An Early Grave

by Robert McCracken

  ‘She doesn’t sound like a very nice person.’

  He shook his head and drank some beer.

  ‘Everyone loved her. She and Tilly were a hell of a pair. Yes, she was over-bearing, but she knew exactly where she was headed. You couldn’t help liking her. It gave you a lift simply to be in her company. Most people like her you’d say they were full of shit, but with Georgina you had no reason to doubt that she would be a success. No one dared vote her a diver. Besides, her plans were so outlandish they eclipsed all the others. She stated, to the nearest million, how much money she would be earning per year, after five years. Rhymed off the businesses she intended to have running, and when you read about her now, what she’s worth, the empire she controls, her prediction was so accurate. I’ve never met anyone like Georgina.’

  He seemed to drift into his old world for a while, while Tara looked on. One thing she had learned, and would certainly make a point of passing on to the likes of Murray and Wilson: never judge a person simply by their appearance. Callum Armour was a man who once had such a full and joyous life. He was clever, thoughtful and attractive. Immediately, she tried to dispel this last trait from her thoughts. Callum had been immensely happy once. The scale of tragedy in his life had wiped away all traces of that happiness.

  ‘You haven’t mentioned Justin Kingsley playing this game.’

  ‘Refused to play it. Charlotte and Tilly tried coaxing him, but he just sat with a grim look on his face. It was the sort of look you see in a guy who’s had far too much to drink, beyond the happy point, melancholy; you know what I mean? The time when people start bearing their soul, saying things they later regret even if they are perfectly true. Justin seemed to be getting there. When he refused to play, Georgina said something like, ‘Perhaps my Justin has no plans.’ Things went a bit flat until someone realised that Peter hadn’t taken his turn. He never seemed to take himself seriously.’

  Callum paused, stared at the photo then looked at Tara, his expression brimming with sudden realisation.

  ‘What’s wrong? Have you remembered something?’

  He closed his eyes and blew air through his lips.

  ‘Something just made sense. About Justin. It fits now; I know it.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me?’

  ‘Peter started bubbling about his future, playing for laughs, talking about becoming a priest, with us poking fun about him wearing a cassock and talking gibberish from a pulpit. He took it all in good spirit, and said,’ You may well laugh, people, but someday I will be Archbishop.’ Tilly said something like, ‘Ooh, I wonder which one?’ And Justin grunted, ‘Thomas Becket.’’

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘You think there’s a connection between Peter’s murder in Canterbury Cathedral and what Justin said before he disappeared?’

  ‘Has to be more than coincidence.’

  So far, despite Callum’s willingness to talk, Tara hadn’t learned much. It was certainly not the calibre of information to shed light on a complicated business, most of which occurred some years ago and hardly around the corner in the next street. Callum still needed pressing.

  ‘Apart from his mood that night, can you think of any reason why Justin would disappear?’

  ‘I didn’t know him that well, only through Georgina and Tilly.’

  ‘Did he feel pressure from his studies, or from exams approaching?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was destined for the law profession; his father is a QC. Maybe it was expected of him, rather than it being a path of his choosing.’

  ‘What reason would he have to harm his friends, first Tilly then Peter Ramsey and Zhou Jian?’

  ‘I really can’t understand Jian’s death. Justin only knew him through me. I brought Jian along on the ski trip. He hadn’t really socialised with the others before then. I’m not sure how well Justin knew Peter either. Again he would have met him through his mates, Ollie and Anthony, at the rowing club.’

  ‘Callum.’ Tara placed her hand gently on his forearm. ‘What if Justin is dead? That the night he walked out he intended to kill himself? People do such things.’ Callum snatched his arm away and sat upright in his chair.

  ‘Then who killed them? If Justin didn’t do it, are you suggesting that it’s merely coincidence?’ He was still clutching the photograph, but he tossed it into the open box-file and began rummaging through the contents. Tara had no answers, certainly not the answers Callum wished to hear. She needed him to consider the possibility that the conspiracy only existed inside his head.

  He wasn’t letting go without a fight.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said angrily, ‘Do you think I imagined this?’ He held out the sympathy card he’d received on the day Tilly and Emily were killed. She didn’t need to examine it. There was nothing to be gained. She wanted to believe him, but her expression betrayed her. ‘I picked this up before leaving the lab in Oxford. I was late for the train, and Tilly wanted me home early to pack for our Easter holidays. Jian’s project was running behind; I had stayed on to help him. Tilly was driving from our house in Shiplake to meet me at Reading Station.’ Tears streamed down his bruised face, his voice inflamed, while customers in the restaurant looked on. ‘They were hit by a train, Tilly and wee Emily, their car crushed and shoved a hundred yards down the track. They didn’t even make it to hospital. And I was sitting outside Pangbourne on a delayed train. I had this card with me, Tara. I wasn’t given it the next day or the day after; it didn’t come in the post. I had it with me. Whoever left that card for me knew that Tilly and Emily were going to die. The police ignored it, and it was never discussed at the inquest. Does that make it any less important? Does that mean it’s all in my head? You’re the detective; you tell me.’

  Tara felt her face burn. She felt the eyes of the people in the restaurant upon her. Now all of them knew what she was, and what she was doing with this scruffy man. Her best option, her only sensible approach, was to continue the discussion, take the heat out of it and proceed as if nothing happened. Callum eyeballed her, but she couldn’t hold his stare. His hurt, his anger gave him an irascible confidence, and she didn’t feel strong enough to wear him down. She could tell him to wise up; he didn’t have a pick of evidence to prove that Justin Kingsley did anything but walk out of a party and disappear.

  ‘What else do you know about the killing of Peter and Zhou Jian?’

  He drew a steadier breath, his anger standing down for the moment.

  ‘No more than I have already told you, and that’s only what I read in the papers.’

  She sorted through the muddle in the box, giving no response to his answer.

  ‘Why do you have this?’ Removing several paper cuttings, she reached him the story from the Oxford Mail she’d read previously, an appeal for information regarding the Baby Isis, the discovery of a baby boy found in a shallow grave near the river in Oxford. Callum shook his head.

  ‘After Tilly died, when I started looking into things, I collected any news stories I could find about Oxford during the time I was there. I have stuff on Shiplake, Strobl in Austria where we skied, and articles on Georgina and Egerton-Hyde. I’m just searching for answers. I don’t know of any other way to do it.’

  She paid the bill for lunch and suggested to Callum it was time to head back. He looked exhausted, and they both were growing irritable as she continued to ask difficult questions, and he persisted in giving only vague answers. The rain had arrived promptly, the huge swathe of cloud that had seemed to linger in the distance found its way to the village of Sefton. They dashed from the pub to her car, and once on the road to Netherton, the wipers busy and the heater blasting to dispel the mist on the windscreen, she suggested the next course of action. She didn’t dare consider the number of rules she was breaking, the advice given by her friends, and her own sensible thinking. Ten days ago she had begun an investigation into the murder of a teenage girl. At this point she had learned little more than the girl’s name. Then she’d been confronted with a bizarre case of the de
aths of four people, linked through an Oxford College and the man, who right now, sat beside her. She could see only one way of progressing both cases, and that involved the co-operation of this awkward man, who carried his and most of the world’s troubles on his back.

  ‘There’s only so much we can learn from those boxes of yours. If we trace all of the people in your photograph, speak with them, explain your theory, and ask if they have seen Justin, then maybe we’ll form a better idea of what’s been going on. We can also pay a visit to Canterbury and Oxford.’

  She was conscious that he hadn’t responded to her idea but, as she neared his street, she reckoned the best policy was to keep talking.

  ‘I’ll book a couple of days leave; we can fly down on Friday, and hopefully make it home by Sunday night.’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘What do you mean? I thought you’d jump at the chance to investigate these deaths?

  ‘I’ve told you all that I know. You’re the police; you investigate. It’s not my job. Besides, I could be the next victim.’

  Suddenly, she ran the car into a lay-by, breaking hard. She couldn’t drive and argue at the same time. Switching off the engine, she turned to face him.

  ‘But I’ve told you, Callum I can’t go poking my nose into these cases. It’s not my patch. You have to meet your old friends. Ask them about Kingsley. I’ll be there to help you along. But I can’t go on a professional basis, not as a police officer.’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You told me you wanted to find the person who killed your wife and daughter. I could lose my job doing this for you.’

  ‘You’re only doing it because you think I have more to tell you about that girl, Audra.’

  ‘And have you?’ Her large eyes looked pleadingly, but they held back her fury. She was determined not to back down.

  ‘I’m only interested in finding justice for Tilly and Emily. Beyond that I care little about my life or the life of anyone else.’

  ‘But you’re too young to give up on yourself. Tilly’s gone, Callum. I’m sure she wouldn’t want this kind of life for you. I’m sure, if she loved you, she would want you to rebuild your life, get on with things.’

  ‘Is that an offer?’

  ‘You’re forgetting I’m a police officer, and I have girlfriends who would tear you apart for being presumptuous with me.’ It brought a smile to his face.

  ‘I can’t go,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  He dropped his gaze like a scolded child. Tara couldn’t fathom this man. She didn’t have his trust, and he certainly did not have hers. He could be the killer of Audra Bagdonas, and in some bizarre manner he was deflecting the murder investigation by dreaming up stories of conspiracy. She despised and pitied him in the same breath. But she’d had enough for one day. If he was not prepared to go with her then why should she risk her career? Gunning the engine, she glanced in her rear-view and then the wing mirror. Once the road was clear she drove away. A quarter of a mile further on she turned into the estate and moments later pulled up by his front door.

  ‘I’m not going there alone, Callum. If you can’t be bothered to come with me then I’m afraid your investigation ends here.’

  Without a word he undid his seatbelt and opened the car door.

  ‘I don’t like flying,’ he said. ‘Can’t stand it.’ Tara was dumbfounded. ‘Not with all those near misses and pilots dozing off, and strange gases filling the cabins.’

  Now it was her turn to smile, and she managed it with some relief. She placed her hand on his arm.

  ‘If that’s the only reason we can go by car? Or do you have a fear of driving, too?’

  Without reply he climbed out and lifted his box-files from the back seat.

  ‘Leave those, Callum. I’d like to have another look through them. I’ll be in touch.’ He closed the car door, and stood watching as she drove away. He’d misjudged her. She was a very determined lady.

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘We have people who can identify Audra,’ said Murray, seated at his desk and munching on a chicken tikka sandwich. ‘Three girls, all Lithuanian, shared a house with her. I also found these.’ There were four DVD cases sitting on the desk, all identical in black plastic, without markings or labels.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ Tara drew a chair from a nearby desk and sat down, waiting as Murray finished the latest bite of his sandwich.

  ‘Sorry, late lunch.’ He held an open can of Coke in his right hand and the remainder of the sandwich in his left. ‘Found them in Audra’s room at the house. Buried under a pile of clothes, CDs, make up and stuff. She wasn’t exactly a tidy girl. Clothes on the floor and on the bed, shoes everywhere. I have a couple of guys down there now gathering up the lot. We can sift it and send anything of interest to the lab.’

  ‘What about her housemates, did they have anything to say?’

  ‘Funny that. They start off with perfect English, but ask them an awkward question, and suddenly they have only one language. One of them…’ He set down his Coke and pulled a notebook across the desk towards him, flicking over the top page. ‘Laima Gabrys, worked at the Bradbury Hotel with Audra.’

  ‘When did she last see her?’

  ‘Couple of days before Audra was found. I suppose that could be the day before she died, depending on the accuracy of Miss Gabrys’ memory.’ He glanced again at his notebook. ‘The last day Audra reported for work was the day before she died and she worked an early morning shift, six to two. Laima Gabrys told me they would stay over at the hotel if they had worked late the night before and were required for breakfast the following day. So it appears that Audra worked late, stayed over at the hotel, worked until two o’clock, and sometime afterwards made her way, or was taken, to the house in Treadwater.’

  ‘Do these girls know anything about her going there?’

  ‘That’s when the questions got lost in translation, and the ability to speak in English suddenly scarpered.’

  ‘You think Audra wasn’t the only girl from that house involved in the activities going on in Treadwater?’

  ‘Could be. But if they are involved in mucky movies you’d have thought they would have got rid of these.’ He indicated the DVDs on his desk.

  ‘Have you looked at them yet?’ He shook his head, and Tara guessed he was trying to make light of the task.

  ‘I thought maybe we could go through them together?’

  She rose from the chair with a smile. For a second Murray looked hopeful. Despite his bravado, Tara knew he would take it seriously, but fired him a warning just in case.

  ‘Let’s not make a party out of this, Alan. No need to round up the boys for laughs. If you need help, get Wilson to go through them with you.’

  He nodded his acknowledgement.

  ‘Depending on what you find, tomorrow we’ll have another word with the girls.’

  ‘You mean I have to spend tonight watching this stuff? This is Eastenders night.’

  ‘Nice try. I don’t believe for a second you’re the type to watch Eastenders.’

  She carried the two box-files from her car up to the flat. Once inside, she set them on her coffee table and went for a shower. Another afternoon spent in the company of Callum Armour, and she needed to feel clean. If he did agree to travel south with her she would insist he had a serious wash beforehand and decent clothes to wear. It would be her first order even if she had to pay for it.

  She left her hair towel-dry and slipped into a pair of black leggings and a baggy T-shirt. In bare feet she padded back to the lounge and met the stale smell. Those damned boxes still reeked of his pathetic lifestyle. She pushed open the doors onto the balcony, the wind catching the curtain, fanning it back into the room. The fresh air helped cool her down after the hot shower; she opened the fridge and poured some cranberry juice from a carton. She had no intentions of preparing a meal, feeling quite full from the lunch at the pub in Sefton. Flicking on the television to listen
to the six o’clock news, she finally settled down on the sofa and began to work on the box-files, still the only evidence she had relating to the deaths of the Latimer College alumni. This time she worked quickly through the jumble in both boxes. Some of the items she recognised from her first encounter but now, having an additional box, she expected to find a lot of things that were unfamiliar yet helpful to her investigation. Everything concerning Callum’s dealings with Merseyside Police and Sefton Council: letters of complaint, replies, advice and pamphlets offering help on home security, DHSS benefits, she set them all to the side. She began a pile of papers and cuttings relevant to the death of Tilly Reason and daughter Emily, one for Peter Ramsey and one for Zhou Jian, although to date there were only two newspaper stories on the scientist, one reporting his death and the other confirming that the death was regarded as murder by Swiss Police. She then examined the remaining items of papers and cuttings. The photograph from the ski holiday suggested endless possibilities for what happened to this group of people. All of them had achieved, to some extent, what Callum told her they had described in their drunken game, The Five Year Plan, but surely none of them could have predicted the tragedy that lay ahead? Three people in that picture were dead, and one had disappeared only minutes after it was taken.

  Most of the scientific literature from the box-files she placed on the pile for Zhou Jian. The report she’d read briefly from the Soil Association, on issues of food contamination in Britain, and two published papers stating Callum Armour as co-author with Zhou Jian, she added to the same pile. Articles written on the subject of air safety, health issues surrounding the use of mobile phones, the dangers of breathing fumes from diesel engines, GM crops: all of it she dropped on the floor away from the material she considered relevant. The one story that now, for a third time, pricked at her thoughts she set with the group photograph. The appeal for information by Oxfordshire Police on the tenth anniversary of the discovery of Baby Isis, even during her time at Latimer she’d heard the story. Nothing in these box-files contained much by way of happiness. She glanced over several of Callum’s bills for electricity, gas and council tax, and wondered how he managed financially. Was he entirely dependent on benefits? Had Tilly Reason left any money from her successful writing career? Among the bills were several receipts, mostly from ASDA or LIDL supermarkets, nothing of any significance except, perhaps, for the name scribbled in blue ink across one of them. She assumed that it was Callum’s writing. Teodor Sokolowski was a name she had already encountered in the investigation of the murder of Audra Bagdonas. He was proving to be the absentee landlord, the man who owned the house where Audra was murdered. But why did Callum have his name on a till receipt?