Sandman

by Anna Legat

  Ahmed’s feet are killing him. He goes home.

  ‘You look shit!’ Malik greets him. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Nowhere... I posted a letter for Pippa.’ Ahmed doesn’t want to talk. He’d much rather Malik wasn’t home so he could just throw himself in bed and sleep.

  ‘What – you been posting a letter all day long? Don’t give me that shit! What’s with you?’

  Ahmed shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he doesn’t even want to say that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘All right, suit yourself. I’m hungry. Going to Tariq’s. You coming, or what?’

  ‘Don’t know...’ Ahmed realises that he hasn’t had anything to eat all day. He is starved, and still bloody thirsty, but he has just dragged himself off the streets to come home. If he could help it, he’d rather leave the streets behind him. But he knows that the fridge is empty, or if there is anything there it is well past its expiry date.

  ‘Come on, then! Don’t keep me waiting. I fancy a shish kebab.’

  They’re eating their kebabs outside the joint, sitting on the stone wall of the neighbouring car park. At least Malik has shut up – his mouth is full. It’s dark now so he can’t see Ahmed’s face, which is a blessing. They are hunched on the wall; the cold wind is trying to dislodge them from it. A loud bunch of revellers stagger into Tariq’s, their drunken voices and the women’s short skirts and high heels testifying to their party mood. They crowd around the counter, ordering their takeaways. The fluorescent light inside the establishment indecently touches the girls’ half-naked bodies. It’s a cold night. It must be the alcohol and adrenaline that keeps these women warm. The party bursts into laughter. Malik’s body stiffens. Ahmed can sense it. They are sitting close to each other, their arms touching. He can sense Malik’s discomfort. And he can hear Malik speak, ‘Fucking white slut. Look at that filth!’

  Ahmed looks, and he recognises one of the girls. Cara, Malik’s once-upon-a-time girlfriend. He was head-over-heels in love with her. About a year ago. Then they broke up, suddenly and without an explanation. Malik came home, drunk as a skunk, and said he was through with her. And then he never spoke of Cara, and Ahmed never asked.

  Cara kisses the man on whose arm she is hanging. It is only a peck on the cheek. She lowers her head onto his shoulder, her long blonde hair spilling onto his back. The man takes off his jacket and throws it over her shoulders. He kisses her on top of her head.

  ‘White slut,’ Malik grumbles. He chucks his half-eaten kebab in a bin. He misses – pieces of meat and salad roll out of the paper wrapper.

  ‘You finished with her a year ago. She can see who she likes.’

  ‘She was seeing who she liked a year ago too,’ Malik informs him. ‘The bitch told me I wasn’t good enough for her. Apparently I’m not the type you take home to meet your parents. Why do you think that is, Ahmed? You have all the answers.’ There is raw hurt in Malik’s eyes, like it has never gone away. Ahmed knows that kind of hurt, so he tells Malik about this morning on the estate. And he instantly feels better, because Malik understands him better than anyone. They are best friends, again.

  X

  Cherie Hornby is bewildered. Her eyes zigzag between DI Marsh and DS Webber. They are red and swollen. The poor woman must have been through a sleepless and tearful night after the Family Liaison officers visited her yesterday with the worst possible news. Assuming it was news to her that her mother had been murdered. It may not have been news at all. Gillian hasn’t made up her mind yet.

  Miss Hornby is a spinster. A short woman with good posture and a spiky, tight hairstyle, something a paramilitary feminist would be proud of. Most certainly, soft and gentle femininity isn’t her forte, and that makes one think she is capable of killing. But the bloodshot eyes and the demeanour of a hapless babe in the woods tell a different story. If she killed her mother, she definitely hadn’t planned it. Manslaughter is a distinct possibility, however.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ Gillian tries to put the woman at ease.

  ‘No. No, thank you.’ She flinches as if Gillian had offered her a cup of poison. ‘I don’t know why I’ve been arrested...’

  ‘This isn’t an arrest. This is a voluntary interview. You’re simply helping us with our inquiries into your mother’s death.’

  A thin gasp escapes her when she hears the last two words, mother and death, uttered alongside each other in the same sentence.

  ‘We need to clarify a few things to fill gaps in our timeline,’ DS Webber informs her in his usual highly efficient manner. ‘You may have been the last person to see your mother alive, apart from her killer, of course. You may be an important witness. We need to know what you remember while it’s all fresh in your mind.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure of what, Miss Hornby?’

  ‘T... that Mum was... that she didn’t die of natural causes?’

  ‘Pretty sure. The evidence points to a third party involvement in her death. Conclusively.’

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘She was smothered.’

  Another desperate gasp. And then, ‘Who would’ve done such a thing! To a hopeless woman! And why?’ Her swollen eyes search Gillian’s face.

  ‘Precisely. We need answers,’ Gillian says. ‘Let us go back to your last visit to see your mother – yesterday, at...’Gillian checks the file, ‘at four-twelve pm. Is that correct?’

  ‘Probably. I always visit Mum at about the same time – four o’clock.’

  ‘And you left her at about four -twenty? Ten minutes... not even ten minutes...’

  ‘She upset me. She really did! I shouldn’t have got upset – – she doesn’t know what she’s saying, but I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘So you were upset with her? What about?’

  Miss Hornby sighs, interlocks her fingers and presses her forehead into them. ‘I wasn’t upset with her... I was just – upset! With myself, if anyone. She said her hankies had been going missing. She doesn’t even use handkerchiefs any more. She uses disposable tissues... I told her that, and she went berserk. Cried and shouted, said I had stolen all her hankies. A thief and a liar, she shouted. Ordered me to leave, never come back. She wanted a different nurse, a nicer nurse. I was a thief; she was going to make a complaint about me! I’d lose my job! That’d be my come-uppance for thieving from old ladies. I should be ashamed of myself.... On and on! It was utter drivel and I shouldn’t have taken it personally, but you... You can’t sometimes. I left. I ran out! Of course, I would be back today and she would’ve forgotten all about the damned hankies! If I hadn’t left her on her own...’ She looks genuinely crestfallen, but appearances can be deceiving. Everything is relative in the murder business, Gillian reminds herself: the woman could be distraught that her mother is dead and yet she could still have killed her. It’s quite a common thing in assisted suicide. Except with all the emotions flying high, this looks less like assisted suicide and more like a spur-of-the-moment manslaughter. If it wasn’t for the packing tape. Of which Gillian and Webber choose not to speak to Miss Hornby.

  ‘So you ran out of your mother’s room – upset?’

  ‘Yes, but I wasn’t angry with her.’

  ‘No, you were just upset. Very upset?’

  ‘Yes...’ she glances at DI Marsh without comprehension. ‘I’m asking how upset you were because you still remembered to sign out... you know, the Visitors book... If I were very upset I would’ve most likely forgotten...

  ‘What are you saying?’ The woman is visibly shaken by the implied accusation. Who wouldn’t be? ‘It’s a force of habit. I always sign in and out. Mrs Robson is very particular about it. They all are.’

  ‘So you signed out. Did you speak to anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember,’ she looks at Webber, imploring him to believe her since DI Marsh seems so mistrusting. ‘You wouldn’t remember if you were upset and just wanted to get the hell out of there, have a good cry at home w
ithout anyone seeing...’

  ‘But you did speak to Mrs Robson, she told us,’ Gillian is a pitbull.

  ‘Maybe I did...’

  ‘OK, let’s leave that aside. When you left your mother’s room, did you see anyone outside – – in the corridor, the reception area? Anyone you didn’t recognise? Anyone behaving oddly?’

  ‘A killer, you mean? Someone who could’ve killed my mother? Because I didn’t! That thought has never crossed my mind! She was an innocent old lady. She wasn’t suffering, wasn’t in pain – just... just forgetful... Why would I want to kill her? Why would anyone?’

  ‘Someone has, Miss Hornby, so please help us here. Think back: did you see anyone?’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s a daze... I can’t... I saw a nurse, I think... I think Mrs Fallon opened her door and asked me if everything was OK... Or maybe it was a different day. There were people, carers, residents... I’m getting the days confused. I can’t think! ‘ She buries her face in her hands and slides them up and down. She looks up at the interviewing officers, ‘This is insane. I can’t remember anything. My mother’s just died!’

  Webber looks at Gillian intently. His eyes are saying the poor woman has had enough. Sometimes Gillian has to be reminded of such things. She is not good at letting go. She nods, ‘Thank you, Miss Hornby. We’ll be in touch. You’re free to go for now.’

  The woman gazes at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘We are very sorry for your loss,’ Webber puts it so much better. ‘I’ll have someone take you home.’

  Scarface wants to see her in his office about a delicate matter. Gillian could bet it is something to do with Miss Hornby from Bishops Well, Scarface’s home turf. He treads ever so carefully around his little bumpkin-pals, so very carefully that Gillian herself has become proficient at tip-toeing. She could become a ballerina and do a good job of it. Now, Miss Hornby. She probably takes tea with the Scarfes every Tuesday. It will be a minefield of side-stepping sensibilities. Perhaps for the better. Perhaps Gillian will receive Detective Superintendent Scarfe’s rubber-stamp blessing to dispose of this probable assisted suicide as quickly and as discreetly as possible.

  She would be glad to, but for the packing tape stuck over the victim’s lips. That tape can’t be swept under the carpet. Gillian readies herself for a battle of wills as she knocks on Scarface’s door.

  ‘DI Marsh, here you are, at last!’ He hardly raises his eyes from above the paperwork on his desk. ‘I need you to pay a visit to the squatter colony in Sexton’s Wood. You do have a minute, don’t you? If not, you will have to make time. It’s of paramount importance.’

  Gillian was right. Philip Weston-Jones is the self-anointed laird of Bishops Well. He is also Scarfe’s longstanding comrade and crony-at-large. His interests are supreme to everything else. Let’s face it, the man has connections and rarely hesitates to call in favours. So it’s nothing to do with the mercy killing. Unless he wants her to mercifully execute the homeless occupying Sexton’s Wood, who, as everyone at the station knows, are making a nuisance of themselves to Sir Philip. He wants them sorted.

  ‘Actually, sir, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation – Gertrude Hornby. You may recall...’

  ‘This won’t take long.’ Scarfe is short with her, as usual. ‘It’s all about community links, DI Marsh. Local residents need to feel assured we’re here to look after their safety, day and night. There has been another case of criminal damage on the Weston Estate – the usual suspects, as you may imagine... We can’t let it slide. They are becoming bolder and more daring with every new day... We need to be seen to take this blatant vandalism seriously. I promised Sir Philip my senior officers would handle this matter from now on. You are my most senior officer, as it happens.’ He eyes her as if doubting his own description of her.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Good! Let’s get on with it! Keep me abreast of your progress. In writing, please.’

  ‘However, the murder investigation...’ Gillian shifts from one foot to another.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Scarface points his finger at her, ‘and go gently on Cherie Hornby, for God’s sake! She couldn’t harm a fly.’

  Yep! Scarface has covered all bases. Gillian is dispatched away from his office and into the greener pastures of the Weston Estate to take Philip Weston-Jones’s statement (which could easily be done by a constable, but it won’t be) and then to Sexton’s Wood to box the squatters’ ears. Of course, she can’t go by herself, and therefore another officer’s time will have to be wasted on this errand. It’s a sensitive mission – only senior officers! She will be damned if she drags Webber with her. Anyway, he would have to get his shoes muddy in the woods and he wouldn’t like that. He is better off carrying on with the Hornby case. Gillian pats Erin on the back as she passes by her desk, ‘DC Macfadyen, you’re coming with me. Weston Estate, then Sexton’s Wood. Bring your wellies.’

  Webber is peering from above his computer, glad it isn’t him. He winks at Erin, ‘Hope you know how to curtsey, Macfadyen! His Lordship likes them meek.’

  ‘Cut that shit out, Webber.’ Gillian is annoyed as it is. She doesn’t need any more aggravation. ‘Speak to Riley – see if he can shed any light on that packing tape. Where it came from, anything specific about it... Chase up Almond on the post-mortem, too. I want it on my desk today.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Oh, and go back to the residential home, get Mrs Robson to watch the CCTV coverage with you. See if she can identify everybody on it. Miss Hornby said she saw a few people in the corridor. I want to know who they were.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Right! We’re off for tea and scones.’

  Sir Philip doesn’t have the time to receive them and Master James is away, the sour-faced butler informs them as he leads them through the marble-tiled hall, but Master Joshua will. It is he who runs the estate and deals with domestic matters, such as the break-ins and theft of stock. He and Dave, the glorified manager who is the cook’s son. The butler pauses to assess both Gillian and Erin with a critical eye. ‘Which one of you is the detective?’

  ‘We both are,’ Erin takes out her warrant card for the second time. ‘DC Macfadyen, and this is DI Marsh,’ she gestures towards Gillian.

  ‘Is that so?’ the butler looks doubtful. He must be at least seventy and, like most of his generation, does not believe in political correctness. ‘They make women police inspectors these days? Young women, at that...’ His final comment is his mitigation, Gillian smiles under her breath. He gives her the evil eye. They are in the reception room: large windows, high ceilings, and wonky period furniture huddled around the open fireplace, which is cold and dead as a dodo. The room is draughty and cold. ‘Take a seat. Master Joshua will be with you shortly.’ The butler points vaguely to the floor and departs.

  ‘What a bloody circus!’ Gillian mutters. ‘I wonder how long we’ll be kept waiting for his bloody highness.’

  ‘I already feel like I’ve done it – whatever it is! Like I’m in the headmaster’s office, waiting for my lashes,’ Erin grins. ‘Guilty as charged!’

  Contrary to their expectations, they don’t have to wait long. Assured footsteps resonate on the marble flooring outside and a man in his mid-thirties makes a grand entrance: a big, indulgent smile on his full lips and a quiver of his eyebrow on his smooth forehead. Wearing breeches, riding boots and a tweed jacket, he is a living throwback to Mr Wickham of Pride and Prejudice. ‘I hope Gerard offered you a drink?’ he gushes and proceeds to pour himself a glass of some spirit from a crystal decanter. ‘Brandy?’

  ‘We’re on police business, sir,’ Gillian informs him drily. She doesn’t like him, or his manner. ‘DI Marsh and that’s DC Macfadyen.’ He eyes them in an openly lecherous way, his wet eyes lingering on Erin’s bosom and then on Gillian’s legs. Gillian feels like a horse for sale – is the bastard going to look her in the mouth next? ‘There has been a complaint made about vandalism on the estate, I understand?’

  ‘
Oh yes, that! Father is inconsolable! It’s the hobos from the Wood. Broke in last night and helped themselves to supplies. Davey will be able to tell you precisely what was taken, but they are becoming bolder and now we aren’t talking a couple of eggs and a bag of flour – they take the livestock! The other day they nicked a damned sheep from the grazing paddocks on the Brambly Meadow. It’s beyond a joke!’ He downs his brandy in a cavalier fashion and pours himself another one. He waves the glass towards them, ‘You’re sure you don’t want to join me? I don’t like drinking by myself.’

  ‘No, thank you, sir.’ Gillian wishes she could slap him. He isn’t handsome but is very sure of himself. He has a wide behind and narrow shoulders but is tall enough for that not to make him look chubby, just ungainly. ‘How do you know it’s the squatters from Sexton’s Wood? Do you perhaps have CCTV cameras at the estate, anything we could view to identify the intruders?’

  ‘No, of course not, but I’m sure it was them. Everyone knows who the culprits are. Who else would bother stealing chickens and damned sheep around here?’

  ‘We’ll investigate your complaint.’

  ‘I damn well hope so!’

  ‘Could we start with the outbuildings that were broken into?’

  ‘Gerard will take you to talk to Davey, our estate manager,’ he waves a dismissive hand. ‘But if I were you I’d go straight to the Wood and fish them out one by one. Frankly, we’re sick and tired of the lot of them. They’re like damned vermin!’

  ‘We’ll start at the scene of the crime, if you don’t mind, sir.’

  ‘I don’t mind where you start! As long as you take the matter in hand. Our solicitors are fighting a losing battle over the eviction order and the police sit around twiddling their thumbs... This is an outrage! One is no longer in charge of one’s own land. It’s all gone to the dogs.’

  Dogs are barking Gillian and Erin off the estate. There is some howling too. Those hounds are thirsty for action. Released from their confinement they would no doubt tear the two women to shreds.