by Faith Martin
But he’d give it a damned good go.
CHAPTER FOUR
Hillary and Claire returned to the office from Woodeaton around eleven o’clock. Claire immediately put the kettle on and brought out the communal biscuit tin. Happily dunking a custard cream into her mug of steaming tea, she sighed in bliss as she munched and began to type up her notes, somehow managing not to spill a drop of liquid or scatter a crumb on her keyboard. It was her boss’s habit to keep a running ‘Murder Book’, which everyone contributed to as and when they’d completed a task, thus keeping it regularly updated with anything they came across. This ensured that everyone could refer to it and know what was what, and there was less chance of repetition of tasks or any snippet of information falling through the cracks.
Hillary made a point to always read it through last thing at night before leaving, and she was glancing through it now as she sipped from her own mug of coffee.
As Claire typed, Hillary gave Gareth a verbal account of what they’d learned at the Becks’ house, then asked him if he’d managed to track down the original investigator in Spain as she’d asked.
‘I did, ma’am,’ Gareth said smartly. ‘He was actually at home, and we had a long telephone conversation. I’ve almost finished typing up the report.’
‘Give us the highlights then,’ Hillary instructed, sitting down on the edge of his desk. It was always kept so clear and tidy that she was in no danger of dislodging anything with her backside, which, in the past, had tended to be broader than she’d have liked. (She wouldn’t dare try this manoeuvre on Claire’s end of the desk though!)
‘Ma’am. DI Weston remembered the case after a little prompting,’ he began, rifling through his notebook for reference, though Hillary suspected he didn’t really need it. ‘At first, he concentrated on a possible drugs angle,’ he said, frowning slightly, ‘although I couldn’t see, from reading the case files so far, that drugs were ever really an issue?’
Hillary nodded. ‘No, but it was a logical starting point for him,’ she explained. It was part of her job to teach Gareth as much as she could, and give him training as they worked. ‘Any officer, on being confronted with the death of someone young, especially if they’ve recently been — or still are — a student, is to look at the drugs angle. Simply because more often than not, they turn out to be at the root of it.’
Claire sighed over her third custard cream. ‘Either dying of it because they took too much, or it was a bad dose, or they just had a bad reaction to it, or because they sold it on somebody’s else patch, and pissed off the local pusher,’ she chipped in.
‘Exactly,’ Hillary agreed.
‘But there were no signs of drug abuse in Michael Beck’s autopsy,’ Gareth pointed out. He was not arguing, Hillary knew, just trying to learn. ‘And his parents were adamant that he was not a user, and had no need to be a dealer. And he did come from a fairly affluent family. He wouldn’t have needed to sell stuff, would he?’
Hillary nodded. ‘What you need to take into account when dealing with family members and their evidence is this. Some parents actually do have a very good understanding of their children, and really are the best people to give you pointers as to a victim’s circumstances, personality, and movements. So don’t ignore them or dismiss them. However, others really don’t have a clue.’
‘The problem is, of course, you can’t always tell which is which,’ Claire put in, contemplating the biscuit tin and wondering whether to switch her allegiance to Jammie Dodgers, but forcing herself, with regret, to put the lid back on instead.
Hillary smiled grimly. Wasn’t that the truth? ‘DI Weston wouldn’t have been able to take the Becks’ word for it that their son wasn’t involved in the drug culture. Yes, the autopsy suggested he likely wasn’t a user, but dealing them was still very much a possibility.’
Gareth absorbed this, then nodded thoughtfully. ‘Now you’ve met them, ma’am, what do you think of them?’
Hillary cast a quick look at Claire, who shrugged, and carried on typing.
‘They seemed a nice couple, genuine and honest as far as I could tell,’ Hillary began cautiously. ‘I think, from what they said, they probably were close to their son. I certainly didn’t get the vibe that there were any tensions between them, and the fact that Michael was back home and living harmoniously among the family seems to bear that out. But he was an only child, and it’s always possible that his parents might have been the clinging type and that he was desperate to get away. He was actively seeking work, but that’s only to be expected. He couldn’t afford a car, which suggests that even though his parents didn’t exactly lack money, they didn’t over-indulge him either. They paid his university fees though.’
Claire, listening to this recital, was impressed with how much Hillary always got out of her interviews with witnesses. She hoped young Gareth was taking it all in.
‘Could be they didn’t buy him a car because they liked to keep him close to home,’ she chipped in, but Hillary sensed that she spoke more as devil’s advocate than because she had sensed possessiveness in the Becks.
Hillary shrugged. ‘But all this is speculation. Carry on with DI Weston’s take on things,’ she nodded at Gareth to continue.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He turned a page of his notebook and nodded. ‘When his team couldn’t find any evidence of his involvement with drugs, he turned to the victim’s personal life. He told me, right from the start, that Dr de Salle . . . er . . . quote “pinged my radar” unquote. Says he thought the young lady might be . . . quote “a bunny boiler” unquote.’
Claire snorted over her nearly empty mug of tea, but otherwise didn’t comment.
‘I take it DI Weston hadn’t attended many seminars on sensitive policing,’ Hillary put in dryly, making Claire snort even louder.
Gareth looked uncertain how to respond. No doubt in the army one didn’t tend to disrespect officers within the hearing of other officers. Hillary spared him having to make a comment on the ex-DI, and said briskly, ‘But he confirmed he wasn’t able to find any evidence linking her to the victim that day?’
‘That’s right, ma’am. As you know, according to the Becks’ original statement, their son was in the habit of leaving the house more or less every day on his bicycle, either to cycle to Oxford to look for work, or to indulge in his hobbies.’ Hillary recognized this as an almost verbatim quote from the original case files, and she wasn’t surprised that her latest team member was already well on his way to memorizing much of the paperwork.
The more she got to know him, the more impressed she became with him, and she could only hope that he’d stay in the job long-term.
‘They were rather hampered by the fact that, right from the start, they didn’t know what the victim intended to do that day,’ Gareth swept on. ‘His best friend, Kevin Philpott, didn’t know either and Mia de Salle also pleaded ignorance.’
‘For all DI Weston knew, he could have gone to the city, left his bike somewhere and met up with someone who had a car,’ Hillary mused. ‘In which case the bike was probably stolen from Oxford. Or he might have been off in the local area taking his wildlife photos. In which case, whoever killed him must have come across him out and about and, after murdering him, disposed of the bike somehow.’
‘Yes, ma’am. DI Weston said they searched everywhere in the local countryside for the bicycle but it never showed up.’
‘Not surprising,’ Claire said gloomily. ‘All the killer had to do was leave it propped against a lamp post somewhere in town and it would be gone and repainted before you could spit.’
Hillary nodded. Oxford had a massive bicycle-theft problem.
‘Well, we know the only sighting of Michael on that day was right after he left his parents’ house and was seen cycling through the village, heading towards Oxford,’ Hillary said. ‘Which isn’t exactly helpful. Did the DI say if he ever came up with a favourite theory? Something too nebulous to put in writing maybe?’
Sometimes, she knew from bei
ng a DI herself, you often got a ‘feel’ for something that you just knew your superiors would never wear, and thus never officially recorded it anywhere. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop you forming your own theories.
‘No, ma’am, not really. He didn’t have total recall of the case, or details, only his vague memories. He didn’t take any of his notebooks with him to Spain, so he couldn’t help out much. But he did say that he remembered feeling as if the victim was not the sort to get himself killed, and he couldn’t find anyone with a bad word to say about him — apart from the jilted girlfriend and his former tutor, of course.’
‘A waste of a phone call then,’ Claire opined gloomily, still eyeing the biscuit tin wistfully.
Hillary shrugged. ‘Well, that’s the way it—’ She was interrupted by the straightforward ringtone of Gareth’s mobile. Not for the ex-soldier a jaunty theme tune.
He answered it with a quick, guilty look at Hillary. He rarely received personal calls when he was at work, and he was surprised that he had now. But the moment he recognized the voice on the other end of the line, he felt a small jolt of worry pass through him.
‘Hello, Jase, what’s up?’ he said quietly.
‘Can you get away from work for a bit? I need to see you, mate.’
Gareth cast another quick, worried look at Hillary, who raised an eyebrow.
‘Is it urgent, mate?’ Gareth asked.
‘Oh, don’t bother,’ his friend snapped. ‘I wouldn’t want to get you in shit with the big boss lady.’
‘No, don’t hang up,’ he said urgently. He’d heard his friend in this kind of mood before and he knew it didn’t bode well. ‘Hold on . . .’ Gareth closed his eyes briefly. His friend sounded as if he’d been drinking. Never a good idea if you also suffered from severe depression.
‘Problems?’ Hillary said quietly, and saw his eyes snap open again. In truth, it wasn’t much of a leap on her part — she could read his indecision and unhappiness clearly on his face.
‘Yes, ma’am. Would it be possible for me to take a few hours off? I can make it up by working late,’ he promised hopefully.
Immediately, Hillary nodded. ‘Sure, go ahead.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. Jase, where are you? Are you at home?’
‘Where else would I be?’ his friend asked bitterly and abruptly hung up.
Gareth rose, pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and reached for his car keys. His car, adapted so that he could drive it with his limited mobility, had been one of the many things that he had at first resented, but had now come to cherish. ‘Thanks again, ma’am,’ he muttered awkwardly, and left as quickly as his limp would let him.
Both Claire and Hillary watched him go in silence. Once the sound of his footsteps had faded along the subterranean corridor, Claire sighed. ‘Do you think that was his friend — the chap he was in the army with? Suffering from PTSD, isn’t he?’
Hillary shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I just hope it’s nothing bad,’ she said. But her eyes were watchful as well as concerned.
This wasn’t the first time she’d had cause to speculate about Gareth Proctor and his links with his former pals — or enemies — in the army.
* * *
Gareth drove within the speed limit and with his usual customary care, even though his heart was thudding uneasily in his chest. It wasn’t often that Jason Morley phoned him and the fact that he had now worried him.
Although Jason hadn’t been able to settle down to a job for any length of time after leaving the army, he’d always seemed genuinely pleased that Gareth had found a new career for himself. And one that Gareth thought might finally give him some sort of focus in life.
Of course, Jason had always ragged him about being a ‘police lackey’ with no real power to call his own, but underneath his friend’s cheesy grin, Gareth had often sensed some deeper, hidden feeling. Contempt maybe, a touch of envy, or maybe just sardonic amusement — or a combination of all three?
When he arrived at his friend’s tiny flat, he knocked on the door, still unsure what sort of state Jason might be in.
He had to knock a second time — wait and then knock yet again — before the door was finally opened. By that time he’d begun to run through worst-case scenarios, so he breathed a sigh of relief when he met his friend’s baleful and slightly bloodshot eyes.
As Gareth had expected from the slight slur he’d detected in his friend’s voice over the telephone, Jason had been drinking heavily. He clung to the door, making it creak in protest. He blinked blearily for a moment, finally recognized his visitor and then gave a wide, sardonic smile that revealed yellowing, uneven teeth. A waft of sour body odour emanating from his direction told Gareth that he hadn’t showered in some time, and his chin was rapidly beginning to grow a beard.
Remembering how smart he’d always looked in his uniform, and the painstaking care he’d taken to keep his boots and kit clean, it made Gareth want to either swear or cry.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t PC Plod,’ Jason growled. As a friendly greeting, it left a lot to be desired. ‘Whad’ya want?’
‘You called me. Remember?’
Jason frowned, as if about to debate the truth of this, then merely shrugged and turned around, lurching back into the living room beyond.
He made it to the room’s sagging sofa and fell into it.
Gareth sighed gently and closed the door behind him. Without a word, he spent the next half an hour vacuuming and dusting the small space, washing and drying the dirty dishes clustered around the sink in the tiny kitchen, and emptying and taking out the bin bags.
All the while his friend watched him in total silence.
When Gareth had finally finished and sat down in the battered armchair opposite the sofa, he almost felt as tired and depressed as his friend.
‘Feel better now?’ Jason asked quietly, without a trace of the savage grin of before.
‘No,’ Gareth admitted wearily. He knew, as did his friend, that his compulsion to see everything kept neat and tidy was his way of trying to keep control of his destiny, and to keep the random chaos of life at bay. Which was about as successful as the proverbial rearrangement of deckchairs on the Titanic.
Jason Morley regarded his best friend for a long moment, and then laughed. ‘A right pair we are, aren’t we, mate?’ he said softly.
‘Yeah,’ Gareth agreed, rubbing his face with his undamaged hand. ‘So. What’s up?’
His friend looked at him bleakly. ‘I shouldn’t have called you.’
‘You can call me anytime. I told you that, and I meant it. Not thinking of jumping off any bridges, are you?’ Gareth tried to keep his voice light. ‘Because with my gammy leg and useless arm I’m not the swimmer I once was.’
‘You’d have more sense than to jump in after me,’ Jason gave another wide grin.
Gareth gave a small grunt that might have indicated agreement — or might not. ‘Seriously. How are you doing?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Right. That’s why you sent out the SOS. To tell me something I don’t want to know?’ he allowed himself to sound just a little exasperated. ‘So long as you’re not about to rob a bank, I’m listening.’
Jason nodded. ‘I forgot you were working for the boys in blue.’
‘No you didn’t,’ Gareth said levelly.
For a long moment, the two ex-soldiers simply looked at one another. Then Jason slowly nodded. ‘No. You’re right. I didn’t. I wanted to tell you . . . I mean, I’ve been wanting to tell you something for months.’
Gareth felt himself tense, as if for a blow. He became aware that he was feeling slightly sick. Was this going to be the day that his friend finally said something that, once spoken out loud, could never be retracted? Was this going to be the day when his loyalty to his stricken comrade was finally going to be put to the ultimate test?
And if it was, just what the hell would he do?
Feeling a little panicky, Gareth flexed his injured h
and, feeling the usual stiffness just tinged with pain that had now become the norm. It had become a habit of his, whenever he was under stress, to do something to test the limits of his injuries. No doubt a psychiatrist would have had a field day with that, should he ever be foolish enough to admit it to one.
‘Oh shit, Gary,’ Jason said heavily, making Gareth’s heart sink further still. Jason only used that version of his name when he was really agitated. ‘I just . . . Things are getting on top of me, that’s all. I needed to speak to someone about . . .’
‘The army?’
‘No.’
‘What happened to you over there?’
‘Shit no!’
‘What happened to me?’ Gareth attempted a smile, and held up his mangled hand and waggled it.
Jason grunted with laughter. ‘Hell no. You wanna talk to me about that?’
‘Hell no.’
Again, they both grinned aimlessly at each other. Then Jason’s face hardened, and again Gareth’s heart rate rocketed, anticipating the worst.
But even as he braced himself, Gareth saw the determination leak out of his friend’s haggard face, and his eyes shifted restlessly away. He gave a long, shaken sigh and let it out noisily.
‘Look, let’s just forget it, yeah?’ Jason said flatly. ‘I shouldn’t have called you. It’s just . . . you’re my best mate and . . . but you’ve got some sort of life back and I don’t want to . . . Just forget I called, will you?’
He forced himself out of the chair and into the kitchen, where he drew a bottle of beer from the small fridge. He levered the tin cap off it expertly by leveraging it under a protruding, open drawer, and took a long swallow, walking back to the living room.
He didn’t look at his friend, which was just as well, because he might have seen the relief, tinged with guilt, written clearly on Gareth’s face.
But the truth was, ever since Gareth had learned about the murder of a former soldier in Reading, he felt as if he’d been walking a tightrope. Never daring to ask Jason what he knew about it because he was always scared of what the answer might be. But never being able to quite forget about it either.
