Wilfred was working in the garden in spite of the drizzle of rain which, in the last ten minutes, had dropped like a grey chiffon curtain across the scene, endowing it with an air of mystery so the cottage garden no longer looked like the scene of child’s picnic but someplace strange and slightly ghost-like. Hook held up a plastic flower pot to explain what he was doing. ‘Slugs,’ he said. ‘Best to get them in the rain. Don’t like using pellets,’ he further explained. ‘Poisons the thrushes, you know.’
Randall nodded his appreciation of the sight of the pot oozing with slimy wet bodies.
‘Did you ever see a vagrant around here, Mr Hook?’
‘I saw someone who looked like a vagrant in the church one day, about a month ago,’ he said. ‘I was surprised. Though it was a warm day he was wearing a huge coat. He shuffled out without responding to my greeting. I think it might have been your man and I told one of the officers. But I’m sorry …’ And he really did look sorry, ‘I have nothing further to add. I wish I did. I couldn’t even describe him.’ Then he changed tack. ‘I’m not exactly easy with this situation, you know, living so near a crime scene.’
And you expect me to do exactly what? Move it?
‘It is difficult,’ Randall responded with the empathetic politically correct phrase. ‘We’ll be gone as soon as we can and people will forget.’
Wilfred shook his head. ‘Oh, no, they won’t. People don’t forget. This place will always be remembered for this happening. Everyone who comes here in future will come with a ghoulish expectation and look for bloodstains in the dining chamber or the tower. They’ll take selfies slumped in the corner pretending to be your unknown corpse and try to scrape up what they think are bloodstains on the steps. Oh, no …’ His eyes wandered across to the castle. ‘This place’ll be forever tainted.’
Randall didn’t bother denying this. It was probably true.
And again, Wilfred Hook changed direction. ‘I expect my cottage will drop in price after this business.’ Then he added as an afterthought, as though he realized his comments would have sounded heartless, ‘The poor man.’
‘Quite.’ Randall frowned. ‘Did you see anything the night of the murder, Mr Hook?’
‘No.’ Then denial came swift and vehement. ‘It was such a nasty night,’ he said, then repeated, ‘such a nasty night. I had the curtains drawn, music on. Imogen was slumped by the fire. Though …’ Something had struck him. ‘She did start barking around eightish.’ His eyes now looked troubled. ‘Do you think that was when …?’
Randall could tell he didn’t want to finish the sentence. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘It’s certainly within the time frame.’
‘Oh …’ Hook looked even more troubled and Randall could guess what he was thinking.
‘If it’s any consolation, Mr Hook, I don’t think you could have prevented our man’s murder.’
‘No.’
Something struck the detective. ‘Is there a Mrs Hook?’
Wilfred drew in a deep breath and the dog rubbed her head against his shin. ‘Somewhere,’ he said resignedly. ‘She left two years ago now. Went to live with her sister.’ He looked at Randall with a confused look. ‘I don’t really know why,’ he said. Then, stooping to rub the dog’s head, added, with a hint of bravado, ‘There’s just the two of us now. We’re quite happy, aren’t we, Imo?’
The dog gave a contented yap.
‘I’ve no understanding of women,’ was Hook’s final comment, and Randall heartily agreed.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
They left.
There was only John Hyde left, custodian of the castle. He too had nothing to add to the statement he had initially given to Gethin Roberts, though he was bending over backwards to try and help them, almost going so far as to improvise his evidence. Both Dart and Randall sensed that Hyde was actually enjoying the increased attention. Randall had suggested that the PC conduct the interview. It would give him a chance to observe him in action.
‘Good gracious,’ Hyde said, puffing his chest out in response to Dart’s first question. ‘The TV reporter asked me to relate the turn of events. Such a thing …’ He flushed. ‘I’ve never been on the TV before. Felt quite embarrassed.’
Sean Dart watched him from beneath lowered lids. ‘Hope you didn’t say anything …’ He smiled, ‘that you may later rely on in evidence.’
Hyde blew out his cheeks and went red. ‘Of course not. Hah.’ And then, ‘That was a joke, I take it. I mean, I’m not really under suspicion, am I?’
Dart used typical policeman speak. ‘Not at this moment in time, sir.’ Then he took pity on the man. ‘It must have been quite a shock, finding him.’
Hyde looked at him gratefully. ‘I’m glad you understand, Constable. I’m going to find it very hard to open up shop for English Heritage in future.’ He tried to laugh it off with an uncomfortable and false sounding, ‘Hah, hah.’
‘Do you feel uneasy living so near the crime scene?’
Hyde looked almost ashamed. ‘I know it’s silly,’ he said, then, hiding behind a cliché, ‘but lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place, does it?’ His question tagged on the end made him sound a man very uneasy with recent events.
‘Right,’ PC Dart said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve remembered anything else about that morning – or even the evening before?’
‘I’ve tried to wrack my brains,’ Hyde said. ‘I’d love to help you. I really would. The only thing I want to do now is to open the gates again and invite people to come back and look at this wonderful place. I hate it deserted and empty, no one but the media and the police. It doesn’t feel right.’ His last add-on sounded petulant. ‘The weather was good at the weekend but the only people here were the police. I felt sad, deserting the old lady.’
Sean Dart smiled. ‘Is that how you think of her?’
‘Truth is it is, rather. I have an affinity for the old thing.’ He smiled. ‘Bit of a wreck just like me. We’ve both seen better days.’
‘But you haven’t remembered anything else that might help us, some small detail?’ Dart urged hopefully.
‘Unfortunately, no. I’ve sat in my chair and thought really hard about it. I can’t remember anything except what I’ve already told you boys. It was an ordinary morning. Wet, of course, after the rain. I unlocked the gate and inspected the site.’
‘What made you look into the cellar?’ Dart persisted. ‘Do you normally check it out? Had you had tramps sleeping in there before?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I mean, usually there’s some rubbish dumped there and I have known people to use the place as a urinal. I generally take a bucket of disinfected water down there every now and then and swish it out, you know.’
Dart nodded and pushed forward with his question. ‘So what made you go into the cellar?’
‘I saw a splash of blood.’
Which had been on the third step down. Dart pondered the question. Had there been something else?
‘And at what point did you see the man?’
‘We-ell …’ The question seemed to put him in some difficulty. ‘I went down the steps.’ He was thinking hard about this one – too hard, in Dart’s opinion. His story should come more naturally.
Hyde continued, ‘I saw something huddled in the corner. I thought he was asleep. I didn’t see the wound. It didn’t occur to me he was dead.’ Even now, a week later, he still looked shocked. Sean Dart observed him carefully. And was convinced the guy was kosher. Honest.
During the drive back, Randall asked Dart if they had learned anything from the trip out to Moreton Corbet.
‘We’ve probably narrowed down the time of death, sir. Sometime after Mr Futura dropped him off at five and Imogen hearing something at eight.’
Randall turned to look at him. ‘We might have a narrower corridor of time of death, Sean,’ he said, ‘but it doesn’t advance us much, does it?’
‘It might, sir.’
And R
andall smiled. Maybe Dart would make a good detective after all.
For himself, he was glad to have met the neighbours but it hadn’t brought him any nearer to unlocking the case. And also, PC Dart, he felt, was deliberately keeping his true self carefully hidden.
TWENTY-FIVE
Monday, 22 September, 8.30 a.m.
Randal picked PC Shaw up at the station at half past eight. She’d obviously dressed for the occasion in a neatly pressed uniform and looked lively. They’d tracked Graham Knebworth down to a modern gated house in High Ercol, a small village east of Shrewsbury. The place was immaculate, if a little soulless, the houses large, square, uncompromising and worth well over a million, with electric gates, lawns and manicured drives. Randall wondered just how Knebworth had made his money and why he had subsequently decided to found a charity for the homeless and disaffected.
Giving PC Shaw an encouraging grin, he knocked on the door. They’d already informed him that they would be calling and he had seemed perfectly happy with this arrangement.
Randall wasn’t sure what he’d expected. His experience of philanthropists was limited but the man who pulled the door open certainly was nothing like he had anticipated.
Knebworth looked about sixty, an ageing rocker in tight, skinny jeans. He had a shock of white hair and his eyes were blue and as sharp and clear as icebergs. He spoke first. ‘You must be Detective Inspector Randall,’ he said with a hearty handshake. ‘And …?’ He grinned at PC Shaw, who blushed and supplied her name.
Knebworth grinned at the policewoman. ‘Yes, of course, PC Shaw,’ he said. ‘Come in. Come in.’
The warmth of the welcome was not what either of them had expected. They looked at each with vague confusion. Randall gave the slightest of shrugs and they followed Knebworth into a long hall with pale walls and a beige carpet. Watercolours lined the walls.
He led them into a long, lovely room, which seemed bathed in sunshine in spite of the cool day. A grand piano stood at one end in front of huge French windows which overlooked a lake and grounds and on into the distance.
Knebworth stood in front of it, staring out, obviously deriving great pleasure from the view. He invited them to share it. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ It was out before Shaw could stop it.
‘Now, then.’ Knebworth’s hand went out, indicating they should sit, and he did the same. ‘I can guess what all this is about. The poor old guy who got himself killed out at Moreton Corbet.’
‘Correct,’ Alex Randall said, reflecting that the ‘poor old guy’ had been about fifteen years younger than Knebworth.
‘So …’ He looked at both of them. ‘How do you think I can help you?’
‘We’re having trouble,’ Randall began awkwardly, ‘finding out who he is.’
Knebworth didn’t look surprised but offered no comment. His eyes, though, were wary.
‘We don’t …’ Randall continued even more awkwardly, ‘even know his name.’
‘I see.’
‘So we wondered if you might be able to help us.’
Knebworth’s eyes narrowed and his expression was guarded.
He sat back in his chair and waited. PC Shaw gave Randall a swift, worried look.
But his returning glance was placid. He could wait.
Finally Knebworth gave a deep sigh. ‘I can’t tell you much,’ he said. ‘I knew him but nothing personal about him. We talked, you know, once or twice. He knew some of the places I’d been to.’
Randall interrupted. ‘Do you know anything about his background?’
Knebworth shook his head. ‘Close as the grave, he was, and what he didn’t want people to know they never would.’
‘Do you know his real name?’
Knebworth shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. Then he grinned at them and changed the subject. ‘I expect you’re wondering how I made all this,’ he said.
Randall could do nothing but nod while PC Shaw looked at the carpet. It was a thick pile close enough to white. Pure wool, at a guess.
Knebworth laughed. ‘Simple,’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘I left home as a teenager. Spent a few years on the streets of London. I know what it’s like to be homeless, rootless. When I was sheltering under a bridge one night, freezing cold and feeling like I could eat the bloody thing, I made up a song about it. Nothing ventured, I thought, so next morning I spruced myself up and made my way to a house where I knew one of the members of the most famous band in the world lived. And I sang this song to him. He liked it. They recorded it but I kept all the copyright. Next thing I know they’re using it in a film. And then some. And now …’ he waved his hand around him, ‘I live here. And who do I help?’ Suddenly he leaned forward, hands at an awkward angle on his knees, elbows sticking out. ‘Who do you think I’d help? People in the same boat as I was in.’
‘Very interesting,’ Randall said politely, but Knebworth hadn’t finished yet.
‘I had enough money and more to spare. So I founded Missing.’ He gave a contented grin. ‘That’s how I met my wife. Her husband disappeared into thin air. Probably dead after causing a nasty crash which ended with a girl being disfigured and disabled.’
Randall broke in testily, ‘But it isn’t your life story I’m interested in, Mr Knebworth. You haven’t had your throat cut.’
Something about the man’s jaunty air was annoying him but his irritation didn’t even seem to reach Knebworth. He just laughed.
‘That’s right,’ he said good-naturedly, ‘I haven’t, have I? But I don’t know how …?’
‘The thick herringbone coat worn by our gentleman when he was killed together with some trousers. They came from your shop in Wyle Cop.’
‘More than that,’ Knebworth said, ‘they came from me. They used to be mine.’
‘Well, that answers another question,’ Randall said. ‘Had you left anything in the pockets?’
‘Nah.’
‘Or stitched into the lining?’
Again, Knebworth shook his head.
‘Have you ever seen these before?’ He produced the picture of the child’s shoe and the four medals on their pin.
Knebworth looked at them for less than a minute then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding genuine, ‘they’re nothing to do with me. It was just the coat and the trousers.’
Another blind alley, Randall was thinking as, twenty minutes later, he drove back down the perfectly straight, manicured drive.
Monday, 22 September, 10 a.m.
The CS had been summoned to Genevieve Dreyfuss’s garden shed and began to turn it over, if not tear it apart piece by piece, practically plank by plank while she watched anxiously from the kitchen window. The phrase ‘no stone unturned’ would have applied to them. They were thorough and took everything out. Randall had instructed them that they were looking for a notebook or possibly sheets of paper. Even to find the pen would have been something. After his meeting with Knebworth, Randall himself visited the site and eyed the neat garden and the hive of activity. Then he spoke to the now distraught Miss Dreyfuss.
‘Is there anywhere your gentleman could possibly have hidden an exercise book? Perhaps in the house?’
She looked baffled. ‘Why would he want to?’
Randall couldn’t answer this either.
Genevieve Dreyfuss looked even more upset. ‘He never really came in the house,’ she said, ‘apart from to eat, and I was always here. I never saw him with an exercise book or writing anything.’
‘When you were out did he have access to the inside?’
She shook her head and seemed a little embarrassed. ‘It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him,’ she protested and Randall sensed the ‘but’ …
It came. ‘But I always locked up when I went out.’ She tried to smile it off. ‘Habit, I suppose. I have an outside toilet with a sink. I just left that open.’
Randall nodded. He was beginning to read between the lines. Oh, yes, people ‘trusted’ the hobos, but not that much.
/> He returned to the garden to watch the CS team at work. If there was anything here they would find it.
They didn’t. But they did find the pen, cleverly slipped down the material where the sun lounger fabric loosely hugged the hollow tubing.
And Randall would bet a bottle of champagne that the insignificant biro was the one their man Charles had begged from Phoebe Walker at the Missing shop. He eyed it in the evidence bag and knew it would throw up bugger all in forensic evidence. It would give them nothing. Tell them nothing. But still, they had to go through the motions. It was evidence. Then his thoughts tracked elsewhere. It was a biro, worth less than a pound, and yet Charles, who had once been rich enough to afford a skiing holiday in Switzerland in the seventies, and had offered Phoebe a ten-pound note, had hoarded it like a Rolex watch. Randall’s thoughts travelled further. Had Charles elected to become a vagrant or had it been forced on him through fear or debt? Which was it?
He returned to the station and the news that the coroner had left a message. Martha wanted to speak to him about setting a date for opening the inquest and their unknown man’s burial.
He rang her back, feeling flat and disappointed. He had hoped that when eventually their man was either buried or cremated they would have a name, perhaps family or friends or business acquaintances – people to mourn him, bury him. For himself, he wanted the story of his past and his killer brought to justice. Instead he was faced with a plot number and an anonymous wooden cross.
But he knew Martha; she would want things tidied up. She wouldn’t like the thought of a man’s unidentified corpse lying ad infinitum in the mortuary fridge.
Martha sensed the disappointment in the detective’s tone and kept the arrangements to a minimum. She’d already spoken to Mark Sullivan. The date of the funeral was set for Thursday October 23, three days after the inquest and six weeks after Charles had met his death.
‘I’m sorry, Alex,’ she said. ‘I know that your part in this is far from over but I think it best if we open an inquest and bury him.’
Recalled to Death Page 14
