‘I’ve heard of it,’ I say. ‘I know someone who’s had one. They’re quite scary, though you get over it afterwards. I think she’s scared but she’s not admitting it. And she’s not opening her post.’
‘Oh, I wondered,’ she says. ‘Couple of times I’ve gone in in the afternoon and the letters are still on the mat. “Can’t be bothered with them,” she says. “None of it’s important.” So I put them in the kitchen. Thought she’d find them when she went to make her supper – only I don’t think she’s cooking much these days.’
I return to my mother’s front door, unlock it without ringing the bell and walk rapidly down the hall to the sitting room. I want to shout ‘ischaemic attacks’ at her and shock her into confession but I can see that this might not be the best thing for an elderly woman in questionable health. I pause at the door, take a deep breath, slip in and sit down. Her eyes are closed but she knows I’m there.
‘Haven’t you gone?’ she asks.
‘Ischaemic attacks,’ I say, quietly. ‘What can you tell me about those, Dr Sidwell?’
She doesn’t open her eyes. ‘You’ve been talking to Margaret,’ she says.
‘I’ve been talking to Margaret, who seems to know a lot more about your recent medical history than I do.’
Her eyes snap open and she sits up straight. ‘Ischaemic attacks are nothing to worry about,’ she says. ‘They’re frightening for patients if they don’t know what’s happening but they’re really nothing.’
‘And for you?’ I ask. ‘How are they for you?’
‘They are—’ She stops and waves a hand dismissively. ‘Margaret fusses,’ she says.
‘Of course she fusses. You’re not yourself. Anyone can see that.’
‘Of course I’m myself. I’m just my eighty-nine-year-old self, that’s all.’
‘I think you’re giving up.’
She gives me a long, hard look but I won’t look away. Then she hauls herself to her feet. ‘Wait here,’ she says and goes off into the bedroom. She comes back with an envelope and hands it to me. It has Virginia Gray written on it. ‘To be opened when I’m dead,’ she says, ‘and not before. If you can’t curb your curiosity – and you never could – please don’t ask me to discuss it with you.’ Then, quite unexpectedly, she leans forward to give me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Go and catch your train,’ she says.
*
Funnily enough, I’m not tempted to open my letter; I am quite content to sit on the train with it tucked into my bag because all the time it is unopened I can believe that my mother’s last message to me is to tell me that she loves me and is proud of me. Opening it can only be a disappointment.
When my phone rings a short way out of St Pancras, I scrabble for it with the conviction that it is Margaret ringing to tell me that my mother has taken a turn for the worse, and this will of course be my fault. I am amazed to find that it is my colleague, Malcolm, calling. I didn’t know that he even had my mobile number. ‘Annie gave it to me,’ he explains.
He sounds flustered and takes a while to get to the point. ‘The conversation we had the other day,’ he says, ’about the deaths on the Eastgate estate – Karen Brody and her daughter. Now they’re saying Karen was murdered, there are some things I think the police ought to know, but I can’t go to them directly. Samaritan confidentiality, you know. I wondered if I could talk to you about it and we might go through unofficial channels.’
‘To David, you mean?’
‘Well, yes.’
I am alight with curiosity, of course, but this is not the place for the conversation. ‘I’m on a train, Malcolm,’ I say. ‘We need to talk face to face, don’t we? I wasn’t going to be on campus tomorrow but I’ll come in first thing and we can have a proper talk.’
‘All right,’ he says, and I can tell that he’s disappointed; he wanted to offload his awkward knowledge right away.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out,’ and I devote the rest of my journey to speculation.
10
23.07.12
TEAM MEETING
DC Darren Floyd lounged against a table at the back of the incident room. ‘DC Arthur and I carried out a detailed examination of the delightful contents of the refuse bins in Windermere Road,’ he drawled, ‘and found nothing out of the ordinary, though I’m sure it was six hours of police time well spent.’
Scott felt the blood rise to his face. ‘I make the judgements about how you spend your time, DC Floyd,’ he said. ‘Your opinions are the least of my concerns.’
‘If I may say, boss,’ Mike Arthur intervened, ‘what we did notice was that she was a very neat housewife – Karen. All the kitchen refuse was in bags, tied up, and the recycling stuff in the other bin. The bins at the other houses were mostly a right old mess, but not hers. Proper middle class, if you know what I mean.’
Presumably what Jason Watts meant by too up herself with no good reason, Scott thought.
‘Anything from the gardens or sheds?’ he asked Mike Arthur.
‘Nothing. Traces of blood on the front path at number thirteen stop at the pavement. He obviously got into a car.’
‘Which nobody in the street saw?’
‘So they say.’
Darren Floyd chipped in. ‘Special Eastgate disability isn’t it – blind, deaf and dumb? They get benefits for it.’
He was rewarded by a mild ripple of laughter.
‘What about the Doug Brody angle, Steve?’ Scott asked Steve Boxer, noticing as he did so that Steve was looking seedier these days. He had always had a nerdy look, but now he was grubby, with the weekend’s growth of beard not shaved off that morning.
‘Not promising,’ Steve said. ‘I followed up the known associates I got from the Liverpool end. Two of them are inside; one was admitted to the Royal Liverpool Hospital on Saturday 14th July after being knifed in a fight and wasn’t released until last Friday; the other one they have a warrant out for, for armed robbery. They know he got away to Ireland and they’re pretty sure he’s not come back. There’s a watch out at ports and airports.’
‘OK.’ Scott turned to the whiteboard, from which photos of Karen and Lara Brody gazed out at them. He tapped the photo of Karen. ‘Sarah, how did you get on with Karen’s friends?’
Sarah Shepherd got to her feet. ‘I don’t think she had what you would call real friends,’ she said. ‘She’d been back in Marlbury for a year or more but she doesn’t seem to have caught up with school friends or anything. I got the names of some of them from her father – those he could remember – but none of them have seen her. The other students on her course all say they liked her: really nice, quiet, kept herself to herself. They can’t believe anyone would have wanted to hurt her – the usual sort of thing – but I didn’t get the impression that they really knew her. I talked to her personal tutor, though. He didn’t seem to know her that well either, but he had a record of her assignment marks. She had very good marks through the year but the last assignment, which was a big one, carrying a lot of marks, was late in and pretty mediocre. He had been planning to have a word with her.’
‘Her father said he thought she was worried about something,’ Scott said, turning to Paula, ‘didn’t he?’
‘And remember how Leanne reacted when we asked her if Karen was worried about anything?’ Paula asked. ‘I thought it was just because she knew she asked too much of Karen – ferrying Liam about, getting lumbered with the dog because she couldn’t cope with it – but I wonder.’
Leanne Thomas Scott wrote on the board, next to Karen Brody’s picture. ‘Karen’s sister. Also lives on Eastgate. We ought to have a picture of her up here.’
Darren Floyd stirred himself from his lounging posture. ‘You can’t think she’s a suspect,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a woman’s crime, is it?’
Scott eyed him. ‘I’ve known women do worse,’ he said, ‘but Leanne’s a much smaller, lighter woman than Karen was so I can’t see her forcing gin down her throat, but she was
probably the last person, apart from the killer, to see Karen and Lara alive. They picked Liam up from the university nursery at the end of the afternoon and walked him back to Leanne’s flat.’
‘And,’ Paula said, ‘Leanne has at least three heavy-duty locks on her front door, so what is it she’s worried about?’
‘Which brings us back to the money,’ Scott said, ‘the haul from Doug Brody’s petrol station raid. We’re pretty sure that Doug didn’t order the killings, so the next most likely motive is the money. Someone believed – rightly or wrongly – that Karen had the money, and killed her because she wouldn’t – or couldn’t – hand it over.’
‘Except—’ Sarah Shepherd spoke and then looked alarmed when all eyes turned to her. ‘Except, I was there, you know. I was the first there when the neighbour called, and it was pretty nasty – a lot of blood – but I don’t think the house had been searched – not ransacked.’
‘Which would mean that she did tell them where it was but they killed her anyway.’
‘And,’ threw in Darren Floyd, ‘it means that Leanne Thomas doesn’t have all those locks on her front door because she’s hiding Doug’s loot in her flat.’
‘We’ll talk to her again,’ Scott said. ‘And Sarah, keep going with Karen’s contacts, will you? Where are we with Jason Watts’ alibi?’
‘It checks out for what it’s worth,’ Steve Boxer said. ‘He gave us names of people who saw him working at the Caz Bar and they say they did see him but they’re none of them what you might call upright citizens.’
‘And if Jason’s got Doug’s loot then he can afford to pay them generously. Let’s put Jason Watts’ ugly mug up there too.’ He wrote the name on the board.
‘You never know,’ said Paula, ‘we might get him for hitting his girlfriend at least.’
People started stirring, gathering up their coffee cups and reaching for jackets with the sense that the meeting was coming to an end.
‘One more thing,’ Scott said, raising a hand to stop them. ‘There was an incident earlier in the afternoon on the day of the murders. It may or may not have any bearing on the case but I don’t think we can dismiss it yet. Paula, would you like to talk about it?’
She gave him a long, questioning look and then shrugged. ‘OK,’ she said.
Woman in burqa she wrote on the board. There was a gust of laughter.
‘Jesus,’ Mike Arthur said, ‘not an Islamic connection!’
‘Not with Jesus, Mike!’ someone quipped, and there was another laugh.
‘When Karen and Lara went to pick up Liam from the nursery, they had their dog with them. While she was waiting in the garden for the boy to come out, the dog got away from her and attacked an elderly woman in the full Islamic garb. No big drama. Karen got the dog back under control and the woman left. It’s probably got nothing to do with what happened later.’
‘Where had the woman come from?’ Mike Arthur asked.
‘She’d been inside the nursery. The kids were doing some sort of show. We’re assuming she was someone’s granny or some such but we haven’t tracked her down.’
‘Probably a terrorist in disguise,’ Darren Floyd called out. ‘That’s what they’re doing now, isn’t it? Putting on burqas?’
‘We don’t think so, DC Floyd,’ Scott said, ‘but we are trying to find her. How are you doing with that, Paula?’
‘I’m going into the college tomorrow.’ She turned to address the rest of the group. ‘There was an Iranian woman who spoke to her as she was leaving. I’m going to talk to her tomorrow. She goes to English classes and we thought it would be better to talk to her there. These Iranian husbands can be difficult.’
‘I’m thinking,’ Sarah Shepherd said, ‘it’s odd, isn’t it that she didn’t have a child with her when she left? If she was a granny, wouldn’t you expect her to be with her family?’
There was a silence, during which Scott realised that this was something that had bothered him about the story all along – the picture of the old woman hobbling off on her own, without the child she had come to watch. When did you ever see women in that garb on their own anyway? Didn’t she always have a man with her?
‘Maybe,’ Mike Arthur said, ‘she works at the college. Maybe she got an hour off to nip in and watch the show and then went back.’
‘In which case,’ Scott said, ‘it shouldn’t be difficult to find her.’
‘And if we do,’ Steve Boxer asked, ’what then? How would she fit in with the killings?’
Scott was reluctant to put into words the nightmare scenario that he feared. ‘The woman was humiliated,’ he said. ‘Attacked in public by a dog – and dogs are unclean animals in Islamic culture – and laughed at. The girl, Lara, laughed, apparently. We have to ask if it’s possible that someone felt honour-bound to avenge her shame.’
Silence. They exchanged glances. No-one spoke.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s it.’
As they were dispersing, his phone rang. It was Gina. He had no time for negotiating his personal life now. He let it ring and a minute later saw 1 message appear on his screen. He listened.
‘David, my colleague Malcolm has some info for you that you’ll want to hear. He’s a Samaritan and he’s pretty certain that he took a call from Karen Brody on the afternoon she died. You’ll need to hear the story from him. He’s reluctant to talk to you because of the Samaritan confidentiality ethic, so you’ll have to handle it carefully. If you can find time in your busy schedule, I suggest you come here to the college and he can fill you in. No, no, no need to thank me. Always happy to help. Byee.’
He hesitated then snapped his phone shut and put it in his pocket. She could wait.
11
Tuesday 24th July. Morning
Inadmissible Evidence
Well, it’s Tuesday again and time for another session with my wives. This afternoon, however, we are to be enlivened by the presence of DS Paula Powell, who is coming to interview my student, Jamilleh, about the mystery woman in the niqab. I have suggested that Paula comes at the end of the class because I don’t want her fluttering my chicks at the start so that we can’t get any work done, but I shall stay around to help with the interview if help is needed. That’s this afternoon, though. This morning I am helping DCI Scott to interview my colleague, Malcolm, about his phone call from Karen Brody. Helping the police with their inquiries. I’ve always liked that phrase: so tactful and so far from the truth. Help is something willingly given, isn’t it? Witnesses aren’t said to be helping the police, nor members of the public who join in those hopeless searches for the missing, and yet that is exactly what they are doing – helping. Instead the phrase is reserved for those who are not feeling particularly helpful, those who have been transported or summoned to a police station, where the voluntariness of their help becomes uncertain at best, and so the use of the phrase is disingenuous, I would say, but also charmingly tactful. I particularly like reports that the police have applied for extra time to question someone who is helping them with their inquiries. I ask myself just how helpful a person can be.
Anyway, today I am not helping the police but being helpful to them. When David finally responded to my phone message yesterday evening, I set up a meeting between him and Malcolm for this morning, and now here we are in Malcolm’s very neat office, sitting on hard chairs and nursing the very strong instant coffee which Malcolm has just proffered. I know what Malcolm has to tell, as he told me all about it yesterday, but I’m here to see fair play and make sure that Malcolm isn’t bullied. David would like me to go away but Malcolm has insisted on my presence, so here I am, being helpful.
‘The thing is,’ Malcolm is saying, ‘our director doesn’t know I’m talking to you. I raised the matter with her but she doesn’t feel our information is specific enough to be helpful and, of course, we do avoid giving information to the police, if we can, because it undermines potential callers’ trust in our confidentiality.’
‘The point is, David,’ I chip in, �
��can’t this be off the record, this conversation, at least? Then if you think—’
‘Gina,’ he says, putting his coffee mug down on the floor, ‘shall we establish some ground rules here? I am a police officer, Malcolm is a witness. This is an interview, not a conversation. We understand the Samaritans’ position but if, when this case comes to trial, we feel that Malcolm’s evidence needs to be heard in court then we will issue a court order requiring the director of Marlbury Samaritans to appear in court and it will not be up to her to decide whether the information is specific enough or not. In the meantime, I am going to ask Malcolm some questions, he is going to answer them and I am going to note anything that may be relevant to our inquiry. I respect Malcolm’s wish to have you here but I’m asking you to keep quiet and to speak only if Malcolm or I ask you to.’
I can feel myself going scarlet and I have to bury my face in my mug and take a scalding gulp of coffee. How dare he speak to me like this, this man who is, occasionally, referred to by me as my beloved? And in front of Malcolm? There is a danger that tears of fury will rush into my eyes so I have to make a performance of choking and coughing in order that they can be attributed to the scalding coffee. ‘God, Malcolm,’ I gasp histrionically. ‘Are these insulated mugs? I’ve taken the roof off my mouth!’
They both watch me in silence. ‘Well, go on,’ I say when I have given myself time to recover my aplomb, and I wave my coffee mug permissively. ’Get on with it. Don’t just sit there.’ I sit back with what I hope is a convincing air of amused insouciance and consider ways of punishing David.
I survey the range of options from keying his car to cutting up his best suit to (favourite at this moment) never speaking to him again, but none of these feel quite right – not exactly fitting for the crime. Humiliation is what I require. I would like some embarrassing photos that I could distribute among his colleagues – something to raise a snigger and demean him in their eyes – but they won’t exist, I know. Look wherever you like, you won’t find a photo of David Scott off his face, dancing with his shirt off or wearing antlers. Just at this moment I can’t decide whether this is one of the reasons why I love him or why I hate him.
Weep a While Longer Page 8
