Turn to Dust

by Amphlett, Rachel

  ‘Okay, let’s head back to the incident room and start making some phone calls.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, Kay sipped coffee from a stainless steel travel mug and watched a cluster of people who had gathered at the end of an asphalt driveway leading to a local community hall.

  Fresh buds covered the ornamental hedgerow that bordered the pavement to the left of her parking space, and a magnolia tree shot out tentative leaves from its lower boughs in the garden opposite.

  She reached out and turned down the radio, wearied by the number of advertisements that belted out enthusiastically between the latest pop songs, three of which seemed to be on permanent repeat every hour, but reluctant to listen to the political wrangling on the other channels.

  An A-frame sign had been placed at the end of the driveway, advertising a voluntary support group for local veterans whose regular meeting had started at nine o’clock.

  Impatient for answers, but mindful that she couldn’t rush her investigation for fear of scaring potential witnesses away or having them clam up when a stranger approached them, Kay had opted to wait until the group dispersed and she could chat to the volunteers alone.

  She scrolled through the search results on her phone and located the two-page website for the group.

  According to the home page, it met on Sunday mornings between nine and eleven, with the last hour given over to coffee, cake, and casual conversation. The second page of the website listed support organisations and suicide helplines.

  Checking the clock on the dashboard, she saw the meeting had fifteen minutes to go.

  She raised her gaze to the group hovering outside the hall, all smoking proper cigarettes, not vaping like many of their younger contemporaries might.

  Roll ups, too. Cheaper.

  Her heart sank at the sight of some of the men – as far as she’d seen there were no women apart from those volunteering this morning.

  Two of the older ones, pensioners by the look of it, huddled off to the side, a younger man stooping to listen. He wore faded jeans, battered cheap-looking walking boots and a black anorak, and seemed to sway on his feet a couple of times before one of the older men reached out to steady him.

  Four others stood with their backs to him, their heads turning to the road as a bright red motorbike throttled past, appreciative expressions on their faces. One man gestured as the rider disappeared into the distance, and Kay could hear the others’ raucous laughter.

  Gradually, a handful of others left the church hall, paused to shake hands or scrounge a cigarette, and began to disperse in pairs or alone.

  When she was sure only the volunteers remained, Kay checked her mirrors, wound up her window, and stepped into the road.

  Peering down the length of the street, she saw the last of the veterans’ group – four men who had jostled and laughed their way out of the hall – stop outside a pub on the T-junction with the main road.

  They seemed to debate whether to wait another hour until the doors opened, then thought better of it and disappeared around the corner.

  Kay locked the car and made her way over to the hall as a woman bustled past two parked cars on the driveway and bent over to fold up the A-frame sign.

  She smiled as Kay approached. ‘Morning. Can I help you?’

  Kay waited until she was closer, and then showed her warrant card. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt the meeting, but I wondered if I could have a word?’

  ‘We’re in the middle of tidying up, but you’re welcome to come in if you don’t mind me answering your questions while I wash up. We have to give the keys back at half past so the football club can use it from twelve. I’m Janice Crispin, by the way.’

  She manhandled the sign into the back of a russet-coloured two-door hatchback, then gestured to the open double doors of the community hall. ‘Come on through. There are only two of us working today. Luckily, a few of the veterans offered to help stack all the chairs away before they left, so we don’t have much to do.’

  ‘Who does the other car belong to?’

  ‘The cleaner – she lives next door but, with two adult children at home, I think it’s easier for her to leave her car here at the weekend.’

  As Kay followed her into the single-storey building, she ran her eyes over the line of cork boards that filled the entrance hallway advertising all manner of social and sports clubs, support groups, and a community library.

  ‘You can see why the committee insists on good timekeeping,’ said Janice. ‘It’s a popular venue.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘About three years. We used the hall over at Seal before this for a couple of years, but it was difficult for some of our veterans to get to, especially for those who couldn’t afford to drive. The bus service is atrocious on Sundays. Here we are.’

  Janice led the way into a brightly lit kitchen that had cabinets along both sides, a stainless steel-topped workbench in the middle, and modern appliances.

  ‘This is my husband, Andrew.’

  Kay shook hands with a stout man in his late sixties who wore a striped apron over jeans and a sports sweatshirt.

  ‘Detective Hunter wanted to ask us some questions,’ said Janice. She plunged her hands into a sink full of soapy water and began working her way through a pile of dirty coffee mugs with gusto.

  Her husband flicked a tea towel off his shoulder and dried the crockery while he leaned against the counter.

  ‘Problems with one our attendees?’ he said.

  ‘I’m after some information, actually. I said to your wife that I thought I’d be better off speaking with you both first, rather than causing any issues for the men who come here. I’d imagine they have enough to be dealing with.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ said Andrew. ‘Thanks for your consideration. What did you want to know?’

  Kay placed her bag on the table in the middle of the kitchen and unfolded the artist’s sketch of the victim.

  ‘This is a composite from a series of photographs. I’m afraid I’m investigating the death of this man. Do either of you recognise him?’

  Andrew took the sketch from her and held it so his wife could see it at the same time.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen him before,’ said Janice, water dripping from her fingertips. ‘Did he do something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Look, this has to be treated in the strictest confidence––’

  ‘You can trust us,’ said Andrew. ‘I was an ambulance officer for thirty years, and Janice here worked as a mental health counsellor. We’re used to keeping things private. It’s why the men in our group trust us.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ Kay pointed at the sketch. ‘We don’t have a name for him, but he does have a tattoo on his arm that gives us reason to believe he was posted to Kosovo in ninety-nine. We’re hoping that might help someone recall what his name might be, and who we might talk to about what he’s been up to since then.’

  Andrew frowned. ‘I don’t think any of our regulars were in that conflict. A couple of our older ones were involved in the tail end of the Korean War, then there’s one who was in the Falklands––’

  ‘Most of them are Gulf veterans, except for Robin – he’s our youngest attendee. Afghanistan.’ Janice pulled the plug from the sink and picked up a second tea towel as the water gurgled down the drain. ‘Oliver Townsend over at the centre near Riverhead – the other side of Sevenoaks – might know someone who could help, perhaps?’

  ‘Oliver?’ said Kay.

  ‘He’s an Afghanistan war veteran himself,’ said Andrew. ‘Runs a smaller group, but a different age bracket to a lot of our attendees. You might have better luck there. Hang on, I’ve got his number in my phone.’

  He handed the sketch back to Kay and pulled a mobile phone from his back pocket while she retrieved her notebook.

  ‘Will he still be at the centre?’ she said, eyeing the clock on the
wall above the sink.

  ‘No – they meet on Monday evenings.’ Andrew recited the phone number and checked she’d written it down correctly, together with Oliver’s name and the address of his support group. ‘But I’m sure if you give him a call, he’ll be happy to see you today. Just tell him you’ve been talking to us.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks for your help. I’ll let you get on.’

  ‘No problem. Do me a favour, though?’

  ‘What do you need?’

  Andrew’s eyes softened. ‘When you find out who your victim is, if he has no family to pay their last respects, let us know. We try to do something special for those who have no-one to say goodbye.’

  Kay swallowed, fighting down the emotions that surged through her.

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oliver Townsend had his head lowered over a tabloid newspaper when Kay climbed from her car and wandered across the pub car park to a motley collection of picnic tables spread out across a threadbare lawn.

  It had to be him; there was no-one else around, and the pub didn’t open for another ten minutes.

  In his early thirties, he sat with his chin in one hand, stubble covering his jawline as he yawned and ran a hand over a mop of chestnut-coloured hair.

  ‘Oliver?’ Kay held out her hand as she approached. ‘Detective Inspector Hunter.’

  The man rose slightly from the picnic table, his grip firm. ‘Have a seat. I know the landlord – he’ll let us in once he sees us waiting out here.’

  Kay glanced towards the warm-coloured render of the pub, spotted a few lights on inside, and hoped the landlord took pity on the pair of them. She shoved her hands into her pockets and turned her attention back to Townsend.

  He began to fold up the newspaper, before tucking it into a canvas courier bag on the seat next to him. ‘What can I help you with?’

  ‘I’ve been over to see Janice and Andrew Crispin at the veterans’ support group, and they suggested you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Yeah, you said on the phone. You’ve got a missing man, right?’

  ‘I’ve got a dead man.’

  ‘Oh.’ Townsend rocked backwards, and blinked. ‘That explains why you didn’t want to say much earlier, then.’

  ‘I thought it’d be better if I explained the situation face to face. I’m trying to do this without raising a flag at the moment, not until I know what – or who – we might be dealing with.’

  ‘Fair enough. And you think he was a soldier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She peered over his shoulder as the door to the pub swung open, and a man beckoned.

  ‘Come on in, folks. It’s too cold to be sat out there.’

  ‘I could’ve told you that fifteen minutes ago,’ said Townsend. He swung his leg over the seat and grinned at the publican. ‘Pint of bitter for me, and whatever the lady here is having.’

  ‘Orange juice, thanks.’

  ‘On duty?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Come on, then. Hopefully, the tight git has turned the heating on as well. You never know your luck.’

  Kay’s eyes fell to the man’s legs as he led the way into the pub, noticing he walked with a pronounced limp.

  He glanced over his shoulder, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Landmine. Afghanistan.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault. Hurry up, you’ll let a draught in.’

  Kay thanked him as he held open the door for her, and stepped into a low-beamed room.

  A fire burned in a grate to the far left of where she stood, and a bar ran along the right-hand side. Tables and chairs, as well as a couple of comfortable-looking sofas, had been dotted through the length of the space while local artwork adorned a wall next to a door signposted for the toilets. Horse brasses had been nailed to an enormous oak beam above the fireplace, glinting in the glow from spotlights strategically placed along the ceiling.

  ‘I’ll bring your drinks over,’ said the publican. ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ Townsend gestured to a table near the fire. ‘Might as well make the most of it. He doesn’t light it that often.’

  ‘Piss off,’ came the response from the bar.

  Kay smiled. ‘I take it you’re a regular here.’

  ‘How’d you guess?’ Oliver pulled out a seat for her, and then took one facing the room, his back to the fire. He hung the courier bag on the back of the chair, and then thanked the publican as the drinks were brought over to the table before turning his attention to her once more. ‘All right. How can I help?’

  ‘How long have you been running your veterans’ support group?’

  ‘About two years. I’d been attending here and there anyway, just to get myself out of the house once I was discharged. I did okay on my own for a while, and got lucky – I landed a job with my father-in-law at his garden centre, so money wasn’t a problem. It was just hard to find someone who could listen to me when I needed to talk. My wife’s brilliant, she really is, but she wasn’t there, you know? And it’s not fair on her having to listen to me going over what happened all the time. We both wanted to move on.’

  ‘How are you? I mean––’

  ‘Mentally and physically? Better than most.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘It is, thanks. Yeah, so when the last person who ran the group decided to retire a couple of years ago, I offered to step in. I’d been studying various bits and pieces to keep my mind active while I was going through recovery and physiotherapy, and I thought I could put some of that to good use.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘I do, yes. Gives me a sense of focus, and if I do need to speak to someone then I can within that group. It’s a real mix of people who turn up, but we’ve all been through something. It’s not good bottling it up – I tried that, and it didn’t work.’

  ‘What’s the sort of age group that you see turn up?’

  Townsend sipped from his pint, and smacked his lips before answering. ‘It’s a younger demographic to that of the Crispins’ group. I’m sort of in the middle – I’m thirty-one. There are a couple of younger ones than me, and then the rest are probably upwards in age to about late fifties. Gulf veterans, a couple from the Balkans who have had ongoing health issues, and one bloke who was badly injured in a fire on base here in the UK eight years ago.’

  ‘As you say, a right mix of people.’

  ‘It makes for some interesting conversations. Speaking of which, what’ve you got?’

  Kay gave him a précis of the case to date, careful to eliminate any information that might allude to myth or unsubstantiated evidence, and then showed him a sketch of the victim’s face. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Can’t say I do, no.’

  She slid a photograph of the victim’s tattoo across to Townsend. ‘We think he might have got this on his return from Kosovo. Have you ever seen anything like it before?’

  He turned the photograph around and held it up to the firelight behind him, his eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think so. What is it? Some sort of memorial tat?

  ‘Memorial tat?’

  ‘Yes, you know – a tattoo to commemorate an event, or a mission. Something like that.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  He smiled, and tapped his finger on the lettering under the tattoo. ‘Because of this. It’s unusual, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you seen it before?’

  Townsend shook his head. ‘No. Not that one. It just reminded me of one or two I saw out in Afghanistan when blokes came back off leave. They’d survive a firefight or something like that as a group, and then they’d all go and get the same tattoo, sort of like a badge of honour. Or a memorial if one of them had died.’

  ‘Okay, I get it. Yes – we think it might be something like that. It’s the only identification we have for our victim at the moment. He wasn’t carrying any ID on him when he was found.’

  Wrinkling hi
s nose, Townsend placed the photograph on the table between them. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide.’

  ‘I kind of guessed that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say much more at the moment.’ Kay swirled the remnants of her juice around her glass. ‘Do you know anyone who might be able to shed some light on this?’

  Townsend drummed his fingers on the table, and then pointed at the photograph of the tattoo. ‘Can I take that?’

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘Scouts’ honour.’

  ‘All right. What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘I’m still in contact with the bloke who used to run the volunteer group, plus I can ask our two regulars who served in the Balkans if they know anyone in the area who was in Kosovo and had a tattoo like this. I’m presuming it’s a limited edition?’

  ‘We think there were six of them.’

  ‘That makes it easier. Okay, let me check around over the next few days and I’ll get back to you. Got a phone number?’

  Kay reached into her bag and passed him one of her business cards.

  ‘Good.’ He grinned, drained his pint, and pointed at her empty glass. ‘In the meantime, it’s your round.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Kay entered the incident room early the next morning, the space hummed with activity.

  Despite it being half an hour until the shift started, most of the investigating team – the ones who weren’t making last minute dashes to get children to school or concluding tasks on their other caseloads – were in attendance, and the atmosphere was one of industriousness and grim determination.

  A bitter aroma of coffee, instant noodles, and energy drinks soured the air and she wrinkled her nose as she switched on her computer to log in.

  Barnes placed a mug of tea next to her keyboard before moving around to his side of the desk.

  ‘Productive weekend?’ she said, running her eyes down the emails that had multiplied in her absence.

  ‘Yes, hope so – you?’

  ‘I think we’d better set aside more than an hour for the briefing. According to the HOLMES2 alerts, I can see updates here from every member of the team.’