Exit

by Belinda Bauer

  DCI King had asked Calvin to create a database of the Exiteer files on HOLMES, so it could be shared with forces around the country. It was a sensible thing to do, but Calvin was a little peeved that he’d been asked to do it. It meant a lot of scanning and form-filling, and was the kind of work a DCI usually handed off to a uniform, whereas he was supposed to be in plainclothes while working on the Cann case. Calvin didn’t want a second bite of the cherry, but he also didn’t want the cherry taken away from him in humiliating circumstances.

  Even so, he knuckled down to the task, and worked through eleven files in three hours, which he thought was pretty good going, considering how boring it was. He skim-read each will as he scanned it, with an eye to red flags like large sums being left to non-relatives or the same dodgy charity, but it was all so random. Here, a godson received a thousand pounds. There, a cousin got a grandmother clock. A neighbour was bequeathed ‘my lawnmower and the contents of my toolshed’.

  Calvin wondered idly what he might one day inherit. His father had moved on to a new family he seemed to like much better, so he couldn’t see much return from that quarter, and his mother’s possessions now consisted of whatever she was permitted to keep in her half of an eight-by-ten cell. His little brother Louis was already running both the legal and illegal incarnations of Bridge Fencing and doing a fine job of both, as far as Calvin wanted to know. Beyond that were slim pickings. He tried to think of a single item that had been in their chaotic home when he was growing up that was both desirable and legally theirs, but the latter was a qualification too far and he gave up.

  At two o’clock he attempted to buy a cheese-and-onion sandwich from the machine, but had to settle for nicking two chocolate chip cookies from Jackie Braddick’s drawer. He’d replace them at some point; they had an understanding.

  Kirsty King and Pete Shapland came in just after three.

  ‘How are you getting on, Calvin?’

  ‘Not bad, ma’am. I’m scanning all the paperwork and checking the wills in case I can see anything obviously suspicious.’

  ‘Bit random, isn’t it?’ said Pete. ‘How many have you done?’

  ‘Fourteen so far.’

  Pete snorted. ‘There’s nearly two hundred files! It’ll take for ever! Bloody waste of time if you ask me.’

  Nobody had asked him, and Calvin avoided his eyes. Pete might be in plainclothes, but it made no difference: they were the same rank and about the same age, and he shouldn’t speak to him as if he were his boss.

  ‘You’re not his boss,’ Kirsty King said coolly as she rocked Calvin’s cheese-and-onion sandwich out of the vending machine. ‘And it sounds like you had a more productive morning than we did. We’ve got a lot of witnesses to eff-all and still don’t know who made the tip-off call.’

  ‘They couldn’t triangulate?’ asked Calvin.

  ‘They could only narrow it down to the area of Black Lane. The Canns don’t have cameras but a couple of their neighbours do. We’re going to go through the footage now, if you’d like to watch.’

  Pete put memory cards into readers and set up the footage on two different screens.

  They hit the mark immediately. Two people walking away from the camera, up Black Lane. A long rear shot of a tall man with a slight limp, wearing a short pale jacket – ‘Looks like he could be old,’ King remarked – and a slim woman with dark hair and a long coat over jeans. They turned towards the Cann house and dis­appeared from view. The time code said it was 10.11.

  The second camera was mounted on a roof and the shot was mainly of other roofs, but they could just see the pair in the lower right quadrant. They were standing at the door of the Cann home, but were only visible from the waist down – their upper bodies shielded by the little porch over their heads.

  ‘Is this the best angle we’ve got?’ frowned King.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Pete. ‘It’s from next door.’

  ‘The Moons?’

  Pete nodded.

  At 10.13 the tall man suddenly bent into frame and they all leaned forward in anticipation. But just at the critical moment where they might have seen his face, they all recoiled as a gigantic pigeon fluttered into shot and then perched on the guttering, preening itself and filling the screen.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ muttered Pete.

  King frowned. ‘Why the hell would you have a camera pointing at a gutter?’

  ‘Donald Moon’s a birdwatcher, ma’am,’ said Calvin. ‘Maybe the pigeon is the point.’

  Pete ran the footage forward until the pigeon disappeared, but by then so had the man and woman.

  The three of them watched and waited. A car jerked across the first screen. They waited some more. Five minutes. Ten.

  Calvin glanced at the time code. ‘What time was the tip-off call made?’

  King said, ‘Ten twenty-two,’ without looking at her notes.

  At 10.27 – fourteen minutes after the Exiteers had entered the house – the woman emerged from the house and walked quickly back the way she had come. Alone.

  ‘She left without him!’ said Shapland.

  ‘Odd,’ said King.

  They waited, but the man did not emerge from the front door. Then at 10.31 the police car pulled up and Calvin watched himself pass through the shot on his way to the back of the house.

  Nine minutes response time, he thought. Not bad going.

  Jackie’s legs disappeared through the front door.

  Then nothing more.

  ‘The bloke must have been in the house at the same time you were!’ Pete said to Calvin.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Calvin. ‘We covered both doors right off the bat. I reckon he was already gone through the broken fence.’

  ‘Should have checked the garden first,’ said Pete.

  ‘Jackie was already in the house,’ said King sharply. ‘You want Calvin to leave her without backup? Anyway, the suspect was probably already gone out the back.’

  ‘What about a car?’ said Calvin.

  King shook her head. ‘Nobody we spoke to recalls a strange car in the street that day. They could have parked in another part of the village and walked. Or caught a bus.’

  Pete snorted. ‘Who goes to a murder on a bus?’

  ‘Phone records?’ Calvin asked, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘Nothing from Geoffrey Skeet,’ said King. ‘If he was in touch with them, it wasn’t from the Nokia. His landline records will take a couple of days, but I’m not hopeful. I think he’s too careful for that, or we’d have found a list of Exiteers in his files.’

  ‘We’re running out of time’, she sighed, and tapped the screen with her pen. ‘Without a connection between Skeet and these two suspects, all we’ve got is a charming old man who knows exactly how to stay just the right side of the law.’

  King glanced at her watch and grimaced, then she gave Calvin a serious look. ‘Go and see Hayley Pitt.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘The cleaner,’ she reminded him. ‘Cleaners hear things. See things. Find stuff out. That’s why I don’t have one; they give me the bloody creeps. But if someone had a motive to kill Albert Cann, the cleaner’s likely to know who.’

  The Cleaner

  Hayley Pitt lived in a tiny terraced cottage on the main road in Abbotsham, less than four hundred yards from the Cann house.

  Calvin could hear the music spilling from the house as soon as he got out of the car, and when a woman he imagined was Hayley’s mother opened the door, it got even louder. Something with a throbbing bass beat that he was already too old to identify.

  Mrs Pitt shouted up the stairs for her daughter with a voice like a foghorn, then smiled cheerfully at Calvin. ‘She’ll be down in a mo,’ she said, and showed him in to the front room, which was a colourful sea of Lego bricks with a small child bobbing in it. There were great piles of laundry on every availab
le surface – the coffee table, the chairs, the sofa – and, from the smell, it wasn’t clean. Near the window was a grey parrot in a cage, squawking so loudly that Calvin winced. The carpet all around its cage was covered in seeds and bird shit.

  Mrs Pitt made no reference to the noise, the child, the parrot, or the condition of the room, which made Calvin think it was all probably the norm.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘HAYLEY!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come down here!’

  ‘What for ?’

  ‘Someone to see you!’

  There was some stomping, then silence, as if Hayley had started to obey and then thought better of it halfway across the landing.

  ‘Kids!’ Mrs Pitt rolled her eyes and left to make tea.

  The parrot had stopped squawking and was evaluating Calvin. Calvin nodded at it and then looked at the child. It was a boy of about eighteen months, with solemn eyes, sitting on a nappy so thick – or so full – that it was like a cushion.

  Calvin never knew what to say to children, so he just nodded and said, ‘All right?’

  The baby opened his mouth and slowly spat three Lego bricks on to the carpet.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Calvin and crunched across the floor to check his mouth for more choking hazards. The little boy passively allowed Calvin to run his finger around the inside of his mouth, then, as he withdrew, bit down hard.

  ‘Shit!’ Calvin’s eyes watered. ‘Let go!’

  The boy held on, glaring at him.

  ‘Little fucker!’ Calvin hissed and glanced at the doorway. Nobody was watching. He pinched the kid’s nose hard, until he opened his mouth and started bawling.

  ‘Shut it!’ said the parrot in a young girl’s voice and Calvin laughed, and the parrot joined in, then out-laughed him and went on cackling for ages, only stopping on a long sigh that was so human that Calvin laughed again.

  ‘Shut it!’ said the parrot. ‘No, you shut it!’

  Nobody came to comfort the baby, who quickly stopped crying and stuffed some more Lego in his mouth. Calvin let him. He examined his finger. The kid had made good use of each and every tooth he could muster.

  Calvin moved an armful of girls’ clothing aside so he could sit on the sofa. Underneath the laundry was a plate with the remains of an English breakfast. A gelatinous slice of egg-white, and random baked beans. He dumped the clothes on to another similar pile, balanced the dirty plate on top of that, and sat down.

  ‘Hiya.’

  Calvin turned to see a skinny girl of about twelve at the door.

  ‘Hayley?’

  ‘She’s upstairs doing her hair in case you’re cute.’

  She giggled and so did somebody behind her and Calvin felt his ears go red.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘Rita. Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Constable Bridge.’

  ‘You a copper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Her eyes widened with excitement. ‘What’s she done wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Rita pulled a disappointed face and leaned backwards into the hallway. ‘He says nothing.’

  Calvin could just make out another girl’s voice mumbling.

  ‘Why you here then?’ Rita said.

  ‘To ask her some questions.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Someone she cleans for.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Cann family on Black Lane.’

  Rita leaned out again and there was more hushed conversation and giggling.

  Rita reappeared. ‘Do they want their money back?’

  Gales of laughter and Rita disappeared and didn’t return.

  Mrs Pitt came in with a mug of tea. There was nowhere to put it, so she just handed it to Calvin. ‘She’ll be down in a minute. You know what girls are like. Can’t come downstairs for breakfast without a face full of make-up.’

  She picked up the baby and left again. The tea was awful. Calvin looked around for somewhere to throw it or leave it. Before he could find a surface big enough, there was the sound of stomping down the stairs and Hayley appeared.

  She was a chubby, pretty girl with perfect skin and a short blonde bob held back by Wonder Woman clips.

  ‘Hayley?’

  I love you, Hayley! said the parrot tenderly and the girl blushed.

  ‘Hiya.’ She plonked herself down in the armchair without ­bothering to move the laundry.

  ‘I’m DC Bridge from Bideford Police.’ Calvin put his mug on the floor so he could take notes. ‘I understand you work for the Canns in Black Lane.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She nodded. ‘Been there a while now.’

  ‘Are you aware Albert Cann died on Tuesday?’

  ‘Someone said it in the shop.’

  There was a tiny newsagent’s up the hill.

  ‘When did you last see Albert?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘How was he then?’

  Hayley made a face. ‘I dunno. The same?’

  ‘The same as what?’

  ‘Always?’

  Calvin tried again. ‘So what kind of person was he?’

  ‘He’s all right.’ She shrugged. ‘To me, anyway. Always moaning about this and that, but I brung his booze for him, and helped him with the computer and stuff.’

  ‘What was his tipple?’

  ‘Gin.’

  ‘How much did he drink?’

  She widened her eyes. ‘A lot.’

  Ooooo, said the parrot, full of judgement.

  Calvin underlined ‘lot’ twice. ‘And what would he moan about?’

  She shrugged. ‘Just the usual. Money and stuff.’

  ‘How’d you get on with Skipper?’

  ‘Good.’ She shrugged again. ‘I always make ’em both tea or a sandwich, or cereal, ’cos Albert’s rubbish at cooking.’

  ‘That’s nice of you,’ said Calvin.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘But Skipper don’t eat much anyway ’cos of the cancer.’

  ‘How about Reggie? You get on with him?’

  ‘Yep,’ she nodded.

  ‘And how’d they all get on with each other?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, yawning. ‘Far as I can see.’

  ‘Did you know about Skipper planning to kill himself?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘But I seen his will.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘By the bed.’

  ‘His bed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Did you discuss it?’

  ‘He were asleep.’

  ‘But you read it?’

  She hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Well, I never seen one before.’

  Calvin winked at her. ‘Did he leave you anything?’

  ‘Nah.’ Hayley yawned loudly without covering her mouth, and stretched, showing her belly button. Calvin tried not to smile. For some reason, her youthful apathy tickled him.

  ‘Can you remember what else was next to Skipper’s bed?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, he’s always got some water and his pills and stuff. Magazines. Photos. I don’t know.’

  ‘Not a gas bottle?’

  ‘Like Albert’s?’

  ‘Yes, but much smaller. About this big? Silver?’

  She screwed up her face. ‘Oh yeah. That was there.’

  ‘Next to his bed?’

  ‘Yeah. Thought it was a thermos flask.’

  ‘You ever hear of the Exiteers?’

  ‘No. What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a group that helps people to kill themselves.’

  Hayley’s eyes widened and for the first time she sounded interested.
‘Did Albert kill himself then?’

  ‘What do you think?’ he said.

  ‘Well, he was pretty sick. Took ages to go up and down stairs and stuff. Still smoked, mind! Mum works at the hospice and says she sees it all the time. Puffing away with one lung and whatnot!’

  ‘The Canns have many visitors?’

  ‘Nah. The doctor comes, and the McDonald’s nurse.’

  ‘Macmillan?’

  ‘Who?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Calvin. ‘What about an older man? Mr Skeet? Geoffrey?’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t know them. But all old men look the same, don’t they?’

  Calvin just nodded, because unpicking her stupidity would take too much effort.

  ‘One old man come round from social services.’

  Calvin perked up. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  Calvin perked down. He was interested in visitors before Albert’s death. ‘Do you know of any reason anyone would want to hurt Albert?’

  Hayley shook her head without thinking about it.

  He closed his notebook, and then remembered something that had been bugging him. ‘Hey, you know the broken window in their dining room?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘Christmas?’ She didn’t seem sure.

  ‘Christmas?’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Around then. It was cold. I cut my finger cleaning up the glass and Reggie drove me home.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Calvin.

  ‘Weren’t much.’

  ‘You know how the window got broken?’

  Hayley shook her head and shrugged expansively to show she’d reached the outer limits of her knowledge.

  Calvin was disappointed. The cleaner hadn’t been the oracle that DCI King had hoped for. She knew Albert was a drunk and Skipper hadn’t left her anything despite all the sandwiches, and that the will and the gas bottle had been in Skipper’s room on Monday. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have been moved to Albert’s room by Tuesday. It was only two bits of paper and a can of air, not Stonehenge. Nothing Hayley had said spoke to motive, or to anything much at all, other than the fact that she was a bit thick. The only silver lining was that the bite mark on his index finger would probably win him a pint from Jackie Braddick.