Songbird

by Peter Grainger

  The cottage had a stable door at the back and the top half was open. He listened and could hear nothing – then he tapped quite gently, paused and repeated it. Someone might be taking a nap, though it seemed too early for that. He hadn’t been here in a while, and he couldn’t be sure how things were going on.

  Waters reached inside and pushed down the handle on the lower half of the door. It opened with a creak and he stepped inside, into the still, cool air of Drift’s End, with its low ceilings, beams and flagstone floors. He was in what would once have been called the scullery, a better name than the utility room, but he knew where the kitchen was, beyond the next doorway. It too was open, and he stepped quietly through, to be faced with a blonde girl, holding in her left hand a baby’s bottle and in the other a carving knife pointed in his direction.

  To describe the ensuing moment of silence as awkward wouldn’t do it justice. The girl never blinked and Waters never moved. Eventually he said, ‘I’m sorry, but who are you?’

  She said in a definite and very Irish way, ‘Me? Oh, I’m Mairead Kelly. Who the bloody hell are you?’

  ‘Er, Chris. Christopher Waters. Detective sergeant… I was hoping to spea-’

  But she’d taken a step towards him. It wasn’t clear yet whether she was going to attack with the knife or the bottle of formula, but she was not intending to retreat. He put up both hands and edged back into the scullery. She followed, keeping the distance the same until he was outside the cottage again. She closed the lower half of the stable door. Eyes still fixed on him, she said in a surprisingly loud way, ‘Diarmuid? Where are you? We have an intruder.’

  With that name, things had begun to make some sense. Waters had never met these people but he knew who they were because John Murray had told him. He said to her he was a friend and former colleague of DC, just calling in to say hello on his day off.

  ‘Who’s DC?’ she had answered.

  ‘David. David Smith. We worked together at Kings Lake.’

  ‘You’re a policeman, you say? Any identification?’

  ‘Sorry…’

  He pointed down at the T shirt, jeans and sandals, and she understood.

  ‘So is he expecting you?’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s an unannounced visit, I’m afraid. I can call back. If you’ll just tell him that Waters was here… Chris.’

  Mairead Kelly had lowered the knife by then. She apologised in an unapologetic way, explaining that where she was from it’s not a good idea to go wandering into people’s houses without their say so. And out here in the middle of nowhere, sure people should be more careful. He didn’t know whether she meant the owners of these places who left their doors open or the fools who went wandering into them unannounced, and he didn’t ask.

  She’d said, ‘It’s up to you whether you leave or not, but they’re down the track there, you can see them. If you’re not who you say y’are, you might find you think I’m polite compared to my husband…’

  But then she smiled for the first time, came outside and pointed into the marshes – ‘That’s them, where the dinghy is showing by the side of the path. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you, today of all days.’

  Diarmuid Kelly was two or three inches taller than his father, powerfully built in the shoulders and with a handshake to match. He looked you in the eye as he shook your hand, and made no secret of the fact that he was taking the measure of you as he did so. In the crook of his other arm nestled a baby.

  Waters said, ‘And who is this?’

  Kelly looked at Smith and gave a single nod, after which Smith said, ‘Christopher Waters, meet Justin Barran Kelly. Justin Barran, meet Christopher Waters, Detective Sergeant, Kings Lake Central police. My advice is to say nothing at this point until you have legal representation. Despite his attire, this man might still be on duty.’

  Waters was struck by the improvement since he’d last seen Smith, which had been here at the cottage some three months ago, just after they had moved into it. He had regained his colour and even had the beginnings of a tan on his face – no doubt from the hours they must have spent outside at that table in the sun. And he seemed alert too, the blue eyes watching Waters’ face for a reaction to meeting someone entirely remarkable, Justin Barran Kelly, his grandson.

  Waters smiled and looked again at the baby. He was asleep, wrapped in a pale blue shawl, the old-fashioned way, and Diarmuid Kelly’s strong right hand was now held above the tiny face, keeping the sun from it.

  Waters said, ‘When I left Lake this morning, this was probably the last person I was expecting to meet!’

  ‘It’s just a flying visit. Diarmuid had a meeting in Birmingham, so he brought the family with him, to say hello. They stayed over last night.’

  Waters looked at Kelly again. You could see it, that they were father and son – the same upright stance, the same straight, serious face, difficult to read, not betraying the emotions they must be feeling on a day like this one. After the stabbing, when they were all preparing themselves for the worst, when the doctors had said on New Year’s Eve that if Smith was a religious man they might want to call for a priest, John Murray had finally made sense of the photograph on Smith’s sideboard. He had pieced together the little Smith had told him about his visit to Belfast the previous year, and he had found in a letter an address for a Lia Wisbey, aunt to Diarmuid, great aunt to Justin Barran. From there, the telephone number was easy, and Murray had called them a few minutes before midnight.

  Waters didn’t know all the details but two days later they came to Lake General hospital, Mrs Lia Wisbey, her sister Catriona, who had been in a wheelchair he’d been told, and a young man escorting them to Smith’s bedside. The young man, Diarmuid Kelly, had not known that Smith was his father when they met in Belfast, and it seemed that if it hadn’t been for the knife wielded by Paolo Harris, he might never have known it. What extraordinary scenes there must have been.

  And now they stood together on the Norfolk coast in the August sunshine, three generations where there had been but one. Waters had been to Smith’s home in Kings Lake several times. He had felt the emptiness in it, comfortable though it was. It seemed that with her death Sheila had left a void nothing could fill, and he could not have been alone in wondering what Smith would do when the job finally came to an end. And now? A son and a grandson. A devoted and fiercely protective new partner. And a cottage full of character in one of the loveliest locations on the coast that meant so much to him. As Smith himself might have put it in one of his more expressive moments, it was a bit of a result.

  ‘Anyway, DC, it’s good to see you looking well. You’ve got a lot on today, I’ll call back another time.’

  Kelly said, ‘No need for that. It’s getting hot for this little man. I’m taking him back inside. And he’ll be hungry as soon as he wakes. Nice to meet you, Christopher.’

  They shook hands again, and Waters was ready for it this time. Then Diarmuid left them, heading back towards the cottage. When Waters looked that way, he could see the girl up on the bank, waiting.

  ‘Another time we can stick the motor on and take her for a spin down the creek.’

  They were standing by the dinghy, upturned on the side of the bank and chained to a metal post. It was bigger than Waters had expected and newer, gleaming white in the sunshine. He cocked his head on one side so he could read the upside-down name – Rebecca Louise.

  Smith went on, ‘I was showing it to Diarmuid. He said that in another year or two, we could take the boy out in it, as long as we can get it past Mairead. I take it you met Mairead…’

  ‘Yes. It was an experience in itself.’

  ‘Don’t worry. When we first met, she didn’t like me at all. We’ve moved on a long way since then. Now she likes me, she just doesn’t trust me.’

  Waters bent forward and touched the boat. He said, ‘It looks new. I assume you have been out in it. Obviously, I wouldn’t be assuming anything of the sort if this was part of an investigation.’

 
‘I should hope not. I’ve only been out of the office a few months. Yes, we’ve had a few rides up and down the creek, but I’m not allowed out on my own yet.’

  ‘But you’re alright?’

  Waters pointed. It wasn’t easy to ask outright whether someone’s heart was still at risk.

  ‘Better than I’ve felt in years. Did you know I gave up smoking last Christmas Eve? The medics have had me on a physiotherapy program, and Jo’s become a health food fanatic. If you fancy a race back to the cottage…’

  Waters smiled and shook his head.

  ‘Seriously, Chris, I was a lucky so-and-so. I count my blessings every day.’

  The edges of the creek had been exposed by the falling tide. As they watched, a small flock of wading birds flew in from further out in the marsh and settled on the shining mud on the far side. They gave shrill piping calls and then began to feed.

  Smith nodded at them and said, ‘Redshanks.’

  There were other calls in the distance, other birds constantly flying over the marsh, taking off, settling and calling – something timeless about it and other-worldly. It’s the sea perhaps, and the fact that here on these marshes the sea has compromised with the land, come to some sort of agreement that some places must be in between, not wholly this and not wholly that.

  Smith said, ‘Just a day off, then?’

  ‘Yes. I was driving by. I called in on the off-chance. I should’ve let you know.’

  This had been a mistake. Even if there hadn’t been family here, Waters would have thought the same thing by now. Smith was leading an entirely different life, one that he had earned and fully deserved. Shirley Salmon might yet get in touch with him herself – that she had not done so was obvious – and Smith might then go to see her, but it wouldn’t be right for Waters to bring the case to his attention. What had he been thinking?

  ‘And is everyone OK? I heard from Murray not long ago. I think he’s off on holiday somewhere about now.’

  ‘That’s right. Central feels relatively empty when he’s not in it.’

  Smith was watching him and Waters held the gaze for a moment before he half turned away as if ready to go back towards the cottage.

  ‘Serena? She must be cross there haven’t been any good murders since I left.’

  ‘She’s always cross about something, DC.’

  Smith still hadn’t taken a step – they were now facing each other again but further apart than they had been. Then he said, ‘Apart from the body found near Pinehills. I saw it in the local headlines last week, but nothing since. What was that about?’

  To answer honestly would be to do what he had just resolved not to do, but the alternative was to lie, which would first be wrong, and second, difficult to get away with. Waters smiled, shrugged and said, ‘I’m sure you don’t want me to talk shop, DC. You’ve got better things to do now. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  He tried again, took another couple of steps but it didn’t work.

  Now they were even further apart. Waters said, ‘I’ll ring you soon. We could go out for a meal, Jo, you and me. My treat! In the meantime, if there’s ever anything I can do, you know where I am.’

  Smith said, ‘And Janey, of course. For the meal?’

  ‘Yes, if she’s around. Busy these days sorting out a job.’

  The long, blue gaze was unwavering and unsettling. Smith put his hands into his trouser pockets, signalling that he wasn’t about to walk anywhere. Waters took a breath and overcame the crazy impulse to run back to his car.

  Smith said, ‘There is one thing you can do for me, Chris.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tell me why you really came down here today.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  If you overdo the paracetamol, you can damage your liver, though it’s pretty good at repairing itself – at least that’s what she’d read. But too much use of non-steroidal anti-inflammatories is worse, with all sorts of long-term complications. Alison Reeve decided to stick with the paracetamol for now, and to save the codeine she’d cleared out from her uncle’s place years ago for emergencies.

  Chris Waters would be back in this morning, and she needed to have a word with him herself rather than going through Terek. There was still some ill-feeling about what had happened with Christine Archer, the duty solicitor – in fact, there had been consequences that Waters might not know about yet. Allen had come to see her yesterday afternoon after he’d had a long and uncomfortable telephone conversation with a London QC.

  ‘Alison,’ the chief superintendent had said, closing her office door before he sat down, ‘I’ve never had a defence barrister get in touch as quickly as this. They’re out to make us sweat on this one.’

  She’d said, ‘He called you directly? That’s out of order, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s certainly unusual. And I cannot think how he managed to get my name… It was all very clever. He didn’t raise points of law or police procedure, it was all about the exceptional nature of the circumstances and the vulnerability of his client. Could we work together in his best interests, whatever the outcome.’

  ‘He called Oliver Salmon his client?’

  ‘Oh yes, I got the impression they’ve appointed him already.’

  It was unusual. Important lawyers don’t usually appear on the scene until court dates have been set, and then their first aim is usually to alter the court date.

  Allen had gone on, ‘He made it clear he was concerned about the impact on his client and the family of pre-trial publicity. He mentioned publicity several times,’ and Reeve thought, this lawyer was either lucky or very well-briefed, because he’d found the chief super’s Achilles heel with his very first shot.

  ‘Alison,’ – he was using her first name a lot this afternoon – ‘I don’t need to tell you that police forces everywhere are under scrutiny as far as their treatment of minorities is concerned. The mentally ill, the vulnerable... As the senior investigating officer, you need to tread very carefully in this case.’

  She had not tried to hide the smile when he said those words, She’d heard them before and expected to hear them again.

  ‘Sir. But Oliver Salmon isn’t mentally ill, as I understand it. He has a disability – a learning disability.’

  ‘Of course, I understand that, Alison, but the tabloid press might not draw such fine distinctions. And we need to examine what led up to me being contacted by a QC in the first place. I’m told it might go back to this duty solicitor, who seems to have taken it upon herself to… Is it the case that Detective Sergeant Waters deliberately put the Salmon family in touch with her?’

  Reeve had said she could not confirm that but she would find out. Allen had gone over it all again before she could get him out of her office, how the defence were going to play the card of a disabled suspect being locked up in a police cell. Not any old police cell but one in Kings Lake Central. Not any old backside being exposed to the tabloid gaze, but his, Chief Superintendent Allen’s…

  When he’d gone, she sat down and added seeing Waters to her to-do list. You’d think, wouldn’t you, with Smith gone, that this sort of distraction and upset might have returned to normal levels – say once every few months? Would that be too much to ask? Christine Archer was a known danger, so why had Waters deliberately picked her out of the list of duty solicitors? Why had he even got involved in that? Calling in a duty solicitor should just be routine. More to the point, it should be routine for someone else, not one of her detectives.

  But the case was developing, slowly but surely. A more positive move yesterday was the fact that when they shared the CCTV from the gate with Michaela Fletcher via her iPad, she was sure it was her sister walking along the footpath in the direction of the town. The images were as blurred and jerky as ever but family, friends, lovers see things subliminally in the way people move and hold themselves, and they are rarely wrong in circumstances like these. They had some of Michelle’s final minutes on video.

  Twelve minutes later,
the lights of a vehicle had passed through the camera’s line of sight, taking the road down to the coast. Another followed two minutes after that. And then, just over an hour later, at 23.45 one of those cars – an assumption, yes – returned towards the town. There was no chance of reading the plate or even identifying the make but the vehicle movements might be significant. Had Michelle Simms been in one of the two cars?

  Reeve had thought about this and then found the number of Eric Boyd, the uniform sergeant from Hunston who had been present on the Friday morning when the body was discovered. He looked a steady sort, the kind of man whose judgement one could rely upon. Yes, he’d said; from the Pinehills site up onto the town road would take someone between ten and fifteen minutes’ walking. So, it was possible that Michelle had taken that walk – why? – and been driven back down to the place where she was later found. Again, why, and by whom? A stranger? By someone she knew would be more likely, but she knew no one in the area, other than her sister and her two nieces.

  And then you had to ask, because someone in a silly wig would eventually do so, where had she encountered Oliver Salmon? That she had done so was not in doubt any longer. That part of the case was solid. Forget motive for now – find the moment of opportunity. Shirley Salmon had told them that since she’d given Oliver his own key, he had been free to come and go. He did not usually do so in the hours of darkness but it was possible on that Thursday he had gone outside. No, not possible – he had done so, he must have done so. But where had he met Michelle Simms?

  There was no sign of anyone following her along the road into town, not on the video, nor of anyone following her back, because there was no sign of her coming back. So, either there is another way back, or she was in one of those cars. Is there another way? Reeve made a note to herself, that she had another reason to speak to Sergeant Eric Boyd. Meanwhile, Oliver was somewhere on the Pinehills site, having let himself out of the apartment behind the office. At some point in the darkness, they encounter each other. Michelle is fairly drunk, and God knows how it starts, but it ends with a heavy blow to her face and then she is strangled, before her body is carried away and partially concealed. But it doesn’t end there. Michelle has not been sexually assaulted but attempts are made to suggest she has been. And her phone and handbag are nowhere to be found, which surely can only be because someone, the killer, has realised their possible importance in a police investigation. Especially the mobile phone. Those actions are calculated and rational attempts to avoid being arrested and charged with murder.