Michael Salmon, Serena told him, is an executive in an energy company, and probably a senior one. He’s flying back into Gatwick from the Middle East tomorrow to sort this out, that’s what Mrs Erica Salmon, Oliver’s mother, had told her. Serena had been given the impression, and in no uncertain terms, that when this lot get lawyered up, they mean it. Waters asked whether Oliver’s mother had actually used that term – “lawyered up” – but her answer wasn’t as polite as it might have been.
‘I keep getting surprised by houses,’ she said. ‘First the Fletchers, then Barry Simms and now the Salmons. They live in a village outside Norwich. It’s probably the old manor house or a rectory or something. Acres of gardens, and enough pets to charge the public to go in and see them. They’ve got a sheep. Why?’
Waters admitted that he didn’t know why anyone would have just one sheep. They don’t make much money even when you have hundreds of them. He did know that in the Welsh hills-
‘And Mrs Salmon is a handful as well. She and her sister-in-law have been keeping in close touch. She wanted to make sure they keep that duty solicitor, was I going to make sure of it? I tried to explain it’s not down to us. In the end, I gave her the name of Christine Archer’s practice, and I’ll bet she’s rung them already. You do know you’re getting the blame for that? It’s all over the station.’
Waters said he did know. How had Mrs Salmon reacted to the news that her son had been arrested in connection with a murder?
‘Disbelief. She says he’s completely incapable of it. She’s never seen him violent towards another person.’
‘Marta just told me the same thing about her brother.’
‘Marta? You mean Detective Constable Dobrowski?’
‘Yes. Her first name is Marta…’
Which Serena Butler knew perfectly well, of course – they all did. Irony with Waters was a hit and miss affair. There were times when he didn’t seem to be concentrating, and so he missed the point. In reality, she’d learned that invariably he was concentrating but on something else entirely. Either way, often you couldn’t be sure whether he’d missed your irony or whether he was outplaying you by answering with a serious, straight face.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it’s safe to assume they’re going to get involved, and soon. She had plenty of questions, as many as I managed to ask. Who is in charge and how could she get to speak to him? I told her it was a woman and gave her Reeve’s contact details.’
‘Fair enough. The DCI won’t mind that.’
‘Then I happened to mention Detective Chief Superintendent Allen as well.’
‘Contact details?’
‘Yes.’
Waters thought about it for a moment before he smiled a little and said, ‘He’d have been proud of you. Keeping up an old tradition.’
Ford returned with a plastic tray and three paper cups. He lowered it onto Waters’ desk and then the two of them sat at their own tables, their chairs swivelled so they were facing each other.
Serena said, ‘What about you, sarge? Found anything interesting?’
‘I’m still not halfway through it. But the two of them were at least face to face at some point during Michelle’s stay in Pinehills. There’s no doubt about that.’
She said, ‘I heard that when they take him back, they’re going to collect clothing, anything he might have been wearing during the week. If they can get a cross-match to her from that, it tightens the noose a bit, doesn’t it?’
Waters took a sip of the coffee, and for once it was halfway to acceptable. Then he realised this was because he hadn’t eaten anything and his stomach was desperate.
Ford said, ‘Actually, sarge, it doesn’t prove they’d been face to face. He might have been in contact with her blouse while she wasn’t wearing it. I know that doesn’t account for the traces in her mouth but it could for the blouse, couldn’t it?’
Waters gave it some thought and caught Serena’s eyes as he did so. She frowned and told Ford they’d let him know when he was qualified enough to begin thinking, but Waters thought he had a point. Assume nothing.
Then Waters said, ‘Well, write up the interview straight away, there’s no telling what we’ll be involved in tomorrow. I’ll push on with this stuff. I need to find out what sodium n-lauroylsarcosinate is.’
Serena said, ‘You mean, apart from quite difficult to say? Why? Where did it show up?’
‘In the gas chromatography results. There were minute traces of it.’
‘Where exactly? On the body? At the crime scene?’
Waters skipped back a few pages on the screen although he must already know the answer to her question.
‘The collar of the blouse first. Then, when they checked further, traces in samples taken from the skin of her throat. Three hits in total.’
Serena said, ‘Oh my god. That’s from his hands, isn’t it?’
‘Could be. It’s a solvent, I’ve got that far. But I haven’t found out what it’s used for yet. I’ll follow it up when I’ve got to the end.’
She was still looking impressed with the discovery when Ford said, ‘We’re all covered in chemicals now, we’re all contaminated. It was in the Huffington Post a while ago. And solvents are everywhere. It just means it’s a liquid that will dissolve a…’
But then Serena Butler crossed her arms and put her head a little to one side, and Ford said he’d get on with writing the interview report, then.
And the other thing was the two fragments of leather underneath Michelle Simms’ fingernails – under the nails of the index and middle fingers on her left hand. That’s what Dr Robinson had spotted at the scene and what he had taken care to preserve. Bovine in origin, mechanically processed and dyed cream, possibly linked to the automotive industry. The notes added that no central register of such materials was maintained by the forensic service, and the matching of samples would incur additional costs.
Leather car seats, found in classic cars and in fairly expensive newer ones – somehow Michelle had got some of that material underneath two fingernails. Waters looked down at his left hand and flexed the fingers. It would take some force, wouldn’t it, to tear leather like that? If you dragged your nails across the seat, maybe. And she had artificial ones, he remembered. Would that make it more likely that traces of the material would be caught under them? So… A struggle in a car seat before she was strangled on the grass near the path could be significant – whatever other evidence might point to Oliver Salmon, they were not going to find him in possession of a driver’s licence, were they?
But the fragments of cream-coloured leather might have been there for hours, even days before she met her death – they might have nothing whatsoever to do with it. He knew what “incur additional costs” meant, though; hundreds and quite possibly thousands of pounds’ worth of additional work in an attempt – one which would by no means be certain of success – to link the scraps of leather to a particular make of car.
He read to the end of the report and began his summary of it for DCI Reeve. It would be emailed directly to her with a CC for DI Terek. Experience had already taught Waters that Terek was inclined to be selective about what he passed on to senior officers, in the name of economy and efficiency. At the end, he would add two points recommended for further action – establishing what that solvent was used for, and locating which makes of vehicle might have used that cream leather for their interiors.
The first few notes of ‘Lazy Sunday Afternoon’ announced that Serena had received a text. Waters watched as she read it and then thought about whatever it said. Eventually she looked up at him and said, ‘Graham Fletcher. He says sorry but he still can’t find his phone. He now thinks someone might have nicked it off the desk in his office. He says he’s contacting the local police to get a crime number for the insurance.’
Waters didn’t say anything, and after another moment, she added, ‘Maybe you were right. We should have gone down to help him look for it.’
‘OK. Add that to the file
. And reply, telling him that if it turns up, we’d still like to see it.’
It took Waters another half an hour to complete the summary. By then it was a few minutes after four o’clock and he was meant to be off duty until the Friday morning. At ten minutes after the hour, he received a text from Janey, telling him that she would be back in Lake tonight and that she’d meet him at the flat – not to book a meal anywhere, they needed some time to talk.
Eight minutes later, as he was clearing his desk, Detective Inspector Simon Terek came in and told them that following the meeting with the Crown Prosecution Service, Oliver Salmon was to be charged with the manslaughter of Michelle Simms. The lawyers had concluded that should the case come to trial, the question of diminished responsibility through abnormality of mental function was likely to arise. Also, murder is a crime of specific intent, something unlikely in someone with Down’s syndrome. But they felt there was sufficient evidence to present a case that Salmon had taken the woman’s life, even if he had no intention of doing so. As to whether such a prosecution was in the public interest, that was for other lawyers and possibly for a judge to consider, at another time.
Serena said, ‘What about bail, sir?’
‘Yes, post charge police bail today. He has no previous convictions for serious offences.’
As if, thought Waters, he does have a few minor ones, like drunk and disorderly, taking and driving without consent, and possession of Class B drugs.
Terek was pleased, as if they’d all had a hand in it. Let’s have all the t’s crossed and the i’s dotted, he said, we can regard this as another job well done. It’s unfortunate when someone like Oliver Salmon is caught up in the criminal justice system, but we, as police officers, do our jobs without fear or favour. That is our mission. By the end of the week, at least some of us should be on to new cases, and…
And anyone less like Winston Churchill I cannot imagine, thought Waters as he passed by the one-way glass security screen at the new entrance to Kings Lake Central. He remembered Charlie Hills behind the polished oak counter. He remembered the exchanges between the desk sergeant and his favourite detective sergeant – the complaints about being a messaging service for CID and the long-running inquiries into who had stolen his custard creams. He remembered Smith.
Then, as he crossed the car park, he thought about the T shirt folded away in the bottom drawer. WWSD? What indeed?
Chapter Twenty-Four
You take the coast road if you’re in no hurry, and on the morning of Thursday the tenth of August, Christopher Waters was in no hurry. There is on that road a rush-hour of sorts as village residents commute down into Kings Lake, and he had waited until that was over, but in the second week of August, every caravan, cottage and room on the north Norfolk coast has been let to holiday-makers, and these days every single one of them has arrived by car. By ten in the morning they are on the move again, making the most of the week because in another forty-eight hours they’ll be returning to the north or the midlands or London, to dusty streets and roads and estates far from the sounds of the sea and the seaside.
He was alone this morning. Janey had stayed on the Tuesday night, and yesterday they’d taken Sam Cole’s black Labrador and walked over Weybourne Heath, away from the crowded beaches. There was shade under the birch trees, and they found a bench to sit on – it had one of those little plaques which said “Presented by Peter and Martha Collins. They loved this place”. They’d talked about Peter and Martha, wondered how long they must have been married and how many times they had walked here over the years. It must be a lot, mustn’t it, if you donate a seat?
Next week she was going back to Manchester to look at the bridge accommodation the company offered to its new recruits. They had flats you could use for up to six months while you found your own place – you paid rent but it was way below the market rates. She had shown him the letter of confirmation too, and he had seen a starting salary that was just a few thousand pounds less than he was earning as a detective sergeant. In a year or two, he had no doubt, she would be taking home more than him. More than once he found himself looking at her with a feeling of surprise, because he’d underestimated her. Katherine Diver had called her “sweet” and he knew why, but there was a tougher side to Janey Cole, and she was going to leave him because of this job. Maybe they’re all tough like this, when it comes down to it. Not for the first time, Christopher Waters thought that much as he liked them, he didn’t really understand women.
He was north of Hunston now, and the saltmarshes had begun to appear on the left, flat and bluish-purple in the haze, the sea beyond just a sliver of green between the marshes and the empty sky. He glanced at the dashboard and saw that the outside temperature was only 23C. The forecast this morning had said the heatwave would come to an end this week, probably with the customary burst of thunderstorms.
Janey was still telling him they could work it out, talk every day on the phone and visit each other nearly every weekend. It was only a few hours away, and whatever job she’d got and wherever it was, you were never going to be together all day and every day, were you? Waters had pointed out that when she moved to Boston it wouldn’t be so straightforward, and she told him not to be silly, but the idea appealed to her, it was plain to see. A part of him wanted to confront it then, as they sat on the bench, to say there on Weybourne Heath that it was over, that this might as well be their last day together. He wondered whether Peter and Martha Collins would have appreciated the irony, but in the end, he let Janey talk on and dream for a little while longer.
He passed the turn down to Barnham Staithe, not slowing to look as he might once have done, but not forgetting either that it was where they had first met. Beyond that point, the coast road becomes narrower still and yet more winding. If you meet one of those Coasthopper buses, you might have to give way and reverse until you find a passing place. As you do so, as you wait for the bus to ease its way past with its nearside wheels on the grassy verge, pause a moment and look to the left, because here the saltmarshes are at their greatest extent, stretching for miles in every direction, and every inch you can see is part of a national nature reserve. There is a vastness and an emptiness here that draws some people back time and again until they are too old and infirm, and after that they remember and revisit it in their dreams. Or until they have enough money to move here and become one with it all.
Two lanes run north out of Marston, winding their way out across the marshes. He took the second, Quay Drift, which bends first to the left and then back to the right before straightening out on a low ridge of higher ground. Half a dozen flint and sandstone cottages sit on the insides of these bends, tucked away from the rest of Marston village. They can only have been fishermen’s homes in past centuries – it would be a small outrage to good taste if they were not – but the fishermen are long gone. Now they are among the most expensive real estate in England. As the sea departed north across the saltmarshes, the seamen’s homes were rescued by a different sort of tide, the rising tide of money that too has flowed north from the square mile in the city of London.
Waters passed them and slowly negotiated the final bend to the right where the single-track road comes up against the creek and runs alongside it for another two hundred yards. There is one more property here, at the very end of the shingle ridge, another flint and sandstone cottage, the red pantile roof and white windows and doors bright in the late morning sun. As the building came into view, he saw that a vehicle was pulling away from it and onto the track, heading towards him. Two cars could not pass here but he had time to reverse back into the driveway of the last cottage he had passed – not all the way but far enough so that the approaching car would have room to get by. The low flint wall obscured the road save for the final few yards closest to him, but he should be able to see the driver – and to see whether he had had a wasted journey this morning.
It was a dark blue Volvo XC70 estate, slowing right down on the corner because the driver could see the bo
nnet of Waters’ car poking out. And he could see the driver then, concentrating, looking down to her left because she was very close to the wall on the other side, and most likely wondering who the idiot was who had parked like that on the bend. If she’d glanced across, she would have recognised him – she might even have stopped and said hello. But she didn’t, and he was left to watch Jo Evison driving away towards Marston.
There had been another vehicle in front of the cottage, which must mean someone else was at home. He made the decision quickly and drove on towards the end of Quay Drift. Far from a wasted journey, he might just have had a stroke of luck.
He pulled in beside a red Subaru Impreza, making sure he’d left enough room for the Volvo if Jo returned while he was still here. An Impreza? That’s a lot of car, sir. It didn’t look bad outside the cottage though, fitting in pretty well with the sort of vehicles you saw parked alongside the holiday homes all along the coast. He stood for a moment, admiring the place. There was a low flint wall in front of it, enclosing a small, rectangular garden full of carefully chosen plants, the foliage all greys and silvery greens – plants that could thrive in the brackish air and the thin, shingly soil. There was a wooden gate in the wall, and a path leading to the front door and a porch, smothered not in roses but two clematises intertwined, one red and the other a deep purple. On the gate was a sign that served as the name of the place and the cottage – Drift’s End.
Waters left his car unlocked and with the windows down. There was a public footpath leading on past the cottage, following the winding course of the creek into the marshes, and he could see a couple of people out there in the distance, but crime seemed something of an improbability here. He took the path that led from the parking spaces around to the back of the building, and then stood at the rear of it in a shaded square. There was an outdoor table and four chairs beneath a sunshade on the paved area, and beyond that another rectangle of garden three or four times the size of the one at the front. A little timber shed stood at the end, and a small greenhouse which he didn’t remember from his last visit. He took a few steps in that direction to be certain, but there was no sign of anyone.
Songbird Page 25
