The burglar alarm had been her mother’s idea. Debbie’s brother-in-law worked for a company that supplied and installed alarms. ‘It’s a sensible precaution for a young girl living on her own,’ her mother had said. ‘You never know who might be hanging around outside when you’re home all alone.’
‘Yes, mum. You’ve made your point. I’ve already said I’ll get on to it.’ Debbie had refrained from adding that, at thirty-five, she was hardly a young girl.
That afternoon Debbie didn’t wait for the alarm to stop sounding. She didn’t want to be late for her nephew’s first birthday party. Her sister was making a huge fuss about it. She had been annoyed at Debbie for her lack of enthusiasm.
‘What do you mean you might not be able to make it? It’s Jamie’s birthday. You have to come. You’re his aunt. His only aunt. I’m not taking no for an answer.’
Debbie had scowled at her sister down the phone. ‘I do have a life, Jen. I can’t drop everything at the drop of a hat just because you want me to.’
‘It’s not a question of what I want. It’s Jamie’s birthday. His first birthday. Come on, Debs.’ Her tone changed. ‘We can’t have his first birthday party without you. It wouldn’t be the same.’
Debbie felt her indignation waver. ‘All right, all right. But it is short notice. I do have a life.’ They both knew Debbie was being stubborn to hide the fact that she had nothing else to do.
The conversation moved on. Debbie listened patiently as her sister grumbled about teething, nappy rash and doctors. It was a long time since they had compared notes about boyfriend troubles. Debbie was reluctant to discuss her problems with Jennifer. Her sister had changed so much since she had married and had a baby.
Debbie steered the conversation back to the birthday celebrations. ‘Can I bring anything with me on Sunday?’
‘You mean anyone?’ her sister teased.
Debbie felt herself blush and was glad they were talking on the phone. ‘No,’ she hesitated. She tried to sound light hearted. ‘He’s not going to be around this weekend.’ She hadn’t mentioned to Jennifer that it was all over with Bryan. As per usual. Debbie was nothing to look at, skinny and flat chested. Blokes always let her down.
‘So it’s family on Sunday,’ Jennifer was saying, ‘and Jamie’s friends are coming round for tea on Saturday. It’s not his actual birthday, but I can’t manage everyone at once, and he’s quite happy to have two parties.’
‘He doesn’t know it’s his birthday on Thursday.’ Debbie knew she sounded petulant. ‘And the other babies are hardly his friends. He doesn’t know who they are.’
‘Of course he does. He understands everything, don’t you, Jamie?’
When she passed the letter box Debbie remembered her electricity bill. She needed to post it urgently if it was to arrive before the end of the month. She glanced at her watch wondering whether to post the letter on her way into work the following day. There was no post on Sunday anyway. But if she forgot again on Monday, the cheque would arrive late, and if she hurried, she could easily run back for it and still arrive at Jennifer’s on time for high tea at six o’clock. Swearing under her breath she scuttled back home, flung her umbrella on the doorstep, and unlocked the front door. Pausing only to key her code into the alarm, she ran into her tiny bedroom and fished the envelope out of her drawer.
As she straightened up, she glanced in the mirror. A flushed gaunt face stared back at her, framed by dark hair frizzy from her recent exertion. She grimaced. There was no time to try and smooth her hair down. She opened her wardrobe, grabbed a scarf, tied it round her head, and hurried from the room. As she closed her bedroom door behind her and walked towards the front door, she halted in surprise.
A man was standing in the hall with his back to her. He must have heard her bedroom door shut because he looked round. He was tall with long arms and legs that gave him a spidery appearance. Beneath his hood, a sandy coloured fringe hung down over pale watery eyes that seemed to pop out at her. As he turned Debbie saw the glint of a blade in his gloved left hand. A bolt of adrenaline shot through her. She spun round and fled back into her bedroom.
Shaking uncontrollably, she leaned against the door with all her weight. Fighting her growing panic she forced herself to push back against the door as she fumbled in her bag for her mobile phone. ‘Please, please let it be here,’ she prayed. Her hand closed around the phone. She moaned aloud in relief. As she pulled the phone out, her bag slipped from her shoulder. Make-up, keys, purse and diary spilled out at her feet in a jumble. She took no notice. She dialled 999 and lifted the phone up. It felt cold against her ear. She waited. Silence. Trembling, she hit the keys again and stared at the screen. Her battery was dead.
17
Market Trader
Most of Evelyn Green’s treasures turned out to be costume jewellery, but there were a few valuable pieces.
‘That’s the ring my father bought her for their ruby anniversary,’ Elliot Green told a constable. ‘Those are the pearls he bought for her in Florida, must be thirty years ago.’ When they had finished checking through it, he was dismayed to learn that he couldn’t take his mother’s jewellery home with him. ‘It’s the sentimental value,’ he kept saying. He demanded to speak to a senior officer.
‘It’s evidence, Mr Green,’ Geraldine explained patiently. ‘We need to hand it all to forensics. Don’t worry. You’ll get it all back in time. I assure you your mother’s belongings are perfectly safe with us. You can collect a receipt for them on your way out.’
It was relatively calm in Geraldine’s little office when she returned there. After the bustle of the Incident Room, and Mr Green’s agitation, she felt tired. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She barely had time to regain her composure when she heard a knock on her door. It was Ian Peterson. Pleased to see him, Geraldine returned his smile.
‘I know Elliot Green identified all the jewellery. Polly told me,’ he said as he stepped into her office, twisting sideways to close the door. One day into the investigation Peterson was already on first name terms with the other young officers.
‘Let’s crack on then, sergeant.’ The source of the canvas bag had been traced to a manufacturer in Asia. There was only one local outlet: a stall in the market. ‘It’s possible the bag was bought recently, because the price tag’s still on it. The vendor might remember who bought it, might even be able to give us a description. Let’s check with the market manager,’ Geraldine suggested. Peterson grinned. They were both controlling their excitement. It was a promising lead.
Peterson was in high spirits. ‘If the trader remembers who bought that bag, and can identify him, we could crack this gang of burglars just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘The old DI’s been after them for months.’
The market manager’s office was hidden in a corner of the square. Peterson pressed the entry bell and a voice answered. The sergeant introduced himself. A buzzer sounded straight away. Geraldine followed Peterson up a cramped staircase that turned round on itself and led to a door with a dingy sign: Market Manager, Please Knock and Wait.
The market manager was a stout man with a ruddy complexion. He bit his lip when Peterson explained the reason for their visit and began shuffling papers on his desk.
‘I’m only the assistant manager. The manager’s not in on Sundays. I can’t promise our details for casual traders are always up-to-date. We do our best to keep track.’ He lightened up straight away when Peterson told him they were looking for a trader who sold bags. ‘That’ll be Maggie,’ he said, clearly relieved. ‘She’s the only one sells bags for us. Always here, Maggie, regular as clockwork, never misses a market day, never takes a holiday.’ He paused for a cough that rattled in his chest. ‘Hang about, I’ve got her details somewhere.’ He tapped at his keyboard, shook his head, glanced anxiously up at a shelf of dusty grey box files, then tried his database again. ‘Here it is.’ He grinned in surprise. ‘I am allowed to give out her address, aren’t I?’ he asked, anxious
again.
‘We’re the police,’ Geraldine reminded him gently. ‘We could find out anyway.’
‘Yes. 27 Maple Court.’ He fished an envelope out of the bin and sketched a hurried map on the back which they didn’t need, indicating a recently introduced one way system that he claimed interfered with the market traffic. He seemed to think they might have some influence over it. They took their leave as he was warming to his argument about the council’s attitude to the market. ‘They’re happy enough to take our money,’ he called after them as the door to the office closed.
Maggie Palmer lived in a rundown terraced property on the East side of town, not far from the market. To one side of the door an overflowing dustbin stood against a low fence beside a strip of grass. The other half of the front garden was littered with cans and bottles, damp cardboard boxes and dirty plastic bags. A battered white van was parked outside. They picked their way carefully over the cracks in a crooked concrete path. The sound of a wailing baby reached them from next door as Peterson rang the bell. A worn-looking woman in her late twenties came to the door. She looked disappointed, and gazed at them suspiciously. A small child with a snotty nose wound himself round her legs and peered up at them from the folds of her skirt. Next door the baby continued to cry. A girl of about nine or ten materialised in the narrow hallway behind Maggie Palmer, wearing a dress several sizes too large for her thin frame.
‘Is it Aunty Alice, ma?’ the girl asked.
‘No, it’s not.’ The girl vanished. The woman leaned forward and squinted at Geraldine’s warrant card. She straightened up, pushed a strand of hair behind one ear, and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, what do you want then?’
‘Maggie Palmer?’ The woman nodded and her hair fell over her face again. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your customers.’ Maggie gestured for them to enter and they followed her into a sitting room where there was barely enough space for them all to sit down. A table stood in one corner, covered in packets of toilet rolls. At the other end of the room, beneath a bay window, banana boxes were stacked knee deep. The sergeant held up the canvas bag that had been found beside Evelyn Green’s body. Maggie examined it inside the evidence bag and confirmed it was one of hers. She didn’t think they were available anywhere else locally.
‘I’ve got my licence,’ she burst out suddenly, rubbing her top lip with a hand that trembled. ‘It’s up to date and fully paid, which is more than I can say for some. I never cause any trouble. You can ask the market manager. I know what this is about,’ she added darkly. Geraldine raised an eyebrow and waited. ‘It’s Geoffrey. He’s gone and complained about me, hasn’t he? But you’ll find nothing on me. I import my bags directly and I can show you the orders and invoices to prove it. I don’t owe anything.’
‘We’re not here to examine your stock,’ Geraldine reassured her. ‘We need to trace a man who we believe may have bought this bag from you last week.’
‘What’s he look like then, this man?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us. We appreciate you must be busy, in the market –’
Maggie gave a snort of laughter. ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘Not exactly queuing up. It’s mostly young girls want the bags for a fiver. But I can’t remember a man buying a bag last week. I would’ve remembered a man. I don’t get many men coming to the stall.’
‘Have any bags like this been stolen?’ Peterson asked.
‘No.’
Maggie promised to let them know if she recalled anything that might help them. Geraldine thanked her and stood up. Peterson put his note book away. The visit had merely borne out what they already suspected, that the bag used in the robbery had probably come from Maggie Palmer’s market stall originally. They were no closer to finding out who had left it in Evelyn Green’s house on Thursday night.
Back at her desk, Geraldine swore under her breath. She had been hoping the market trader would be able to give them a description of one of the burglars. For all their running around, they still had nothing to go on. She thought of Bennett, months into the investigation, and still nowhere. She forced herself to concentrate on typing up her report. They were only two days into the investigation but the pressure was already mounting. Apart from demands from the Superintendent, the newspapers had reacted to the gas explosion with predictable hysteria. They hadn’t yet discovered the explosion might be linked to the spate of burglaries they had been reporting. Once they cottoned on to that, they would go wild. The police would probably be blamed for the gas explosion, as though failing to apprehend a gang of burglars was as good as lighting the gas themselves.
18
Pretence
‘Police! Police!’ Debbie shrieked at her phone. She gabbled her address at the top of her voice. ‘No, 16A,’ she repeated as loudly as she could, as though someone on the line hadn’t heard the number. She hoped the intruder wouldn’t realise she was shouting into a dead phone. ‘You’ve got a patrol car round the corner,’ she yelled, making an effort to slow her voice down and speak clearly. ‘That’s great! You’re bound to catch him unless he leaves straight away.’ She paused, afraid she was being too obvious.
Footsteps pounded across the hall and a second later the front door slammed.
Debbie sank to her knees. A few minutes passed before she managed to clamber to her feet. Trembling, she pushed the door open and peeped out into the corridor. It was empty. She crept along to the hall. The man had gone. The front door was closed. She turned back and checked her kitchen and living room, even though she knew there was no one there. She was alone in her flat. Crying uncontrollably now, she stumbled into the bedroom and fell on the bed. She was still crying when her phone rang.
‘Hi this is Debbie. I’m not here but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’
The phone beeped and her sister’s voice came on the line. ‘Debbie, where are you? Can’t you be on time, for once? We’re all waiting for you. You haven’t forgotten have you?’ She sounded irritated. There was a buzz of voices in the background and then her sister resumed. ‘Call and let me know if you’re not coming, OK? Otherwise we’ll assume you’re on your way and we’ll wait. Hope everything’s all right. See you soon. Bye.’
Debbie sat up, wiped her eyes and blew her nose fiercely. Then she phoned her sister back. ‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Deb? Is that you? You sound awful.’
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. If she told her sister what had happened, Jennifer was bound to tell their mother and then Debbie would never hear the end of it. ‘Just a bit of a cold.’
‘Perhaps you’d better stay at home?’
‘No, really, I’m fine. I’m just about to leave.’
‘It’s gone six. You’re supposed to be here already.’
‘I know, I just had a problem at home, but it’s sorted now. I’m on my way.’
‘Debs, what’s going on? Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Nothing’s going on.’ She felt her resolve waver. ‘Look, I’m on my way, OK?’ She hung up. ‘Bugger,’ she muttered. Jennifer always knew when she was lying. She should have said she felt too ill to go round to her sister’s for a family gathering, but it was too late to back out now. And it wasn’t as if anything had actually happened. She climbed off the bed, splashed cold water on her swollen and weepy eyes, and made a stab at calming her wild hair. Despite her efforts, she looked awful.
‘I’ve got a bit of a cold,’ she told her reflection firmly and tried to smile.
Jennifer knew straight away something was wrong. ‘Tell me when mum’s gone,’ she muttered. Preoccupied with her grandson, Debbie’s mother accepted her daughter had a slight cold without interest. Debbie was relieved, but slightly disconcerted by her mother’s indifference.
‘You look like you could do with a few early nights,’ was all her mother said before she turned her attention back to the baby. ‘And whose birthday is it? Who’s the birthday boy? Yes, it’s your birthday.’
After their mother had gone, Debbie and Jennifer sat down at the kitchen table.
‘We never really had a chance to talk earlier,’ Jennifer began as she gave Debbie a mug of tea. The baby was asleep upstairs. His father was watching football on the television in the front room. They could hear the distant excited shouting of a commentator accompanied by gentle snoring. ‘So what’s up?’ Jennifer leaned forward on the table and scrutinised Debbie’s face. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thanks.’ They both smiled. ‘It’s nothing really,’ Debbie went on. Gazing into her tea, she related what had happened earlier that evening.
‘My God, Debbie! That’s awful! Have you reported it?’
‘What do you mean, reported it?’
‘To the police. Have you reported it to the police?’
Debbie shrugged. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘He had a knife, Debbie. He could’ve used it. You could’ve been hurt.’
‘Well I wasn’t.’
‘That’s not the point. He could do it again. Next time you might not escape so lightly. You were lucky –’
‘Lucky?’ Debbie interrupted, her voice rising in agitation. She stopped and took a deep breath.
‘You don’t know what he might be capable of. He could be dangerous. What if he comes back? I’m worried about you, Debs. You have to go to the police.’
‘And say what, exactly?’ Debbie hedged. She knew her sister was right. She could identify her intruder. She had seen his bulbous eyes and hair the colour of wet sand. ‘Jen,’ she admitted, ‘I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Go to the police, Debs. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen.’ She paused. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, thanks. I’m not totally incapable.’ Jennifer opened her mouth to protest but at that moment the baby began to wail. ‘Time I was going anyway,’ Debbie said, with a tired smile. She made no move to leave.
Road Closed Page 8
