Ed was perched on the wing of the car when Sam rejoined him.
‘Some people and their priorities,’ she said. ‘Unbelievable…you sorted with Banks?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s walk across the fields then. I could do with the exercise. And I need to get some food. I can’t remember the last time I ate.’
They walked until they came to a stile and dropped into the field where the festival was to be held.
‘We need to go through the transcripts from the Bhandal house with a fine tooth comb,’ Sam said. ‘If this body is anything to do with them, we need to start building a case.’
‘The transcripts are already there. It’s just a case of what you want doing with them.’
‘I want every mention of the body putting into a summary,’ Sam said, strategy taking rapid shape. ‘Time, date, who said it, what was said, the works. I remember ‘fox food’ being mentioned, which is interesting given where we are.’
Julie Trescothick walked across to meet them. They were 20 metres from her van.
‘Body is a male,’ Julie said after a brief greeting. ‘Decomposition has set in and no doubt a few animals have had a nibble, but it’s only the top half of him that’s decomposed. The bottom part’s been jammed in the stream, so with the cold running water, it’s been pretty well preserved. Trousers and trainers are intact, upper clothing looks like it’s been torn... animals probably.’
‘Age and ethnicity?’ Sam asked, as always liking Julie’s work.
‘Not sure about age, but he’s Asian. His legs may be freezing, but his skin tone’s still obvious.’
Ed recalled Sue’s conversation with Mrs Maan, glad he drilled her to get a description of the young lad who’d been attacked, what clothes he was wearing.
Now he repeated what Sue had been told... white T-shirt, dark blue jeans with zips in them, and lime green trainers.
‘Could be,’ Julie said. ‘He’s certainly wearing lime green trainers.’
Thank God it was no longer a world full of Adidas Sambas, Ed thought. Made things so much easier.
‘I’ll get on to control room,’ Sam said. ‘Get them to give Jim Melia a call. He’ll enjoy this one, poking around a body that offers something different. He can hold the floor next time he’s swapping stories with his pathologist chums.’
Call made, she turned to Julie.
‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘May as well have a look.’
The interview door opened.
‘Let’s put another set of tapes in the machine,’ Bev said.
‘Did you find it?’ Amber rushed.
Bev waited until the beeping of the machine stopped before she began talking, reminding Amber of the caution.
‘A search of your house has been undertaken.’
‘And?’
‘There’s no hammer in the toolbox.’
Amber’s face sagged, her open mouth a disbelieving oval.
‘There must be. Where else could it be?’
‘You tell me,’ Bev said, watching as closely as she was listening. ‘Or perhaps you already know?’
Amber had drawn into herself, knees tight and shoulders hunched.
‘That one you showed me. That’s not it. It can’t be.’
‘Then how is Elliott’s DNA all over it,’ Bev turned the screw.
‘I don’t know? Ask him.’
‘We have,’ Bev said. ‘He said it’s the one he used to put a picture up in your house. He says he’s never touched another hammer even remotely like it.’
Bev thought she saw a shadow of desperation cross Amber’s face, her eyes searching.
‘He must have. That can’t be mine.’
‘Why not, Amber?’
‘Because I haven’t hurt anyone.’
Bev looked at her notepad, reminded Amber how she had reacted to Jack Goddard and Glen Jones’s deaths.
‘So you see the predicament I’m faced with here, Amber?’ Bev said. ‘We have a hammer we believe is a murder weapon, a hammer Elliott says belongs to you. You accept you own a hammer like it but can’t tell us where it is. You can see where I’m going with this.’
Amber had put her palms flat and hard on the table, her whole body drawn tight with tension.
‘I can but you’re wrong.’ Her tone was so strong it took Bev by surprise. ‘You’ve got to believe me, Bev. It’s nothing to do with me. I trusted you last time. You have to trust me now.’
‘Are you saying that Elliott stole it?’
‘No, I’m not saying that at all.’ Bev saw the tension ebb away like a blood pressure cuff deflating. ‘I know he didn’t.’
‘Could somebody else have stolen it?’
‘No, of course not. No…unless.’
Her chin rested on her chest.
‘Amber, can you remember one of the other victims attacked by the same person as you? She was called Danielle Banks.’
‘Vaguely.’
‘She was the one who found a broken window but presumed that it was caused by her ex-boyfriend. That presumption caused her not to get the window fixed that night.’
‘I think I can remember.’
‘Well humour me,’ Bev said. ‘Here’s a pen. Write down everybody who has been in your house since that hammer was last used.’
‘Elliott was the last to use it.’
‘Okay then. Write down the names of the people who’ve been in your house since then. Are there many?’
‘Not really.’
She took the pen and started to write.
Bev was watching her. The names were upside down as she was looking but upside down or not, she bit her lip when she saw the fifth name. She didn’t want Amber to know.
By the time Amber had finished the list – five minutes that felt more like five hours – Bev was buzzing.
She needed to get out the interview room quickly and call Sam.
Chapter Fifty
‘I need a beer.’
It was Baljit, only just returned. The listeners already knew his mother and father were in the kitchen. They heard the ‘whoosh’ escape from the can and imagined the foam spewing out. Baljit reverted to Punjabi. ‘They’ve found him.’
‘How?’ Parkash demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Baljit said. ‘But there’s police everywhere... blue tape, people in white suits. It’s like something off the TV.’
‘There’s nothing to link it to us,’ his mother said, almost dismissive, arrogant. ‘Keep calm.’
Sonia Mitchell was scribbling down the salient points. She’s a cool one.
‘Your mother’s right,’ Bhandal said. ‘They cannot link him to us. If they try, remember to ask for Carver.’
In the LP, Sonia could hear Baljit slurp again then crush the empty can.
‘They’ll try to link him with us, though,’ he said. ‘They’ve already linked him with her.’
His mother broke the short silence.
‘They need more than links,’ she said, ‘They haven’t got any and they haven’t got her.’
‘They will never get her.’ Bhandal’s voice was ice. ‘She’s gone for good.’
‘Who’s gone for good?’ It was Mia.
Sonia hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. She was very quiet. I wonder.
‘A girl on my course,’ Baljit said quickly. ‘Her family has moved down south. She was in my group. Now we have to do her work as well, otherwise it won’t get marked.’
This lot can lie without breaking step. It’ll need a good interviewer to sort them.
‘Any food?’ Mia asked.
‘I’ll make Dahl,’ her mother said. ‘I’ll call you when it’s ready.’
Sonia heard the door open and close.
‘Do you think she heard?’ It was Bhandal.
‘I don’t think so,’ his wife answered. ‘Keep an eye on her, though.’
I heard. I heard everything. Who have they found? If it’s the police it must be a body. Who else wears white suits and puts tape up. But what did
Baljit mean about them making links? Were they talking about Aisha and that lad she was seen with in the shopping centre? He can’t be dead! Where is he, though?
And who’s gone for good? Not some lass from uni that’s for sure.
Why can’t we ever talk about Aisha? Why did we have to play happy families and get that photo of us all on the settee, the night Aisha was locked in her room? Why did I have to go to my auntie's that night? Why did the papers all say Aisha went missing on the Friday? Why is Aisha’s name banned in the house? Why is she dishonourable? So she didn’t want to marry some ‘Freshie’. Big deal. Who would? Freshies... on their way to England or just arrived, bringing their stupid rules of expected behaviour with them.
I’m scared now. I’ve been scared since Aisha ran away. What if my family has done something to that lad? I’ve overheard my parents talking, talking about the shame. I think I’m going to have to step into Aisha’s shoes. I’m going to have to marry the bloke she ran away from marrying. I don’t blame her for running. She told me he was ugly. But what if I have to marry him?
Things were bad before Aisha ran away, the two of us being monitored all the time. But it’s a million times worse now. My mother walks me to school, can you believe that, and meets me at the gate on an afternoon. I’m 15 and I’m getting walked to school.
We have a Diversity Officer in the school. She’s Punjabi, keeps asking me if I’m alright since Aisha ran away. I just keep saying I’m fine; like I’d tell her any different. She’d be straight round to my parents if I said anything out of turn.
Why do they keep giving these diversity jobs to Asians? Give them to white people. I’ve heard the arguments... ’Oh they don’t understand our culture.’ Guess what? Asians say that so whites can’t infiltrate. It lets them keep control while they smile sweetly at English society, the same society where that social worker wanted to put me in a ‘culturally appropriate’ placement. Put them where they’ll be looked after, not just where the carers have the same colour skin.
I’d like to tell Mrs Leadbitter at school that I think I’m going to be forced to marry. She’s really nice, but what would she do? I’m scared she won’t believe me, or worse, she goes and talks to the Diversity Officer for advice.
I’ve decided I’m going to run. I don’t know where yet, but I have to run. Aisha was scared she was going to be married when we went to India to see our grandparents. Me? I’m scared I’ll be married and left there.
I can’t run from here. They all watch me like a hawk, especially Baljit. He’s the worst. I can understand my mother. She came here to marry my dad and never integrated. If you ask her, she probably hates it here. My dad just wants a quiet life so he does what my mother tells him, even if he has to look like he’s always in charge. But Baljit? He was born here but goes on like he’s a Freshie, talking about Izzat. Him and Uncle Gurmej. He’s horrible. Aisha was always saying how he gave her the creeps. I think I know what she meant. I’ve started to notice him watching me, like a dirty old man perving over young lasses.
So I know I have to run from school. We get an hour for lunch. That’s when I have to go. Get a head start, before anyone knows I’ve gone, before my mother and the whole neighbourhood come looking for me.
I know if I get caught it will be big trouble. I’ll never see England again. To have one daughter run away is shameful, but two? My mother would never get over it.
So I have one chance. I cannot waste it and I cannot take anything with me. I have to go in the clothes I’m wearing. I know I have to run. I just don’t know where.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sam said as she and Ed bent down. ‘Gone six already.’ A mounting pile of discarded foliage and branches were stacked up near them, Julie Trescothick making it grow ever higher.
‘A little early for Bonfire Night,’ Ed said.
‘Thought I’d take some cuttings for the garden,’ Julie didn’t miss a beat.
Ed smiled. ‘Touche.’
‘You’ll get a better view of the body now,’ Julie told them as Sam and Ed took a couple of steps forward. It was impossible to tell whether the body had been thrown or rolled into the stream, impossible because the undergrowth had grown back. What was obvious was that the water had preserved the lower part of the body. The corpse was laid on its back, but from the waist down it was completely submerged in flowing water, not a torrent, but not a trickle either.
‘I don’t know how full this stream gets,’ Julie said. ‘But the slope of the land and those floods in January won’t have seen it dry up.’
The face had almost vanished.
Ed, hands on knees, started to hum an Elton John song from the Lion King movie.
Sam swivelled her head, scrunching her brow. ‘Any reason why that song?’
‘Circle of life,’ Ed said. ‘He’s dead but he’s fed others.’
Sam shook her head. ‘Bloody hell, Ed, only you could bring Walt Disney to a rotting corpse.’
She turned to the SOCO chief. ‘Julie, do what you need to do here, photos, and we’ll do the rest at the mortuary. We’ll search his clothing there as well. I’ll arrange a fingertip search once you’ve finished but I’m not hopeful. Jim’s on his way, so we’ll wait for him.’
‘Have you considered anybody else Sam?’ Julie said.
‘Forensic Anthropologist?’ Sam understood. ‘I’ll speak with Jim. We might need to involve one at some stage.’
‘What a job,’ Ed joined in. ‘Trying to work out how long somebody’s been dead from the state of maggots in the body.’
Sam dismissed Ed’s throwaway line, well aware of the skills the scientists could bring to the table, even when they were faced with nothing more than a skeleton.
‘I’ve known them be spectacularly wrong,’ Sam said. ‘But they can get it right and they can aid in identification.’
She straightened up. ‘And you know my maxim.’
‘Surround yourself with experts,’ Ed said.
Sam nodded. ‘Too right... scientific, search, interviewers... whoever. If it progresses the job, I’m all for them.’
She stopped and answered her ringing phone. It was the DI from Devon. Sam listened.
‘Great. Thanks. Look, I’ll speak later. I’m just about to go into a meeting.’
She ended the call.
‘Their undercover op in Plymouth has finished,’ Sam said. ‘The UC will provide a statement identifying Baljit as taking Sukhi’s car into the garage.’
Sam and Ed both turned as Jim Melia walked towards them.
‘This should at least provide the literary festival with a start for any creative writers’ workshop,’ Jim said.
He then imitated the clipped tones of an aristocratic thespian. ‘The decomposing body of a man was found in the grounds of a stately home, continue.’
He had a paper and pencil in his hand, ready to make a rough sketch. ‘So where is he?’
Sam, still holding her phone, realised she had an answer-phone message.
Seconds later she was listening to Bev’s urgent voice, then moved away and made a call.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ Bev told her. ‘Amber said her hammer was in a toolbox in her downstairs loo but I’ve searched and it’s not there. She’s not had a break-in so I got her to write down everyone who’s been in her house in the last couple of months. It’s not a long list but her study group, four of them, met there on the day Glen was murdered. One name jumped out.’
Sam felt an adrenaline kick. ‘Who?’
‘Baljit Bhandal.’
Chapter Fifty-One
Where’ve they all gone? What was their rush?
‘Wait here,’ my mother shouted to me. ‘Do not leave the house.’
Typical. The only time I’m left where I can pack a few clothes and I’m not ready yet. Will I ever be ready?
I turn on the TV, open the sour cream and onion Pringles, stretch out on the settee, and channel hop through boring news and quiz shows.
I miss Aisha. I hope she’s
happy. I wonder whether she’s somewhere with that lad. I don’t know him but I hope he’s okay.
I’m outside now, sat on top of Dad’s new garden shed. Why did he want a shed? He doesn’t do gardening. Not that we’ve got much garden anyway. It’s all paved over now, same as Uncle Gurmej’s. He’s got a new shed as well. They both got them the same day, thinking about it, not long after Aisha ran away. Maybe they’re going to make some of that illegal booze. What do they call it? Desi. Indian firewater.
But something’s definitely happening today. They’re all panicking. No, it’s more than that. They’re shitting it. I love that phrase. Nobody’s ever heard me say it, though. I wouldn’t dare. That would have me whisked off to India on the next flight. Punjabi Airways: speedy passage for overly Western girls.
Here’s the rain. Typical. I’ve not been left alone since Aisha went. As soon as I get the chance to do something I would never be allowed to do, climb on to the shed roof, it rains.
I spoon the Dahl out of the pan. It’s good. My mother’s a good cook. So am I. That was her mission in her life. Make sure her girls can cook.
There’s still nothing on the TV, just people you’ve never heard of interviewing people you’ve heard of even less.
The house is so quiet.
I know where the squeaks on the stairs are. I can get up and down in total silence. Aisha could as well. I know Baljit can. He sneaks in when he’s been clubbing. Hypocrite. Tells me not to look at men, look at the floor, only speak when I’m spoken to, do what he says all the time, and there’s him clubbing, ogling all the white girls.
He always gets his own way. Do you think I’ll get a car like he did? No chance. I didn’t even get a bike when we were kids. He did. Golden child. I had to count myself lucky I got a pair of roller skates. Lucky me.
I try one of the doors upstairs. I cannot remember the last time it was unlocked.
That multi-coloured spread on my mother’s bed is so tacky. And so heavy. She must sweat like a pig. Probably stops my dad trying to have sex with her. Oh that’s gross.
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