Songbird

by Peter Grainger

  ‘Maybe he needed a little time. To get home? To get his story straight, to work out some sort of an alibi. Where he left her – we’ll go and have a look so you can see for yourself – where he left her, she might not have been found for another day or two.’

  Ford said, ‘If it was a bloke off the caravan sites, he could have been back home in ten minutes, couldn’t he? Maybe he was from further away.’

  They walked along the footpath between the overgrown dunes on their left and the pine forest on their right. The sun was lower now, slanting through the trees, and flies danced in the light ahead of them, like motes of dust in the beams that shine through stained glass windows in an ancient church. It was as silent as a church. Waters thought, where are all the birds? Why isn’t there a single bird singing on this beautiful summer evening? The only sound he could hear was an occasional cricket or grasshopper chirping in the tall, rough grass that covered the dunes.

  They passed another of the notices; a uniformed officer had found or brought with him a wooden post and erected it right where the new path had formed, leading off to the left. Waters didn’t go onto the ground where she had been lying – he stopped a few feet short and let Ford go on into the little clearing. Nothing remained. It all seemed too brief and perfunctory, too officially complete. A woman died here, was murdered here and left to grow cold under last night’s stars, and all that’s left to mark the spot is a patch of flattened grass and a noticeboard asking for information. He became aware of a small but steady flame of anger somewhere inside – this wasn’t right. Never mind who she was or what she had done. This wasn’t right.

  Ford turned and said, ‘How big was she, sir?’

  The “sir” was OK when they were with senior officers or members of the public, as they had been a few minutes ago, but out here it felt a little ridiculous. Waters had vague memories of his own sergeant making the same point.

  ‘Dr Robinson estimated about sixty kilos.’

  He’d already thought about this but let Ford run with it.

  ‘That’s still a fair old weight to carry more than a hundred yards, sir. Most blokes could pick up a weight like that but it’s another thing to go any distance with it. In training, we have to carry another bloke ten yards, and it’s not easy, even when he’s a scrum-half.’

  Ford was stockily built. He played rugby for Kings Lake town, and he’d also represented the police in competitions; in the summer, he played cricket for a village team and apparently he was good at that as well. Waters remembered someone telling him that Ford was a number eight but had no idea whether that applied to rugby or cricket or both. But the detective constable obviously knew about carrying people around, which was useful.

  Waters said, ‘A fairly strong man could do it, though? Under pressure with plenty of adrenalin going on?’

  Ford nodded and said, ‘Yes, I reckon. Could have been more than one, though. A lot easier if it was.’

  This was a new idea, and Waters’ eyebrows lifted a little in recognition of it. He had no experience of investigating anything like that but surely an attack by two or three men would have left more traces? He didn’t want to picture it but wouldn’t such a thing be more frenzied and brutal? Still, it was something he would have to take to the next meeting with senior officers.

  Richard Ford was staring down at the grass. After a few seconds, he looked up and said, ‘It’s all a bit weird, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I know what you mean.’

  Ford didn’t mean the case itself – he meant the being here in the aftermath, he meant having the job of trying to sort this out, of finding the person who had done such a monstrous thing, and of finding out why. Waters turned and walked away then, and Ford followed. On the path back to the road, Ford said, ‘I’m not trying to get home, sir, but what time d’you think we’ll finish tonight?’

  ‘If someone is waiting for you, text and tell her you’ll be late. We’ll have to hang around and see what comes out of DCI Reeve’s interview with the sister. I’m guessing there will be another briefing after that and we’ll be told what she wants to do next. If you’re just hungry, there’s a long tradition of us eating fish and chips on the harbour wall back in the town.’

  When they got back to the car parked by the Jacksons’ caravan, Waters checked his phone. There was a message from Janey. He didn’t open it fully but he could see from the first few words that she wasn’t coming home this weekend.

  Chapter Ten

  Michaela Fletcher had told her husband she would be alright but he insisted on not leaving her, not until he was sure. Their brother-in-law, Barry Simms, was up at the site office being given tea and sympathy by Ann Crisp. ‘You should be with him,’ Michaela had said, ‘he shouldn’t be on his own,’ and Fletcher had said he would go soon, when he was certain she would be OK with all this. They seem like a close family, thought Detective Constable Serena Butler.

  DCI Reeve would not have asked her to be here just to offer hankies and emotional support. Step in any time you like, Reeve had said, but although they’d been interviewing Mrs Fletcher for several minutes now, Serena had said nothing – she had watched closely, listened carefully and dealt with some uncomfortable thoughts. She had two sisters of her own. They lived back in the Midlands where she came from, one a housewife, the other a busy professional woman like herself, though both had found the time to have children. She didn’t see them often now since she’d moved east but she tried to imagine losing one of them like this, as Michaela had lost Michelle. I mean, she thought, even those names make them sound close, as if their parents had meant for that to happen.

  Graham Fletcher had sat close to his wife and held her hand at the beginning. When she reached for another tissue, she didn’t take his hand again, but he patted her arm supportively a couple of times and asked more than once if she was alright to go on with this – she didn’t have to, he said, with a look at the detectives, he was sure it could be done another time. Reeve hadn’t signalled either a yes or a no to that, but Serena knew that as senior investigating officer, the DCI would have an opinion on the matter.

  After a suitable pause, Reeve said, ‘So, Michaela, I’d like to summarise what you’ve told us just now. Your sister came down as she had promised on Tuesday. You had tea at a café in the town, a walk along the beach and then you both came back here on Tuesday evening. You didn’t meet anyone or speak to anyone new. Michelle was on her phone texting some of the time but that wasn’t unusual. When you asked her about it, she said it was all to do with work, just people from the salon. You remember telling her to ignore it and take a proper break for a change.’

  Michaela Fletcher nodded and swallowed hard. When sudden death comes, it alters everything, and even the insignificant things said before it are then seen in an altered and often ghastly light.

  Reeve went on, ‘On Wednesday you had a similar day. The four of you spent much of it down on the beach. Michelle went off alone a couple of times. Once to fetch some ice creams – you said that took longer than you expected – and later in the afternoon she said she wanted a walk on her own. I have to ask – was that unusual?’

  The question seemed to trouble Michaela, and then Graham Fletcher said, ‘Michelle is… She’s either the life and soul of the party or, well, the opposite, if you know what I mean.’

  Michaela said, ‘She’s never seen a psychiatrist but if she did… If she had, they’d probably say she was a bit bi-polar. She knew she was, she talked about it. She could be hilarious one minute and really sad the next. She knew she had to be careful having a drink because that could send her too far in either direction.’

  They were all watching Michaela as she said those words – her gaze had been at the shiny surface of the plastic table, as if she could see in it some reflection of her lost sister. Then she looked up at the detective chief inspector and added, ‘There was something on her mind but that wasn’t unusual. That’s all I’m saying, I suppose. She didn’t always tell me everything.’ />
  Fletcher folded his arms and said, ‘Look, I’m not one to tell anyone their job, but I can’t see what this has to do with – with what’s happened. It’s as Michaela says. Michelle came down for a couple of days with her family because she adores the girls, and some evil bastard has grabbed her and – it’s too bloody awful to contemplate. Surely you need to be out there looking for him, not raking over all this personal family stuff?’

  A perfectly reasonable question when considered from their point of view, Serena told herself. You cannot expect them to see it any other way because they don’t know the numbers, the statistics, the astonishing data confirming that in more than sixty per cent of such cases, the victim is killed by a partner or a family member. Being murdered by a stranger is much rarer than most of us imagine; the people you need to keep an eye on are those closest to you. Then she thought, well, I’d like to be in that chair one day, DCI Reeve’s chair, so how would I answer Graham Fletcher’s question? How is the DCI going to respond to it?

  Alison Reeve said, ‘I do understand, Mr Fletcher, and we cannot expect people to see why we ask the things we do in such difficult circumstances. I’ll try to explain. Sometimes someone’s state of mind can make them vulnerable, can make them more likely to become a victim. Their state of mind can affect their behaviour and their behaviour can make them more visible to someone else with, as you said yourself, evil intentions. Understanding Michelle’s emotional state might, and I only say “might”, help us to understand why this happened to her, and not to someone else.’

  Fletcher nodded, albeit grudgingly, and looked at his wife with a shrug, as if to say he’d done his best. Reeve knew that ground had been given, and she went on, ‘Thank you. Michaela, I hope you can see that what you’re telling us might be useful. You said that on the Wednesday evening you all went to the Pinehills social club here on the caravan site. How was Michelle while you were there?’

  ‘She was alright. The place wasn’t very busy, not many people there, and she said it needed livening up a bit but she didn’t do anything about it, not like she might have done a few years ago…’ She managed a wan smile, and through it Serena caught perhaps her first real glimpse of Michelle Simms – a party girl, “a bit of a raver” as her own dad used to say embarrassingly about one of his own daughters. But Michelle was thirty-seven now. She’d crossed the invisible line. Before the line, you’re a little bit crazy and it’s fun, people look at you and smile; after the line, it gets awkward and sad, and people start to look away.

  Reeve asked, ‘Did either of you speak to anyone, get into conversation?’

  ‘On the Wednesday? No, I don’t think we did. But we saw the posters saying the next night was a country and western supper with a band and dancing, so we said we’d give that a go. Shelley loves a dance. We took the girls and they had a good time. It was full but we got a table in the end. We were chatting to people at the tables around us.’

  Reeve said, ‘How was Michelle? Was she chatting to people as well?’

  Michaela Fletcher paused, as if thinking carefully about her answer. Serena saw Graham Fletcher lean back in the seat and fold his arms again. He thought all this was a waste of time, that was clear, and she wondered whether they would have been given a different version of events if Reeve had manoeuvred him out of the way before the interview began – Michaela was bound to pick up these signals from her husband, wasn’t she? The planning and the conduct of interviews is an art in itself. Reeve was good but Serena had sat at the feet of a master.

  Michaela said, ‘She was fine. There’d been more texting in the afternoon, and she went off for a walk again but then her mood seemed to pick up a lot. It was the best she’d been since she came down. Yes, we were both talking to people around us, and she was going up to the bar, fetching drinks and crisps for the girls. She was laughing with people up there while she waited, I remember.’

  Then Serena realised that Reeve was watching her and waiting. There was an obvious question now but it was a difficult one, and she didn’t want it to be the first thing she said. So she looked at Michaela Fletcher and asked whether she could remember the names of any of the people they’d been sitting with on the Thursday evening. Michaela said, ‘I’m not sure. You know how it is, noisy crowd and music, when you’re half-shouting to get yourself heard. The people nearest us were an older couple. From somewhere up north by the sound of them. Her name was Elsie. She said how well-behaved the girls were. Her husband was teasing them, and he bought them one of the Slushie drinks. His name might have been Bill. But I’m not certain.’

  This was useful and Reeve acknowledged that with a look as Serena wrote down the names – the more witnesses you can find to the victim’s final hours, the better. The social club had been open to the public that Thursday evening but if the woman Elsie and her might-have-been-Bill husband had been staying on site, they could find them through Shirley Salmon’s excellent paperwork. DI Terek should also have the name if the man had given a DNA sample.

  Reeve said, ‘So, you stayed until what time, Michaela?’

  ‘It was getting on for half past nine. I said to Michelle that it was past the girls’ bedtime and that I was taking them back. She made a big fuss of them, and…’

  An emotional pause as she had to relive the moment, the last moment when she saw her sister alive. Graham Fletcher put an arm around her shoulder and said something that Serena couldn’t hear.

  ‘And then I said goodnight to her. I told her not to be too long and she said she wouldn’t be. She said she’d join in with the line-dancing when we weren’t there to see her look daft. Then she’d come home.’

  Reeve said, ‘This was at the table where you’d been sitting?’

  ‘No, at the bar. She’d been up there for a few minutes, waiting to get another drink.’

  Serena saw Reeve taking the decision to ask the important question.

  ‘Michaela, I’m sorry but I do have to ask you. How much had Michelle had to drink on Thursday night?’

  ‘She wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  Reeve waited before she said, ‘I’m not, not at all. But you can see that it’s something we need to know. Remember what I said about how someone’s behaviour can get them noticed?’

  It took more time for Michaela Fletcher to accept what the detective was saying, but eventually she said, ‘She was drinking her usual, G and Ts. By the time we left, she’d had four, I should think.’

  ‘And she was waiting at the bar to get served again?’

  ‘Yes, but she wasn’t…’

  It didn’t need to be said again. Reeve moved on to what took place afterwards. Michaela had taken the two girls back to the caravan. They were excited and over-tired but they were asleep by ten o’clock. She stayed awake, watching the television and using headphones so she didn’t wake them. At about half past ten she sent a text to Michelle.

  Reeve asked to see Michaela’s phone then, to see the text. It said, ‘Going to bed. Will leave the door on the latch. Don’t wake us up. Behave!’

  After the message was the word “Delivered”. Reeve angled the phone so Serena could see it and scrolled back to previous messages. The only ones that didn’t have “Read” after them were the one Michaela had sent at 22.33 last night, and the several she had sent early this morning, asking her sister where she was, why hadn’t she got in touch, with an increasing sense of panic and then desperation.

  Reeve handed back the phone, said thank you and asked whether Michelle was usually good at answering texts and calls. She was, said her sister. She was one of those people who lived for her phone – she’d told them, hadn’t she, that Michelle had been using it on and off since she arrived on Tuesday?

  Graham Fletcher said, ‘It was someone in the social club bar, has to have been. Someone who was watching her, and probably got talking to her once you’d gone. Either she went outside with them or they followed her.’

  Michaela Fletcher looked at Reeve, who said, ‘Th
at’s certainly something we will be following up. It’s getting late, and you’ll want to be getting back to your daughters. But there is just one more thing. I mentioned this earlier but I have to bring it up again. We need someone to formally identify the body, Michaela.’

  Serena Butler watched and thought again about her sisters, and about having to do this. She would probably turn as pale as Mrs Fletcher had at the thought of it. Fletcher put an arm around her again and said to Reeve, ‘Christ! Really? Does she have to do this now?’

  ‘Not this moment, of course. But it is a legal requirement that somebody does so in cases like this.’

  ‘Could I do it? I’m a family member. You can’t ask Barry, he’s already in pieces.’

  Reeve took her time before she said, ‘It should be the next of kin or a close family member. I’d need to speak to the Coroner’s office if anyone else is to do it. I’m sorry. I know this is a dreadful thing.’

  Michaela Fletcher said, ‘She’s in Kings Lake now? That’s what you said earlier.’

  ‘Yes. We have our own mortuary at the police station.’

  ‘And you said there would be an autopsy. When?’

  Mrs Fletcher had found some strength, she was drawing on an inner reserve to get through these final moments, Serena thought. When we’re gone, she’ll go to pieces. Who wouldn’t?

  Reeve said, ‘I think the autopsy will be done on Monday morning. The sooner we know what caused her death, the more chance we have of finding the person responsible.’

  ‘I want to see her before that. Before they do that.’

  ‘Of course. I can arrange for you to identify… To see your sister at any time tomorrow morning. You only have to let me know what would be best for you.’

  When they were outside, Serena said, ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry. I didn’t contribute very much to that.’

  Alison Reeve dismissed it.