An Early Grave

by Robert McCracken

  ‘Take another look around the house, John. Inside and out. You’ve brought the key?’

  ‘No problem, Mam,’ he replied, showing the key in the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’ll be around here if you’re looking for me.’

  Wilson made his way inside the house, while Tara wandered slowly down a narrow walkway at the end of the row of houses on the opposite side of the parking bay. She emerged at the front of the row and a few yards along found herself at the home of Callum Armour. She had nothing specific to ask him, unless he was ready to provide more information on the killing, but she felt compelled to check on him. His stories of a serial killer hunting down the alumni of Latimer College still intrigued her. The questions Aisling posed the other night had irked her. To her friend, everything to do with men was black and white. Were they good looking? No, move on. Yes. Were they loaded? No, move on. Yes. Get in there. It was as good a philosophy as any other she could dream up. Her one major sojourn into romance had been a disaster that nearly cost her a degree from Oxford. Why not think more like Aisling? Enjoy men, but keep your defences up. Don’t let them call the shots. Was Callum Armour good looking? Probably, under that dreadful beard and filthy clothes. Was he rich? Probably not, unless he stashed his money under a mattress. She didn’t think him the type to trust a bank. Now, here was a question that Aisling, more than likely, had never considered of a man. Was he a killer? Don’t know; move on.

  She knocked on his front door. The house was quiet; no dog barking, no sounds of chain locks or bars pulling free. A strong wind beat against her on the exposed doorstep, a chill wind for high summer. He was probably out walking that smelly dog. Forgetting almost that she was standing by his door, she gazed around the street wondering if any of the girls she’d met the previous week were about. She’d be very interested to get them on their own, away from the male of their species. What would be their take on hearing that porn films were made in the house where Audra had died? Had anyone ever approached them to take part in filming?

  She was about to turn away from Callum’s when a man stepped from the house next door. Billy Hughes, a hefty man, slow on his feet, greased back hair like a well-aged Elvis, called out to her.

  ‘Nobody in, luv.’

  ‘Do you know when he will be back?’

  ‘Are you from the police?’ He said it like he didn’t believe for a second that the little girl before him could actually be a police detective.

  ‘Detective Inspector Grogan. I’m investigating the murder of the young girl last week.’

  ‘Shockin’ that was. Don’t know what the world’s coming to. An end probably. The like of that happening ‘round here. A little foreign girl, wasn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right. Did you know her at all?’ He shook his head and waddled down the garden path in his tatty slippers and navy trousers held by braces over a plain white shirt.

  ‘There’s no such thing as neighbours anymore. Used to be everybody knew each other else round here. You might not know their whole life story, but you could always stop and say hello. Now? Nobody has any time for you. You never know who’s coming or going. You’ve no idea who’s living right beside you. Some of them hardly speak a word of English anyway.’

  Sorry she’d asked, and still no answer to her question, she retreated down the path only to realise Billy Hughes was heading in her direction.

  ‘See young Callum?’ He nodded towards the barricaded house. ‘Lying up in Aintree.’

  ‘Hospital? What happened?’

  ‘Somebody took a dislike to the lad. Used one of them Taser guns on him, and then gave him a hiding.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad enough. Lay in the alley all Friday night. Freezing cold when they found him. There’s some bad kids round here. Callum never did anybody any harm. He’s a bit messed up, but he’s had a hard life. And the poor dog, too.’

  ‘What happened to Midgey?’ She said it like she had feelings for the smelly mutt, but she would never wish it harm.

  ‘They nailed the poor brute to a fence. Vet had to put it down.’

  Tara felt a shiver down her back. Her mother always said she could never have made a doctor or a nurse. Couldn’t even bear to talk about pain and injury never mind have to treat a patient. The thought of what the poor dog suffered left her feeling nauseous.

  ‘Any idea who might have done this?’

  Billy Hughes shook his head.

  ‘Round here? Could’ve been anybody, luv.’

  She thanked Callum’s neighbour and hurried back along the alley to find Wilson leaning against the bonnet of the car, hands in pockets, quite content it appeared, to wait for her rather than find something useful to occupy him. Before she could reach him, a young girl, wheeling a buggy and child, emerged from the back yard of a house, three down from the murder scene. Tara’s eyes met those of the pregnant girl she’d encountered the previous week. It was obvious the girl did not wish to speak with her; she looked in a quandary over which direction to go, but it was too late.

  ‘Hello, Debbie, isn’t it?’

  Resigned to her fate, the girl stopped, glared at Tara but didn’t speak.

  ‘I didn’t realise you lived so close to where Audra Bagdonas was murdered.’

  ‘I told you I didn’t know her.’ Debbie looked like a girl with something on her mind; a furrowed brow did not look appealing in one so young.

  ‘You told me that Liths and Poles came and went from the house?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I knew any of them.’

  ‘What about men? See any men going in?’

  ‘A couple of times, but I don’t know who they were. Spoke foreign.’

  ‘Did anyone ever ask you to go inside with them?’ Debbie shook her head, her eyes set firmly on the boy in the buggy, well turned out in a red track suit with blue and white trim, his gaze fixed on the police car.

  Tara knew she was getting nowhere. The more questions she asked the more these kids seemed to clam up as if they took it as a personal humiliation to be interviewed by the bizees. She decided upon a different tack.

  ‘So, when are you due?’

  ‘End of the month,’ Debbie replied, instinctively rubbing a hand across her bump.

  ‘And this one is yours, too?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s eighteen months now. Isn’t that right, Curtis?’ She ran her hand through the child’s thick black curls.’

  ‘I’m sure Daddy is proud?’

  ‘His Dad’s a prick,’ Debbie announced with vigour.

  Tara waited for more.

  ‘You saw him the other night. Kevin. The friggin’ lizard on the bike?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Tara, recalling the spindly legged youth who seemed to cower behind the girls at the merest hint of trouble. ‘But he must be pleased there’s another on the way?’

  ‘He’s not the dad of this one.’ She patted her bump again. ‘Mark’s the father this time. He’s the one who took your picture.’

  Tara didn’t know how to look or what to say. She knew she had bags of sympathy for this young girl, and she was concerned about the kids. Debbie seemed an attentive mother, but Tara wouldn’t wish that lad in the Everton shirt on her worst enemy.

  ‘Does Mark have a second name?’

  ‘Crawley,’ Debbie replied with growing irritation.

  ‘Why does he have a grudge against Mr Armour?’ The girl shrugged, avoiding further eye contact. ‘Did Mark ever go into the house with Audra or with any of the other girls?’

  ‘I don’t know everything he does. I better go now.’ She hurried away.

  ‘Thanks, Debbie. Good luck for the end of the month.’ Turning to Wilson, she said. ‘I didn’t think I was getting old until now.’ She climbed into the car, and Wilson started the engine. ‘I need to call at Aintree Hospital on the way back.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Wilson remained in the car, fiddling with the radio. Tara asked at reception for the ward to which Callum Armour had been admitted. A few minutes later s
he stepped from the lift on the fourth floor of the tower block and entered a medical ward. After asking a nurse sitting by a desk where she might find Mr Armour, she was directed to the second bay on the right. She found Callum on a bed by a window overlooking the main hospital entrance. She almost didn’t recognise him. There lay a man looking five years younger, clean shaven, hair washed and brushed, his face, however, swollen on the right side with a purple bruise from his temple to his lower jaw. He attempted a smile when he noticed her approach, lifting his right arm and bending it at the elbow to wave. Two of the remaining three beds in the bay were occupied by men in their late sixties, Tara guessed. They both stared as she passed by, one of them busy expelling phlegm into a cardboard tray. The other lay on his bed, legs crossed at his feet, a Jack Higgins novel open in his right hand.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Tara’s voice was full of concern, more than she intended to show, compassion overtaking the professional nature of her visit. She quickly moved to his left, hoping his injuries would not look as severe from that side. Already the blood was draining from her head, and she shuddered. Hospitals were not high on her list of favourite places.

  ‘They killed my wee dog,’ he said, though it was clear that talking was difficult through a swollen face.

  Tara pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. She had a sudden urge to touch him, to place her hand as comfort upon his. Just as quickly she withdrew it. Confused by her own feelings, she realised this was going to be an awkward conversation. She kept telling herself that it was purely an interview, aware also that another police officer may well have taken charge of Callum’s case. That really he was no concern of hers.

  ‘I am so sorry, Callum. Have you any idea who did this to you?’

  He looked at her, this time without belligerence, stubbornness or flippancy, but didn’t answer.

  ‘Didn’t you see or hear anything?’

  ‘I didn’t hear him speak, but I saw his feet. It was him.’

  ‘You think it was Justin Kingsley?’

  ‘Why not? He’s killed my wife and child, my friends from Oxford, why not come after me?’

  Tara was more inclined to suspect the kids on the estate, those who harassed Callum, branding him a paedophile.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s more likely that those kids who hang around your street did this to you? Mark Crawley, for instance?’

  He fell silent once again, and once again she realised he was holding something back.

  ‘We can get you moved from Treadwater, Callum. Somewhere that’s safer.’

  ‘No way. I grew up in that house. My old neighbours are all right; it’s just these gangs about the place, people who didn’t know me when I was a kid.’

  ‘Maybe you should take a break, get away for a while. Is there someone I can call for you? Do you have family nearby?’

  He shook his head then winced in pain.

  ‘Parents are dead. Mum died just before Emily was born. Dad went a couple of years ago. That’s why I came home. To look after him. He drank himself to death after Mum. Only fifty six. You know the rest about Tilly.’

  ‘Do you have friends or other relatives?’ She found this hard going, but she knew nothing about this man except for his theories of how his wife, daughter and friends had been killed. He looked to be tiring of her questions.

  ‘I have one Uncle, Mum’s brother. Lives in Belfast. Haven’t seen him in years. No close friends.’

  ‘Tell me what happened to you, Callum. Why have you ended up living like you do? House boarded up, living under siege?’

  ‘Midgey was my father’s dog. Nine he would have been. I hadn’t the heart to get rid of him when Dad died. He ended up good company for me.’

  ‘I know it’s difficult at the moment, but they say whenever a pet dies you should go right out and get another one. A bit like falling off a bicycle. Getting straight back on is all part of the healing process.’

  ‘Do you think I should have done that after Tilly and Emily died? I should have gone straight out and got myself another family?’

  A nurse came into the bay, performing her observations of each patient: blood pressure, temperature, asking the old men how they were feeling and whether they needed something for pain. She seemed a pleasant girl in the royal blue of a staff nurse, a round face, freckled nose and short black hair. She looked at Tara and, although it was not official visiting time, she appeared to understand that Tara was no ordinary visitor.

  ‘I’ll come back later and do you, Callum,’ she said smiling at them both.

  ‘Thanks, Ruth,’ Callum replied.

  ‘What did you do after Tilly?’

  ‘Do you mean apart from wishing every day that I had the guts to join her?’

  They both let that one hang for a moment. She examined his face, blotched red in places from the shaving of his beard, removed in order to treat the gashes under his chin. She had decided he was a handsome man and tried to picture him as a student at Latimer, then as a young husband to Tilly and father to Emily. How utterly sad it was to witness the decline of a decent man who now seemed hell-bent on wasting the remainder of his life. With most silences between two relative strangers someone always succumbs, feeling the need to plug the gap.

  ‘I couldn’t stay on at Oxford,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t live at our house in Shiplake. For one thing I couldn’t stand the pain of having to drive over that level crossing every day. My post-doc project was nearly complete anyway, so I got myself a job teaching chemistry, in a private school of all places. At least Sussex was well away from Oxford.’

  ‘Did it not work out?’

  He laughed at the question. But at least he was engaging with her and seemingly glad of the company.

  ‘Understatement of the year.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Four months in to the job and it was okay. Most of the teachers were friendly, and the students didn’t seem to mind me. Then a fifth-former, a girl, very pretty but knew it, and confident beyond her years - precocious, I’d say in hindsight - offered herself to me.’ He closed his eyes as if he were picturing the scene all over again. ‘I didn’t. Honest, I didn’t lay a finger on her. But for some reason, whether it was revenge for my rejecting her, I don’t know, she went to her parents, and obviously they took it to the headmaster. Luckily for somebody, I’m not sure who, the board of governors wanted to avoid any unpleasantness. That’s how they put it. I’d only been there a few months, didn’t even have to resign. They let me go, for want of a better phrase.’

  He’d gradually slipped down the bed in the time Tara had been there but, with some difficulty in a hospital gown, he managed to right himself.

  ‘And you came home to Liverpool?’

  ‘Only option I had left. Dad was very ill by then, so I moved back to look after him.’

  ‘When did the trouble start with the local youths?’

  ‘It began slowly after Dad passed away. I know my appearance went to pot, and it puts some people off, makes them suspicious. Doesn’t take long for rumours to start. I have wondered though if somehow word found its way from Sussex to Netherton about me being let go.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Justin Kingsley?’

  ‘Why not? Easy enough for him to have set me up. Paid the girl to make the accusation. Then he spreads a few stories around Treadwater.’

  ‘You’re letting your imagination or your paranoia run away with you.’

  ‘The murder of Tilly and Emily is not down to my paranoia.’

  He looked away from her, watching the man across the bay struggle to climb out of bed. Tara didn’t have the answers Callum needed to hear, and she resorted again to the guise of social worker.

  ‘Maybe we can get some of your neighbours together, to make a stand against these kids? I can get the Community Liaison Officer to advise on Neighbourhood Watch, and we have a Youth Diversion Scheme that can perhaps deal with this particular band of kids, try to steer them into doing something positive for the area.�
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  He looked neither impressed nor interested in her suggestions, his response merely to reach for the newspaper lying on the trolley over his bed.

  ‘I found this,’ he said, reaching her The Guardian. She spotted the story immediately, but didn’t get to read it. ‘Jian was murdered, Tara.’

  She glanced at him, the first time he had called her by her first name. It seemed to herald an upward step in their precarious relationship.

  ‘He drowned in Lake Lucerne, but that was after someone rammed a spike into his brain. That’s four murders, Tara: my wife, my daughter and two friends. Three of them, alumni of Latimer College. You tell me there is no connection.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Superintendent Tweedy, Tara saw through the glass partition, stood in his office talking down at Murray. She didn’t think it a private conversation and tapped lightly on the door. Tweedy acknowledged her with an upward twitch of his head, and she stepped inside.

  ‘Tara, how did you get on?’

  ‘Not much to add, I’m afraid, sir. A neighbour, three doors down from the scene, told me that there were several girls and men who came and went from the house. She wasn’t aware of the alleged activities going on inside. One other thing, Callum Armour was attacked last Friday night. He’s in hospital with concussion, some cuts and bruises.’