Songbird

by Peter Grainger

  Oliver reached into his trouser pocket, took out a key ring and placed it on the table.

  Terek said, ‘Thank you, Oliver. It is therefore possible that Oliver witnessed something or someone pertinent to our inquiry. In that context, I would like to show Oliver a photograph.’

  The solicitor said, ‘A photograph of what?’

  ‘I’m happy for you to take a look, Miss Archer. If you don’t approve, I will withdraw it.’

  Christine Archer took the folder from him and looked inside.

  Reeve turned to Waters and said, ‘This is a clever move on Simon’s part, Chris. She takes the decision. She can’t object to what happens as a result.’

  ‘What does happen, ma’am?’

  ‘Wait and see. In case you’re wondering, it’s a photo of Michelle Simms.’

  Archer handed the file back to Terek and nodded. For the video, Terek explained what he was going to show Oliver, without saying a name, and then he placed the opened file in front of the boy. He said, ‘Oliver, can you tell us whether you’ve seen this lady before?’

  Maybe as many as ten agonising seconds passed before Oliver looked up at the detective inspector and nodded.

  ‘You have? That’s good. That’s very helpful. Can you tell us where you saw her the last time?’

  Oliver stared down again, for just a few more seconds. Then he looked back at the kindly man who had told him he’d been very helpful and said, ‘I think she’s dead.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Christine Archer stopped Simon before he could ask the question, so this is pretty much where we are this morning. But it’s damning, Chris, even though I still find it hard to believe.’

  The video had frozen at a single instant in time. The solicitor’s hand was raised towards the detective inspector, with Terek’s face in profile, his mouth opening as if to speak. Shirley Salmon’s left hand was reaching towards Oliver, and Oliver himself looked momentarily surprised at everything that was suddenly going on around him.

  Alison Reeve said, ‘No picture of Michelle Simms has been made public. They went all over it last night, checking social media, but there isn’t one. If Oliver had seen an image on the television or somewhere on the internet, what he said last night would have meant little. But he didn’t, because there haven’t been any. How did he know she was dead?’

  There was a knock on the door before the technician opened it and asked if he could continue what he’d been doing. Reeve got up and Waters followed her out into the corridor and back towards his office. As they walked, Waters said, ‘But they didn’t charge him, did they? Not on that?’

  ‘No. That’s my first meeting this morning, preparing for a conference call with the CPS, but there’s no way they will agree over the phone to a charge in this case. We’ll end up arranging a pre-charge consultation meeting with them in person. We can’t make the decision to charge, as you know.’

  ‘Because it involves a death?’

  ‘Right. And they’ll direct us to strengthen the evidence file so it’s big enough to cover everyone’s backside. But at the end of the day… At the end of the day, I’d say this isn’t looking good for Oliver Salmon. I don’t see how the defence gets around it. How could he have known she was dead? How is anyone going to account for the DNA?’

  When they reached the office, they could see Serena was at her desk. She stood up as they approached, and all she said was ‘Bloody hell!’ There is a bush telegraph in every police station, and Serena had ears that could hear drums many miles away.

  Reeve said, ‘So we’re all going to be busy one way or another. But Chris, you’ve met Shirley Salmon before, haven’t you?’

  He said he had, that he’d stayed on the Pinehills site in Smith’s caravan on two or three occasions. Reeve considered something before she spoke again.

  ‘OK. If you’d like to go down and say hello, it wouldn’t do any harm. She clammed up after the interview ended last night, understandably enough. Seeing a friendly face this morning might help.’

  Waters said, ‘Go down, ma’am? Down where? Pinehills?’

  Reeve’s eyes flitted to Serena and back again to Waters.

  ‘Er, no. Down to the cells…’

  Some people rarely show surprise, be it at triumph or disaster, and Waters was one of them, but he couldn’t keep such an expression from his face or out of his voice at that moment.

  ‘Oliver Salmon is here, under arrest? They locked him up overnight?’

  ‘Yes. DCS Allen thought these were exceptional circumstances. Mrs Salmon stayed with him, and there has been support available throughout the night. I’m sure police bail will be given this morning, after we’ve had more guidance.’

  It was difficult for her not to sound a little apologetic, though it had not been her decision – and she perhaps wasn’t the only person present wondering what she might have done differently if it had been. Waters turned away to his desk for a moment.

  Serena said, ‘Will there be a briefing this morning, ma’am?’

  ‘There will, just not sure what time yet. No later than ten o’clock would be my guess.’

  Waters looked back at Reeve.

  ‘You’d like me to go down and speak to Shirley Salmon, ma’am?’

  He wanted her to repeat it and for it to be beyond any doubt, before Terek questioned him or before he met John Wilson hanging around in the detention area, ready to put cuffs on the unfortunate youth.

  ‘Yes. The poor woman must be devastated, and seeing a familiar face won’t do any harm. And she might have something to say that – she might have recalled something useful. If she does, obviously…’

  ‘You’d like me to report it directly to you?’

  Reeve could see that he was annoyed, and she thought, he’s tougher than he used to be. He’s even a little intimidating when he looks down at you from up there and doesn’t blink when you return the stare.

  ‘Yes. As the SIO…’

  She tried a smile but got nothing resembling one in return.

  ‘We’ll do that now, ma’am. DC Butler will go with me.’

  And he’s a smarter operator than he used to be as well.

  There are six cells in Kings Lake Central station, arranged three each side of the short corridor that extends from the custody suite reception desk. Lovely, comforting word, Smith used to say – “suite”, the sort of thing you find in posh hotels. Good evening, sir. Chilly out, isn’t it? We have your room ready for you. They’re all en suite. Please ring the bell if you need anything, and Sergeant Hills will be happy to attend…

  The cells date back to the major reconstruction in the 1970s. Refurbishment since has been kept to a minimum. You have a bench attached to a wall, which serves as your bed, and on this bench is a long, thin cushion which serves as your mattress, covered in a blue plastic material which is theoretically indestructible. There will also be an equally emaciated attempt at a pillow, covered in the same material. In the winter time, you might have a matching blanket. The rooms are indeed en suite. A low wall makes a small gesture towards privacy should anyone peer through the viewing slot in the cell door, but a gesture only – toilets are sometimes involved in complicated suicide attempts, and so need to be in view.

  In contrast to the rest of the cell, however, the doors have been regularly replaced over the years as new regulations about the safety and security of inmates arrive from Whitehall. There can be little doubt that a department of fifty, perhaps even a hundred, civil servants are employed full time on the vital work of cell door development and operation. There might even be a small task-force engaging with the epistemology of entrances into and out of incarceration.

  Waters never said a word on the way down. Serena had caught the look from DCI Reeve, and kept her own silence. They reported their presence to the custody sergeant, who told them the cell was currently unlocked anyway, and that the lady who was looking after their latest charge was a good sort if ever he’d met one, not the kind of people who should be down
here.

  The first cell door on the left was open. Serena glanced in and saw Ann Crisp, sitting on the bench and writing in a notebook. The liaison officer looked up and waved, but even she seemed embarrassed. Waters, meanwhile, had walked on towards the end, where a plump, middle-aged woman was getting up from a chair outside the last cell on the right. It was obvious she recognised the detective sergeant, but there was a moment of awkwardness before he put out his hand and she took it. Then Serena stepped forward and Waters introduced her.

  Shirley Salmon said, ‘Have you come down to tell us we can go? I hope so. This is all some terrible mistake, isn’t it?’

  From where they were standing, they could not see into the cell – they would need to be another yard further on. It was tempting to go on and take a look, but Serena had the sense that at the moment things were in orbit around Christopher Waters, and so she waited to see what he would say and do next.

  He said, ‘I haven’t come down to tell you that, Mrs Salmon-’

  ‘Shirley, please.’

  ‘Shirley. That can only come from the people in charge of the case. As to whether it’s a mistake…’

  In the silence then, a faint, tuneless humming – though perhaps not quite tuneless, someone trying their best to follow a tune but always a second or two behind, trying to catch up with a melody and never succeeding.

  ‘… I can’t say that either. But it hardly seems credible.’

  ‘The inspector last night, he said they might charge Oliver this morning. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous! They’d only have to spend ten minutes with him to see that for themselves.’

  Waters nodded at what she was saying but offered nothing himself at that moment. Shirley went on, ‘He gets upset if a butterfly is flapping at the window, and we have to let it out before it gets hurt. How could he possibly have done what they’re suggesting?’

  Waters said, ‘How were things left with the duty solicitor?’

  ‘Oh, she was very good. I told her I wanted her back if there are more interviews. She said she had to talk to her partners about that but she hoped she could represent us – I think she wanted to. That’s hopeful, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Did she give you any advice about further interviews?’

  ‘Yes. She made it very clear to them – no interviews without legal representation. Someone has to call her office when decisions have been made about how to proceed. But I can’t believe they will proceed with it. There’s no evidence, is there?’

  Serena Butler sensed that Waters knew he’d come to the line he must not cross, and she realised, as he must have done, that the DNA evidence had not been disclosed. Terek had been under no obligation to provide it to Christine Archer, as the duty solicitor, at such an early stage. That would change, of course, if her practice did decide to take on the case.

  Waters said, ‘Shirley, I know it’s easy for me to say, but try not to worry. It’s very early days, and it’s a complicated matter. People get questioned all the time. Sometimes they get arrested and even charged but it doesn’t go anywhere in the end. How is Oliver himself?’

  Shirley Salmon turned and went to the doorway of the cell, and the two detectives followed. He was sitting on the bench and didn’t notice them. A pair of headphones covered his ears, and he was nodding in time to whatever was playing on the silver iPod that he held in his right hand. He looked small, round-shouldered, vulnerable and entirely out of place in a prison cell.

  Shirley said, ‘He’s alright as long as he’s got his music. That’s where he goes whenever he’s worried or upset.’

  Serena said, ‘What does he listen to?’

  ‘Oh, I can tell you exactly what it’ll be. Eva Cassidy, “Songbird”.

  ‘My mum loves that! It’s her favourite CD, ever since she first bought it. I’d say she’s on her third or fourth copy!’

  Shirley looked gratefully at the female officer – these two seemed more human than those she’d met last night. She said, ‘Well, Oliver does listen to it all, he knows all the words. But if he’s worried, he’ll just be playing the title track on repeat. There’s something about it that appeals to him. We’ve bought all her albums for him but he always goes back to that song.’

  The three of them watched as Oliver sat on, unaware still of their presence. Then, after the pause, Shirley said, ‘And then she died, didn’t she? That makes no sense either, does it? A beautiful girl with a voice like an angel… I think it was cancer.’

  Waters stepped back from the doorway, and Serena caught the oddest look on his face – something taut and emotional. He took a few paces away from the cell, turned to Shirley Salmon and said, ‘I haven’t watched all of the video but I’m sure you were asked this yesterday. Did Oliver go out that Thursday night, the night Michelle Simms was killed?’

  For a moment, he seemed oddly abrupt but Shirley answered him.

  ‘This is where I blame myself. He does go out for walks around the site, he has done for a year or two. He likes to meet people, and some of them get to know him and talk to him. He loves that. He has a regular route and he never leaves our site. He never has, not once. When he was eighteen earlier this year, I gave him his own key to the apartment. It was a big thing for Oliver, being an adult.’

  There were voices behind them in the custody suite, and Serena thought she could hear Detective Sergeant Wilson.

  Shirley went on, ‘He doesn’t sleep well sometimes, and it’s been so hot, making it worse. I’m an early riser, usually in bed by ten o’clock. I didn’t hear him but he might have gone out that night. I can’t swear that he didn’t. He was in his bed as usual on the Friday morning. I remember him being a bit subdued most of the day, but I didn’t think anything of it. If I hadn’t given him that key, though…’

  Serena said, ‘You can’t blame yourself for that. Things just happen.’

  There were footsteps and then Wilson was behind them. He said, ‘I hope there’s been no contact with the suspect. We’re under strict instructions from Mrs Archer.’

  Waters said in a level voice, ‘I was asked to come down and make sure everyone was alright.’

  ‘Really? By?”

  ‘DCI Reeve.’

  Wilson looked at the women in turn before he said, ‘Ought to run that by Allen as well. He was in charge last night. You-’

  ‘I expect they’ll manage to sort it out between them.’

  There had been a time, Serena recalled, when Waters had worked closely with Wilson’s team, not long after she’d arrived in Kings Lake. There had even been the possibility of divided loyalties, but now – now there was no love lost between them. She had never liked Wilson, but she didn’t like about half the men in the world; for Waters, something must have changed. You’d think the departure of DC would have simplified matters but the opposite seemed to have happened.

  Waters turned away from Wilson, back to Shirley Salmon. He said to her, ‘As I said, try not to worry too much at this stage. Have you spoken to anyone else?’

  Shirley Salmon didn’t answer straight away. Waters watched her closely, and Serena watched him – there was something going on here that she did not immediately understand. Then the woman said, ‘No, there hasn’t been time. And I didn’t know whether I…’

  Waters said, ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘I’ll have to see. As you said, this might not come to anything in the end.’

  Then the three detectives left her there with her nephew, walking back into the custody suite. Wilson said, ‘Try not to worry? What was that about? You want to leave all that to family liaison. On our side of the fence, we want them worried.’

  Ann Crisp came to the door of the cell and stared, but Wilson was unabashed.

  ‘And they should be. That DNA? You should be more honest with people. No sense in pussy-footing about with them.’

  But Waters was already moving away towards the stairs, and Serena followed him.

  The briefing began just before el
even that morning. Alison Reeve took charge of it, there being no sign of Chief Superintendent Allen, though his whereabouts was soon explained; the two of them had to meet face-to-face with a senior Crown Prosecution Service lawyer in Norwich at three in the afternoon. She said wryly, ‘As you can imagine, there’s a bit of paperwork to be done.’

  Wilson put up a hand and waited until she acknowledged him.

  ‘What’s your best guess? Will they go for it, ma’am?’

  This is the central question in the work of criminal investigation detectives, the fulcrum upon which everything else turns and balances. No one was surprised that Wilson had asked the question, and every eye went back to the senior investigating officer. Leadership means not hiding, not running away, or at least not being seen to do so. Alison Reeve took a little, respectful time before she said, ‘You all know it’s early days. I’ve been involved in phone calls this morning which suggest to me that, subject to a lot more work from everyone gathered here, they will move forward to the next stage.’

  The next stage would be to charge Oliver Salmon with the murder of Michelle Simms. There were nods and murmurs, nothing too excited because they all understood the unfortunate nature of the case, but a charge is a victory that must always be won if there is ever going to be a conviction.

  Reeve said, ‘Before we get too carried away, it’s also pretty certain that the person in question will be given police bail this morning. In view of the likely charge, that’s unusual – but it’s an unusual case. There will be a number of conditions, one of which, I’ve suggested, is that he remains with his aunt at Pinehills while investigations continue. That will make it easier for us if we need to go back there. He isn’t thought to be a flight risk, nor to be one to the public. He would be on a daily report and Hunston would be making contact on a regular basis.’