‘So, tell me about the box-file?’
He had the bag on his lap, and from it he removed the battered file. After some searching among the papers, he produced a newspaper cutting and offered it to Tara. She could see it was one reporting the disappearance of a student while on a ski holiday in Austria. She looked inquiringly at Armour in a way that suggested he should explain.
‘He’s back.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Justin Kingsley disappeared ten years ago in Austria, but he has returned to England.’ He rifled the box again, growing impatient with his search. Clearly, Tara had upset the definite order of its contents. He showed her the piece reporting the copycat Becket murder.
‘He did it.’
‘Justin Kingsley?’
He nodded and resumed his rummage in the box, producing next the inquest report on the death of the children’s writer Tilly Reason. Tara took the paper from him and for the second time that day read through the story. Again, she noted the inquest verdict as accidental death.
‘He did it.’
Tara felt her unease grow. Clearly this man had no intention of giving her information about the girl murdered in the house close by. Did he know anything of the murder? That she couldn’t yet tell. For a second she thought that maybe this file had come from the murder scene, or the victim had given it to him before she died, or that he killed her to get hold of it. Tara felt a sudden panic that she had to get out of the house. This man was a nutcase. Murray was just outside; she could make an excuse to return to the car. Her dinner date with the girls; she could use that. But it was as if Callum Armour had suddenly read her thoughts, sensed her confusion, saw the fear emerging on her face. He began talking. Openly.
‘She was my wife, and Emily was my daughter. He killed them both. I know it. Then, for some reason, he killed Peter Ramsey, and I don’t think he’s finished.’
‘It says here that the inquest recorded accidental death?’ Armour shook his head, lowering it into his hands. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed back tears.
‘It was murder.’
She scanned through the story on the Cathedral slaying.
‘Kent Police are working on the basis that this was committed by a religious fanatic or someone with a grievance against the church?’
‘It was Kingsley.’
There was a sudden banging. The front door. Armour jumped in fright but made no attempt to rise from his seat. The dog went spare, barking loudly at the window. Tara stepped through the stacks of papers, made her way to the hall and opened the front door.
‘You all right, Mam?’ Murray was intent upon coming inside, but she pushed him gently back.
‘I’m okay. Wait in the car. I won’t be long.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ll explain later.’ She closed the door and picked her way back to the sofa in the living room. Armour was again searching through the box-file.
‘What motive would this Justin Kingsley have to kill your wife and child?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And Peter Ramsey?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why would he have waited so long since the time of his disappearance before killing any of these people?’
Armour stared coldly at Tara.
‘I don’t know.’
Further questions, she realised, would be futile. The man was living with his traumatic past and coping badly. He looked lost. His eyes moved, searching for the answers as if they should be right there in front of him, printed on one of the many cuttings from newspapers and magazines littering his room. It wasn’t hard to recognise a broken man nursing a broken heart.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Callum, but I don’t think I can help you. These deaths are all tragic, horrible for you, and sometimes it’s hard to face up to something when you really believe differently. I’m sure the police in Kent are working very hard to catch the person who killed Peter Ramsey. Maybe if you have some information that might be of help you can contact them directly, or I could do it for you. My job at the moment is to catch the person who killed the girl we found in the house behind yours.’
Tara jumped suddenly as Armour leapt from his seat and dived towards her. She struggled to her feet, to avoid his lunge then blushed instantly, realising he was not coming at her.
He looked shocked by her reaction then he began rummaging through the files on the sofa. Papers were tossed across the room as he discarded one box after another. Relieved that she wasn’t under attack, Tara looked on helplessly as his search became more frantic.
‘What are you looking for?’ Ignoring her question he lost himself in his quest. A mobile beeped. She had a text.
‘Where r u?’
It was Aisling. Tara replied that she was running late and would join them soon. Callum stood before her brandishing a greetings card. She took it from him and gave it a cursory examination.
‘With Deepest Sympathy on the Death of Your Wife,’ she read from the printed card. Nothing written inside, merely a picture of flowers below the message on the front. Slowly she shook her head.
‘I don’t understand.’
He looked quite pleased with himself, the closest he’d been to smiling.
‘I got this on the day Tilly and Emily died.’
‘It’s a sympathy card, Callum. I’m sure you received lots of them.’
‘It was given to me before she died. I was on my way home. She was on her way to pick me up at the station when she was killed. I had the card with me on the train.’
For the first time she became conscious of his strange sounding accent, a blend of Scouse and Northern Ireland.
‘I told the police about it at the time, but they said that I was probably mistaken. I wasn’t thinking straight, upset by the death of my wife and daughter. Eventually, one of the officers on the case tried to check up on it, but he drew a blank. Wasn’t even mentioned at the inquest.’
She looked again at the picture of flowers, such paltry comfort to a man who’d had his whole life torn apart.
‘You’re sure about this?’
He nodded once.
There was an almighty crack, and instinctively they both ducked. The noise came from the back of the house. The dog barked. Tara rushed through the hall to the dreary kitchen. Callum followed her.
‘It’s those damned kids,’ he said.
‘Open the door.’ She stepped back as he fumbled with a key and released a hefty bar lock. When he pulled the door open, she barged past him into a small yard. She heard laughter and running footsteps. A male voice jeered. A female giggled. Standing on tip-toes and peering over the wooden fence, she spotted one youth lingering at the end of the street. The Everton shirt.
‘Why don’t you grow up,’ she shouted. The reply was a volley of whoops and jeers. Turning to Callum, she offered a look of sympathy. He didn’t appear to notice, and with head lowered returned to his kitchen. She watched him restore his home to a secure footing, locking the door and drawing the bolt. She smiled, a gesture of understanding, but again he dropped his gaze.
‘The CCTV wasn’t working,’ he said on his way back to the living room. She hadn’t noticed any at the house, recalling the police recommendation that he should have it installed. ‘At Shiplake crossing,’ he added.
‘Oh, I thought…’ she didn’t bother explaining.
‘Justin must have known that it wasn’t working and took his chance.’
‘To do what?’
‘He must have pushed Tilly’s car onto the crossing into the path of the train, or drove it on himself then put Tilly at the wheel. To do that he must have killed her first.’
Tiring of his theory, she felt the need to bring their meeting to a definite close.
‘I’m sorry, Callum. I appreciate your frustration, really I do, but I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. There’s nothing I can do to help you. Even if what you say is true, these deaths happened down south. I don’t
have the authority to start an investigation off my patch.’ She noticed the despair in his eyes. Wearily, he dropped into the armchair. ‘I don’t see any connection between the death of your wife, a murder in Canterbury three years later and the disappearance of a student in Austria ten years ago. Did you know Peter Ramsey or Justin Kingsley?
‘We were students together: Tilly, Peter, Justin and me.’
‘And that’s the only link?’
‘Like I said, I don’t think he’s finished yet. He could kill again.’
She noted his factual tone, a man with growing confidence in his theory.
‘Who would he kill?’
‘I think he has something against us, against the others.’
She thought of Murray and Wilson’s remarks that Armour was a conspiracy theorist. He’d told her nothing about the killing of the young girl, and now she had trouble believing in his murder mystery stories.
‘Look, Callum, if you have something specific, some hard evidence that this Kingsley guy is intent on doing harm, I will pass it on to the relevant authorities for you. Aside from that I don’t see how I can help you any further.’
She edged her way around a stack of books to reach the hall.
‘They were making movies in the house,’ he said.
‘Which house?’ She spun around to face him.
‘Where you found the girl. Pornographic movies.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I watched them going in with video cameras. I saw the lights, late at night, in the bedroom. Not ordinary lights, bright, like a floodlight or a spotlight.’
‘Who?’
He shrugged; not so much because he didn’t know but instead had decided he wasn’t telling anymore. Tara guessed his motive.
‘Who, Callum. Men? Women? How many?’
‘A few. I don’t remember exactly.’ Tara knew there was more, but she knew him well enough already to see that he had a calculating and stubborn streak. She would have to be patient.
‘Please try. Call me if you think of anything else.’
‘We were students at Latimer College, Oxford. Tilly, Peter, Justin and me.’
Tara’s eyes widened. Nerves floated across her stomach. She looked Callum in the face; saw the dazzle of conceit in his dark eyes. At last a smile, though hardly welcome, stretched across his mouth.
‘I helped you; now you have to help me.’
‘Why, Callum? Why ask for my help?’
He went back to the living room, returning moments later holding a magazine. He opened it at the penultimate page and handed it to her. Immediately, she recognised the photograph of herself in police uniform. She didn’t have to read the short paragraph beneath.
‘You were also a student at Latimer,’ he said.
Without a word, she closed the page and returned his copy of the Oxford Alumni magazine.
CHAPTER 6
‘Where have you been? And look at the state of you.’
‘Really sorry girls. Something came up, and I couldn’t get away.’
‘And are these your work clothes?’ said Aisling, looking her up and down, a derogatory smirk clouding her usually stunning pout. Foolishly, Tara thought she might have got away by letting her hair down, giving it a good brushing and putting on some eye-liner and lipstick in the station washroom. No chance. Aisling could spot dull, inexpensive trouser suits at fifty yards. And flat heels? Should have known it wouldn’t work.
Kate looked different from the last time they’d gone out, having spent the afternoon at the hairdressers and now sporting her new colour. In the subdued light of Mal Maison it appeared orange, which meant in daylight it must be a shocking orange. Fortunately, Kate wore her hair quite short, and tonight it was a tidy orange bob. She kept it short, she claimed, because it saved her from tying it in a bun or a pony-tail to work on the heart ward at The Royal. Tara hoped that tomorrow the sight of Kate didn’t trigger any cardiac arrests among patients.
‘First night out in months,’ said Kate, ‘And you dress for a wake?’
‘It’s not that bad,’ said Aisling. ‘She’s only dressed as a waitress for a wake.’
Aisling was the expert among them on dressing up. Always turned out well, because, as she often said, ‘You never know when I might fall into the arms of a millionaire.’ This evening it was a short, clinging dress in navy, well-tanned legs and dizzily high heels. She looked great, perched on a stool, legs crossed, copious black ringlets tumbling off her shoulders, large startled-looking brown eyes always on the hunt for talent. Tara and Kate were both in awe of their friend, had been since third form at Upton Hall. She worked for a Liverpool promotions company at the centre of the biggest and best city events, concerts, shows and sporting occasions. Didn’t mean a huge amount financially but, as Aisling was always quick to mention, it got her close to the people who had bucket loads, and one day soon she would marry some of it. Kate was only marginally taller than Tara, a little heavier, and to compliment the orange hairdo wore a cream strap dress above the knee and embellished with sequins.
Tara sat on the stool her friends had been keeping for her, while they browsed the dinner menu. Kate sipped white wine, Chardy, while Aisling, true to her Irish roots, enjoyed a pint of Guinness. A glass of tonic, ice and lemon, but minus the vodka, was ready and waiting for Tara. She was glad of it. Her throat ached from a day spent in heavy conversations, first with Tweedy, Wilson and Murray, then Callum Armour, and finishing again with Murray as he drove her from Treadwater back to the station on St Anne Street. Now, as she tried to unwind, she regretted telling him so much of what went on at Armour’s house. She had to share the details of the case with him, but wished she’d kept it till morning. Murray had a tendency to jump the gun at times. She had another strange pang of nerves rippling across her stomach.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ she repeated.
‘We cancelled dinner,’ said Aisling.
‘Don’t listen to her,’ said Kate. ‘There’s still time for us to eat. I’m starving. Aisling only eats a stick of celery anyway.’
‘Tell you what, to make up for me trashing your evening, how about a sleep-over at my place on Friday? I’ll cook.’
‘Yay,’ said Kate, in the voice of a thirteen-year-old. Aisling laughed a hearty infectious laugh.
‘Do we get to bring some men?’ she said, ‘Or will you supply those as well?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘What about a couple of those nice policemen you work with?’
‘That would be novel for you,’ said Kate. ‘What do you think your Dad would say about you lying with a couple of bizees? He thinks his precious daughter’s still a virgin.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ said Tara, laughing. ‘I’m a bizee now, you know?’
‘I know, luv,’ said Kate, her hand placed affectionately on Tara’s arm, ‘But we’ve forgiven you for that.’
‘Hey,’ cried Aisling, ‘What the hell do you mean? Me lying with a couple of bizees. What do you think I am?’
‘I said two, because I thought maybe you were cutting back,’ Kate replied.
Tara nearly choked on a lemon pip.
‘Cheeky cow.’ Aisling mocked a snub of Kate and turned to Tara. ‘Well, any men, bizees or otherwise on the sniff?’
‘Not a one,’ Tara replied.
‘So that faraway look has nothing to do with a man wanting into your knickers?’
Tara was well used to this. Aisling spoke her thoughts; spoke what all of them thought with not the slightest hint of modesty or restraint.
‘Fair enough,’ said Aisling when Tara had nothing to add. ‘Just be careful, all right?’
It felt great to be having fun. Didn’t take much for the three of them to conjure a good time. Tara needed more of this. She wouldn’t cope with the pains of her job if she didn’t have these girls and these times to enjoy, even if they were becoming less frequent. Strange though, tonight she was unable to squeeze from her mind the picture of one man. And Aisling had su
ssed it. How surreal it felt when he pulled the Alumni magazine from a bundle in that bizarre armchair and showed her a picture of herself in uniform. Tara Grogan, the caption read, graduate of Latimer College, now a Detective Inspector with the Merseyside Police. She wondered how Callum Armour spent his evenings.
CHAPTER 7
Dr Zhou Jian breathed easy. Despite his nerves his presentation had gone well, although his shirt clung to his back from sweating in the heat of the auditorium. Conference delegates had received his paper ‘Recent Advances in the Detection of Adulterated Food in China,’ with interest. Quite a few questions were asked and several requests made for reprints of the paper. He was pleased. It was the culmination of two years’ work, investigating cases of food contamination and the development of analytical methods for detection of the contaminants. Kudos for him and his department at Yanshan University. Not such good news for those arrested and charged with deliberate adulteration of food. The ring leaders faced the death penalty, some had already been executed. That’s the kind of justice they administered in his homeland. No one would care; the actions of a few unscrupulous business men had caused the deaths of more than thirty people, mostly children. All done to make money by defrauding their customers and ultimately harming the consumer. He’d detected such chemicals as melamine, commonly used in manufacturing plastics but added illegally to powdered milk to increase the nitrogen concentration, used as a measure of the protein content in food. He’d uncovered instances where food processors had deliberately used horsemeat and pork in beef products, and where low grade chicken meat was passed off as organic produce. Drugs such as nitrofuran antibiotics, banned for use in rearing food-producing animals because they are carcinogens, and azo dyes, also carcinogens, used to kill parasites in fish: he detected all of them. Jian had investigated the companies involved and performed thousands of tests to detect the substances in food products to prevent them from reaching the shops and supermarkets. Consequently, he’d received a number of threats. Samples he’d collected were stolen from his lab, his wife verbally abused by strangers in the street, acid thrown on his car and his tyres slashed. He was simply doing his job and never imagined that his life could be at risk. He worked for his university and his government, and he expected that same government to protect him.
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