‘Of course we will, sir.’ Her voice now was soothing, reassuring, placating.
‘And I also take it that there will be no damage done to the structure?’ Another bark of embarrassment before he added, ‘Poor old castle’s had a bad enough time in the past.’
PC Delia Shaw was perfectly aware that she could not give a guarantee that there would be no damage done to the structure of the castle. What if they needed to scrape off some of the stone work to get stains analysed at the lab? In previous investigations she’d seen doors ripped off hinges, stones or bricks chipped out of walls or removed completely, sometimes to reappear as evidence in a courtroom, and paint scraped away from window frames. Window frames themselves removed to be brought into court as dumb witnesses to demonstrate opening and shutting. And what if they needed to dig below the foundations?
She took a deep breath in and did her best. ‘We will do all we can to preserve the site, sir.’
‘And what exactly does that mean?’
His tone had sharpened and Delia tried again to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘Please, sir, don’t worry.’
There was a brief, disapproving silence before Warrilow gave a bark of acquiescence. ‘I don’t suppose I’ve got any choice, have I?’
‘Not really, sir.’ Shaw tried to inject even more sympathy into her voice but really it was all used up on the murdered man. She’d caught a glimpse of the pathetic figure in the thick, grubby coat many sizes too big for his gaunt frame. She’d seen his terrible wound, his white face, the eyes which seemed to appeal to her from underneath drooped lids. Finally she had seen this poor man zipped into a body bag and driven away, knowing he would be unzipped in the mortuary when the pathologist was ready to perform the post-mortem. All these images had stayed with her. She only hoped they would not continue to haunt her.
She gave out more meaningless reassurance, promised to keep him informed and rang off.
PC Gary Coleman, meanwhile, having got little help out of Sharp – nothing but denial and innocence and no information at all – had crossed the road to the cream-coloured cottage next to the castle. He knocked for a while but wasn’t hopeful of a response. The place looked deserted. There were no cars in the drive. Owners out at work, he supposed and slipped a card through the letter box requesting that they contact him as soon as possible.
Then he thought he’d better check out the church which was, unusually these days, unlocked. He unlatched the heavy oak door and stepped inside, breathing in the scent of musty old books, wax candles and altar cloths and, oddly, his grandmother who, until her death, had been an ardent churchgoer. Did they all sprinkle themselves with the same lavender water? he wondered.
Light streamed in through the stained-glass windows, throwing bright pools of light on to the floor to dance around his feet. He stepped inside, shut the door and made his way up the aisle, half closing his eyes, imagining. Now this was exactly the sort of church he wanted to get married in. He was so busy picturing Patty swanning up the aisle towards him, her face wreathed in delighted smiles that her day had come or else shrouded by a veil – he never could decide which he preferred, face or veil – that he failed to notice the woman sitting right at the back wearing dark clothing, her head bowed, praying. His mind was absorbed with the froth of a white dress, the scent of roses and lilies, and yes, the lavender water too, six giggling bridesmaids and his mates in suits ragging him and making silly speeches.
Still unseen, the woman slipped out.
PC Gary Coleman didn’t even hear the latch. He was still mentally breathing in the church scents and hearing the sound of silk rustling, hymns playing, whispered comments.
When he came out of his reverie he was alone.
Police officers are not always as observant as they might be.
Focusing on the last four years, PC Sean Dart was sitting at a computer searching through files of missing persons. There was a depressing number of them. Children (just a few), teenagers (plenty of them) and women and men (mostly middle- aged but a few elderly). He concentrated his search on Shropshire, frowning into the screen, hunting for the man. It seemed odd to him that they could only call him that generic name: The Man. They could not call him anything yet. Not Jack or Tim or Steven. Not even John Doe. He was, for the moment anyway, simply The Man, and it seemed important to dignify his death by finding out his name. Dart’s dark eyes scanned the screen. He couldn’t see him here. Not on this file.
The Man wasn’t staring at him from the screen declaring himself. But then four years, Shropshire. It was a narrow parameter. The man could have joined the army of vagrants years ago. He could have come from anywhere. He might not even be British. Maybe he wasn’t in any of these files. Maybe no one had cared enough to report him missing. Sean Dart leaned back in his chair to think and try to understand someone who wanted to detach themselves from their previous life. He, of all people, should be able to understand this decision. It was exactly what he had done. He widened his search criteria, extended his period of time, worked through file after file, studying this army of vanished people, looking at known details, whereabouts, sightings, possible reasons for their disappearance. There were plenty: alcohol, drugs, marital breakup, mental illness, redundancy, financial ruin, to escape justice, family feuds, to escape debt, to escape the law, to escape someone who wanted to kill them.
Dart pushed back his chair. Now that was an interesting one. To escape someone who wanted to kill you. He leaned forward again, anxious to look closer. There was a case right here of a man somewhere in his forties. Possible reason for disappearance? Two a.m. one night, drunk, he had hit a teenage girl who herself had been on a drunken night out in the town. She had staggered into the road, in front of the car and had subsequently lost both her legs plus, the synopsis said, her entire nose and the sight of one eye. PC Sean Dart sat still in his chair, thinking. The girl’s father had vowed he would kill him and Daniel Kamara, the driver in question, had subsequently vanished. No court case. No conviction. No prison sentence. Kamara had joined the ranks of the disappeared. Suspecting foul play or even suicide, the local police force in Market Drayton had made a substantial search of the surrounding area and of the home of the girl, called Noona Parry. They had found nothing. They had spent hours questioning her father. (Her mother was, apparently absent. Not missing, the investigating team had been assured. She was in Cyprus with an ex-solider.)
Sean Dart brought up a picture of Daniel Kamara who would, by now, have been forty-eight years old. But there was no way he could be the man who had died in Moreton Corbet Castle. For a start, he was bald, whereas The Man had had a full head of hair. More than that – a full head of very long, greasy hair. Shame, Dart thought, it would have been great to have been the one to find out his identity. But, he realized, it was possible that the story of The Man taking to the streets would be just such a sorry tale, a story with a backstory and behind that another tragic story. Kamara’s wife had subsequently taken up with a wealthy local businessman and … Dart’s smile broadened. Here was an interesting twist of fate. When he Googled the man’s name – more for idle curiosity than anything else – amongst other things, such as where he’d gone to school and so on, his involvement with various charities was listed. And hey ho. Here was one of them. Missing: the local charity for the homeless. And the man? Graham Knebworth. Not known to the police.
He studied Kamara’s picture again, willing it to somehow be The Man. But no. It definitely wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.
Pity. It would have been so neat. And he, for once, would be the hero instead of PC Sean ‘Dark Horse’ Dart. He knew what they called him here just because he kept his past a secret. But if he cracked this one, instead of looking at him askance, his fellow officers, male and female would be slapping his back in congratulation, offering to buy him beers. But no. He turned away from the image. It wasn’t to be.
He returned to the more general search and came up with a depressing number of teenagers who were either in car
e or had quarrelled with their mother, their father, their mother’s or father’s new partner and had simply upped sticks and left. Teenage pique.
And so these people vaporized, whatever their reasons, leaving behind families who were confused, questioning everything they thought they’d ever known about their mum, their dad, their son or daughter. And sometimes they just didn’t care. Some of the comments recorded were not just negative. They were damning.
He was a waste of space … Trouble from the start … He’s not missed … Best thing he ever did, going AWOL … And finally, the most cruel of epitaphs. Hope he stays away.
Dart stood up, agitated. There had been a time when he would have liked to have disappeared too. Then what would they have said about him, the people who had known him? Which one of these withering comments would have been hurled after his disappearing form?
PC Gethin Roberts had driven smartly into Shrewsbury, parked up in Abbey Foregate and was currently talking to the nuns at the Holy Cross Catholic Church. They provided the homeless with a hot meal every single day, Christmas and Easter with no exception, privacy and hot water to wash and, if wanted, a kindly ear to listen. Roberts had imagined them in a thoroughly stereotypical way – quoting the Bible at their clients, pontificating or even trying to convert them. But they were none of these. It was true the door was opened by a nun in a traditional habit and she spoke quietly. Initially the Mother Superior’s blue eyes sparkled with interest at his precised account of trying to find the identity of a man who had died, but when he explained in more detail what his mission was her blue eyes became unbearably sad, as though she saw the sins of the world behind the act. She gave a long sigh and her shoulders drooped.
‘Evil,’ she said. ‘To take a life is pure evil. The men and few women who come here are peaceable. They wish no harm to anyone. For reasons of their own they simply want to live their lives in anonymity. It distresses me that one of our flock has met with such a violent end.’ She lifted her eyes to him. ‘I shall pray for him.’
‘We don’t know that this man was one of your flock,’ Roberts said. He felt very slightly uncomfortable with the nun, who was aged somewhere in her sixties but with an unlined face. Not the result of a facelift, he guessed shrewdly.
‘They are all our flock,’ she said. Then repeated, ‘Are all our flock.’
Roberts then produced the artist’s picture which had been produced and hurried through from their photographs taken at the scene. The Mother Superior gazed at it then looked up, her face puzzled. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I shall show it to my sisters.’ She disappeared out of the room, returning minutes later, a small, younger nun following, her eyes downcast. The Mother Superior spoke for her. ‘Sister Agnes believes she might know something of this man,’ she said and prompted her. ‘Speak, Sister Agnes.’
The nun was older than the Mother Superior. Much older. To Roberts she looked about a hundred. Underneath her wimple her face was aged and lined but tranquil. She had a face you could trust. She handed the picture back to PC Gethin Roberts, who felt his pulse start to race. She knew something. He could see it in her shrewd blue eyes. Was he to be the one who discovered the man’s identity?
Normally he would already be planning on telling Flora, his long-term girlfriend, of his success, embellishing his story richly as he went. But today he felt a skip of apprehension. While his plans had raced towards a wedding, a mortgage and children, Flora, it seemed, had been battling with her own demons. He’d always noticed that when he started talking about this future she’d go quiet. Sometimes she’d say that she wasn’t sure about it, or that she didn’t want to get married. Not yet and why didn’t they stay like they were?
Then, finally, last Saturday, she’d sat him down and told him … and he’d had to rethink his entire future. It might not be like that, she’d said. And he was having a real problem adjusting. In fact, he didn’t know what to do. He forced himself to focus on the nun’s words.
‘He wasn’t one of our regulars,’ she was saying.
Sister Agnes, he thought, had the sweetest voice he’d ever heard. It rang, sincere and clear, true as a bell. Each word was uttered slowly.
She continued. ‘And he kept himself to himself.’
‘Do you know his name?’
She shook her head.
‘Do you know where he came from?’
Another negative shake of the head.
‘Did he have a regional accent?’
At least she thought about this before she shook her head again.
‘Mention any family?’
‘No.’
‘Did he come in on a regular day?’
‘No. Sometimes not for months and then two days in a row.’
‘Did he have any friends, someone he would chat to?’
Somehow Roberts had already guessed the answer to this: another shake of the head.
‘Do you know how long he’s been coming here?’
‘Not really.’
‘A year?’
‘More than that, I think.’
‘Five years?’
‘Possibly. We have some who have been homeless for many years.’
Roberts reflected. It was a long time to be in such a position. He tried to steer the interview away from the general back towards the specific. He wanted to be sure he had extracted all information from these two nuns. They had known The Man – alive – if they were right about who he was. He needed to be sure.
‘This man is aged forty to fifty. He is thin …’
Mother Superior smiled. ‘They all are,’ she said softly. ‘Sleeping rough, managing on the one meal that we give them. They don’t get fat on that.’
Roberts swallowed and ploughed on. ‘Does this still sound like our man?’ He indicated the picture.
She nodded.
Roberts moved on. ‘He was wearing a thick tweed herringbone coat that was too big for him.’
Sister Agnes nodded.
‘And suit trousers.’
Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition.
‘Suit trousers,’ Roberts repeated, watching her carefully for her response before continuing. ‘And black leather shoes, one with a red lace.’
The Mother Superior sank into her chair, looking grave. ‘And he was murdered. How?’
Roberts started to protest, ‘Now, you know I can’t …’
But she stopped him with her hand.
‘And you tell me you don’t know his name?’
‘He had no name,’ Sister Agnes said.
‘But everyone …’
‘Most people do have some sort of name,’ she agreed. ‘Frequently not their real name. They choose to call themselves Robert or Peter or Tim or Charles – or whatever. But this man had no name. He called himself nothing. He would not answer to any epithet and he refused to engage with any of us; there was never an explanation.’
‘Was he a …’
She met his eyes and anticipated his question. ‘No, Constable,’ she said firmly. ‘He was not a drunk. He was intelligent. He had a nice voice.’
‘A regional accent?’ Roberts asked again in frustration.
She shook her head. ‘He could have been from anywhere,’ she said. ‘He was classless. Accentless.’
Fucking anonymous, Roberts thought. And almost smiled at the thought of the response had he added this to the list out loud.
‘Do you know the circumstances behind his homelessness?’
‘No. He never spoke of them. Most don’t, you know.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I’ll have to ask the others,’ Sister Agnes said gently. ‘I don’t spend as much time talking with them as I’d like.’
Roberts stood his ground. ‘If you would,’ he said politely.
But the Mother Superior dismissed him with a firm, ‘We’ll be in touch if we have any more information for you.’
‘Thank you. One last question …’ He didn’t even know why he was asking this. It was surel
y not even slightly relevant? ‘Was he a Catholic?’
‘Yes, he was.’
Now he knew something about him. ‘So he went to confession?’
But the Mother Superior was too clever for him. She could see exactly where this was heading. ‘You know the rules of the confessional,’ she said.
‘Which surely can be broken if the man had been murdered and it might help to find his killer?’
‘Confession made to a priest is between the man and his God,’ she said primly.
Roberts knew when he was beaten. He cast around in his mind for another question and came up with … precisely nothing. ‘Thank you,’ he said and bowed his head.
The Mother Superior saw him out. ‘Unfortunately people – some people,’ she corrected, ‘see these poor unfortunates as a legitimate target for aggression. We have had a few others attacked and one last year died of his injuries.’
‘I don’t remember that,’ Roberts said.
The Mother Superior gave a grim smile. ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly a hard case to solve. Joseph Gallagher was – to be honest – quite a drinker. He came out of a pub one night the worse for wear. It was all captured on the town cameras. He was talking …’
Roberts translated. Shooting his mouth off.
‘Talking,’ she repeated as though she’d heard his silent thought. ‘Making political comments, I believe. Some other drinkers took exception to this and basically beat him up. He died in hospital of his injuries.’
Roberts knew he’d have to look into it.
SEVEN
PC Lara Tinsley had drafted out an email to their local and national press associates. She was reading it through.
Early this morning the body of a Caucasian man aged between forty and fifty was found in suspicious circumstances at Moreton Corbet Castle in Shropshire. The police are currently working on the assumption that he died sometime on Thursday evening. At the moment the police believe that the man was either a vagrant or homeless and his death is thought to be the result of foul play. A post-mortem has been arranged for Monday morning when more details will be released. Would anyone who believes they have information please call this number. All information will be treated confidentially.
Recalled to Death Page 5
