by Scott Hunter
‘Not so much to tell,’ Moran admitted. ‘But I was hoping you might be able fill in some gaps regarding something which has recently been brought to my attention.’
‘And what might that be?’ Mr LaCroix raised grey eyebrows.
‘I’ll come straight to the point. The pathology report highlighted an old scar on Michelle’s abdomen. Further examination revealed that one of her kidneys is missing.’
The old couple exchanged glances.
‘We feared something of the sort,’ Mr LaCroix spoke softly. We were never sure, but–’
‘Michelle came home. She was sick. A fever. She wouldn’t let us call our doctor.’
Mrs LaCroix’s sudden burst of information took Moran by surprise. ‘When was this, exactly?’ he asked.
Mrs LaCroix glanced at her husband who responded with a what does it matter anymore? shrug. ‘My memory is not so good these days,’ he said, taking off his glasses. ‘My wife, she’ll have a better idea.’ He produced a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at his spectacles.
Mrs LaCroix took up the baton. ‘It was four, maybe five years ago,’ she said, her husband’s despondency fuelling her confidence. ‘Yes, it was this time of year, I remember, because we were making plans to visit relatives for Christmas. We hadn’t seen Michelle for a while, you see.’
Here Mrs LaCroix paused and allowed herself a small, sad smile. ‘So it was both a surprise and a shock to see the state she was in. We wanted to call the doctor, but she wouldn’t have it. She went to her room, shut the door. We were worried, as you can imagine. She had a fever for three or four days. Eventually a man came to see her. A medical friend, she said. She trusted him. He gave her something for the pain. Antibiotics too, she told us later. Well, after a week or so she seemed a little better. Then one day she got up in the morning, very early, and told us she was leaving.’
‘Tell me about this doctor. Do you remember what he looked like?’
Mr LaCroix cleared his throat. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. ‘Hard to recall.’
Moran nodded. Mrs LaCroix looked as though she might have ventured an opinion, but there was no doubt in Moran’s mind that her husband’s brief observation had been submitted on her behalf. Instead she shook her head, pursed her lips and looked down at her clasped hands.
‘Anything at all might be helpful,’ Moran said. ‘Height, general build. Accent. That sort of thing.’
‘Tall. Well-dressed,’ Mrs LaCroix said quickly. Although most doctors are, aren’t they, Maurice? Well-dressed, I mean?’
‘Did Michelle have any other visitors at the time?’
‘Just a friend,’ Mrs LaCroix said. Her husband squeezed her hand, but she pulled away, kept her eyes firmly fixed on Moran. ‘A man.’
‘Françoise–’ Maurice LaCroix’s conciliatory tone had hardened. A new defensiveness had crept in.
‘We never liked him.’ Mrs LaCroix was in the fast lane now, churning through the water, her husband treading water somewhere behind. ‘A bad influence from the start, I said. And I was right. He was the one who led Michelle astray. I used to hear them talking. Maybe I shouldn’t have been listening, but when you’re worried about your child, you’ll do anything, won’t you Inspector?’
‘Françoise, please–’
Mrs LaCroix raised her hand. ‘It’s all right, Maurice. The inspector needs help, and we’re going to provide it, if we are able. It’s the right thing to do. Not just for us, but for Michelle.’
‘It’s none of our bus–’
‘Oh, but it is, Maurice. It is very much our business.’
Moran broke in before Maurice LaCroix could make further objections. ‘Do go on, Mrs LaCroix. This is very helpful.’
‘It was always money, that was the thing. To pay for the drugs. The people she mixed with, they changed. And then there was this one man, quite a bit older than Michelle. I disliked him immediately.’
‘Just to be clear, Mrs LaCroix, are you saying that Michelle had a drug problem? We found no trace of addiction. Her skin was free of needle marks.’
‘She was never an addict, not the hard stuff. But pills, marijuana, anything she could ingest. She – how do you say? – yes, she drew the line at heroin.’
Mr LaCroix was a tense, silent presence at his wife’s side. He wore the look of a man who knew that it was pointless trying to stem the flow now that it had begun.
‘And this man – a boyfriend, perhaps? He was one of the visitors at that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you recall a name?’
Françoise LaCroix made a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m not sure if Michelle ever introduced us. I haven’t seen him since that time.’
‘I see. Again, can you describe him?’
‘Medium height. Thin. And thin hair, also. The beard, it is red – ginger, you call it, yes? Skinny.’
‘British?’
‘I think so, perhaps. Maurice?’
Mr LaCroix rolled his shoulders. ‘I don’t remember this fellow very well.’
‘Is that Michelle?’ Moran pointed to a photograph on the mantelpiece. It depicted a girl of around ten or eleven in a garden. Her expression was sullen, despite the best efforts of an older child who was, judging from her wide smile and the way she was looking at Michelle, clearly making an effort to get Michelle to loosen up for the camera.
‘Yes,’ Françoise LaCroix nodded. ‘You see, even then, the mood.’
‘Kids and cameras, eh? Never predictable.’ Moran stood up. ‘Well, thank you both for your time. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any news.’
‘Please, when can we lay our Michelle to rest? It is hard, just waiting.’ Françoise LaCroix’s voice was steady but her right hand, raised in involuntary supplication, was trembling. She dropped it to her lap, pressed the fingers of her other hand to the rebellious limb as she waited for Moran’s response.
‘Of course,’ Moran said. ‘I wish I could give you a definite answer.’ He paused. ‘But much depends upon the quality and accuracy of the information we receive. We’re making progress, but we can’t do it all on our own.’ Here he looked pointedly at Maurice LaCroix. ‘The better informed we are, the quicker everything will run.’
‘Thank you Inspector.’ Françoise LaCroix stood up and extended her hand. This time there was no trace of a wobble. We are grateful for everything you are doing.’
Maurice LaCroix was already in the hall, ready to usher Moran out of the house, but Moran paused in the doorway, turned back to face the open lounge. ‘Mrs LaCroix, you mentioned overhearing conversations between this red-haired man and Michelle? Do you recall the subject matter?’
‘Money,’ Mrs LaCroix said. ‘Michelle was to receive a large sum of money. They spoke about where the cash was to be collected. I thought drugs again, but then I wondered, no, maybe something else, something worse.’
Moran nodded. ‘Like selling an organ on the black market?’
Françoise LaCroix looked at the carpet. For a few moments the bungalow fell silent. Outside, a dog’s monotone staccato was drowned out by the escalating lunchtime traffic.
‘Why?’ she asked eventually. ‘After everything we had done for her? Why would she do such a terrible thing?’
‘We’ll find out,’ Moran said. ‘I promise you that.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘DCI Moran, you say?’
Tess nodded. ‘That’s right.’
DI Gordon Kellaway gave an appreciative nod in return. ‘One of the good guys. Worked with him ten years ago, or thereabouts. Where does it go, eh?’
‘Sir?’
‘The time.’
‘Oh, yes. I know. Absolutely right. Flies away, doesn’t it?’ Tess willed a smile which, judging from DI Kellaway’s expression, might well have come over as more of a grimace.
He frowned, looked her up and down. ‘Bit irregular, this, if I’m honest. Normal procedure would be for your guv’nor to give me a call.’
‘It’s such a high-p
rofile case, sir. The media have pretty much surrounded the station in Reading. DCI Moran is – well, the whole team, actually – we’re pretty flat-out at the moment.’
‘Mm. So I heard. And this might give you a lead?’
‘Sir.’ Tess bit her lip as Kellaway considered his options: protocol versus helpful co-operation.
Please… please…
Kellaway evidently wasn’t one for procrastination because her prayer was swiftly answered. ‘All right, understood,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘Better come with me, DC Martin. I’ll winkle out our star asset. See if he can help you – be surprised if he can’t.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Tess followed as Kellaway scanned them into a wide open-plan and down an aisle between workstations. He called over his shoulder. ‘We’re just down the end here. Squeezed us in as a favour, otherwise we’d be up the Smoke, battling through rush hour every day. Not a good option in my humble.’
As they passed through the office, Tess wondered what a super-recogniser would look like. In her mind was an image of the ‘Brains’ character from the Sixties TV show Thunderbirds. The reality, however, turned out to be rather more conventional.
Kellaway halted at a workstation where a small man with receding hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves was earnestly studying his monitor. ‘DC Martin – allow me to introduce DC Simon Dungey. The man who – quite literally – never forgets a face.’
They shook hands.
Kellaway nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Anything else you need, let me know.’
‘Thank you, sir. I really appreciate–’
Kellaway waved Tess’ sentiments aside. ‘Not at all. A pleasure. Hope it helps. Send Moran my best when you see him.’
‘Sir.’
DC Dungey had turned back to his monitor. Tess hovered, waiting for him to finish. She fished the envelope from her bag and shook out the photo. Having gained access without undue suspicion, her adrenaline levels were sinking fast. Fatigue was beginning to creep through her body like anaesthesia. Maybe someone would offer her a coffee. She rustled the envelope, coughed discreetly.
Dungey took the hint and looked up. ‘Sorry. Bit snowed under this morning. What can I do for you?’
Tess thrust the photograph at him. ‘I need an ID. This guy’ll have previous, I’m sure.’
Dungey took the photo, adjusted his glasses. ‘Context?’
Tess hesitated. The less Dungey knew, the less chance of the team finding out what she was up to. She opted for a sketchy answer. ‘Robbery, a few break-ins. Berkshire area.’
Dungey nodded. ‘Something special about him, though? Otherwise why bother us?’
‘Sorry, confidential.’
Dungey sighed. ‘Yeah, right.’ He studied the photo. Presently he gave a short laugh, handed it back.
‘What?’
‘One minute.’ Dungey was back on the keyboard, tapping away. He entered a line of text, tapped enter. The screen refreshed. ‘Here you go.’
Tess peered over Dungey’s shoulder at the displayed information. The image in the photo looked right. A man in his late forties, round-faced, balding with the remnants of his hair buzzed short. Dungey was reading the text.
‘Aaron Povey. Forty-eight years old. Previous convictions: fraud, breaking and entering. Eighteen months suspended sentence in 2016. Some guff about his mum being ill. Judge bought it. Small time.’ Dungey grinned and looked up at Tess. ‘His speciality was door-to-door fraud. Sometimes a meter reader, sometimes a window-cleaner. Always the elderly. Scumbag. So, is he up to his usual in the Royal County, then?’
‘Kind of,’ Tess nodded. ‘Still old people, in a manner of speaking.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Sorry, can’t say more, but – but that’s amazing, thank you. How did you know? I mean, how on earth do you remember faces like that when the software doesn’t even work?’
Dungey tapped his temple. ‘I don’t question it,’ he said. ‘It just works. Don’t ask me to explain, because I can’t.’
‘Well, I’m very grateful,’ Tess told him. ‘Thanks so much.’
‘Want a printout?’
‘Sure, yes, that would be great.’
Traffic had thinned as Tess hit the Oxford ring road. Beside her on the empty passenger seat lay the printout, the information she’d been asked to procure. The question was, what next?
I’ll find you…
Tess waited at a set of traffic lights, agonising. She was ahead of the game. For now. Her only hope of identifying her tormentor was lying on the seat next to her. Aaron Povey had seen what had happened in the churchyard. He’d witnessed Michelle LaCroix’s burial, seen the perpetrators at work. If she could persuade him to share that knowledge … well, she might be able to turn the tables.
A horn sounded, made her jump. The lights had changed and a queue was forming behind her. She crunched the gears and put her foot down.
A few minutes later she took the Cowley turnoff; best to stick to the back roads until she hit Reading. She knew where Povey lived, on the east side of town near Cemetery Junction. But how would he react? Tess chewed her lip. It didn’t matter; she was a cop, she had evidence of his felony. He’d talk, for sure.
What time was it? Eleven-thirty. The team would be wondering where she was. Should she call in? No, not yet. Not till she’d seen Povey. She’d worry about what to tell them later.
As she passed the arboretum at Nuneham Courtenay a police vehicle zipped by, coming the other way. She felt her heart skip, glanced in the mirror. The patrol car’s speed and direction was constant. Nothing to worry about.
You’re not a criminal, Tess…
Not yet. Withholding information from a police murder enquiry was a serious matter. A disciplinary for sure, at best. At worst, she’d be drummed out of the force. But they’d understand, surely, that she’d been threatened?
Would they…?
Enough. Find your man, Tess. Concentrate.
She sped along the A4074, passing the Pack Saddle pub and golf course on her left, and slowed as she arrived at the Caversham suburbs. Ten minutes later she was on the IDR heading towards Cemetery Junction. She fretted that she might spot Collingworth, or maybe Moran or George, on the busy distribution road – or rather that they’d spot her – but her fears proved unfounded. She turned off Kings Road, into Eldon Road, and finally into Eldon Square, where she parked in a free slot by the memorial garden and killed the engine.
What if Povey was out? What then?
She took a deep breath. Then you wait.
Number nine was the nearest house facing her as she walked briskly into Eldon Terrace. It was a quiet side road, just five terraces and a pub, the Eldon Arms, popular for its local music events. There was a side alley running alongside number nine – a potential escape route should Povey decide to make a run for it, but she could ring the bell and keep an eye on the alley at the same time. All she had to do was take a step back and watch both exits, front and rear.
She rang the bell.
Seconds later, the door opened.
Povey looked half-asleep, but it was definitely him. He was smaller than his photograph suggested, unshaven, half-dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a dirty, off-yellow vest. He looked Tess up and down. ‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Povey. I have some news for you. May I come in?’
‘What, I’ve won the lottery or summin’?’
‘Not exactly.’ Tess smiled in what she hoped was an engaging fashion. Showing her ID would be too provocative. Best keep him on the back foot.
Povey held the door open. ‘Better come in, then.’
The room was tiny, just a sofa and matching armchair, a scruffy coffee table laden with dirty cups and takeaway cartons, an ancient TV in one corner. ‘Sit down, then.’
Tess sat gingerly on the edge of the armchair. ‘Listen, Mr Povey, and listen well. First of all, I want you to know that my colleagues are outside. If they don’t hear from me in two minutes, they’ll be coming in, and you don�
��t want that to happen, trust me.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Povey growled.
‘That’s immaterial for the moment. What does matter is what I know about you. About your visit to St Swithun’s churchyard several nights ago.’
‘I dunno what–’
‘You saw something, didn’t you? You and your buddy. You were hoping that a recent burial might be worth a quick exhumation, right? But then you saw something going on. Something interesting.’
‘You can’t prove any–’
‘Oh, but I can.’ Tess produced the photograph. ‘I have copies, of course.’
Povey’s mouth opened and closed.
‘The ring you found on Michelle LaCroix’s finger, the finger you cut off, remember? You pawned it. That’s you, right here, making the deal in the pawn shop.’ Tess tapped the photograph with her nail.
‘I never cut it off. That was Jimmy’s idea.’
‘Jimmy. Your mate.’ Thanks for that. Of course you had to have a mate. This grave-robbing lark is a two-man job, right?’
‘You’re a cop, ain’t you? I can smell it.’ Povey’s fists bunched.
‘I’m not a cop this morning. I want information, that’s all.’
‘You ain’t goin’ to arrest me?’
‘Like I said, I’m off-duty right now, following a … personal lead.’
‘Oh yeah?’
The smell in the small room was overpowering, a combination of stale food and sweat. Povey had obviously been kipping on the sofa; a dirty duvet cover lay half-on, half-off, trailing onto the threadbare carpet. Tess leaned forward, trying not to gag.
‘I want to know what you saw. Exactly what you saw. Descriptions. What went down that night. If I’m happy with what I hear, I might just forget I ever saw this photograph. Got it?’
Povey rested his head on the back of the sofa’s tattered headrest. ‘What else?’
‘That’s all I need.’
‘Nah, I mean what else is on offer?’ Povey’s expression had taken on a sly edginess.
‘You have to be kidding me.’ Tess shook her head. ‘Your reward is your get out of jail card. Because jail is where you’ll go this time, trust me, sickly relatives or otherwise.’
