by Sarah Hilary
Like finding a child’s seat in the back of your car, seeing the wedding ring you forgot to take off, too late to do me any good – coincidences like that?
‘Give me what you’ve got on Clancy Brand, or I’ll arrest you for withholding evidence.’
‘I’m giving it to you right now. He touches little kids. He knew about that bunker. What more do you want?’ He challenged her with a stare.
‘How do you know he knew about the bunker? Just because you get a bad vibe—’
‘And you don’t? Come on, Max. Drop the bureaucratic bullshit for a second, and tell me your skin didn’t crawl the first time you met the kid.’
‘It’s crawling right now. Doesn’t mean I can make an arrest that will help my case.’ She drank some coffee. ‘On the other hand, it would get you off my back.’
Adam leaned back in his chair, looking lazy, looking lethal. His eyes gleamed, as if she’d flashed her bra. He was enjoying this, too much.
‘How do you know,’ she repeated, ‘that he knew about the bunker?’
‘I asked the right questions. Something you and your token DS can’t manage.’
‘Excuse me? My what?’
‘Noah Jake.’ Adam traced a pattern on the table with his thumb. ‘Black, gay and good-looking … Nice box-ticking, Detective Inspector.’
Marnie looked at him coldly. ‘Your story stinks. I’m not surprised the papers won’t touch it, although your bigotry’s a good match for a couple of them.’
‘Hey.’ Adam held up his hands again. ‘I’ve got nothing against your boy. Other than the crap questions he’s been asking. If he was half as good as you need him to be, he’d have asked Julie Lowry how often she saw Clancy out there after dark, digging round the bunker.’
Marnie waited a beat before she said, ‘You’ve been talking with Julie Lowry?’
‘I’ve been talking with everyone. Nige and Caro Fincher … Did you see that patio furniture? They’ve got way too much disposable income.’
There were two empty glasses on the table. Marnie wanted to bury at least one of them in Adam’s self-satisfied smile. ‘And they all said that Clancy knew about the bunker?’
‘Just Julie, but she’s the one next door. The others said Clancy was a dodgy kid, they wouldn’t want him living under their roofs.’
‘Funny, because I can just imagine a couple of warring egotists wanting to give house space to someone else’s moody teenager … This is crap, and you know it.’
Her phone buzzed. Text from Ed: Missed you this morning, hope your day’s okay.
He’d been sleeping when she left. She’d taken care not to wake him.
When she closed the text, her phone reminded her of an old message she’d failed to delete: Paul Bruton at Sommerville, again. Another visitor request from Stephen Keele. How many was that now? Four in the last month. Stephen had something on his mind. Or he was playing with her, the way Adam was playing. Snakes and Ladders. Unhappy Families. She still had Clancy’s piece of paper in her pocket, the keyhole garden he’d drawn, like the ones in Stephen’s notebook. Circles, getting smaller.
A waitress brought their breakfasts: bacon sandwiches and orange juice, more coffee; Adam had ordered before Marnie got here.
He fed ketchup into his bacon sandwich and flattened it back together before taking a big bite. ‘The Finchers play golf in matching gear; you’ve got to see that to believe it … You know this part of London’s only got one private golf club?’
Marnie looked disbelieving.
‘Yeah,’ Adam agreed. ‘It’s a fucking scandal. I’m writing to my MP about it.’ He started on the second half of his sandwich.
Marnie should have given him a speech about speaking to witnesses during an investigation, but she didn’t, waiting to see what else he was going to say.
Julie Lowry had flirted with Noah while she was telling him about Clancy’s peeping Tom routine. It was hard to believe she’d held back anything more damning, like Clancy digging around the bunker late at night. More likely she’d lied to Adam. As for the Finchers, it was funny how so many people had their eye on Clancy but no one had actually seen anything. Adam had nothing, no real evidence. But Fran did. Soil samples that said someone had walked across the Doyles’ garden and down into the bunker. All the way down, standing next to the makeshift bed where their boys died. Who, and why?
‘We ever do this before?’ Adam licked ketchup from his knuckles.
‘Breakfast? No.’
‘We had a Chinese.’ Adam drank juice, his throat moving smoothly as he swallowed. ‘Remember that?’
Marnie remembered. Chopsticks between Adam’s long fingers, and then, later …
‘No,’ she said. There was satisfaction in lying to Adam, although admittedly not much.
He finished the sandwich, wiped his mouth on a napkin. ‘You’re not eating.’
He’d shouldered his way into her dreams last night, while Ed was curled at her back, keeping her warm. ‘I’m not hungry.’ She pushed her plate towards him. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘And you’re not asking questions.’
‘About London’s lack of private golf clubs? No, I’m not.’
‘About Clancy Brand.’ He eyed her. ‘You’ve got something, haven’t you? Something that’s telling you I might be right about him.’ He balled the napkin and tossed it aside.
‘One of us has something,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s not you.’
‘You should talk to Nigel Fincher. I bet he’s noticed something about that kid. He’s a watcher. I know the type.’
‘You don’t know anything.’
‘Trust me. The matching golf gear’s a dead giveaway. He’s a control freak.’
‘Well, you know that type,’ Marnie conceded.
Adam reached for his second cup of coffee. He dropped his eyes to the table, lifting them to say, ‘I was sorry about your mum and dad.’
The apology caught her off guard. She felt her eyes expand with shock.
‘Should’ve said something sooner, sent my condolences as soon as I heard. It wouldn’t have killed me to pick up the phone or send a card.’
She was out of breath, as if he’d punched her. ‘And break the habit of a lifetime?’
‘Yeah …’ He turned the coffee cup in its saucer. ‘I owe you another apology, too.’
‘Careful,’ Marnie warned thinly. But she was waiting.
‘More than one, but who’s counting, right?’ Adam tried a smile. ‘Mostly, though, I’m sorry about your parents.’
The apologies were collateral, she knew that. His way of pulling her back to him. He’d guessed how it was, her better judgement warring with nostalgia. A strange sort of nostalgia, for a place where she’d never been happy. Her parents’ house.
Adam moved his coffee cup to one side. ‘I know how it must’ve felt, losing them …’
‘You don’t know anything.’
He adjusted the smile, making it sad. A glass was no good; it wouldn’t even scratch the surface of Adam’s disguise. What Marnie needed was a chair, or a window.
‘You don’t know anything,’ she repeated. ‘Not about then, not about now.’
She pushed back her chair and stood, putting the heel of her hand on the table and looking at him with her face open, hoping he saw every line and shadow on her skin. ‘If you fuck up my investigation, I’ll bury you. Understood?’
Adam studied her. If he was seeing lines and shadows, he gave no clue to it. Maybe, like her, he couldn’t see past the memories. Not just of him and her – of then and them. The last time they stood this close, her parents were alive and the only monsters in her life were the ones she chose to chase. She said, ‘I won’t warn you again.’
‘If I have something that’ll help, what then?’
‘Give it up.’
‘To you,’ he said. ‘I’m not giving it to anyone else.’
‘I don’t have time to stroke your ego,’ Marnie told him. ‘But I can make time to have you arrested for withhol
ding evidence, if that’s what I think you’re doing.’
• • •
In the street, she took out her phone and speed-dialled the station.
Debbie Tanner picked up. ‘I’m leaving messages, for the photographers. No one’s around yet. It’s still early.’
‘Keep trying. Where’s Noah?’
‘Waiting for Mr Walton to come home. He was out first thing. Shopping, the neighbours think. Noah’s on the estate, waiting for him to get back.’
‘Right. I’ll call him.’
Marnie put the phone in her pocket, walking in the direction of her car. Her hands were making fists, twitchy with the need to hit Adam, unsatisfied.
What game was he playing? She wished she knew, but she’d never known with Adam. Not even when they were so close her skin carried his scent, like an animal’s, repelling all other advances. She’d been glad of it back then, the closeness as well as the repulsion, a sure way of escaping stares in the street when she first started attracting attention, snagging glances from strangers. She’d resented the loss of her anonymity, been grateful for the disguise Adam lent her, his scent worn like armour on her skin.
She stopped by the side of the pavement memorial, reduced to trodden petals and patches of wax, everything else in an evidence tray at Fran’s lab. She couldn’t get the image of the peaches out of her head. Who did that? Crouched, in woollen gloves, and slid the tin of peaches between the candles and the cards? With what purpose, other than to make her look at her team with suspicion, turning in circles, tying herself in knots …
She dug out her phone and called Ed’s number, expecting his voicemail.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you’d call. Meetings were cancelled; I’ve got the afternoon off, if you fancy lunch …’
‘Sorry. I need to go to Bristol. I was calling to say I might be late.’
‘Stephen?’ Ed always knew.
‘Yes. Nothing like last time, just … questions I need to ask him.’
‘You sound pissed off.’
‘I am pissed off.’ She sucked a breath. ‘If I’m lucky with the traffic, I might be back for supper.’
‘Or I could keep you company. We could stop somewhere on the way back to eat.’
Relief made her shut her eyes for a second. ‘Company sounds good. I need to make some calls, then I’ll swing by and pick you up. Thanks, Ed.’
‘No problem.’ He rang off.
Marnie called Noah, reaching his voicemail. ‘The peaches are bugging me. I’m going to Sommerville. If my phone’s off, call Ed’s. I’ll catch you later.’
Fran picked up on the first ring.
Marnie said, ‘You’ve finished with the tin of peaches, yes? Can I have it back?’
‘Feeling peckish?’
‘Not remotely, but I need the peaches. I’m hoping they might get me some answers.’
‘They’re all yours,’ Fran said.
42
In Flat 57 Arlington Court, Denis Walton eyed Noah Jake with the air of a spinster appraising the white elephant stall at a village jumble sale. ‘And you’re a detective?’
‘For my sins.’ Noah kept the police ID open in his hand, looking around the flat. ‘This is a nice place. Great view …’ across the pantiled roofs of Beech Rise, the angle hiding the back gardens on Blackthorn Road.
‘Better before the houses went up.’ Denis jerked his head at the greasy orange sofa. ‘Come on then. I suppose you’ll be after a cup of tea.’
Noah sat, smiling up at the man. ‘If it’s no trouble. That’d be great, thanks.’
Denis looked him over again: slim pickings on the white elephant stall. ‘I suppose I can show willing,’ he said, in a voice that could have begrudged litter to a bin.
He was a thin man with a fat stomach, making him lean backwards like a pregnant woman when he walked to the kitchen at the rear of the flat. His hair leaned in the same direction, growing like a pelt from the base of his bald head. Picking up his feet when he walked, new tartan slippers on his feet.
Noah heard the sound of a kettle being filled.
‘Biscuits?’ Denis called from the kitchen. ‘You’re lucky I popped to the shops.’
‘Thanks,’ Noah called back.
The rear of the flat overlooked the well between this block and its neighbours. Four blocks in total, built around a concreted area where wheelie bins and bike sheds took up most of the space. Unedifying, but Noah had been in worse places. According to the house-to-house team, Denis had lived here twenty-six years. He was seventy-two, single and childless. He remembered Beech Rise being built, and the travellers who’d been cleared to make way for Ian Merrick’s men.
Noah was figuring out the best way to ask the right questions when Denis reappeared with two mugs of tea, a packet of Hobnobs tucked under one arm.
‘You’ll be wanting to know about Connie.’ He held out a mug and lifted his elbow so that the biscuits slid an inch in Noah’s direction. ‘Tuck in.’
Noah rescued the Hobnobs from the man’s armpit, putting them on the coffee table as he took the mug of tea. ‘Thanks.’
‘Connie was a character all right.’ Denis stepped over the table to join Noah on the sofa. ‘Didn’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise, got up in arms about that development before it even started. The way they threw those houses up … I’ve seen garden sheds with more to them. They’ve a brass neck calling themselves safety specialists. You know what they specialise in? Panic rooms for rich people who can’t take a ring on the doorbell without pissing their pants. And all that bull about the views … what about our view? That’s what Connie wanted to know.’ He chuckled, rearranging his stomach in his lap, propping his mug there. ‘You should’ve seen her with the Neighbourhood Watch lot. “Watch this,” that was her line.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘“Watch this, nose disease” … That was Connie. She was a one, all right.’ He sucked at his tea. ‘Can’t say the same for everyone here, but she was a good neighbour. We got on like a shed on fire.’
Noah set his mug down on the table. ‘Connie lived … here? In the flats?’
‘Course she did. Number 55, that’s what I told your lass last night. What’d you think?’
‘That she was one of the travellers living in the field where they built Beech Rise.’
Denis snorted. He freed his pinkie finger from the mug’s handle and picked his nose with it, comprehensively. ‘I call that typical.’ He inspected the finger, eyeing the nasal hair he’d dislodged with the mucus before wiping the lot on the arm of the sofa. ‘Connie would’ve had another word for it.’
Noah tried not to think about his suit, and the sofa. He said, ‘Connie had two boys?’
‘Not her.’ Denis reached for the Hobnobs, tucking the packet back into his armpit while he worked a biscuit free from the wrapper.
Noah said, ‘She had no kids. And she wasn’t a traveller. She didn’t live in the field.’
In other words, he was sitting on a sofa whose patina was nine parts snot and the other part God knows what, for no good reason.
Denis spoke through a mouthful of Hobnob. ‘Her daughter’s kids.’
‘Her daughter … was a traveller?’
‘No.’ Denis eyed him. ‘You have some funny ideas, son.’
‘But you saw the children with Connie?’
‘I saw pictures,’ Denis amended. ‘I told your lot that last night. Didn’t dress it up. Haven’t seen Con in five years. That’s why I’m surprised you bothered coming back.’
‘Connie’s grandchildren were boys?’ Noah referred to his notes. He needed to salvage something from this, if he could. ‘Aged about five and seven?’
Denis nodded. ‘Her angels, she called them.’
‘This was five years ago?’
‘Give or take.’
‘I don’t suppose you remember their names?’
Denis looked at him. ‘Of course I bloody remember. Christ. Just because one of you lot wrote down the facts half-arsed.’ He blew his nose i
nto his fingers. ‘Fred and Archie, her angels. Fred was the littlest. Archie was his big brother.’
Fred and Archie …
Noah held a breath in his chest for a second. This could still be nothing. Connie hadn’t lived in the field, the children weren’t hers. It could still be nothing.
‘Mr Walton, what happened to Connie?’
‘The travellers happened.’ He wiped his fingers on the sofa, looking disgusted.
‘Did Connie upset them? Get into a fight?’ Noah was reaching, wanting a reason to connect Connie to the case. ‘Was she afraid of the travellers?’
‘Afraid of them,’ Denis snorted, ‘that’s rich. She bloody went with them!’
‘She …’
‘Upped sticks and went with them.’
He flung an arm towards the window. ‘When they got cleared out of that field, Connie upped sticks. Sod her friends, sod everything. Overnight, more or less. Left the council to clear her flat. Never came back, never wrote a word about where she was, or why.’
Denis Walton snapped damp fingers in Noah’s face. ‘Buggered off, just like that. Haven’t seen her since, and don’t want to. Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
43
Sommerville Juvenile Detention Unit, Bristol
Stephen Keele sat in the visitors’ room, skinny in his grey sweats. Black curls, blue eyes, looking like an angel with his shoulders sloped, their blades sharp enough to be hiding wings.
Marnie smiled at the escort, keeping her left hand in her pocket. ‘Detective Inspector Rome. I called ahead. Paul Bruton arranged the visit.’
Her escort nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
When it was just her and Stephen, Marnie took her hand from her pocket and put the tin of peaches on the table.
Metal on metal, the sound making the table jump and echo.
Stephen’s eyes jumped too. To her hand, and then to the tin with its jaunty blue and yellow label, its ring-pull that counted as a weapon, in this place.
Under Sommerville’s rules, Marnie should have surrendered the tin at the main gate. She certainly should not have put it within grabbing distance of a nineteen-year-old inmate, a convicted murderer. ‘What is this?’ she asked.
