Clocks Locks and Danger

by Lizzie Lewis

  She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Janika, but I’m employed by CID. I can’t do unauthorised detective work.”

  “In that case, I’ll have to do it myself.”

  Not that I know much about detective work. I’m wishing I’d listened more to Sam when he told me about his various exploits with catching baddies. Perhaps it’s not too late to learn.

  Chapter 3

  Abi is looking at me closely. While I’ve been replaying these tragic events of six months ago in my mind, I’ve also been telling her just the bare bones of what happened. I can see my story has moved her to tears. This is no longer the Happy Button I remember from school.

  She stands up and comes across to put her arm around my shoulders and we hug each other. There’s such a large lump in my throat that I can hardly say another word.

  “Janika,” Abi says, “I’m just so, so sorry.” She pauses for a moment. Maybe she has a lump in her own throat. “I was telling a friend how some of us at school laughed at your mother’s car. The little Citroen 2CV. I said if I ever saw you again I would apologise. Please forgive me.”

  I can remember our Citroen 2CV, but I can’t remember anyone laughing about it. Well, just a vague memory, but it certainly didn’t scar me for life. It sounds as though Abi was affected more than I was.

  “We took it back to Poland,” I say. “My father went on by air with a lot of our luggage, and my mother and I piled the 2CV high with everything else. You should have seen it. It took four days. At the age of fifteen it was a great adventure.”

  Abi is smiling at me. “Do you still have it?”

  I shake my head. “I think the journey to Poland brought its life to a premature end.”

  “Well, if you want to revive old memories, I have friends who have just restored an identical model.” Abi looks at her watch. “How about I leave you alone for a few minutes? Have a good look round, sit at the desk, and imagine you’re doing ... whatever work you want to do here.”

  “No, Abi, please stay.” I know she’s fishing, and I have no reason not to tell her. I can’t believe she hasn’t guessed anyway after hearing my story. Perhaps I need to tell her what happened next, back in Brevelstone.

  <><><><>

  I can’t stop myself revisiting the past. Courtney is explaining that she can’t jeopardise her job, but she will be able to share things that aren’t confidential. She explains there’s nothing to share at the moment. Her boss believes Sam took his own life, so it sounds like the coroner’s work is as good as done.

  What I need is a private detective. Unfortunately, we’re already overdrawn at the bank, and our credit cards are maxed out. I think they’re about to be cancelled, anyway. Can it be possible that Sam took his own life? I feel bad for even wondering. No, surely he wouldn’t do that. Definitely not. We were going to stay with our friends and fight our way out of debt. I already have the offer of a possible job at a small hairdressing salon.

  I tell Courtney more about our financial problems. It’s going to come out at the inquest anyway, when the coroner dreams up the reason for Sam jumping from the bridge. If only I could find the woman who made the phone call.

  It’s going to be hard, but I need to go to the Mill Bridge and see where Sam fell. I understand from Courtney that the site has been cleaned up now. I don’t even want to think what cleaning up entails. There’s already been a post-mortem, but I’ve been advised not to see Sam’s body. Apparently he fell headfirst.

  Courtney says she’s authorised to stay with me for the rest of the day if I like. I tell her I want to go to Mill Bridge, and she looks surprised.

  “If I don’t do it now, Courtney, I’ll probably never go near there ever again. I need to force myself to go. I can’t bear to go on my own. Will you come with me?”

  We have a bit of an argument but eventually I persuade Courtney that a visit to the bridge will start to bring some sort of closure. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s something I have to do.

  Mill Bridge is about a mile away, and I want to walk there. I want to walk through familiar roads, trying to adjust to living in Brevelstone without Sam. But there are so many memories that I feel quite shaken when we finally arrive at the bridge.

  Courtney is looking concerned. “I think you ought to leave it at this, Janika,” she says, putting her arm around me again. Although I find the move reassuring, it brings out a strong emotion. I wish people wouldn’t try to offer me so much physical comfort. It’s more than I can bear.

  I shake her free. “Which side?” I’m asking the question, almost in a trance. No, in a nightmare. But I have to see this through.

  Courtney points to the left parapet. She isn’t saying a word. I’m wondering if she’s having as hard a time as I am. If so, I need to pull myself together and set a good example.

  The parapet wall on the side of the bridge is quite low, but not low enough for anyone to fall over accidentally. The top has thick concrete slabs, probably placed there more recently to raise the height to a legal minimum. I can remember as a child wondering if I could walk across the bridge on that wall, but of course I never dared try. I certainly wouldn’t want to try now.

  I lean over the parapet to get a view down to the ground below. The bridge has two central arches, one on each side of the wide river.

  “No!” Courtney grabs hold of my jacket and pulls me back quickly onto the walkway.

  As soon as she lets go I turn to face her. I almost feel like laughing, but I don’t. “I only want to look. I’m not going to jump.”

  Courtney nods. I think she believes me. So we haul ourselves up together and peer over the edge. Down below is a flat area of old concrete, plus some items of discarded junk. I can see where Sam must have landed. A large patch has been hosed clean, washing away all traces of my lovely husband.

  I lean over a bit further, and Courtney doesn’t appear bothered. It seems like she’s trusting me now. Good, at least we can work as a team. I look at the stone pier on our side of the river, and can see what looks like a red stain. This must be the bloodstain he told me about. I’m not going to tell her I’ve seen it, because she’ll probably try to prevent me from looking at it too closely. I thought she said the whole scene had been cleaned up.

  I shuffle my way back onto the walkway and take a few steps further along the bridge, to be directly above the stain. Courtney comes with me, holding my arm. Perhaps she doesn’t trust me so much after all. “I just want to look over here for a moment,” I explain. “This must be where Sam fell from.”

  Once again we haul ourselves up onto the parapet and look over. Yes, it is blood. I’m about to point it out to Courtney, But once again she pulls me back, but not before I’ve seen something very small and shiny protruding from the stonework.

  A couple are coming by pushing a baby in a buggy, and I don’t want them to hear what I’m about to say. In fact, the bridge seems to be surprisingly popular all of a sudden. There’s only a walkway on one side, and we press ourselves against the wall so the couple with the buggy can get by without actually needing to step into the road. And there’s a family coming the other way from the Old Mill Shopping Outlet, carrying large bags. The fact that people have money to spend makes me sad, but not as sad as the loss of Sam.

  “I need another look,” I tell Courtney as soon as the walkway is clear. I’m not bothered about the cars coming and going. I just don’t want pedestrians looking over, trying to see what the attraction is down below, and then asking what we’re looking at. I couldn’t bear to do that. What would I say anyway? “To see where my husband died three days ago?”

  It seems Courtney wants to humour me, if that’s the right word. So we get onto the wall again, lying on our stomachs, leaving plenty of our bodies on the wall to save over-balancing. Could Sam really have done this, watching something suspicious going on below? I point out the blood on the stone bridge support.

  “You don’t want to look at that,” she says. “It should have been cleaned up. I’ll have a word at
the station.”

  “Courtney,” I say, “can you see something small and shiny stuck in the wall? Oh, look, look, I’m sure it’s what I think it is. I can see the thin leather cord Sam kept it on.”

  We’re finding it hard to breathe, pressed on the wall like this. “I can see something,” Courtney is saying. “It’s probably part of a shiny sweet wrapper that’s got caught between the stones. I need to get back down. This is too uncomfortable.”

  We’re back on the walkway now. Two middle-aged men are leaning over a little further along. I’d not realised we had company. “Just some birds,” I call out to them, hoping they’re not birdwatchers themselves. I don’t really know one bird from another, so I don’t want them to ask me what sort.

  They look a bit embarrassed and walk on. That’s one problem out of the way. I realise that when Sam died here, the whole area would have been deserted. The Shopping Outlet closes on the dot of eight, and by 8:30 thirty probably no one uses this road. So any cries for help at 9:30 would have gone unnoticed.

  “What do you think you saw?” I ask Courtney. “You don’t really think it’s a sweet wrapper, do you?” Impossible though it is to believe, I’m convinced by what I’ve just seen. But a second opinion will be welcome.

  “It looks shiny,” Courtney says. “If that’s what you’re talking about. Perhaps a bit of jewellery. I could see a cord or something round it, or maybe it’s a bit of a dead plant. It seems to be stuck in the stonework. What do you think it is?”

  That’s the question I’ve just asked her. “I think it’s Sam’s small gold cross,” I say, but even as I say it, it sounds impossible. “But I can’t see how it got stuck in the wall. If he jumped from here, or even if he was thrown over, or fell over by accident, he wouldn’t have been able to stick it in the wall. So who put it there? And why? He wore it every day. I want it back.”

  Courtney is making a sensible suggestion. “I’m going to get in touch with the coroner’s office to see if your husband was wearing his cross when he was found. If he was, then there’s no need for us to do anything.”

  The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that we’ve just seen Sam’s small gold cross. He was religious in a way I’ve never been able to understand. I went with him when he suddenly started going to church with his friends on Sundays, because I could see how much he wanted me to go, but to my shame I never even pretended to know what it was all about.

  “You can do that?” I ask. “You know the coroner’s number?”

  Courtney has her phone in her hand. “I know a woman who does,” she explains. “But we need to go somewhere quiet. This bridge is surprisingly noisy with traffic for the Shopping Outlet, and I don’t want any passers-by listening in. I don’t think anyone is going to interfere with what looks like a crime scene. They’d need a tall ladder. We’ll only be gone a few minutes and we can keep an eye on it while I’m phoning.”

  I’m staring at the concrete slabs where Sam must have been just before he fell. This looks like a bloodstain. A recent one. “Come and see this, Courtney. If this is blood, and it’s Sam’s blood, then he didn’t jump willingly. He must have already been injured.”

  Courtney’s eyes blaze with what looks like anger. “Janika, I definitely need to declare this a crime scene. It seems there’s been some sloppy investigation. I need to phone in.”

  It looks quiet below the bridge, that’s for sure, but I’m not going down there. I’ve seen enough for one day. All I want to know is whether Sam was found wearing his cross. And I’m sure I already know the answer to that.

  He was wearing it when he got dressed, but he wasn’t found with it. I’m one hundred percent sure. Well, ninety-nine percent sure. No, one hundred percent. And if this is his blood on the top of the parapet, this definitely needs to be declared a crime scene.

  On the other side of the bridge, by the Old Mill Shopping Outlet, there’s a small grassy area with benches, so we cross over and make our way there.

  Courtney is already dialling on her phone. She seems to be having trouble getting someone to give her the number she needs. Presumably the coroner’s office. Maybe not just anyone in the coroner’s office, but someone who will be able to tell her what she needs to know while we’re waiting.

  Like all the benches in the green area, this one faces the river and the bridge. And of course I can see the stone support, even though it’s too far away to actually see the blood. I close my eyes and try to put everything out of my mind. I’m sure now that I’ve made a big mistake in coming here.

  “That’s it then,” Courtney is saying.

  I come back to where I am. “That’s what then?”

  “Sam wasn’t wearing a cross when his body was recovered. We’re going to have to recover that cross, or whatever it is stuck in the wall. Then, if you’re sure you can identify it without doubt that it is Sam’s cross, you have to tell the coroner.”

  I can see Courtney has an idea, but she seems reluctant to share it. “Janika, you’re not going to like to hear this, but I think we can prove that Sam didn’t take his own life, with or without the bloodstain on top of the parapet.”

  Not going to like to hear it? I can’t think of anything better – apart from hearing that the body has been misidentified, and Sam is still alive somewhere. What on earth does Courtney mean? “Go on, share.”

  She’s shaking her head. “I can’t. The police need to retrieve whatever it is from the wall. If I’m right, it’s too gruesome to even think about.”

  I put my hand to my mouth. I suddenly realise exactly what she’s thinking. “Oh, Courtney, that’s absolutely horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible.” I’m feeling sick at the thought, and lean over the grass, actually retching.

  Courtney pats me gently on the back, presumably thinking that will help. “But at least it will bring in a verdict of murder rather than suicide,” she says.

  She’s right, of course, and I owe it to Sam to get the right verdict, irrespective of getting his life insurance and some sort of payment from the police for death while on duty.

  “I’m going back to the police station to make a full report,” she tells me. “But I’ll see you back home first.”

  That sounds crazy. “We need to retrieve the cross quickly. If we can find a long stick and fix a metal hook on the end, we can do it ourselves. I know it’s small, but there might be part of someone else’s fingerprint on it.”

  I can see Courtney shaking her head. “That won’t be good enough,” she says. “It needs to be recovered officially by the police. If you take it to the coroner, assuming it is Sam’s cross, what proof do you have that it was stuck between the stones on the bridge? You might have found it at home and pretended to find it here, to influence the coroner.”

  It’s a good thing I’m not in the police, making a dreadful blunder like that. I shake my head and lean forward again, my stomach contents coming up into my throat. Do I hope it is Sam’s cross? Of course I do. Do I want a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown? Of course I do. It’s just that I can’t handle the thought of Sam being dangled by his ankles long enough to slip the cross over his head to stick it in the wall in the hope that it will be discovered, before being released to crash headfirst onto the ground below.

  Was Sam gagged? Probably not, if they were trying to extract information out of him. That’s grim.

  I look into Abi’s eyes. I’ve obviously been telling this account while I’ve been reliving those events of six months ago in my mind. “And that’s when I decided to become a private detective,” I tell her.

  Chapter 4

  “A private detective,” Abi says in surprise. “A private investigator? What, here?”

  I’m taken aback. “Is that a problem?”

  Abi isn’t laughing, but I can see she’s thinking. Probably my story has affected her, so she doesn’t feel that laughing would be appropriate. I’m glad.

  “The Button Up Detective Agency,” she says quietly.

  That re
ally takes the wind out of my sails. I did my homework carefully before thinking of moving here. I’ve been imagining I’ll be the only private detective in town. “I didn’t know about them,” I say.

  Abi still isn’t laughing, but she’s giving a sort of secret smile. “There isn’t one. Not yet. But I was saying recently that when Mr Jennings leaves, it would be great to have a detective agency above here, and we could call it the Button Up Detective Agency. I thought I could help out in my free time. I have this totally undeserved reputation for being nosy, but I’ve helped untangle a few mysteries. I’m also good at cryptic crosswords, but I’m not sure what sort of use that would be to you.”

  “The Button Up Detective Agency?” I shake my head. “I’m calling it the Ja-Jo Detective Bureau. From my name. But if you’re thinking of starting your own agency, I don’t want to cramp you.”

  Abi takes a deep breath. “Not me, Janika. Do you really want to rent this apartment? If you do, you’re welcome to use the name. I’m never going to use it. It’s just something I thought up. I wouldn’t mind helping out though. For free, of course. I don’t know much about detective work, but maybe there will be times when two brains are better than one, if you ever want to discuss your work in confidence.”

  I’m not sure I want any help, but the time might come. I’m also quite good at cryptic crosswords. So was Sam. We used to leave notes for each other, just for fun. Things like, “Disney hour reinvention,” for “Your dinner is in the oven.” I smile to myself as I remember that one, and once again I can see Sam puzzling over it when he got back late from work one day, but he solved it quickly. I think the smell of hot food helped him crack it. I can’t see where that ability will fit in with the work of a private investigator. The main thing is to establish the business first and get clients.

  The Button Up Detective Agency? It sounds good. But is it better than Ja-Jo?