Road Closed

by Leigh Russell

  Geraldine nodded, smiling to mask her impatience. ‘Go on.’ Coming out of her bedroom, Deborah Mainwaring had been shocked to see a man standing in her flat. ‘Did you recognise him?’ She shook her head and her hair flapped around her face. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘He saw me looking at him so I ran back into the bedroom and tried to phone the police but my phone was dead.’ She paused, flustered by the memory.

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I pretended.’ She blushed.

  ‘Pretended?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t dare go over to the phone by my bed. There’s no lock on my bedroom door so I was leaning against it, to stop him opening it. I pretended I’d got through on my mobile and was speaking to the emergency services and I shouted out my address and said how pleased I was that there was a patrol car round the corner. I said they’d catch him if he didn’t leave straight away. And then I heard the front door slam.’ She shrugged. ‘And that was that.’

  ‘Quick thinking,’ Geraldine said in genuine admiration. Deborah Mainwaring’s face turned a deeper red. ‘Was anything missing from your flat?’ Deborah shook her head. Geraldine glanced down at her note book. ‘You mentioned something to my colleague about the intruder having a weapon?’

  ‘Yes. He was holding a knife in his left hand. He was wearing black gloves and a grey tracksuit top with the hood up.’

  Geraldine felt pointlessly pleased that the witness had noticed so much. It wasn’t going to be any help. A man in a grey hoodie. ‘Did you get a look at his face? Can you tell me how tall he was?’

  Deborah Mainwaring nodded uncertainly. ‘He was very tall,’ she said, her head on one side. ‘Over six foot, I’d say. His fringe was quite long and kind of light gingery, no, not gingery exactly, more light brown. It looked as though it could do with a wash. And he had horrible eyes.’

  ‘How old would you say he was?’

  Deborah Mainwaring shrugged again. ‘About eighteen, maybe twenty?’ she hazarded. ‘No older than twenty, I’d say, or maybe early twenties. It’s difficult to say. He could’ve been younger.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, Miss Mainwaring, if we show you a selection of pictures of local burglars, do you think you’d be able to recognise him? I’m not sure we’ll have anything to charge him with, but we can give him a severe warning and see what he has to say for himself.’ Most probably a flat denial that he had been anywhere near Debbie Mainwaring’s flat, carrying a knife. They wouldn’t be able to charge him, but they would certainly pay the young chancer a visit, if Deborah Mainwaring was able to make a positive identification. If nothing else, they could at least give him a scare. It occasionally influenced youngsters, especially those starting out on a criminal path. They might have enough to caution him which would go on his record.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful in coming forward,’ Geraldine went on. ‘If you’d like to wait here, I’ll send a constable to show you some mug shots of likely local felons.’

  ‘He won’t know, will he? I mean, if he finds out I told you –’

  Geraldine reassured her. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Mainwaring, if we find your intruder, we’ll be keeping a close eye on him for a while, and he certainly won’t know you came forward. In the meantime, you can speak to a crime prevention officer about security measures.’

  ‘I’ve got a burglar alarm…’ Deborah Mainwaring replied, blushing.

  26

  Suspect

  Only half an hour later, the WPC knocked on Geraldine’s door again.

  ‘Deborah Mainwaring’s recognised her intruder, ma’am,’ she announced, ‘a Raymond Barker. I’ve got his details for you, ma’am.’ The young constable stepped forward and handed Geraldine a print out. Geraldine could quite easily have looked Barker up herself. She smiled at her young colleague’s eagerness.

  ‘Thank you, constable. That’s very thorough.’

  At twenty years old Barker already had a string of petty convictions: shoplifting, being drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, possession of cannabis – run-of-the-mill antisocial conduct for which he had eventually spent six months in Castle Hill Young Offenders Institution. Geraldine slipped the report into her drawer and went to find Peterson.

  They had traced Barker to a terraced house in Garden Street.

  ‘Not much in the way of gardens,’ Peterson remarked as they cruised along searching for a space. They had to park in a parallel road and walk back round the block. An assortment of rusting cars crowded the kerb on either side of the road, allowing room for one car to pass. Geraldine studied the old bangers, occasionally interspersed with newer cars. They turned into Garden Street and she shifted her attention to the houses, looking for number 17.

  Apart from an old motorbike propped up beside a cracked path, there was little to see in any of the front gardens beyond a profusion of household detritus: empty cartons and crisp packets, bottles and cans, flapping plastic bags, mushy newspapers, soggy cigarette butts, broken crockery, bicycle parts, smashed bricks and a discarded pram without wheels.

  ‘Not quite the Harchester Hill Estate, gov,’ Peterson muttered.

  The bell rang.

  ‘Cal forgot his key.’ Brenda hurried to let him in. A few seconds later, Ray heard the front door slam. Brenda reappeared and slumped down in her chair. ‘It wasn’t Cal.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Ray asked. The bell rang again and this time the caller knocked loudly. Brenda shook her head, muttering incoherently. ‘Who is it, Bren? Who’s at the door?’

  The bell rang for a third time.

  Ray leapt to his feet. ‘Bloody hell. Do I have to do everything round here? Useless bloody cow.’

  A slim, dark haired woman was waiting patiently, as though she was used to standing on doorsteps. A sharp looking geezer stood at her side, tapping his fingers on his jacket. Spiritual nuts, Jehovah’s Witnesses, collecting for something, Ray wasn’t sure.

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Raymond Barker?’ Something in the woman’s voice made him pause as he was about to close the door. He swore under his breath. Filth.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Steel. This is Detective Sergeant Peterson. We’d like a word with you, Mr Barker.’

  ‘Sorry about Brenda. She doesn’t like strangers.’

  ‘None of us like strangers walking into our homes uninvited, Mr Barker.’ So that was it, he thought, relieved. The visit had nothing to do with Cal. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his trousers and thought quickly. He had found the door open. He hadn’t taken anything. They had nothing on him. But Cal could be back at any time. He wouldn’t be pleased to find Ray had brought the filth to the house.

  ‘What’s this about then?’ he blustered. He had to get rid of them before Cal came back.

  ‘Shall we come in? Or would you prefer to answer a few questions at the police station?’

  Ray nodded quickly. ‘I’ll just get my keys.’

  The woman narrowed her eyes. ‘We’ll come in with you.’ She thought he was going to slip out the back. The thought had crossed his mind.

  ‘Better not,’ Ray remonstrated. ‘Brenda won’t like it. She panics if she sees anyone she doesn’t know.’

  Ignoring his protest, the two detectives followed Ray into the back room. Brenda was fidgeting in her chair, her legs tucked up beneath scraggy thighs.

  ‘I’m just nipping out,’ Ray told her. ‘Listen.’ He bent over her and lowered his voice. ‘You don’t want to mention this to Cal, right?’ She stared blankly at the wall. Then, without moving her head, she swivelled her eyes to glance slyly up at Ray. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he promised.

  ‘You ready?’ The woman asked impatiently.

  Brenda’s eyes widened in surprise. She seemed to notice the detectives for the first time. ‘Who’s she then?’ She drew her knees up to her chin and stared at the visitors with rheumy eyes. ‘What’s she want with Cal? Does Cal know she’s here?’

  ‘Just a mate.’ Ray’s false assur
ance didn’t fool anyone but Brenda dropped her gaze. She had lost interest. ‘I’m off then. If Cal asks, tell him I’m gone to see a mate.’

  ‘Who’s Cal?’ the woman asked. Ray bit his lip in annoyance.

  ‘Cal,’ the girl said.

  ‘That’ll be Callum Martin,’ the sergeant chipped in. ‘The tenant.’

  ‘Who?’ Brenda asked. No one answered.

  Ray tried to hide his unease under a cheery grin. ‘We all live here,’ he said loudly. ‘But my business is my business. This is nothing to do with Cal. It’s none of his business. He doesn’t need to know.’ He glanced nervously towards the door. The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully.

  ‘Cal always knows,’ Brenda said. ‘He always finds out, and when he does, you’ll be for it, all of you.’ She laughed then hung her head and began picking at the dry skin on her bare knees.

  ‘Ready?’ the sergeant repeated.

  At the door, Ray turned and put his finger to his lips. Brenda didn’t respond. She was staring at the wall. Her lips moved soundlessly.

  When the questioning began, Ray relaxed because it had nothing to do with the fire. He licked his lips nervously, but he kept his head. Cal thought he was stupid. That’s where Cal was wrong. Ray could handle himself in a tight spot. Shame he wouldn’t be able to tell Cal how well he had dealt with the police. The thought of Cal finding out what he had done made him feel cold. That bloody girl must have recognised his face. He should have worn a mask.

  ‘Raymond Barker?’ the sergeant prompted him. ‘Can you tell us what you were doing at five thirty on Sunday afternoon? Because we have a witness who claims she saw you at around that time.’ Ray frowned as though trying to remember. ‘In a property in Wilson Street.’

  ‘I was just being helpful.’ Ray blinked at the sergeant, his thoughts full of hatred for the smug git. But Ray hid his feelings well. He wasn’t stupid, whatever Cal might think.

  ‘You were being helpful?’

  ‘Yes. I happened to be walking past and saw the front door was wide open.’ He knew to keep to the truth as far as possible. ‘I was concerned.’

  ‘Concerned?’

  ‘I thought, maybe an old lady was ill in there.’ The detective stared at him. Ray carried on. He was getting into his stride. ‘Like my granny. She had a stroke and no one found her for hours.’ Should he have said days? ‘For a day,’ he amended it and then wished he hadn’t. The policeman’s eyes flickered at his hesitation. It wasn’t true about Ray’s gran, but they would never check. ‘So I went in to see if everything was all right. I called out, and this girl appeared. She freaked out when she saw me, so I left.’

  ‘Without any explanation?’

  Ray shrugged. He had worked out his story. It didn’t sound too bad. ‘I panicked,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘I could see there was nothing wrong with her. So I left. I was being a concerned citizen, Sergeant.’

  When the detective challenged him about a knife he had been brandishing, Ray acted surprised.

  ‘Knife?’ he repeated. ‘I wasn’t carrying a knife!’ It was his word against hers and she had been in a fright. He was all right. Funny, he thought, how Cal was so much scarier than the filth. But they wouldn’t let him go home when they finished. Instead Ray was taken down to a holding cell where he sat, head down, staring at his large feet and wondering what the hell they were playing at.

  ‘You’ve got nothing on me!’ he yelled out, angry and afraid. ‘I haven’t been arrested. You can’t keep me here. Let me out, you fucking bastards.’ His earlier bravado had evaporated. The police didn’t worry him, not really; but he knew he could be in serious trouble if Cal ever found out about it. Whatever happened, Ray had to make sure Brenda kept her mouth shut.

  27

  News

  Nearly a week had passed since the fire. Sophie Cliff had been staying at her neighbour’s house. At first Jane Pettifer had enjoyed fussing over her, but she soon tired of a guest indifferent to her many kindnesses.

  ‘Of course she’s in shock,’ Jane told her friends when they phoned to ask after the poor widow.

  ‘You’re a saint, Jane,’ her friends assured her. ‘We don’t know how you cope.’

  ‘I have to be patient with her but I’m bringing her out of herself. It just takes time.’ Jane held back from admitting the truth. She wasn’t bringing the bereaved woman out of anything. Sophie Cliff sat in a chair and didn’t speak. She picked at the food Jane put in front of her and slept most of the time. After five days, Jane was at her wits’ end.

  ‘How long is she going to stay?’ Gerald Pettifer asked his wife one evening. She shrugged. ‘Well, you’d better find out. I’m sorry for the poor woman, who wouldn’t be? That’s why I brought her in. But we can’t put her up indefinitely. How long did you invite her to stay?’

  ‘It wasn’t that specific. She’d just lost her husband. She was hardly in a fit state to be making plans.’

  ‘Well I think it’s time you found out.’

  ‘Of course you’re welcome to stay.’ Jane smiled brightly at Sophie across the breakfast table the following morning. She poured Sophie a cup of coffee. Gerald rustled his paper. ‘But…’ She hesitated. ‘Would you like some muesli?’ Sophie toyed with her cereal.

  Gerald finished his coffee and left the table and Jane followed him into the hall.

  ‘You said you’d ask her when she’s leaving,’ he reminded his wife, a touch of irritation in his voice.

  ‘I tried… it’s hard to know what to say. I can’t just come out with it and ask her when she’s leaving.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said.

  ‘You ask her then,’ Jane countered irritably.

  ‘Me? It’s better coming from you. You’re a woman.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You’ll speak to her then.’

  ‘Oh, very well, leave it to me.’ She muttered something that her husband didn’t catch.

  ‘Just sort it out, will you?’ he called over his shoulder from the front door. ‘Give me a ring at the golf club and let me know how it goes. Leave a message if I’m out on the course.’

  Jane returned to the kitchen and sat down opposite Sophie. ‘Right,’ she said firmly. She didn’t meet Sophie’s eye. ‘We need to talk. You’ve been here five nights now. Of course we’ve been very happy to help out. We, Gerald and I, we love having you here. But…’ She paused and poured herself some coffee. ‘Gerald wants to know… we want to know… that is, we’d like to know what your plans are. How long do you intend to stay here? We’d just like to know, that’s all,’ she ended lamely. A hot flush spread down her neck and across her chest.

  ‘It’s been very kind of you to let me stay.’ The voice was flat and distant. Sophie’s mouth seemed to move independently in a face otherwise immobile. ‘I’ll move out today.’

  ‘Oh don’t feel you have to go… not just yet…’

  Sophie went upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom. From the landing, Jane could hear the tap running. With a sigh she went back into the kitchen and began to clear the table. Sophie sat down on the side of the bath. The simplest of actions took careful planning. It was hard to think. First she would go back to the house and pack a small bag. She wouldn’t go into the damaged part of the house, where it had happened. Once she had a few belongings, she would find somewhere to stay. After a while she might go to her parents’ house. But not yet. One day she might go back to work, but not yet. Right now all she wanted to do was sleep.

  She washed her face, brushed her hair, and went downstairs to find Mrs Pettifer. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she announced. Her voice sounded cheerful. Forced.

  ‘Where will you go?’ As if Jane Pettifer cared. No one cared. Not now.

  ‘I’m going to visit my parents,’ she lied. She needed to go away, somewhere she wouldn’t see pitying looks, hear hushed voices. If only she could find her way out of this horror, find her way back to Tom.

  ‘Will you have a cup of coffee before you go?’ Sophie shook h
er head and her eyes fell on the local paper, lying on the kitchen table.

  GANG TRIGGER GAS EXPLOSION

  Sophie snatched up the paper and read the article. Until that moment, she hadn’t understood what had happened. She had assumed the fire had been sparked by a fault. If the report in the paper was true, the man she had seen running away that night had broken into her house and left the gas on, killing Tom as surely as if he had stuck a knife in his chest. Sophie put the paper down. With her eyes closed she could picture his face, glaring wildly: the face of the intruder who had caused Tom’s death. Tom’s killer. She should have run him over, and left him to die.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Pettifer asked. Sophie didn’t answer. It was a stupid question. She hurried out of the kitchen and ran from the house without a word of thanks.

  ‘Well, of all the ungrateful…’ Jane Pettifer muttered under her breath, her indignation overshadowed by relief. Smiling, she picked up the telephone to tell her husband the good news.

  It was growing late and Geraldine’s mind wasn’t focused on work. She had another visit to pay before the day was over.

  A door swung open silently and she entered the coronary unit. The nurse on the desk didn’t even glance up as she approached.

  ‘I’ve come to visit DCI Gordon.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The patient’s name is Gordon. Kathryn Gordon.’

  ‘Oh yes, the police woman.’ Geraldine nodded. Illness cared nothing for rank. ‘Second room along on your left. Don’t stay long.’ The nurse looked up with a weary frown. ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘I’m her niece.’ The pointless lie slipped out on the spur of the moment. It was too late to retract it. Geraldine hurried away along the hushed corridor. The hospital atmosphere brought a rush of memory that caught her unawares. She had to stop and catch her breath. She blinked, fighting the image of her mother lying in a hospital bed; her sister weeping noisily, eyes and nose streaming, clutching a sodden tissue, looking up as Geraldine entered the room… and Geraldine swamped by guilt, because by the time she arrived at the hospital, her mother was already dead.