Beneath the Ashes Page 19

  Audrey sat on the armchair and gestured for Nancy to sit. She lowered herself onto the far edge of the sofa, away from the cat, not daring to mess up the pretty cushions.

  “Thanks for letting me come around,” Nancy said. “It’s good to finally meet you.” She beamed at Audrey.

  Audrey nodded, but didn’t smile back.

  Nancy wound her feet around each other.

  Suddenly, Audrey stood. “I guess you’ll be a tea drinker if you knew Richard. He grew up on the stuff. Do you take sugar?”

  “No, thank you.” Nancy winced inwardly at the name, Richard. It didn’t feel right to call him that, he’d always be Evan to her. She sunk into the chair as the door closed behind Audrey. The cat’s unwavering stare made her uneasy. Maybe Becca was right. It was too soon.

  Nancy looked through the glass doors to the long wooden table that was so polished it looked like it had never been used. They should have been sitting around there, eating sandwiches and freshly made cake, drinking tea, talking and laughing together. Nancy could tell tales from the shop, offer to do her garden for her. She glanced back around the room. The walls were an off-white colour, and bare apart from a few printed paintings. A collection of photos littered the mantle above the fire, but she didn’t recognise any of them.

  The door pushed open and Audrey walked back in carrying a small round tray containing two mugs of tea.

  Nancy smiled as she passed across a mug. “Thanks.”

  They sat in silence cradling their mugs for a moment, until Nancy could bear it no more. “It’s such a shame that we have to meet… like this.”

  Audrey looked up, ignored the statement and gave a nod towards the bruise on her forehead. “The police said you took a blow to the head. That looks sore.”

  Nancy flicked the wisps of fringe that veiled the cut above her eye with her free hand. “It’s a lot better now, thanks. Only, I know he was planning for us all to meet together.”

  A strange expression flickered across Audrey’s face. “He was?”

  Nancy tilted her head. “Yes… He said so.” Her stomach felt queasy.

  Audrey blinked a few times, averted her gaze. “The police told me it was likely quick. That’s a godsend I suppose.” She raised her mug, sipped her tea.

  “What was he like? As a boy, I mean?”

  Audrey looked towards the window. “Stubborn, determined.”

  Nancy tried a different tack. She thought about his working on the farm. He’d told her that he used to work as an electrician. “Has he always been a practical person?”

  “He never knew what he wanted to do.”

  Nancy sat forward, placed her feet flat on the floor. “I’m sorry, maybe this isn’t a good time. I just thought it would be nice to talk.”

  “Why?”

  Nancy’s lip quivered. “Because you were his mum and I was his girlfriend.”

  “Was he nice to you?”

  The question, out of the blue as it was, made Nancy start. She hesitated before she answered. “He was a lovely, caring man.” Her tone sounded guarded, careful, as if she wasn’t sure of her own words.

  “Good.”

  More silence. Nancy twisted in her seat. “Do you have any photos of him when he was younger? I’d love to see them.”

  Audrey visibly bristled. “Why would I keep photos of a son that disowned me?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, he never told you that?” She snorted. “He hasn’t spoken to me in four years.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The door to The Squirrel pub juddered as Jackman pushed it open. A knot of people crowded the bar, some drinking and chatting, others waving notes waiting to be served. A man and woman in suits raised wine glasses together in the corner; a large table at the side was filled with people in warehouse overalls, enjoying a drink after an early Friday afternoon finish from work. Jackman moved into the room. Almost immediately his head was drawn to raised voices. He followed the sound to a gap at the end of the bar showing a room beyond. The corner of a pool table jutted out from behind a cluster of bodies.

  The warning from Mike Clarke entered his mind. It could just be an overreaction, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. He turned to Davies. “Give me a couple of minutes, will you?”

  She turned towards him. “You must be joking.”

  “I’m not. Any trouble, call for back up.”

  He didn’t look back as he walked out of the room, crossed a corridor and into another area. The group had their backs to him and dispersed slightly as he approached. One of the men was leant across the pool table and they appeared to be moving position to watch the shot. The chatter quietened. Jackman paused. The potted ball was immediately followed by a low-bellied roar and swells of laughter. The man taking the shot stood back, a grin stretching across his face as he took a swig from his pint. Jackman immediately recognised him from the photos Mike Clarke had emailed across.

  He waited for the furore to die down before he spoke. “Luke Denton.”

  Heads turned.

  Denton’s eyes were on him. “Depends who’s asking.” he said.

  Jackman introduced himself. Denton took another swig of his drink. “And?”

  “I need you to come to the station to answer some questions.”

  Denton placed his pint down and stepped forward, snooker cue still in hand. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I need you to come to the station. Now.” He could feel the heat of the bodies as they encircled him.

  “I’ll just finish my game.” Denton edged forward. Their faces were inches apart.

  Jackman stood tall, eyes fixed on his. He could smell the beer on his breath. “I don’t think so.”

  Several seconds passed. The whole pub hushed. Jackman could hear feet fidgeting around him, but didn’t flinch. Denton chewed twice on his gum. Jackman could see the tattoo on his forefinger out of his peripheral vision. He thought of him grabbing Nancy, frightening her. He must have been twice her size.

  Suddenly Denton broke away, grinned and placed down his cue. “You can keep the balls on the table, guys. We’ll finish it later.”

  “I doubt it,” Davies said pushing through the bodies behind and removing cuffs from her pocket.

  ***

  Nancy didn’t hear the sound of her heels tapping the pavement, the thrum of cars engines passing, even the helicopter that passed overhead. All she could hear was the sound of her own blood rushing through her ears as she pounded the streets that afternoon. She moved quickly, in an effort to get as far away from the icy atmosphere at Audrey’s as possible.

  Her body was trembling as she climbed into Becca’s car. As soon as she saw her friend’s face, the tears that she had held so bravely at bay sprung to her eyes.

  Apart from a few soothing words, Becca hugged her friend, stroked her hair and said nothing. The tears became sobs, that eventually quietened and, as Nancy’s breathing regulated, Becca spoke up. “Was it really that bad?”

  Nancy pulled a tissue from her bag, blew her nose and sat back in her chair. “She was so cold, so detached. I couldn’t have felt more unwelcome.”

  “Maybe she is still in shock?” Becca asked, hopefully.

  “Maybe.” Nancy opened her window, gulped the fresh air into her lungs. Meeting Audrey had only served to widen the void she felt inside. “Can we go home, please?”

  Becca turned over the engine, pushed the car into gear and paused. She glanced in her wing mirror. “That’s weird,” she said.

  Nancy was only half listening, her mind still running over her time with Audrey, desperately searching for something positive to draw from it. “What?”

  “That blue Fiat.” Becca turned, nodded towards a car parked down the road. “It was in our street this morning. I remember looking at the number plate, NN9, and thinking it was similar to Mum’s. And it was parked on double yellow lines.”

  Nancy recalled the inspector’s words the day before. Her cheeks reddened. She’d been so
wrapped in the notion of meeting Evan’s mum that she’d pushed the detective’s advice to the back of her mind. “Oh, God…”

  Becca didn’t listen. Before Nancy could grab her arm, she’d climbed out of the car and was marching towards the Fiat. Bile rose in Nancy’s throat. By the time she’d caught up with her friend, Becca had reached the passenger door window. She instantly gasped, “Darryl!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Darryl looked sheepish, an expression which made him look younger than his years. A childhood friend of Ryan’s, he’d always been shy, especially in the company of girls. “Ryan asked me to watch over Nancy today. He’s been worried about her.” He looked at his dashboard. “Wasn’t expecting you guys to come out here though. I’m almost out of petrol.”

  Becca turned to Nancy.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” Nancy said. She smiled gratefully at Darryl and guided Becca back to their car. Nancy took a deep breath before she emptied out the events of the last few days: the note; the man stalking her; the video footage. They sounded even more sinister as she relayed them, especially after the time lapse, but she worked through the details meticulously and in chronological order, giving as much detail as she could. By the time she was finished she felt like a used balloon, every ounce of air squeezed from its insides.

  Becca sat quietly, her face aghast. When Nancy explained about the police interview, she rounded on her. “Jesus, Nancy. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t put this on you. You’ve done so much for me already.”

  “Where’s the guy now?”

  “Who?”

  “The man that’s been following you?”

  Nancy shrugged.

  “And you still don’t know why he wants all that money?”

  She shook her head.

  “That explains all the texts from Ryan,” Becca said. “I knew he was worried about you, but he’s sent me several today, asking if you’re okay.”

  Nancy looked across at her friend. “I’m so sorry, Becca.”

  “It’s not your fault. Let’s just find some money for Darryl so that he can fuel-up and we can get home. We’ll all feel better once we’re there.”

  ***

  “Don’t you ever do that again,” Davies said as they marched up the steps to the incident room. The journey back to the station had been a sour one. Davies insisted on sitting with the handcuffed Denton in the back.

  It wasn’t until they’d booked him into the custody suite that Jackman was able to account for his actions. And now he was starting to feel irritated. “I told you what Mike Clarke said. Liable to show off to his mates. And there’s no point in us both being involved in a disturbance. Imagine all the paperwork.” His attempt at a joke fell flat.

  “What about you?” she said.

  “I don’t have a young kid.”

  “We should have taken someone else with us.”

  “There wasn’t anyone else. They were all committed. I didn’t think we’d need uniform, otherwise I would have called them. And I was right.” The tight atmosphere was broken by Keane bursting out of the men’s toilets in front of them, tucking his shirt into his trousers. He grinned, oblivious to their argument. “I was just coming to find you. Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  Jackman gave Davies a swift glance. “Make it good,” he said.

  “We’ve had some information about Anderson.” Keane checked his watch. “He’s on a flight home right about now. Due to land in less than an hour.”

  “He must think he’s in the clear, coming back at a time like this,” Davies said. “Somebody’s bound to have got word to him.”

  “There’s more,” Keane said as he guided them down the corridor. “Forensics have matched sets of fingerprints on the generator with those of Nick Anderson and Eamonn Benwell, as well as Richard Garrett.”

  “That’s interesting,” Jackman said. They’d reached the entrance door to the incident room now. “What’s the bad news?”

  “Janus has been here almost an hour. Asking for you. She’s not happy.”

  Jackman felt his mobile vibrate and hung back as they entered the incident room. A text from Carmela:

  I’m free for the rest of the afternoon if you fancy that coffee.

  The door to the incident room flapped open. “She’s in your office,” whispered Davies. “Waiting.”

  “I’ll just be a minute.” He typed back a swift response:

  Sorry, can’t do today. Something’s come up with the case.

  Jackman walked into the incident room and joined Keane and Davies. He immediately spotted Janus sitting in his office in the far corner, tapping away at her computer. She looked up, closed her laptop and marched out to meet them.

  “I think we need an impromptu meeting,” she said. “Let’s get up to date, see where we are.” Chairs squeaked and tables were shoved aside, as everyone gathered around the front of the room. “Maybe you could start,” she said to Jackman.

  “We’ve picked up Denton, arrested him for demanding money with menaces from Nancy. He’s with his solicitor at the moment. We have the CCTV stills from the supermarket, plus Nancy’s description of his tattoo. Be interesting to see whether we can get any links to Anderson out of him during the interview.”

  “Anderson’s on a plane now,” added Keane. “Due to arrive at 5pm.”

  “Great,” Janus said. “Get onto DI Warren at Birmingham CID, see if they can pick him up. Give my name if you have to. We’ll cover their transport if they can bring him here. I want his phone seized as soon as he leaves the plane, before he has a chance to talk to anyone. We know his car was in the vicinity of the farm and barn on Sunday; his fingerprints confirm he’s been there. Intelligence from Northampton gives him a motive. Let’s get a warrant to search his house – see what else we can find.”

  “What about the drugs squad and their budget?” Davies asked.

  “I’m not being pushed around by the drugs squad. This is a murder enquiry.” A roar gathered momentum as it passed around through the room. Janus smiled. “All right, that’s enough.” She waited for the mumblings to die down. “Let’s get everything organised. I want this done by the book.” A fresh murmur of voices grew. Janus turned to face Jackman. “Can I have a word?”

  Jackman followed her to his office and closed the door behind him. “What’s up?”

  “I need you to join us for a meeting upstairs in a quarter of an hour. The assistant chief constable is here, along with representatives from two other forces for a meeting. There’s a new regional focus on drugs crime and they’ve shown a keen interest in the cannabis cultivation in your murder investigation.”

  “What about Mike Clarke? He’s the drugs man.”

  “Oh, he’s here with his flipchart and handouts. But we could do with your input on the reality of how it all fits into the case you’re working on.”

  “I can’t do this right now. We are just on the cusp of—”

  “Yes, you can.” Janus interrupted. “We’ll get a POLSA- led team in to search Anderson’s house, cars and businesses. Birmingham CID will pick him up at the airport.”

  “What about Denton?”

  “Delegate. Get one of your team to interview him. Keane seems pretty well-versed in the evidence against him.”

  “Surely we can do this another time?”

  Janus didn’t attempt to hide her frustration. “No. Look, Will, you might as well get used to this. As a SIO your job is to set the strategy, update the policy log, allocate the budgets. Manage. Christ, I don’t know any force where the inspectors are as hands-on as you are. If you want to make DCI and progress into management you need to be directing events, not picking up suspects and interviewing. And Justin Campbell is here from the Thames Valley’s Serious Crime Unit. He’d be a good contact for you.”

  Jackman stared at her aghast. He wasn’t interested in allocating budgets. The only reason he’d applied for promotion was so that he could run his own investiga
tions without the likes of senior officers like Reilly breathing police politics down his neck at every opportunity. And meeting new contacts, discussing policing strategy and budgets was just about last thing he needed right now.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Jackman felt oddly out of place seated around the table in the conference room later that afternoon. He was the only one in an open-necked shirt, although he had donned a jacket upon Janus’ insistence.

  A graph covered the screen at the end of the room and Justin Campbell from Thames Valley, a spindly-looking man who looked like he’d never left his office without a laptop tucked beneath his arm, was working through the trends in their crime figures. Jackman glanced across at a table at the far end of the room, loaded with cups, saucers and biscuits. Mike Clarke had enthusiastically opened the meeting and said there would be plenty of time to chat and ‘share ideas’ afterwards. Jackman cursed inwardly. Mike would be far better suited to the upcoming interview board than he ever would be.

  His mind drifted back to the case. He wondered whether Keane had managed to get Denton to open up in interview; whether they’d gathered together any more evidence. The search team would be working their way through the snooker hall and Anderson’s home on Saturn Way.

  Jackman surreptitiously checked his watch. Anderson’s plane had landed almost ten minutes earlier.

  “Will, perhaps you’ll fill us in on the cannabis cultivation at Upton Grange Farm?” Janus’ voice snapped him back to the present. He sat forward, looked at the impassive faces around the table, and explained how the cannabis was stored, how they had discovered it, and how it was linked to cross-border supply.

  Mike Clarke picked up where Jackman finished in his usual adept manner, with a PowerPoint presentation on what to look out for with cannabis farms, how to spot them early, what was involved. Jackman glanced at his watch again. Almost an hour had passed.

  When Mike sat down, the assistant chief constable gave a long audible sigh. “It will be interesting to see how we get on with the alleged leader, a…” He looked down at his notes.