shoe. He took one quick gulp, jingled the paltry change in his hand and abandoned the drink on the pub windowsill. He then headed for the safety of the car, as purposefully as he could manage for a man who had suddenly forgotten how to walk.
Chapter Twelve
My Dearest Craig,
This is a very hard letter for me to write. When I met you at the school dance just those few weeks ago, I never realized how far and how fast things would go, and how it would take us in such dangerously differing directions. I already knew I was going up to Cambridge, and that my life would be transformed. I suppose now I was just trying to have a last little tryst in the protected vale of bucolic memories in which I grew up, before taking on the Tripos and then the wider world. That, I suppose, was selfish of me. Though I have gloried in your utter devotion and puppyish affection, I didn’t realize at first how much all this was going to mean to you. For that I am utterly sorry. I have never meant to hurt you, though I suppose I must. I won’t blame you if you hate me. All I can say is that it was never meant to be. I shall always think kindly of you, and hope that in some far future, when you have a lovely wife and two (three?) delightful children, you will still find room in your heart to think without regret of our loving time together.
Yours
Liz xxxx
Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard carefully folded the precious letter and returned it to the shoebox under his bed. He remembered like yesterday the agony of receiving the letter, tearing it to shreds in a fury, then days later retrieving every scrap from the family dustbin and laboriously taping it all back together.
Aged 18, his first forensic act.
He put the box aside and scanned his bachelor flat: two tidy bedrooms, a lounge-diner, no kids and one quite unpleasant divorce to his name. And then he thought about a bloodstain under an oatmeal carpet where Liz in all probability lost her life.
He tried to displace the image with thoughts of Sam. Last night he’d suggested they go to see a film, and he’d offered to cook her a meal. He’d given all the signals that he’d like to spend more time with her, and at one level he did. Even now, after all these years, was he not able to stop making the comparison, vainly seeking to match the unmatchable?
He went into the second bedroom-cum-office, fired up his computer and logged onto a dating website that he had last perused four or five months ago. His subscription hadn’t yet expired, and he trawled through his message box. There were several ‘winks’ on his profile, some now quite old, and just two messages. One was from a bespectacled Essex ‘50-ish’ saleswoman with red hair who enjoyed walks by the sea and horse riding, and another from a ‘separated and adventurous’ Hampshire hairdresser of 41 who liked shopping and techno music. He then looked on his ‘saved’ folder. There were 15 profiles there, all in the ‘petite’ and ‘five-foot-to-five-four’ height categories. Every one of them had wavy hair, either brown or black, and their eyes were generally brown. They were all highly educated – indeed he had specified that in his search – and one or two were academics. He’d messaged a few, and got mostly positive responses, but for some reason he had shied away from meeting any.
Right now, Gillard felt that he’d prefer to be on a wind-buffeted rock face in Wales or the Lakes, lashed by the elements, with only a belay and a few cleats to secure him. At least he’d feel alive. Instead of what he felt like now. The complete opposite. He picked up his mobile, checked a number, and rang it.
* * *
Sam Phillips was eating a bowl of pasta and watching Strictly when Craig called. She’d spent all day hoping for a call or even a text to show that he appreciated or at least recalled that they had spent the night together yesterday. ‘Hello, Sam, how’s it going?’
She muted the TV and replied: ‘Fine, Craig, how are you? You had a busy day, I imagine. I saw you on the TV news.’
‘Yeah, it’s been crazy busy. But things have moved on since then. Looks like we’ve got a murder on our hands.’ He told what he had discovered in the Knight house. ‘And there could be more in the holiday home.’
‘Is it her blood?’ Phillips asked, setting her pasta down on the table as her stomach began to curdle.
‘We’ll know by morning, but it doesn’t look good. So that means I’m going to be busy. Lots of overtime, late nights. Could last months. I know I said we should see the film…’
Sam said nothing for a moment. ‘I know how it is, Craig. You know that. I won’t make demands. We’ll just see each other when we can, a quiet meal out. Keep it flexible.’ She thought: why the hell am I already in this conversation?
‘Well, it’s just that I’ve been thinking more generally…’
He said no more for a moment, so she said ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Craig?
Another pause, then he said: ‘You seem to be quite keen, and I don’t want to hurt you. I like you but… I’ll be devoting…’
Devoting all his time to Elizabeth Knight. And no time for me. Of course. Sam suddenly recalled seeing Craig, days ago, looking shocked when she showed him the missing person report form, when he first realized that Mrs Knight was missing. Liz, he’d called her. There was emotional baggage there, Sam had been sure of that right away. But when she’d stayed at Craig’s flat in Banstead she’d been slow to make the next connection. Of course! It would be the same woman who’d dedicated the book to him. L was for Liz.
‘So you’re not that keen on me, Craig?’
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, I think you’re great, Sam. You came crashing into my life like a crazy rhino, sending everything flying. You’ve knocked me off my feet, but I don’t know, I just can’t—’
‘Can’t what, Craig?’ Did he just call me a rhinoceros? ‘I’ve just slept with you yesterday, remember?’ He didn’t reply. ‘It wasn’t to say thank you. It was because I like you. Craig, do you remember that?’ Her voice was hard because she knew. It was over, before it had even begun. The die was cast.
‘Of course I remember,’ said Craig.
‘I don’t sleep with just anyone. I hope you know that.’ He didn’t reply. ‘Craig? I’m a bit upset and I have to go now. And you know what? I think you should go back to your precious Liz.’ She slammed the phone down. Sam had lost out to other women before, once or twice.
But never to a corpse.
* * *
Sam slipped on her coat, went out to the car. She felt like a drive to clear her head. She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care. Just out. She had Beyoncé on loud. She’d save Adele for when she got sad, as she knew she would be. Bloody men. Useless. Every last one.
She drove around aimlessly for half an hour, then stopped at the huge Tesco in Purley. Swamped with exhausted mothers and their noisy offspring in the day, at night it wasn’t so busy. It was nearly half eleven. The alien lighting, the cavernous hangar of consumer glitz and the sheer anonymity of being there were a welcome distraction. As she parked her old green Renault she noticed a middle-aged man squatting behind his car, mending something. At her approach he stood up hurriedly, and set off ahead of her to go into the store. She walked past, waited until the man was inside, then she went back to look at his car. There was something wrong with the number plate. She realized that there was a strip of black tape, turning a five into a six. It was starting to come off. She knelt, used the camera on her phone to zoom in, and flashed a picture. She then walked away to examine it. There wasn’t just one alteration. More tape had been used to turn an F into a P.
False plates. She’d remembered the training course. Illegally altering a plate wasn’t just an offence, it was indication of a criminal trying to cover his tracks for something more serious. See an identical car to your own make and colour, clone their plate and you can drive around pretending to be them. Every parking ticket, toll fine or worse goes to another address.
She’d report it tomorrow.
Inside the store she saw him again. No gangster, that’s for sure: average height, slim, pale thinning hair, beige fleece top and grey trousers. Could be 60, but probably less. He was utterly forgettable apart from the grey shiny slip-on shoes. She glided past with her hand basket and got a waft of minty breath. She glanced into his trolley. Blank DVDs, cable ties, disinfectant, hair dye, a bumper bag of extra-strong mints, man-sized tissues, lots of cling film and a few big bottles of Coke. Something she’d read on one of the police bulletins was niggling her mind. Cable ties, tissues: abduction? This couldn’t wait until tomorrow. She thought about calling Craig, but dismissed the idea. He was bound to think she was seeking attention. Yet again. No, this she would do herself, at least for now.
At the self-service till, she checked out her own purchases: ready meals, breakfast cereal and milk, and hurried back to her car, three bays down from his. He was back two minutes later. After loading his groceries, he reversed out his silver VW Polo. She followed. The man was driving slowly and cautiously, indicating well ahead of each turn. That made it easy. Sam’s knowledge of tailing was gleaned from films. She didn’t have the confidence to let any vehicle come between them, instead hoping the darkness would provide cover. After ten minutes she followed the Polo down a parking-choked street of terraced houses in Croydon, and saw it stop in a residents’ bay, the only available space. She drove past, then circled the block again, spotting him unloading groceries into a house. She parked around the corner on double yellows, then walked back to where she could see down the street. The man was gone, but the car was there. She approached the house. It was as average as he was: Victorian pebble-dashed, three-storey, end-terrace. The door was still ajar.
She looked around the empty street, took a deep breath and walked up to the door. She could hear TV or radio, and peering in saw a long maroon-carpeted hallway, covered with carpet protectors. The place was gloomy, despite the dangling, shadeless bulb, and now she noticed that the magnolia walls, which had just looked glossy, were in fact lined with something like cling film. The place smelled too, mainly of plastic, but stale, as if the windows were never opened. That was enough. She got out her phone to take a photo before withdrawing, but heard a slight noise behind her on the street. Before she could turn around she was pushed hard, and tumbled into the hallway. The man followed in a gust of peppermint, and slammed the door shut behind them.
Chapter Thirteen
Friday, 21 October
Gillard slipped into the incident room at Caterham at 6.15 a.m. with three hot, strong coffees carefully balanced in his hands. He tiptoed carefully up behind Carl Hoskins and Colin Hodges, the two detective constables who had been there overnight. Both nondescript pudgy mid-30s geezers with similarly shaven-heads, they were known as Tweedledum and Tweedledee because of their resemblance to each other. Hoskins, still on the phone but slumped in his chair, spun round when he heard the DCI approach. Hodges, sprawled over his keyboard and desk, struggled to get back to vertical.
‘You two look like roadkill,’ Gillard said, placing the paper cups on the desk between them. ‘Pasty, unappetizing and more than a little flat.’
‘Thank you, sir. Been preparing that line, have we?’ Hodges asked. ‘But thanks for the coffee.’ DC Hoskins nodded his thanks while he finished making notes, thanked the caller, and hung up.
‘What have you got?’ Gillard asked.
‘Nothing much,’ Hoskins sighed. ‘Lots of enthusiastic schoolkids who saw Mrs Knight leaving school on the day of her disappearance. A few wild card sightings that need checking out.’
Gillard looked at the log. There had been sightings reported by the public of each of them, everywhere from the library at Trinity College, Dublin to a Morrisons car park in Aberdeen and a Catholic church in Canterbury. No sightings claimed they were together. Corroborating any of these with CCTV would take time.
‘Plenty of time-wasters happy to call at three in the morning, as usual,’ Hodges said.
The two detectives had well-known strengths and weaknesses. On the minus side, two years ago they had been unable to catch a 12-year-old girl caught in the act of shoplifting. She had sprinted away and cleverly led them on an eight-floor chase up a council tower block where the lift didn’t work. She crossed on a walkway to an adjacent block, then took the lift down into the street and escaped. Hodges spent two days under observation in Croydon University Hospital after collapsing on the walkway with chest pains.
On the plus side, they would work all hours, albeit slowly and without imagination, grinding out with reasonable proficiency the boring tasks which are the bulk of detective work. They’d racked up hundreds of hours of overtime on the Girl F case watching CCTV footage from Croydon town centre. Long evenings passed on fast-forward, ‘Like a gazillion silent comedies back to back, without the laughs,’ as Hoskins had described it. In the end they had Girl F with a middle-aged man on just two seconds of footage, the proverbial needle in a haystack. In all the years since he hadn’t been identified. In that trawl they had also found evidence of 16 other crimes, which had been passed back to the Met, in whose patch Croydon fell. No thanks received for that, either. Still, Gillard was happy to have Tweedledee and Tweedledum on the team. Detective work is a game where you need far more tortoises than hares. A thick shell to hide in can come in handy too. Ask Kincaid, the original tortoise king.
* * *
Surrey and Sussex CSI had promised a call by nine. The lab had been working overnight on the blood sample from the spade recovered in Dungeness, plus samples from the blood spillage in the Knights’ master bedroom
. When Yaz Quoroshi rang, Gillard was almost dizzy with anticipation and dread.
‘It’s Mrs Knight’s blood,’ Quoroshi said. ‘I’ll give you the full details when I get there.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Gillard gritted his teeth to stem the tide of images of Liz that were flooding his mind. He made small talk with Quoroshi for a minute while folding away his pain and sliding it into a dark, hidden place.
The incident room was packed by the time Quoroshi arrived, a dapper figure with a neat beard, cropped hair and a nice line in silk ties. There were four full-time detectives working with DS Claire Mulholland and RIO Rob Townsend, plus ten uniformed officers manning the phones next door. Paddy Kincaid, having apparently survived Wednesday’s mauling by Jock McKinnon, was leaning against a table, happy to see some real-time detective work in action, while Quoroshi set up his laptop, projector and screen.
Gillard, in crisp white shirt, dark-blue tie, polished brogues and black trousers, paced between the various whiteboards where evidence was listed. ‘All right, you all know the basics. Mrs Knight has now been missing for eight days, her husband for just over two. We’ve been treating this as a missing person’s inquiry, but that has all changed now. I’ll hand over to Yaz to fill you in.’
‘Hello, everybody.’ He started with an overview of the case, with pictures of each of the main rooms in the Knights’ house and the items recovered. We’ve got some very clear results.’ His next slide showed a wide-handled woman’s hairbrush on a dressing table. ‘There was a lot of hair, all from one person, and many intact follicles. These gave a very good match with the blood DCI Gillard found.’ There was a collective gasp when he clicked onto a slide which showed the huge extent of the bloodstains in the ceiling cavity.
