by Penny Grubb
‘Tell me about the fishing lakes,’ Farrar opened.
‘A bit of luck with the underwater search,’ Webber told him, explaining about the funnel effect at the bottom of the pit that would reduce the search area. ‘Another thing, it might mean that the jacket was thrown in well away from the place the car was found, off the far side for instance, and with the weights, it would have slid right round.’ He envisaged it as he talked. Someone, maybe Jenkinson himself, wanting to get rid of the brightly coloured jacket. Instinct would say to throw it out away from the edge, and it would have been caught by the anomaly in the underwater terrain. They’d have done better just to drop it where they stood.
‘What about the walkway? Are you going to have that concrete out?’ Farrar asked, then interrupted his own question before Webber could answer. ‘Just by the way, Brad Tippet … what have you found out about him?’
With a mental change of gear, Webber’s mind raced through the pros and cons of discussing his off-piste interview with Farrar’s father. ‘Am I right in thinking Tippet has a son?’
‘Yes, he does. Why?’
‘It’s likely it was Tippet’s son who approached your father back in May about the suicide. Well, it was some woman with him who mentioned Pamela Morgan, not Tippet himself.’
There was a pause. ‘Is there anything worth following up there?’
‘Not that I can see.’ As he spoke, Webber became aware of Davis and the DC who’d been discussing the lorry schedules. The DC had just put down the phone. Both men were staring his way. Webber walked towards them as he spoke into the handset. ‘That fifteen-year gap is a bit odd, but …’ His voice tailed off as he looked at the paper being held up for his inspection. The driver who was assumed to have taken an unscheduled detour to the gravel pit.
‘Get a team out there,’ he barked at Davis who sprang to the nearest phone.
Farrar’s voice in his ear. ‘What’s happened?’
The words snaked in front of his eyes. Some sick kind of mirror of the traffic chaos that had plagued the city for the past two weeks. The paper held the identity of the driver who’d filled that hole with concrete barely twenty-four hours ago. A driver whose body lay in the mortuary, his car concertinaed against a tree on a quiet road. Mr Arthur Trent, mid-50s.
‘Yes,’ Webber replied to Farrar. ‘We’re having those foundations out.’
CHAPTER 10
Webber pulled his coat collar tight against the driving rain as he paced a line from the footpath to the sapling hedge that bordered the metal stanchions of the embryo walkway. The concrete slab was now hidden behind flapping canvas. He’d chosen to keep at a distance rather than getting togged up in overalls, but couldn’t help thinking of the added warmth an extra layer would have provided. Ayaan Ahmed stood at the far side, motionless, his gaze fixed on the barrier from which the clatter of drills and scrape of metal on concrete jarred the peace of the surrounding woodland. He’d been there when Webber arrived and when he’d asked how Ahmed had squared his absence from his base in Scarborough, Ahmed had said, ‘I told them you wanted me here.’
His voice had been dull, no hint of apology in the admission of the lie. Webber had bitten back a reprimand. He’d wait until they discovered what had been hidden before sending Ahmed away with a flea in his ear. It wouldn’t be Jenkinson; it couldn’t be. Jenkinson had been back to Scarborough whether his mother would admit it or not.
A drill suddenly screamed a higher pitch, a cloud of dust erupted from beneath the canvass. It jerked his attention to the present. He saw Ahmed jump slightly and stare with increased intensity as muffled curses floated out with the clang of metal tools.
What was the link? Why here? Traffic chaos … a rotting vehicle from a 30-year-old crime … Jenkinson and his tale of a silver car … flashlights confusing tired drivers … and a middle-aged man dead at the wheel. Webber stamped his feet to keep his own blood circulating as he thought over what had come from the initial examination of Arthur Trent. Already dead when the car hit the tree. Nothing yet to suggest it wasn’t natural causes, but nothing to say it was. The car’s cruise control had been engaged which might explain the speed of the impact, but also raised questions such as why would anyone use cruise control on that stretch of road?
Why did everything lead to the gravel pit? It made no sense. He glanced again at Ahmed who stood as though cast in stone. Enquiries at the university had revealed a completely different Jenkinson. There he was diffident, quiet and considered a hard working but average student; same story from his fellow students. Everyone said he wasn’t a drug taker. Not that Webber would have expected Jenkinson’s friends to say anything else, but Ahmed had said the same. How could I ever have thought it? He saw what it did to his mother. He’s never touched anything. It was planted. But whatever the truth about the drug-taking, Webber’s gut told him not to trust Jenkinson’s elevation to model citizen.
‘We have Jenkinson’s flat under wraps,’ Webber had reassured him. ‘If that place has anything to give us, we’ll find it.’ So far, nothing. It was forensically clean. Too clean. Webber was inclined to go with Ahmed’s conclusion. The layers of Jenkinson’s story weren’t simple to unwind. No sniff of the mate he’d talked about, the one whose car they’d used to follow the mystery man. No trace of the child accomplice, Emmett.
It was a reaction from Ahmed that alerted him. Someone was pushing their way from the enclosed area. Encased head to toe in white, eyes showing over a face mask, a small woman looked around, caught sight of Webber and beckoned. The mud squelched beneath his boots as he made his way over. Her voice was muffled by the mask and the crackle of the breeze against the canvass, but he caught the sense of the message. They’d found something. ‘We’re trying to get underneath from the side where the concrete’s not so thick. Might be a tailor’s dummy, of course. Looks like part of a limb between the bottom of the concrete and the rubble. It must have set before it settled. We got a camera in.’
Webber peered at the screen she held up in front of him. Alabaster skin. He couldn’t have guessed whether it was flesh or plastic, arm or leg, but the tattoo was clear. He hesitated a moment and then called out to Ahmed.
Ahmed sprang into action and raced across the slippery ground. ‘What is it?’ Webber could hear the effort he made to keep his voice level.
He put out his hands in a calming gesture. ‘Don’t know yet. Look at this. Do you recognise it?’
The gasp from Ahmed collapsed into a whispered, ‘Oh no …’ and told Webber everything he didn’t want to hear. Ahmed had turned his back and was doing his best to stride away from them, his feet slipping on the mud and grass. The woman stared after him. Webber bit back a curse and said, ‘Do what you can to keep the body intact. We’re going to need everything we can get from it.’ He thought about Jenkinson’s room and didn’t hold out much hope for useful forensics, but then no one had expected this body to be found for decades. They might get lucky.
He hurried after Ahmed, almost losing his footing up the incline. Ahmed had stopped, his back to Webber, his hand clutching a tree branch as he stared out across the deep water of the gravel pit.
As Webber came up behind him, he spoke without turning round. ‘I have to get back to Scarborough.’ The words were barely audible, strangled under the emotion he fought to suppress.
Webber glanced around, wanting to see someone he could call across to take care of Ahmed until he’d composed himself. One thing he was sure of was that Ahmed wasn’t getting behind the wheel of a car just yet.
‘Give me your keys.’
‘I’m all right. I’m …’
‘I said, give me your keys, Ayaan.’
Ahmed’s hand pulled the keys from his pocket and thrust them backwards towards Webber. ‘Don’t move,’ Webber told him as he turned away, tensing as he heard a convulsive sob. It was Davis he needed, with his laid back avuncular manner, but Davis wasn’t here. He jogged down the path to the car park, calling one of the PCSOs over. ‘DC Ahmed’s car�
�s in here somewhere.’
‘Yes, it’s that one.’ The man pointed it out.
Webber handed him the keys. ‘When you get a minute take it to Fulford Road and leave these in reception. Tell them he’ll collect it later.’ A movement from up by the entranceway caught his attention. ‘Oh shit! The bloody grapevine’s on overtime. No one goes through here, OK? If you have problems, call in. I’ll deal with this lot for now.’ Pulling in a breath, Webber ran his hand through his hair and strode forward to meet the group making their way down, nodding a greeting to the woman he recognised as a local TV reporter.
* * *
Retracing his steps to the crime scene, Webber was conscious there could be a camera lens following him and didn’t relax until he was into the cover of the trees. He was relieved to see that Ahmed had composed himself though his face was tear-streaked.
‘You’re coming back with me,’ Webber said. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’
Ahmed followed him in silence and didn’t speak until they were driving away from the fishing lakes. ‘I must get back to Scarborough. Can’t let strangers break it to Tom’s mother.’ His voice held a scratchy undertone.
‘All in good time,’ Webber murmured pulling up at the junction that would take them back to the heart of the city. He paused for a moment, didn’t want to take Ahmed back to the station or to some busy coffee shop. He’d take him home, couldn’t think of anything else. He wondered if Mel would be there and wasn’t sure if that would be a good thing or not. ‘We’ll get a hot drink before we do anything else. All we have so far is a photograph.’
‘Don’t,’ snapped Ahmed. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a tailor’s dummy with Tom’s tattoo. We both know it’s Tom. He’d worked so hard to …’ Abruptly he stopped and turned his head to look out of the side window.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you anything,’ said Webber. ‘Though with the twists these cases have taken over the past few days, anything’s possible.’ He was aware that Ahmed shot him a glance. ‘But yes,’ he added, not wanting to give false hope. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be Tom Jenkinson down there.’
* * *
The house was empty, though as he ushered Ahmed inside, Webber saw the tell-tale signs of visitors. Melinda had had friends in. ‘Go through,’ he said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Thanks.’ Ahmed was subdued now, his voice quiet but controlled. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’
‘Top of the stairs.’ Webber listened to footsteps ascending as he went to the kitchen. Two cups in the sink, the ones with the brown and gold dragon-tail pattern that didn’t see everyday use; two plates alongside Sam’s plastic one; bacon rind; the remains of toast and scrambled egg. This was more than the usual friend in for coffee. He wondered who had been here. Where was Mel? On her way to fetch Sam from playgroup, he supposed, though it was a little early for that.
It occurred to him that the living room might be knee-deep in Sam’s toys, but he wouldn’t worry over that on Ahmed’s account. It was the sort of family chaos he would have to get used to. Mentally he gave himself a kick. He still hadn’t congratulated him on his engagement. It was hardly appropriate just now. He’d see where the conversation went.
As he carried the drinks through, he heard the sound of the flush from upstairs, followed by water running. There was a heap of soft toys in a corner and Sam’s blackboard and easel were propped in front of the TV alongside a mirror that had been taken from the wall. He registered the marker-pen scribbles, the photograph flapping from a length of Sellotape as he listened to Ahmed’s steps descending the stairs. What on earth had they been doing …?
With a start, he made sense of the words.
He banged the cups down on the table slopping coffee on to the polished surface, and dived across to flip the mirror to face the wall. As Ahmed entered, he tipped the blackboard and easel so they clattered face down on to the floor.
Ignoring Ahmed’s puzzled glance at the fallen toys, he indicated the cups. ‘Get that down you, thaw out a bit.’ He grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the settee and dabbed at the spillage on the table.
Ahmed sat down cradling his cup, his gaze on the surface of the hot liquid. ‘I’m sorry, Martyn,’ he began. ‘I know I shouldn’t have … Well … It’s just that Tom …’
Webber looked across at him, pulled in a breath and kept his tone mild. ‘Tell me about Tom Jenkinson.’
As Ahmed began to talk, Webber sat back, giving him an occasional nod and trying to keep track of the general sense of what he was saying, but all the time he could feel his heart thumping with the shock of what he’d seen. Across the blackboard, Mel had written two lists, one headed Suicide and the other Murder. He hadn’t had time to read the detail but it was clear she’d listed things to be checked in order to rule out one or the other possibility. All he could recall was Previous attempts? from the suicide list and a name inscribed under the photograph sellotaped to the mirror. The lists were in Mel’s handwriting, the name wasn’t.
But where had Mel found a photograph of Pamela Morgan and who had been here with her discussing the case?
CHAPTER 11
That evening Webber stood listening to the sounds of Melinda settling Sam in the room above him, then strode to the window and yanked the curtains closed, feeling something give. One of the hooks had slipped from the rail. He fought an urge to pull down the whole lot to vent the frustration he’d kept under wraps throughout the evening. Melinda must have known he’d been back during the day because he’d forgotten to put away the coffee cups, which still stood on the chair arms, but she’d stacked the blackboard and easel out of sight.
He’d got them out again, propped them accusingly against the TV. He didn’t want any ambiguity. They would have this out once Sam was asleep. But the toys had been an added irritation because Mel had ignored them, focusing on Sam while Webber had tried to watch the local news around the intrusive corners of the boards and their lists.
His voice emerging from the TV had caught Sam’s attention. Melinda had looked across, sniffed and said, ‘You could have combed your hair.’
‘It was blowing a bloody gale up there.’ He had defended himself as he watched the impromptu interview. He’d been careful to say nothing, to promise more information in the morning. They hadn’t known the worst then, not for sure, but it hadn’t taken long. Tom Jenkinson’s mother would have had the knock at her door that no parent should ever hear. He tried to blank out thoughts of tomorrow. How much would they release to the press? How much would the press have already found out for themselves? Getting rid of Tom Jenkinson and then the lorry driver felt like opportunistic acts, and worse they felt like panic. Were there other victims being lined up?
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he pushed the thoughts aside. ‘You can’t do this,’ he shot at Melinda, pointing at her marker-pen lists, his voice angry, but low volume in deference to Sam.
She tossed her head, snatched up the cups he and Ahmed had used and marched through to clatter them into the sink.
Her voice from the kitchen was quiet but matched his in ferocity. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘You can’t just conduct your own enquiry.’ Webber injected incredulity into his tone. She wasn’t stupid. This was to get at him. ‘How much trouble do you want to get into?’
‘Who else is going to do it?’ She marched in, stared hard at him, then pointed at the blackboard and easel.
Suicide: the means (drugs) … the note … how specific … final arrangements??
Murder: drugs administered by someone else … the note unsigned … family … intentions …
‘Who else is going to fight for justice for this woman, Martyn? You’re not going to, are you?’
‘There’s nothing to fight for, Mel. She killed herself.’
‘Says who? You haven’t even read her suicide note.’
‘Have you?’ His anger melted into amazement.
She tossed her head again, a gesture of irritation. ‘No. How would I get
hold of it? You have the means and you didn’t even try.’
‘It was looked at by a coroner. She sounds like she was a nice woman and it’s awful what happened to her husband. It’s sad that she felt she had to do it, but she did it herself. No one raised any doubts.’
‘Yes, they did!’ Her tone was triumphant. ‘What about China Kowalski?’
He saw the sudden move with which she tensed as she heard the slip-up. There was a pause. He didn’t know if he was angry or impressed. It might have been sudden fear for her that made him stride forward and grasp her arms. ‘What have you found? Who have you been talking to?’
‘Why should you care?’ She tried to shake him off.
He wanted to pull her close, and it was nothing to do with her stupid lists and off-beat enquiries. He felt again the recklessness that was his fault. It scared him. ‘Mel, you can’t go off on your own like this. You have to tell me what you’ve found. I’ll … I’ll help you, but you’ve got to tell me.’
‘You’re hurting my arms.’ Underlying her words was a threat that she would fight back if he didn’t comply. He let his hands drop. ‘I haven’t been talking to anyone,’ she said, looking him in the eye. ‘I’ve just been following up the paperwork.’
She was lying but he wouldn’t get the truth by making an issue of it. And anyway there was a lie behind his own words. He wouldn’t help her investigate Pamela Morgan, but had every intention of helping to get her out of this rash frame of mind where she felt obliged to throw herself into something like this. And the first step would be to find out who had been here discussing it with her, which he intended to do tomorrow morning when this person, whoever it was, was scheduled to arrive soon after he left for work. No secrets when you’re married to a detective, he thought, but then he shouldn’t have had secrets of his own. That’s where all this had started.
‘So you’ve found Dr China,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed. Who is she?’
