by J. E. Mayhew
His son sat next to him, dressed, it seemed, to complement the décor in white tracksuit bottoms and a white sweatshirt. His shock of red hair was the only colourful thing in the room. He sat scowling at the floor, looking more like a sulky twelve-year-old than a sixth form student.
“Ah, DCI Blake, do come in,” Mr Waters said. “Gavin and I have just been discussing the events, getting our facts straight and making sure we don’t waste your time.”
Blake blinked. “Right, sir. Yes. This is DS Chinn. We just want a few words with Gavin. He’s not in any trouble and he doesn’t have to speak to us now, if it’s going to upset him.” Blake thought of the chaos they’d left at the last house and hoped this interview would go a little better.
“That’s quite all right, Inspector Blake, we’re ready,” Mr Waters said. “Obviously, Gavin has had trouble processing the terrible news, so he may find it difficult.”
“No problem, sir,” Blake said, giving a fleeting smile. “I’ll take it steady. Is it okay to sit down?”
“Forgive me! What am I like?” Waters said, with a brittle laugh. “Please do.” He gestured to the other sofa. Blake settled himself on it, feeling the whole frame give as it took their weight. “So, Gavin. Could you tell us what time you last saw Rebecca Thompson?”
Gavin kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes.”
An awkward pause filled the room. Finally, Mr Waters cut in, “Gavin parted company with poor Rebecca about five forty-five. He then got the bus home, arriving here about an hour later. The Reverend Smythe said hello to him halfway home around six fifteen or thereabouts. That right Gavin?”
Gavin nodded.
Blake pursed his lips and Chinn scribbled notes down. “Right. And what would you say Rebecca’s mood was when you left her? Was she happy enough?”
“Happy enough for what?” Gavin muttered.
Mr Waters smiled. “Gavin didn’t notice any change in her demeanour when he left her. She was quite cheerful, I think you said, didn’t you Gavin?”
“Yeah,” Gavin said, not looking up. “Kind of.”
“So you left Rory about an hour and twenty minutes before that,” Blake said. “I thought you three were as thick as thieves. That’s what Rebecca’s mum said. How come he went home?”
Gavin shrugged. “Didn’t want to hang with us.”
“I think Rory usually has to be in by five at the latest or his dad gets worried, doesn’t he, Gavin?” Waters said, he lowered his voice and leaned towards Blake. “Rory has social and communication difficulties. He gets into trouble sometimes.”
Blake gave Waters a hard stare. “Where did you and Rebecca go, Gavin?”
“Home. The long way.”
“They went down the Rake and wandered the streets,” Waters said. “I think you said that you spent some time on the Common, didn’t you, Gavin? It’s a plot of land, with trees and benches, apparently.”
“Mr Waters, it would help enormously if Gavin answered for himself,” Blake said. He turned back to Gavin. “And what did you do there?”
Gavin shrugged. “Just talked and stuff.”
“Stuff?” Blake could feel his nerves shredding as Waters gave another grin and opened his mouth to interpret but Blake interrupted him. “Is it muddy down on the Common?”
Gavin looked up at him, frowning. “A bit. Why?”
“I just wondered if Rebecca was worried about getting her new boots dirty or wet, that’s all,” Blake said. “Rory seemed really upset about the new boots…"
Waters flinched a little as he saw the conversation spiraling out of his control. “I don’t think we talked about any footwear, Gavin, did we? Maybe we should stop there or get back to your movements.”
Blake silenced Water with one look. “Why was Rory so upset about the boots, Gavin?”
“Cos he’s a fuckin’ moron, that’s why,” Gavin yelled, cutting his father dead. “All this bollocks about Clocky coming to get her and how we were all cursed and we’d better watch out. He’s off his fuckin’ head that lad. Fuckin’ retard. Fuckin’ wet his fuckin’ pants over it.”
“Gavin, I don’t think that’s appropriate lang…”
“Who’s Clocky, Gavin?”
Gavin sneered at Blake. “Everyone knows about Clocky. It’s one of them urban legends, isn’t it? One of them stories that gets told at sleepovers. He was a paedo who lived round here years ago. Big time child killer and everything. He used to rape and kill kids on the stroke of midnight. Well he was caught by some teenagers from Bromborough and committed suicide in prison. But before he died, he put a curse on all the kids in the town, saying he’d come back as a ghost and get his revenge. People tell the story at Hallowe’en and stuff. It’s bollocks.”
Mr Waters flinched. “Gavin…”
“Right,” Blake said, trying to take in the story he’d just been told. Chinn scribbled furiously to keep up with the tirade. “And what does this have to do with the boots?”
Gavin rolled his eyes as if Blake was an idiot. “Becky bought them from the charity shop, didn’t she? The Hospice shop in Bromborough. She said they looked cool. They were, like, forty years old, right? Vintage.”
“And?”
“They had Clocky’s name inside them see? Cameron Lock written in huge black letters on the insole thingy. That was his proper name. Cameron Lock. He committed all them murders forty years ago. They were his shoes. Rory thought so, anyhow. Fuckin’ wetting himself. Fuckin’ wanker.”
“I think Gavin needs to go and have some time to calm down,” Mr Waters said, standing up and clasping his hands as if he were begging.
Blake didn’t stand. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm Rebecca or might have wanted the Converses, Gavin?”
Gavin looked at Blake. “Has someone hurt her? Dad said she’d just had an accident. Is it actually a murder?”
“We are treating the death as suspicious, yes,” Blake said, not wanting to agitate the boy any further.
“And the boots have gone missing?” Gavin said, his eyes widening.
Blake groaned inwardly for the second time that day. “Well, we haven’t found them yet. They could easily be at the scene. But do you know anyone who might want to harm Rebecca?”
“Rory’s gonna go mental when he hears this,” Gavin said, a strange light in his eye. “Awesome!”
“Gavin!” Mr Waters snapped.
“Listen son,” Blake said, leaning forward. “Your friend has been murdered. It’s not ‘awesome’ it’s horrible. She died alone and frightened. Now do you know anyone who would want to do that?”
Gavin gave a toothy grin. “God, yeah. Just about everyone at school. She was a proper bitch!”
CHAPTER 9
Rock Lodge lay quiet and dark when Blake finally reached home. He pulled into the drive and climbed out of the Manta, his feet crunching on the white gravel. From here, the River Mersey was no more than a few hundred yards away and the lights of Liverpool’s suburbs twinkled on the other side. He was only two or three miles south of the Birkenhead Tunnel. Here, the A41 widened into a dual carriageway, hemming in the old Victorian villas of Rock park against the banks of the Mersey. It also cut them off from the poorer estates of New Ferry and Rock Ferry and gave it a shabby, exclusive feeling.
Compared to the mansions next door, Blake’s house was small. It had once been a gate house for a bigger property that had since been demolished. It had four bedrooms and a tiny, overgrown garden. You’d easily miss it if you hurried past, so thick were the bushes around the wall. His parents moved away from their semi-detached house in Eastham, where he grew up, and bought this decaying heap to renovate and sell-on. Only they’d spent ten years fixing it up and then Dad died of a heart attack and Mum was left trapped here.
Blake let himself into the house and hung his coat up, his footsteps echoing around the high ceiling. He leaned heavily against the wall and let out a breath. Darkness filled the cold hall and a hundred memories fought with each other to weigh him down with
guilt and remorse. He stepped forward to switch the light on and something soft rubbed against his shins just as he moved. With a muffled curse, Blake took two stumbling steps across the tiled floor and headbutted the wall. Serafina let out a loud screech and disappeared. “Bloody hell!”.
The cat sat at the other end of the hall glowering at him. It let out a plaintive meow. Blake sighed. “Sorry, cat,” he said, squatting down to stroke her. “I suppose you want fee…” With a hiss, Serafina, raked her claws across Blake's hand, making him pull away and overbalancing him so he ended up sitting on the floor. She bolted into the living room.
Blake followed, half expecting to see his mum sitting in her armchair. Serafina perched on the arm, licking the paw it had just used to assault a police officer. A musty smell filled the room and Blake narrowed his eyes. “Tell me you haven’t,” he muttered, scanning the carpets. It wasn’t until he pulled back the armchair that he found the offending turd. Blake shook his head and looked at the cat again. “There’s a bloomin’ litter tray in the kitchen!” Serafina sat there, blinking at him and licking her lips as if to say, ‘shut up and feed me.’
When he’d finished cleaning, the smell of disinfectant was too strong in the living room, so Blake ate his ready meal standing up in the kitchen. Serafina had rapidly consumed the meagre pile of meat that she’d been given and now rubbed around Blake’s ankles whining for more. Blake looked down at the cat. Even after two years, she reminded him of one of those old paintings of pigs from the seventeen hundreds that demonstrated the joys of selective breeding; tiny head, huge body. It was ridiculous that his mother had allowed the animal to get so big. She’d fed her on demand and she was a demanding cat. Blake had cut down its rations but he suspected someone else was feeding her. He wrinkled his nose. Jeez, and it farted constantly after eating. He scraped the remnants of his meal into the pedal bin and dropped his plate on top of the others that waited patiently in the scummy water to be washed.
“Half rations for you, cat,” Blake said. “Until you slim down and stop making those disgusting smells.”
He took himself into the living room, where the pine freshness had managed to overcome every other smell in the room. Blake threw himself down in Mum’s chair, switched on a TV programme that involved nameless, toned and tanned young people in swimsuits vying for their moment of fame, and fell asleep.
Friday October 25th
CHAPTER 10
St Joseph’s Hospice Charity Shop surprised Blake. He’d expected something akin to a jumble sale; heaps of clothes and musty-smelling books all competing for space in a damp, cavern. The shop proved to be light and airy with products displayed as if they were new. Only a slight sense of clutter crept in where a couple of sofas were pushed together to fit them in. But the place had a logic to it, clothes, furniture, electrical goods, books, records and DVDs all had their own discreet section. It was a big building, having once been a showroom for fridges and washing machines.
“Killing the High Street, these places are,” Kinnear muttered. Blake had assigned DS Chinn to look into the Cameron Lock story to see if there were any links. In the meantime, he had acquired Detective Constable Kinnear for the trip to the charity shop to find out about the shoes. “Everyone buys online these days.”
“Or somewhere like Cheshire Oaks,” Blake said, shuddering at the thought of the huge retail outlet and hordes of zombie shoppers shambling around. “Everything you never wanted at a knock-down price. Mind you. I just hate shopping, even online. So maybe I’m not the best judge.”
Kinnear grinned and scanned the shop floor. “Welcome to the land of tat, sir,” he said.
A few old men milled around the DVDs and a woman pushing a toddler in a pushchair held up a white blouse to the light. A cheerful man greeted him from the sales counter on his right.
“Morning gentlemen, can I help?” The young man said. His name badge told Blake that his name was Jamie.
“Morning, Jamie,” he said, flashing his warrant card. “I believe a young lady purchased a pair of boots from this shop a couple of days ago. Can you tell me anything about them?” Blake held up his phone to show Jamie the picture that Becky’s father had given him.
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Those bloomin’ things,” he said. “You know, they’ve caused me no end of trouble…”
“Really?” Kinnear said, flashing Blake an interested look. Blake gritted his teeth.
“Why?” Jamie said, picking up on Kinnear’s tone. “What’s going on? Is it that murder in the woods?” Jamie put his hand to his mouth as if he was an actor in a soap. “Oh. Em. Gee,” he said. “It was her wasn’t it? The girl who bought those boots. It was her.”
“It’s just one line of investigation,” Blake said, glaring at Kinnear. “I can’t discuss the details, obviously. So the girl came in and bought them? Was she alone?”
Jamie thought for a moment. “No, there were two lads with her. Funny-lookin’ bunch, they were. One all big and hairy, dressed in black, the other blond, dressed quite stylishly for round here. They looked through the DVDs, then the vinyl records but it’s mainly Mantovani, Perry Como, that sort of stuff. Then she caught sight of the boots and bought them.”
“Did you see where they went then?”
“Over to Rubens cafe,” Jamie nodded out of the open door and across the road to the coffee shop. “The big hairy one, he came stamping out after a while. Looked proper cross. The others chased after him. Lots of shouting…”
“Could you hear what they were saying?” Blake asked.
Jamie shook his head. “No. But the girl was grinning and holding the boots up by the laces. She was shaking them at him and he was trying to… like… fend her off. Like he was scared of them.”
“Why do you think that was?” Kinnear said.
“I don’t know, do I?” Jamie said.
“Are you taking notes, Detective?” Blake said, barely concealing his annoyance at being interrupted.
“When we first came in, you said that the boots had been nothing but trouble to you?” Blake said. “Is there something more?”
Jamie frowned as if he was considering whether to say something. “I mean, he’s a lovely man and there’s probably a perfectly simple explanation for it. I don’t think he could be mixed up in anything like…”
“I’m sorry, who are we talking about?” Blake said.
“Honestly, it’s nothing really but, the same afternoon, just as we were closing actually. About five-ish, Gerald came running up demanding to know where the shoes had gone…”
“He was looking for the Converse boots you’d sold to the girl?” Blake said.
“Yes. He was in a proper state. I told him, I said, ‘the stilettos and the kid’s sandals have gone to Heswall and I threw the court shoes and the slippers in the recycling.’ But when I told him about the Converse boots and the girl, he ran off. He grabbed my sweater. Angora cashmere mix this is.”
Blake nearly grabbed him again. “And this Gerald? What’s his surname?”
“Rees,” Jamie said. “Gerald Rees. He’s worked here as a volunteer for a few weeks. Nice man, really. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. I can’t imagine that he’d be…”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“No,” Jamie said. “Natalie, the store manager would but she’s been off for the last couple of days. Left me right in the lurch, the pair of them.”
“These other shoes,” Kinnear said. “Stilettos and kid’s sandals, why did you mention them?”
Blake pursed his lips but let it pass because, in the excitement of the information about Gerald, he’d forgotten the other shoes.
“They all came in together,” Jamie said. “In numbered boxes, all wrapped in tissue, but you’d wonder why anyone would have kept them. The court shoes and slippers were proper manky but they all had names written in them in big black letters. Like I said, I dumped the scuzzy ones and sent the nice ones to the Heswall shop. Get more money for them there.” He winked as if he’d let them
into a trade secret.
“Can you remember any of the names?” Blake asked.
Jamie sniffed. “Only the sandals. They had ‘Stephen Bradshaw’ written in them. I only remember that because the shoes reminded me of that short six-word story. You know the one – For sale, baby shoes, never worn – we did that in school and it stuck with me. The shoes kind of reminded me of that and I wondered who Stephen Bradshaw was.”
“Right,” Blake said, a little non-plussed. “Could you phone the Heswall shop and ask them to hold onto the other shoes? I’ll have an officer go round to pick them up right away. I’ll need to know where the other things went for recycling, too. We’ll also need the address and phone number of your manager, in case we have more questions.”
Jamie abandoned his till and scurried off to the back of the shop to make the call. Blake turned to Kinnear intending to have a word about interrupting his questions but the lad looked grey as he stared at his phone. “What’s up with you?”
Kinnear looked up. “Just did a quick Google search of Stephen Bradshaw, sir. He was a toddler back in the eighties. He went missing and turned up strangled. He was Cameron Lock’s last victim.”
◆◆◆
Dead-heading. She didn’t even know if you did it at this time of the year. It was pretty pointless, given that briars and weeds choked the overgrown front garden. But she’d looked out and seen the roses, shrivelled and brown but reaching up for the light. Cutting down, that’s what they needed, she’d decided. So she rattled around in the old shed, ignoring the rusted tools that reminded her so much of him. He loved tinkering in here.
Her face hardened as she picked up an old tin of wax polish with a faded picture of a sports car on the front. He might have loved tinkering in here but that was when he wasn’t chasing his fancy woman around. Her search for the secateurs had been longer than she anticipated but had also revealed a number of other useful implements, should she need to use them. One had already suggested a plan to her. The secateurs needed oiling and sharpening after years of neglect but she got them working again and began snipping.
