Beneath the Ashes Read online

  “Right. Who called it in?”

  “What?”

  “The hit-and-run. Who called it in?”

  “Er… Amanda Grayson.” He said the name slowly, as if he was reading it from his notes. “She was in a café. It happened in front of her.”

  Jackman pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes. He could see Amanda Grayson sitting in the Thyme Café on The Waterways waiting for Eamonn. Smoothing her hair, checking her make-up in anticipation. Yet her lasting image of him would be like some terrifying scene from a horror film. He ended the call, turned back to the room. Officers were wandering in now, switching on computers.

  Jackman relayed the details to Davies and Keane. Somebody came around gathering mugs to make the morning coffee. A thought struck Jackman. “Get the CSIs examining the car to take out the headlight assembly, will you, and do a search for fingerprints on the surrounding area? Hopefully it won’t have been too damaged by the fire.”

  “Do you think this could be another message from a rival drugs gang?” Davies asked.

  “To kill somebody in the centre of Stratford town is a risky strategy.” Jackman said. “Let’s look at who stands to gain. We’ve been questioning Eamonn Benwell the past few days, examining his associations, searching his house, his business. We assume that the victim’s body was dumped in a barn that housed a cannabis farm below on purpose, and it was set on fire, which means the killers wanted his death to be known, not merely that he was missing. So far, we’ve found nothing to link Eamonn to the murder, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t our man.”

  Keane looked up. “But if Eamonn wasn’t the killer, then it would suit whoever it was to get him out of the way before he talks.”

  “Amanda Grayson,” Davies said, almost to herself. “Wasn’t she the girlfriend? Maybe her husband found out about the affair?”

  Jackman pictured Amanda Grayson with her neat clothes and expensive perfume, her two children in primary school. Neither Amanda nor her husband featured on the police national computer in any capacity. He couldn’t imagine her husband risking losing his job, his family to drive a stolen car, let alone commit murder. “Unlikely,” he said. “But I think we need to have a word with him anyway.”

  ***

  A slim man with dark hair formed around a widow’s peak answered the door of the Grayson family home in Tiddington Road that morning. When Jackman and Davies introduced themselves he extended his hand. “Robert Grayson. Thanks for coming around.” He spoke with authority, his voice calm and composed, although his grey pallor betrayed a weariness beneath the surface. “Amanda is in the sitting room. I’ve taken the children to her mother’s.”

  “Thank you,” Jackman said. He waited for Davies to follow Robert into the kitchen to take down his account of events, and pushed the door open into a large front room. It was furnished in quite an old-fashioned way: floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the end wall opposite the window, a rocking chair sat in the corner beside an Indian rug. Amanda was seated on one of three sofas arranged around the television at the other end. She stood as he entered and indicated for him to sit. “Thanks for coming, Inspector. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I understand you’ve had quite a shock.”

  She looked up at him through puffy eyes and gave a solemn nod.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His words induced more tears. She pressed a tissue to her face. Jackman gave her a moment, recalling how composed she was at their last meeting. They’d met in the same café where she’d been waiting for Eamonn last night. It was the perfect central location, mainly frequented by travelling business people and tourists, tucked away from the main road, cars parked out of sight at the rear. He couldn’t help but wonder how many times they’d met there over the past months.

  “I want to be a witness,” she said quietly. “I’ll give evidence in court if that’s what’s needed.”

  Jackman cast a fleeting glance towards the kitchen.

  “It’s all right, he knows everything,” Amanda said. “I can’t hide anymore. I owe it to Eamonn. He was a good man, he didn’t deserve this.” Her words trailed off and she swallowed.

  “What were you doing in the café?” Jackman asked.

  “Eamonn contacted me and asked to meet. It sounded important.” She went on to explain what had happened. When she reached the collision, her words splintered and she shuddered.

  Jackman sat quietly as she dabbed her eyes. “I understand you saw the driver?” he said eventually.

  She nodded. “It happened quickly, but the light flashed across his face.”

  “Do you feel up to coming down to the station, to do a formal photo identification? Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Of course.” She looked down, flicked a loose thread from her trousers. It was a moment before she spoke again. “People think of affairs as sordid, dirty little secrets; clandestine meetings in secret hotel rooms. But it wasn’t like that for me. The only time my husband and I talk these days is if we are entertaining guests, to synchronise our diaries, or if there’s a problem with the children. He buys me roses for my birthday because that’s what he bought me when we first met fifteen years ago. But my favourite flowers are orchids. Always have been. Eamonn and I talked about books, films, places we’d like to visit. The real world. It was just nice to be me again.” Her lip quivered. “For a while.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Are you sure about this?”

  Nancy looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She twisted side to side, held out her arms wide. “What do you think? Too casual?”

  A pile of clothes littered the bed behind her. In the end she’d opted for loose denims and a black T-shirt, tied her hair back in a ponytail.

  “You look fine,” Becca said.

  Nancy faced her reflection. “I’m not sure…”

  “Don’t you think you might be better leaving it for a while? You’ve both had a huge shock.”

  Nancy leant in closer to the mirror, stroked her brow. The bruise above her eye was barely visible now, under a layer of foundation. She pulled back, crossed to the dressing table and rummaged through the top drawer until she found a black-and-white silk scarf, then moved back to the mirror and tied it loosely around her neck. “I think that’s better. Less casual.”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Nancy rounded on her friend. “Audrey sounded all right on the phone. I’m sure she’d have said if she didn’t want me to go. Anyway, it might be good for both of us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We were both close to Evan. We could help each other.”

  Becca took a deep breath, spoke through her exhalation. “I’m not sure.”

  Nancy stared at her friend, imploringly. She couldn’t ask Ryan to come with her after the detective had told her to stay at home yesterday. But she needed to do this. Today. “I’m sure it’ll be all right. I’ve a good feeling about it.”

  Becca stood. “Okay, if you’re sure. Just be careful. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Nancy waited for her to leave and scooted across to the window. She couldn’t see anyone lurking around outside. Apart from a single car parked up the road, it was empty. Another glance in the mirror. Audrey sounded like a nice, kind name. It conjured up images of a smartly dressed woman, with a beautiful house full of matching handmade soft furnishings and freshly baked Victoria sponge, just like Nancy’s grandmother.

  She gave a fleeting thought to her own mother. Cheryl couldn’t heat up a ready meal without burning it, let alone bake a cake. And as for sewing… The only thing the sofa and curtains had in common were the nicotine stains.

  Nancy checked her watch. It was just after 9.30am. She pushed the clothes aside, perched on the edge of the bed and pulled on her shoes. This moment should have been so different. She imagined Evan and her arriving at the home he’d grown up in, walking up a pathway, knocking on a shiny white front door. He’d give her a
smile, place a reassuring hand on the small of her back. His mother would come out to meet them, welcome her with open arms. Invite them inside to a tea she’d specially prepared for the occasion. They’d sit around the table talking, laughing while she recalled memories of Evan’s childhood.

  She swallowed back the tears before they had a chance to smudge her mascara. Maybe Evan’s mum would still welcome her with open arms. Maybe she would find it comforting to talk with her. They could chat about his obsession with engines, how he liked to take things apart to see how they worked. Evan was her only son. His father had died when he was young. She and Audrey could help each other. This comforted Nancy as she checked her watch again. They ought to get going. They would be early, but Becca was always telling her that people liked early. Early made a good impression and that was exactly what she intended to make today.

  ***

  Jackman’s phone rang as he pulled back into the station car park. The rain had started, drumming the windscreen and creating wide puddles on the tarmac that splashed up against the side of the car. “Damn rain,” Davies said. “Feels more like April than August.” She pressed answer.

  “Morning!” Hawkins’ warm Irish accent rushed into the car.

  “Morning,” Jackman said. “Have you got something for me?”

  “Not sure. It’s a bit tenuous, but I thought I’d pass it on anyway. We’ve received some intelligence about a disagreement between Northants and Warwickshire drugs gangs. We were aware of an abundance of cannabis in supply recently, bringing the prices down, but couldn’t work out where it was coming from. In light of your case, we’ve done some work around Truman, Richard Garrett’s associate, gaining fresh intelligence. It seems he’s been moving considerable amounts of cannabis of late, rivalling our local suppliers. The guys here caught wind of where it was coming from and linked it to a Nick Anderson. Do you know that name?”

  “I do – a local gang leader here, although like most he’s got his legitimate businesses and keeps it well under wraps. Our drugs guys have been tracking him recently.”

  “Well, it seems he upset them down here, so they sent a message.”

  “Anderson’s garage was burnt down, about three weeks ago. Suspected arson by local kids. Could have been that.”

  “Sounds about right. Whatever happened, the new supply has dried up so it worked. Seems they are bracing themselves for a response though.”

  Jackman recalled how Mike Clarke had reported Nick Anderson’s car in the vicinity of the farmhouse on the night of the burglary. The empty gun cupboard. “So we’ve got a turf war on our hands?”

  “Possibly. It might mean that Anderson is connected to your murder, or at least the cannabis farm. It seems, even after his death, Richard Garrett is creating debts to settle.”

  “What about Charlie Truman?”

  “Disappeared off the face of the earth. Not surprising really.”

  They rushed across the car park, through the shower. Davies had filled Jackman in on her discussion with Amanda Grayson’s husband during the car journey back, but raised it again as they climbed the back steps. “He really had no idea about the affair,” she said. “He’s away a lot and his life seems pretty much filled with his work by all accounts. I bet he doesn’t even know what his kids like to eat for dinner.” She paused at the top of the stairs, rounded on Jackman. “Could you really keep a secret like that from someone so close?”

  Jackman shrugged. “Loads do, it seems.”

  Keane stood as Jackman and Davies entered the incident room. “DS Clarke’s trying to get hold of you,” he said to Jackman. “Says it’s urgent.”

  Jackman made his way into his office, wrestled the wet jacket off his shoulders and called Mike Clarke back.

  “We circulated the description you sent over to us yesterday to all our source handlers.” Mike said. “I think we’ve got an identification for you. His name is Luke Denton. Small time guy. He’s been mentioned in connection with a few assaults, was arrested a couple of times, although nobody pressed charges. He officially works as a bouncer, but we’re under the impression he mostly enforces unofficial debts.”

  “For Anderson?”

  “That’s what we’re thinking. We’ve seen him at Anderson’s snooker hall. They use the same gym, although you rarely see them together. There’s a tattoo on the side of his forefinger – CCFC – for Coventry City Football Club, looks like it’s a recent job because it doesn’t show up on any custody records.”

  Jackman scratched the back of his neck. “Strange choice of job for a man with such an obvious tattoo.”

  “We are not dealing with the brightest button here, he’s a muscle head. Walks around in designer gear, rubs shoulders with the big guys. He’s got a very high opinion of himself, but certainly doesn’t have the brains to carry anything big off. My guess is that Anderson sold him a debt – the cost of rebuilding his garage after it was wrecked. Maybe that was why Evan was killed, he either refused to pay, or couldn’t afford to. Afterwards he leant on Nancy. ‘Debts pass to next of kin’ – that’s what the note said, isn’t it? Well, as far as these guys are concerned, next of kin stretches to anyone that constitutes their nearest and dearest.”

  “Six thousand pounds doesn’t sound much for rebuilding a garage.”

  “This will only be the first instalment,” Mike said. “It’s how these people work. Part of their ‘policy’. Start low, induces less of a panic, less chance of the target contacting the authorities, then come back for more later. If you can’t pay, for whatever reason, they move down the line. That includes girlfriends, wives, anything apart from kids – attracts too much attention. He probably thought Nancy was involved, had access to Evan’s ill-gotten profits and got a bit carried away with his own sense of self-importance. He’s watched too many movies – the note, the video footage. I’m sure if Anderson had been around, he’d have reigned him in a bit.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “I’ll email you the address, but our intelligence suggests he plays pool with a group of mates on a Friday afternoon at The Squirrel pub on Drayton Avenue.”

  “Great, we’ll try there first.”

  “A word to the wise. Watch him,” Mike said. “There’s no mention of firearms on our intel, but he’s a tricky customer.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Becca rounded the corner of Cosgrove Way, pulled up and cut the engine. “There you go. It’s just up there on the left-hand side.

  Nancy fixed her gaze up the road at a line of terrace houses, set back from the road. Her mouth felt dry. “Do I look okay?”

  “You look fine. Really.” She felt Becca’s hand on her arm and turned to meet her gaze. “Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

  For a moment she was sorely tempted. But she hadn’t mentioned to Evan’s mother anything about bringing a friend along. She shook her head, swallowed. “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, well, call me when you are finished. I’m going to drive around the corner and listen to some music. I can be back here in a couple of minutes.”

  Nancy climbed out of the car, adjusted her scarf and pulled her bag over her shoulder. The road was empty that morning. She looked at the front gardens as she passed. One had a pristine lawn, another was block paved; another was covered in bright-coloured shingle that formed the base for a caravan. She hesitated outside a house decorated with an array of hanging baskets bursting with pansies and a front garden laid to lawn. She glanced up at the number: 112. The house next door wasn’t numbered; the front garden was fully paved. Some of the slabs were broken and a few dandelions and tufts of grass had pushed their way through the gaps. Nancy paused. The view through the bay window was obscured by net curtains. She switched to the next one along – a black wrought-iron sign clearly read number 116.

  Nancy wandered down the drive of the house with the paved front. A brown wooden door was situated on the side with a single gold letterbox in the middle and a bell on the frame. She pressed the
bell and waited. After a couple of seconds she pressed again. When there was still no answer she checked her watch. Maybe being early wasn’t such a good idea. She fisted her hand and knocked the door a couple of times, slightly louder than she’d intended.

  A thud sounded from inside, followed by footsteps.

  The door was pulled open to reveal a short woman with a bush of grey hair wearing a navy cardigan over a cream T-shirt. A gathered light blue skirt hung loosely over her ample hips. The woman frowned. “Yes?”

  Nancy looked past her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m looking for Audrey Garrett?”

  The woman folded her arms across her chest. “That’s me.”

  No smiles. No open-armed welcome. Just a pair of hard milky-grey eyes. Nancy fought to hide the disappointment in her face. “I’m Nancy.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth formed a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re early.”

  “Yes, sorry.” She felt Audrey look her up and down.

  “No problem.” Her eyes rested on Nancy’s shoes. “You’ll have to take those off.”

  Audrey turned and led Nancy into a dark hallway and waited while she kicked off her heels. A single gilt-edged mirror hung on the wall. The air was tainted with the floral scent of an air freshener.

  To Nancy’s relief, the front room was brighter and more colourful. Cream curtains were tied back at each end of the long net that covered the front window. A grey sofa and armchair positioned around a modern electric fire were stuffed with peach floral cushions overlapping each other in a triangular pattern. Glass doors revealed a dining room beyond. A cat was curled up on the end of the sofa. It raised its head and glared at her.