CHAPTER 21
He hadn’t slept in his house since the night before he was attacked and wee Midgey savagely nailed to a fence. Not that he’d missed the place much. But he did pine for Midgey. He regretted his failure to protect his only friend. The dog had been his only company in more than two years and his only source of love. He’d felt clean in the hospital, the first time in over two years. Today he’d eaten the best meal since Tilly had last cooked them a dinner of rump steak, sautéed potatoes, broccoli and vine tomatoes. He could see it on his plate, upon their old dining table. The table had been the worse for wear, an antique he claimed; she didn’t agree but loved it anyway. Emily lay asleep in her cot, the baby monitor switched on. They could hear her gentle sighing breaths, the odd murmur as she wrestled on the mattress threatening to wake, demanding attention and scuppering their plans for the evening. Their last evening together as it turned out. Palm Sunday, not that he was aware of the religious significance, but he realised it later when Good Friday became the day scorched in his mind, the day Tilly and Emily were taken from him. He didn’t deserve them, wasn’t worthy, so God had called them home. That’s what the vicar had said at the funeral; God had called them home. Sometimes he longed even for those few intervening days, Palm Sunday to Good Friday, Holy Week, to have spent them together. Instead he had travelled from Shiplake to Oxford on the Monday, spent the week in the lab working hard with Jian and kipping down in his rooms at Latimer. They wanted to push on with Jian’s project, generate some results before the Easter break. Tilly didn’t mind; she would have peace to work on the latest draft of her fourth novel. As long as Emily was settled. They had spoken at least twice each day, fired numerous texts back and forth as Tilly, in addition to working on her novel, also tried to get things packed for their Easter holiday in Devon. That was how he last pictured her, darting about the house, manuscript in one hand, a phone in the other, or Emily in her arms as she searched for shoes, wash-bags and clean towels to pack in the cases. He recalled her exasperated sigh when she realised he was still at the lab instead of sitting on the train for Reading. If he’d caught the earlier train maybe they would still be with him, maybe God wouldn’t have called them home. He’d been running late, and God called them home.
His head pounded again from the trauma of the beating and the jolts of electricity that had shuddered through his body. He’d felt much better lying in hospital. Now the feeling of disorientation returned, of being unaware of what happened but knowing it was bad, knowing that someone had stood over him intending to do him harm. His ribs ached, bruised by the kicks of his attacker, his arms and legs stiff from the reflex of his body as it feebly yet instinctively defended itself.
He went to the bathroom; three pints of beer had that effect on him. Moving afterwards to the back bedroom, thinking only of sleeping for a long time, he stepped between the stacks of books, boxes of ornaments and knick-knacks belonging to his mother, old bedding and towels and the bundles of newspapers he’d amassed in three years. He stood by the window looking into the cul-de-sac, scanning the rear of the houses with their wooden fences, garden sheds and conservatories. For a while he stared at the back door of number six, wondering about Audra. The pregnant girl emerged from the gate of the house three doors down. She looked ready to pop as she wheeled her young son across the tarmac. Suddenly a youth, tall and wiry, appeared from an alley and ran to catch up with her. She stopped, and they spoke for a few moments. Then the girl moved on, the youth watching as she hurried away. He was remonstrating; Callum could hear his raised voice but couldn’t make out the words. The girl turned and shouted something in reply. Walking off again she was around the corner and out of sight in a few paces. The boy, in jeans and an orange basketball vest, watched her go. His head dropped as he turned and ambled in the opposite direction. We all have problems, Callum thought. He would gladly trade all of his for whatever troubled the kid in the street.
He gazed at his bed. After three nights in hospital, clean sheets, soft pillows and adjustable back-rest, he didn’t think he could manage to sleep in this room. When darkness came, though, it didn’t much matter where he lay. His nights were always the same. Tilly and Emily floated in the air before him; now, two of his friends had joined them. If he was lucky he would fall into sleep.
He worried what Tara would ask him to do. He’d spent the last two years doing nothing but building his grievances with the world, with the police, the social services and his neighbours. The less he did the more he feared doing anything. Now she was asking him to go down south. That meant travel; it meant visiting places full of memories, it meant speaking to people he had not spoken to since the funeral. He wouldn’t cope with it. He’d fall to pieces and make a fool of himself. Tara would have to go alone.
Downstairs he settled into the bundles of papers he regarded as an easy chair and watched the light fade into darkness.
*
He heard banging on his door. Loud, insistent. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Let him sleep. He heard muffled shouts. Thumping on the wooden door. Cold and stiff, he lay sprawled over the disintegrating chair as the bundles of paper shifted upon themselves. Still the banging. If only he was properly cold and stiff. Peace then.
But the voice he now heard was not one of menace or threat. A girl’s shout, a pleading call. He rose quickly, and feeling the blood sink to his feet and his head go light he staggered to the front door. He pulled at the bolt, undid the chain and turned the latch. Daylight rushed at him.
‘I’ve been knocking for ages, Callum.’
‘Sorry. I was sleeping.’
‘Yes, well some of us have a day’s work to go to.’ She didn’t wait for an invitation, barging past him into the living-room. In this case it was hardly the right adjective for the place. He closed the door and joined her inside.
She had no time for pity this morning, no time for abhorrence at the state of the place or the state of her host. She had things for him to do, and she was adamant that he would not shirk them.
‘I want all of that taken care of by close of play today,’ she said, handing him a buff folder. He stared at her, taking little notice of the file. ‘No excuses, Callum. You want my help in this; you do as I say.’
He closed his eyes and blew air through his lips.
‘And you needn’t start that pitiful downtrodden act of yours. We all have problems, Callum. You’re an intelligent man. An intelligent man wouldn’t sink to this life. Now read what’s inside. Two minutes and I have to go. I’m due at the morgue by nine o’clock.’
His eyes widened, trying to show an appreciation for her being there with him before she’d even gone to work. She stood with arms folded, waiting belligerently for him to examine the contents of the file. She commentated as he began to read.
‘I want you to set up appointments for this weekend, Friday to Monday, with all of those people. Make up some plausible excuse for meeting them. I can’t do it. When we go to London, I go as your friend. I can’t go as a police officer, understand?’ He nodded and continued reading. ‘Do you have any money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Buy some half-decent clothes. Doesn’t have to be anything formal: shirts, trousers and new shoes. Get a haircut, and make sure that beard doesn’t grow back. I’m not travelling the length of England with a tramp. When you’ve done all of that, start clearing up around here. While you’re at it, look for something in all that paperwork that might give us some clue where Kingsley got to when he bolted and why he wants to kill off alumni of Latimer College. Any questions before I go?’
‘I don’t have a phone. Mobiles are not good for…’
‘Don’t start with all that health scare nonsense. You’re an Oxford graduate; figure something out. I’ll call in on my way home.’
She opened the front door, leaving him clasping the folder that was about to dictate his day.
‘Remember what I said. You mess it up, the deal’s off.’
*
Murray was al
ready waiting inside the city mortuary in Pembroke Place when Tara rushed from her car. She knew he would enjoy seeing her late and fraught, having battled traffic in the city centre at this hour of the morning. Of course, he merely offered a weak smile as if this sort of thing happened regularly. Two women stood close by, looking on as she proffered her excuses.
‘This is Miss Laima Gabrys and Miss Ruta Mankus,’ said Murray, doing well to remember the girl’s names. ‘Miss Gabrys worked with Audra at the Bradbury Hotel.’ She looked to be a girl in her early twenties, but Tara imagined she might have been of similar age to Audra. Pasty skin on a small face, she had delicate looking bones and a thin jaw line. Mousey hair swept back in a ponytail, her pale blue eyes darted nervously from the detectives to her companion. She thrust her hands into the pockets of a grey anorak, and her tight black denims accentuated the thinness of the legs within. Ruta Mankus looked the warmer of the two girls, heavily dyed hair, a deep mahogany, a brown tinge to her cheeks and a mulberry lipstick on thin lips. Her figure contrasted sharply to that of her friend, sturdy thighs, wide hips and a bust stretching her white T-shirt and padded bra beneath. Chewing gum, her expression seemed more chilled out than the nervy Miss Gabrys.
‘I thought you said there would be three?’ Tara asked Murray.
‘Our friend Eva did not want to see her,’ said Ruta Mankus.
‘That’s fine. Has DS Murray told you what to expect when we go in?’
Both girls nodded once.
‘Right, let’s get it over with then.’
Murray led them through a set of fire doors and, thirty feet along a corridor, he turned left and held a second door open for them to enter. This was another aspect of the job that Tara didn’t think she would ever grow used to. She hated hospitals, period. Couldn’t understand how Kate spent her entire working day with the smells, the noises of trolleys wheeling along corridors, beeps and bleeps of medical equipment and worst of all those depressing clothes of smocks and lab coats, the colour coding of careers: nurses in royal blue, sisters in red, doctors in whatever they pleased unless in surgical green. She shuddered at the vision of it all. This room, off the main post-mortem suite, produced an echo from the tiled walls, inducing whispers among gatherings such as this.
A body lay under a white cover on top of a trolley near the centre of the room. A technician, male, late thirties, sallow but clean shaven, stood close by, evidently awaiting the signal from Murray to uncover the face for the girls to witness. Tara moved to the opposite side of the trolley from where Murray stood with the two friends. A little hint given to her by Tweedy was, in circumstances of homicide, where the person required to identify the body might also be a suspect, it made good sense to observe their reactions upon seeing the victim. Murray gave the expected nod to the technician, who then stepped forward and, with two hands, lifted the sheet clear of the head and shoulders of the dead girl. Tara was surprised to see the stronger looking of the two girls, Ruta Mankus, clasp a hand to her mouth, the other hand reaching out to her companion. She whimpered; tears filled her eyes as they looked towards Tara.
‘Can you please confirm if this is Audra Bagdonas?’ said Murray in a formal tone. The smaller girl, Laima Gabrys, nodded slowly, her gaze never once leaving the grey white face of the victim.
‘Thank you, that’s all,’ said Murray to the technician. The head of Audra Bagdonas was concealed once more beneath the stiff white sheet.
Tara led the girls, followed by Murray, to one of the police interview rooms in this homicide section of the mortuary. She offered both girls a drink of water and invited them to sit to one side of a small rectangular table. Murray remained standing, while Tara sat opposite the girls.
‘Before DS Murray takes some details from you both I would like to ask a couple of questions, if you are feeling up to it?’ She looked at the girls, and they both nodded. ‘Tell me about Audra, what kind of girl was she?’
Ruta Mankus sniffed back some tears, but was first to answer. Her English was clear, her words well chosen, but heavily accented.
‘Audra was only teenager. Nice, quiet girl and hard worker.’ Tara waited for the other girl to offer something, but she remained impassive, her pale complexion seemed to have lightened further.
‘Did she have boyfriends?’
The girls looked at each other before Ruta answered.
‘No boyfriends here in England. Boyfriend at home in Lithuania.’
‘What did she do when she was not working? Did she go out with friends? Did she spend time with you?’
‘Sometimes with us,’ said Ruta, ‘But not all the time. We did not know sometimes where she go.’
‘The house in Treadwater, where she was found, did you ever go there with her?’
‘No. I don’t know this place.’
‘Audra had DVDs in her room. Do you know anything about those?’
Tara stared at Laima Gabrys, willing her to contribute something. Ruta Mankus appeared to realise.
‘Laima does not speak good English.’ Murray, standing to the side, rolled his eyes in disbelief.
‘Then perhaps you could translate for her?’ said Tara.
‘We don’t know about DVDs.’
‘The house where you live, do you own it, or do you pay rent?’
‘Pay rent.’
‘Do you know who owns the property?’
Mankus shook her head.
‘Agency, we rent from agency.’
‘OK, thank you for taking the time to come here this morning. I may need to ask some more questions, but for now I will leave you with DS Murray.’
Returning to St. Anne Street Station, Tara made plans for her weekend to London with Callum. Murray returned a short while later, looking pensive.
‘So what did you make of that pair?’ he asked, placing himself on the edge of her desk.
‘Didn’t believe a word. I think they rehearsed all of that between them. They know a lot more of what Audra was getting in to before her murder. The Mankus girl was at least thirty; should have her wits about her.’
‘I can tell you that Laima Gabrys speaks reasonable English. They seemed to forget that I met them a couple of days ago. Gabrys told me then about working with Audra at the Bradbury. And that’s not the only thing they got up to. If you have a few minutes, I think you should take a peek at the DVDs.’
Tara winced. Embarrassing watching alone, never mind in the presence of a male colleague, but he seemed to be taking a professional line. She felt that she must do the same.
Murray had a lap-top sitting in a small meeting room separated from their office by a glass partition. She sat down beside him, he clicked on the mouse, a disc whirred in the machine, and in a few seconds an unsteady image appeared on the screen. Murray increased the volume, although at that point the only sounds were a few moans and the hum of background noise. In the first few minutes none of what she saw held any significance, nor was it particularly shocking in its content.
‘Likelihood is that this standard of film was intended for television, the adult channels, of course,’ said Murray. Then he added, ‘The woman who runs the shop in Bootle told me. No images of penetration…’
‘Ok, Alan. I understand. Can you move on to what is relevant?’ A lecture on the making of adult films would not make her feel any more comfortable. She felt herself flush. She wasn’t a prude, but she found it difficult to understand how anyone would seek gratification from watching the likes of this. Murray clicked the mouse a couple of times, and the images switched to new scenes.
‘I think this is the most relevant piece.’
Within seconds the naked body of Audra Bagdonas was clearly visible. Apart from the scene at the mortuary, when a sheet was involved, Tara had only ever seen this girl naked. She lay on a single bed, set against a wall, her head propped on pillows, the naked frame of a man leaning over her. What he was doing was not entirely visible on camera, but it didn’t take much imagination to figure it out.
‘Ok, so that is
Audra. We now have confirmation that she was involved in making these films.’
‘Keep watching,’ said Murray. A minute or so passed, very slowly for Tara, and all she could do was wonder what Audra had been thinking and feeling as the man, whose head and face remained obscured, continued having vigorous, unappealing sex with her. She wondered also if Audra actually had been a fully consensual participant. If not, then what she and Murray were watching was a gross act of rape. Had matters cruelly descended from Audra’s rape to her murder? Had her final moments of life been filmed?
Suddenly, Audra and her partner disappeared, and another girl, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, filled the screen. She sat upon a carpeted staircase, a broad smile on thin lips, brown hair lapping at her shoulders. It wasn’t long before a naked male showed up, the girl now obscured by his torso.
‘Ruta Mankus, I would say,’ said Murray as if Tara needed reminding of the girl she’d met just two hours earlier.
‘Not surprising in the end,’ she said. ‘Something was going on with that girl this morning.’
An Early Grave Page 14
