The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down
Page 20
‘Pictures? Photographs?’
‘It was darker inside than out. If there were pictures, I didn’t see…’ He stopped. Now would be a bad time to get something wrong. Think. ‘There must have been something on the walls,’ he said eventually.
‘Why must there?’ asked Proust.
‘Like I said, I didn’t notice. I’d more likely have noticed if the walls were bare than if they weren’t. People usually put something up, don’t they? Put it this way: nothing about the room struck me as odd. It looked… lived in. Normal.’
‘Did you see anything leaning against a wall?’ asked Dunning.
Simon hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Like what?’
‘You say the room looked lived in?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So nothing you saw suggested to you that people might recently have moved in?’
‘No. Such as?’
‘Packing crates, maybe pictures leaning against the wall, waiting to be put up? Picture hooks, a hammer? Cardboard boxes with “dining room” written on them?’
‘No. Nothing like that.’
Dunning retrieved the photograph, replaced it in his file. ‘What next?’ Proust asked.
The bad feeling Simon had about all this intensified with each question. ‘I went to get a kebab from a takeaway I’d passed on the way in-don’t ask me where or what it was called. Junction of Ruskington Road and Muswell Hill Road, turn right, keep going for about four hundred yards or so. I got my kebab, then I drove back to Ruskington Road, sat in my car and ate it, waiting for Seed to come back.’
‘In effect, you staked out Mr Seed’s car, and 23 Ruskington Road,’ said Proust.
‘Yes.’
‘Did Mr Seed return?’
‘Yes, sir. At about half past nine. He and the woman I’d seen at the meeting, the speaker with the tied-back brown hair, they walked up the road together towards the house-number 23.’
‘Were they speaking as they walked?’ asked Dunning.
‘She was.’
‘Did you hear any of what she said?’
‘No.’
‘Her tone? Could you gauge her mood?’
‘Good,’ said Simon without hesitation. ‘She was prattling on, like people do when they’re happy or excited. They stopped by Seed’s car and he opened the boot, took something out…’
‘What?’ Dunning pounced.
‘I couldn’t see-there was a van in the way. Whatever it was, he carried it into number 23. The woman unlocked the door and opened it for him, and they both went in. A light went on in that window, the one you were asking about. I moved my car, drew level with the house to try and see in, but I had to move after a few seconds-there were cars coming up behind me. There’s traffic parked along both sides of Ruskington Road, so overtaking’s impossible. All I saw before I had to move was the woman drawing the curtains, still talking, and Seed standing behind her.’ Simon looked at Dunning. ‘After that, I called it a night, drove back home.’ He cleared his throat, realising he’d inadvertently lied. ‘Actually, I… I drove to Sergeant Zailer’s house.’
‘Does the name Len Smith mean anything to you?’ asked Dunning.
‘No.’ Simon had had enough. This man was a detective, like him. Cooperation ought to work both ways. ‘What’s going on? Did something happen at the house after I left?’
Dunning produced another photograph from his file and thrust it in front of Simon’s face. ‘Have you seen this person before? ’
Simon found himself staring at a heavily made-up woman with short hair that seemed to sweep back from her face in waves. It was a completely different look, but he recognised her all the same. ‘Yeah. It’s her, the speaker from Quaker Quest.’ Olive Oyl.
‘The woman you saw enter 23 Ruskington Road in the company of Aidan Seed?’ Dunning clarified.
Simon nodded.
‘Her name’s Gemma Crowther. She was killed last night,’ said Dunning. From his tone, he might have been filling Simon in on the football results. ‘Shot. In her dining room, some time before midnight-that’s when her partner, Stephen Elton, came home and found her. He’d been at Quaker Quest too, but he stayed to clear up after the meeting.’
‘The fat bald guy?’ Simon asked.
‘No.’ Dunning dropped Olive Oyl’s picture on Proust’s desk and pulled out one of a young man-perhaps as young as early twenties, or else the photo was an old one-with prominent cheekbones and shoulder-length dark blond hair. All he needed was some of his girlfriend’s make-up and he could have been the front man of a glam rock band. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
Dunning continued to hold the photograph aloft as he said, ‘So you saw Gemma Crowther alive and well at half past nine…’
‘Seed killed her,’ said Simon. As he was saying it, it occurred to him that he ought to wait, oughtn’t to give Dunning the impression that he was someone who leaped to conclusions in advance of having all the facts. Too late. ‘Have you got him?’
‘You’re not hearing me, DC Waterhouse. As things stand, I’ve got you, by your own account, as the last person to see Gemma alive.’
‘You mean apart from Aidan Seed?’
Dunning carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve got two witnesses telling me you were behaving suspiciously near her home-looking through windows, hanging around in your car, watching the house. They made a note of your car registration, thought you were a would-be burglar, picking your moment to break in.’
‘I’ve explained what I was doing there.’
‘I’ve got no one’s word but yours that Aidan Seed was at Quaker Quest or at 23 Ruskington Road yesterday, and I know you think nothing of lying. I just heard you lie to your guvnor when he asked where you were yesterday. I’ve also heard you’ve got a history of, among other things, violent outbursts and obsessive behaviour. You’ve been a detective for longer than I have-you put all that together and tell me what you come up with.’
Simon had trained himself, over the years, to see keeping his temper in check as a feat of strength. Dunning was trying to get a rise out of him; he needed to pour the full force of his anger into resisting. These days he knew how to turn himself into a rock-impermeable. It didn’t feel like weakness any more, not hammering people to the ground with his fists when they pissed him off.
‘I don’t understand why you’d care enough to tail Aidan Seed to London instead of making your and everyone else’s life easier by following through on the action you’d been assigned,’ said Dunning. ‘That’s something you’ll have to explain to me. A man who’s committed no crime…’
‘Hasn’t he? If Gemma Crowther’s dead at midnight and I saw Seed with her at half past nine…?’
‘There were thirty-seven people at the meeting at Friends House,’ said Dunning. ‘Unless they’re all lying, not one of them knows the name Aidan Seed. According to them, and to Stephen Elton, Gemma’s partner, she left the meeting with a Len Smith, a social worker from Maida Vale who’d become a good friend of hers.’
‘Does the physical description match Seed’s?’ Simon asked. ‘A social worker from Maida Vale? I take it you’ve had no luck finding him.’
‘I’m told Smith has been attending regularly for several weeks.’
‘There is no Len Smith! It was Seed-he’s your killer. I saw him go into that house with her. Unless one of your witnesses saw him drive away while she was still alive…’
‘Neither of them saw you drive away when you say you did,’ Dunning announced with a smug smile-his first. ‘Shortly after half past nine.’
‘I didn’t leave then or they weren’t looking then?’ said Simon angrily. ‘There’s a difference. Ask your witnesses if they saw Seed’s car outside the house. Get a photo of Seed and show it to the Quaker lot-they’ll tell you he’s the man they know as Len Smith.’
Dunning gave him a look he’d used himself many times, on
scrotes who wouldn’t talk.
‘You’re not serious?’ said Simon. ‘Me? I’m on your side of the fence. I lock up the killers.’ Proust sat hunched over his desk like a stone effigy, saying nothing.
‘I’m part of a team of twelve,’ said Dunning matter-of-factly. ‘In my team, we stick to our tasking briefs. Different detectives are handling different aspects of the investigation into Gemma Crowther’s death, and guess what? I got you, babe. Which means you and I are going on a little trip to the Big Smoke, and you’re going to elaborate on the story I’ve just heard from your DI about you and Sergeant Charlotte Zailer-who’s also your fiancée, I believe?’
Simon hated the way he said it as if it were somehow questionable, as if his and Charlie’s engagement meant neither of them could be trusted. Babe? Had Dunning called him that, or had he imagined it?
‘… your and Sergeant Zailer’s fixation on Aidan Seed, his girlfriend Ruth Bussey and a woman called Mary Trelease.’
‘All people you should be speaking to,’ Simon told him. ‘Are you?’
‘You’re going to make me understand why you care so much about all these people, and let’s hope the story makes more sense than it did the first time I heard it. At the moment, the way I see it, I’ve got one in the bag: someone in the right place at the right time, behaving irrationally and suspiciously-that someone being you.’ Not giving Simon a chance to respond, Dunning asked, ‘Where’s Sergeant Zailer?’
‘Off work. Sick.’
‘You mean at home?’
‘Far as I know.’
‘Was she in London with you yesterday evening?’
‘No.’
‘Where was she?’
‘At Ruth Bussey’s house.’ Simon sighed. ‘Look, we don’t have to have a problem here. I’ll tell you what I know, and I’ll tell you what I don’t know but strongly suspect. Same goes for Charlie-Sergeant Zailer. You want to put your murder case to bed, the best way to do that quickly and efficiently is to let us help you.’
Proust stood up, leaning his hands on his knees as he rose. Simon had almost forgotten he was there. ‘If I’m about to lose DC Waterhouse, I need to find out where we’re up to on various things so that I can sort out handover. Can you give us a moment, DC Dunning?’
‘Handover?’ Simon echoed. How long did Proust think he’d be gone?
‘Fine.’ Dunning headed for the door. ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’
Once they were alone, Proust said, ‘DC Dunning has tried several times to reach Sergeant Zailer at home, with no success. If you know where she is, I’d strongly advise you to share that information with him.’ The inspector sounded distant. Tired. For once, Simon wouldn’t have minded a spurt of his customary garrulous sarcasm. No point apologising for yesterday; he wasn’t sorry. The only mistake he’d made was to leave London when he did; he might have saved Gemma Crowther’s life if he’d stayed another hour.
He knew what he’d tell Dunning about Charlie: fuck all. She was in a state, and wanted as few people as possible to know. Proust, at least, wasn’t asking to be told; only that Simon should reveal all to Dunning. Handover. ‘Sir, much as I’d like to be shot of Nancy Beddoes, there’s no need to reassign anything of mine-chances are I’ll be back later today.’
‘There is no chance, DC Waterhouse, that you will return to this building later today, or tomorrow, or the day after.’
Simon regretted his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Dunning’s trying it on, sir. He’ll change his tune. He knows I’m telling the truth and he knows I can help him.’
‘I had no choice but to try to explain your interest in Aidan Seed,’ said Proust. ‘Just so that we’re clear. Soon as I heard you’d been in London, I knew it had to be related to Seed. I presented the facts as fairly as I could, and I told Dunning you’ve got good instincts and a good track record. I couldn’t pretend you hadn’t had your ups and downs over the years, but I made sure to put them in context. I don’t believe I could have done any more.’
‘Sir, for…’ Simon felt his control slipping. ‘You’re talking as if we’re never going to see each other again. We both know Seed’s going to be charged with Gemma Crowther’s murder…’
‘Do we?’ The inspector turned away from Simon and faced the 2008 planner that was Blu-tacked to the wall behind his desk.
‘Forget Dunning for a second, sir. You agree with me, don’t you? Seed killed Gemma Crowther-he must have. Think of what we know for certain: Ruth Bussey said she was scared something bad was going to happen. Last night, she told Charlie Seed had been away a lot, lying about where he was. Turns out he’s been pretending to be a Quaker, to get close to Crowther. Knowing he was going to kill her. He told me he believed only in the material world, facts and science-so what’s he doing at a Quaker rally? Dunning asked me if I could gauge Gemma Crowther’s mood, but he didn’t ask me about Seed. While she was chatting away merrily, he had a face like a thundercloud.’ Like a man who knew he was about to kill somebody, as soon as the curtains were drawn. Simon kept the thought to himself, knowing how it would be received. ‘Ruth Bussey also told Charlie he’d changed his story: not that he’d killed Mary Trelease, but that he was seeing the future, a future in which he was going to kill her.’
‘DC Waterhouse…’
‘Sir, we’ve got to treat that as a threat, and act on it. Tell me that’s going to happen, whether I’m here or not. We can’t leave this to Dunning. Do you trust him, after what you’ve just heard? I don’t. Mary Trelease is ours, not his. Dunning doesn’t care if Seed’s on his way round to Megson Crescent with a shooter while he’s wasting time leafing through my Reg 9s-it’s not his patch, is it?’
‘Enough,’ said Proust quietly.
Simon was determined to stir him up. ‘Ruth Bussey told Charlie last night that a man’s been hanging round outside her house, showing an unhealthy interest. Charlie thought she was probably imagining it, until Bussey showed her the CCTV footage. ’
‘CCTV?’ It was difficult to read a person’s back, but Simon had the impression from the sudden tensing of the shoulders that Proust regretted asking, allowing himself to be drawn in.
‘Bussey lives in the lodge house at the entrance to Blantyre Park. Apparently she was so concerned about this man that she asked her landlord to install surveillance cameras. Anyway, soon as Charlie got a look at his face, she recognised him. His name’s Kerry Gatti. He works for First Call.’ Simon knew Proust would have heard of the firm, and waited for him to ask in what capacity Gatti was employed there, or to comment on the cruelty of giving a boy a girl’s name. Nothing. ‘He’s a private investigator, sir,’ Simon told him.
No response.
‘Did you hear what Dunning said about Gemma Crowther’s partner? He got back at midnight. The meeting must have finished at nine, or thereabouts. How long does it take to clear up a hall? Is the boyfriend a suspect? An associate of Seed’s, perhaps? What’s Dunning told you that he hasn’t told me?’ Simon picked up the empty mug on Proust’s desk, made as if to launch it at the back of his head. He replaced it with a bang; even that got no reaction. ‘Len Smith’s got to be Seed, right?’
‘Call DC Dunning back in,’ said Proust. ‘You can discuss your concerns with him, from Crowther’s boyfriend’s alibi to your bafflement over the inconsistency of Aidan Seed’s metaphysical position.’ Finally, he turned round. The surface of his skin was webbed with colour; his face looked like a blood-blister waiting to burst. ‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer your questions about this case. Because of your apparent involvement in it. This is what you set in motion when you deliberately deceived me and Sergeant Kombothekra and charged down to London to meet the Light Brigade. This: the situation we find ourselves in. I’m sorry if it’s not to your taste.’
Simon was pleased to get a response. ‘Mary Trelease said “Not me”, when Charlie told her Seed had confessed to killing her. She said it twice-“Not me”. Charlie thought she was trying to suggest Seed had killed someone else.’
‘She denied it, sir. But she would, wouldn’t she? If she’d fully made up her mind to talk, she’d talk. If she was scared, though, maybe she’d only risk a hint-the sort that can easily be explained away if you lose your nerve.’
‘Where’s Sergeant Zailer today? She’s not ill in bed, is she?’
Simon’s answer was too slow in coming, as slow as the change in the Snowman’s demeanour was instant. The eyes glazed and froze, the face slackened. So this is how it feels to be cut loose, thought Simon, as Proust gestured for Dunning to come back in and take out the rubbish.
Dominic Lund chuckled. ‘You’re on a hiding to nothing,’ he told Charlie, his mouth full of spaghetti bolognese. A line of oily orange sauce snaked down his chin. ‘If a case could be made, I’d happily take your money and make it, even if we were guaranteed to lose. I like cases like that. Usually win them too. This, though? You know it’s a joke, right?’ He delivered his expert opinion without once looking at Charlie, then laughed again, as if to illustrate his point. She’d noticed that he preferred not to look at people directly; he’d dictated his food order to his open menu, not to the waiter standing beside him with a notepad.
Lund was an intellectual property lawyer, a partner at Ellingham Sandler’s London office. He was tall, dark, heavily built, fat around the middle, and looked to be in his mid-forties. Olivia had recommended him. ‘I doubt there’s anything you can do about it,’ she’d said on the phone last night, ‘but Dominic Lund’s the person to ask. That man works miracles. He’s the person to have on your side.’ Charlie had deliberately blanked out the first part, heard only that here was someone who might be able to help her. A miracle-worker. He’d been fourth on a list of the most influential names in UK law, according to Liv. The editor of a newspaper she regularly freelanced for had been awarded a huge sum in compensation after a rival daily printed a photograph of her leaving a substance abuse treatment clinic. Both the victory and the hugeness of the sum had been down to Lund, apparently.