An Unfamiliar Murder Page 19

  He knocked at the green, council issue door and stood for a moment. There was no answer. Taking a deep breath, he tried again and, remembering the old man’s words, rapped harder then glanced across the garden. There was a weathered, wooden bench underneath the window, in dire need of a paint job with a slat missing. He wondered when somebody had last sat there.

  Just as he was about to turn away, he heard a noise in the hallway, a soft shuffling of footsteps that were gradually getting louder, then a cough. Bingo! Metal clanked together as locks were drawn back, the jingle of a chain sounded. The door shuddered slightly as it opened revealing a very small gap, the tension straining the chain, just enough for a pair of deep blue eyes to stare out.

  For most of his life Townsend had enjoyed the benefits of his 6ft, 5inches. Towering over friends and colleagues, he had become accustomed to looking down on people in the literal sense. However, this was undoubtedly the smallest adult he had ever faced. Well aware that deterioration of bone composition caused people to shrink as part of the natural ageing process, he found himself staring back at an elderly women who was no taller than Tilly, his 10 year old niece, and she was small for her age.

  “Yes?” There was a rasp to the woman’s voice, as if it had been worn almost hoarse over the years.

  He spoke as loudly as he felt politeness would allow. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. My name is Detective Inspector Townsend. I’ve been sent here from Hampton police on some enquiries.” He flashed his warrant card in front of her face.

  She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized it carefully, as if she were reading a newspaper article. “What do you want?” There was that rasp again, in every word she spoke.

  “I’m looking for Lucy Walker.”

  “That’s me.”

  “An elderly gentleman,” Townsend cringed as he realized that he didn’t even take his name. He pointed weakly towards the corner, “said you might be able to help.”

  The pair of eyes studied him for a long moment. “What did he look like?”

  She doesn’t seem very hard of hearing, thought Townsend. “Who?”

  “The elderly gentleman?”

  “Flat tweed cap and long beige raincoat.” As he spoke he raised his hand to just below his shoulder indicating height.

  It seemed to work. Recognition showed in her face, but she didn’t mention his name. “How do I know you are who you say?”

  “You are most welcome to ring Hampton police station. I can give you the number.” Please don’t. That’ll really open the hornets nest.

  She moved away from the door and, just as he thought she was going to take him up on his offer, he heard the sounds of the metal chain being removed before the door was opened wide.

  The lace collars of a cream blouse sat over a lilac cardigan that looked hand knitted, which was fastened across her chest. Navy stretch trousers hung off her frail frame and a pair of pink, slip-on slippers covered her tiny feet. Her short, white hair was curled away from her face, in the way hairdressers ‘set’ elderly ladies hair. “You’d better come in.”

  “Thank you.” He followed her over the swirly, seventies style, hall carpet along to the last door on the right, which led into a small, but tidy, fitted kitchen. White fronted cupboards and drawers, edged with silver handles, were fitted on three sides and at the far end sat a table, half of which was folded down. The grey, Formica work surface and the beige, mock tile effect, linoleum floor were spotless, apart from a few cat biscuits scattered around the edge of a bowl beside the backdoor. Townsend stopped and looked around the room. He hated cats. For some reason they sensed his dislike and always made a beeline for him. But he could relax. There was no sign of moggy today.

  “Sit down.” She pointed at one of the chairs beside the table.

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I get you a tea or coffee?”

  “I’ll have a tea, please.”

  She shuffled over to a white, jug kettle and flicked the switch. Although she moved reasonably quickly, he noticed that one of her feet seemed to be almost dragged across the floor. “So, Ernie said I could help you, did he?” she said with her back to him, pulling two flowered mugs off a wooden, mug tree.

  Townsend reached into his inside pocket for his notebook and pen and jotted down the name ‘Ernie’. “Yes, he said that you’d lived here a long time.”

  “Sixty two years next month,” she replied, as if it was such an achievement that she should be nominated for an OBE. She continued to prepare the tea, grabbing a metal teapot and placing tea bags in carefully.

  “That is a long time. I bet you’ve seen lots of changes.”

  She turned to face him. “You can say that again. 1948 I moved in. Of course Larry was still alive then.” She glanced across at a photo on the windowsill of a grey haired man sitting in an easy chair, a yellow bird on his shoulder.

  Townsend rose and walked over to take a closer look at the photo. He could see now that the bird was a budgie. “Is that your husband?”

  “That’s Larry,” she replied, “been dead for 12 years now. Never a better man walked this Earth.”

  Townsend pressed his lips together and nodded. “How long were you married for?”

  “It’d be 64 years this year.”

  “Wow.”

  “Are you married?” she asked as she placed the teapot, mugs and a closed sugar bowl onto a small tray and carried them carefully over to the table.

  Townsend thought about his answer for a moment. “No, not anymore,” he replied, gingerly.

  “Hmm. That’s the modern way. Folks don’t stay married these days.” She poured out the tea as she spoke. “Sugar?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She passed him a mug of darkly stewed tea and sat down opposite him. “Still, I expect you haven’t come here to ask me about my marriage have you?”

  “No. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about the Gravell family that lived at number 16?”

  “The Gravells?” She looked up, surprised. “My, that was years ago. What do you want with them?”

  “There’s a possibility that a member of their family can help with a case I’m working on.”

  “What sort of case?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I can’t say too much at this stage. We’re just carrying out routine background checks. Do you remember them?”

  “Yes, I remember them very well. They had a lovely little girl with blonde ringlets.” She broke off for a moment, digging deep into the archives of her memory. “Kath, Kathryn..” She placed her fingers over her mouth and patted gently. “Kathleen, that was it. She was a real cutie.”

  “Can you remember when they moved in?”

  She looked up into mid air for a moment. “The summer of 1958. Couldn’t forget it, my sister Maud moved to New Zealand that year, married a Kiwi.”

  Townsend nodded. “How long were they here for?”

  “Five years.”

  “You seem sure of that.”

  Her face froze and she stared into space, recalling the memories. “Absolutely sure. You see they moved out in very tragic circumstances.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can’t see why it would interest you now,” she said, “but anyway, I don’t suppose it would make much difference. They’ll be all grown up now.”

  “How well did you know them?”

  “I guess you could say that we were friends,” she hesitated, adding, “in a neighborly sort of way. I babysat for Kathleen a couple of times. Held their spare key in case they got locked out . . . But I didn’t approve of what they did to her. That was just plain cruel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way they went off and left her on her own like that. And just five years old. It was me that found her, me that called her aunt. And they never came back for her, did they? No heart. That poor child. So beautiful and all. To be deserted by her own parents.”

  “Are you saying that they left her alone in the house?”

&n
bsp; “Left her alone, deserted her, however you want to word it. They packed their things and didn’t come back. It was only because I heard her crying through the wall that I found her, poor little mite. Shut in there, all on her own. My Larry said, ‘Folks like that didn’t deserve the blessing of children.’

  “So you called her aunt?”

  “Yes, I had met Aunt Kate many times when she visited. My Larry said she liked the men, bit of a floozy like, but I thought she was just a working woman. Not married. She came to get her and took her to live with her by all accounts. I had a couple of Christmas cards from them, they seemed to move around a lot, then nothing. Another family moved in and we all moved on.”

  “So you lost contact?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you inform the police?”

  “Sorry?”

  “When she was left alone in the house?”

  “No. My Larry said we shouldn’t get involved. It was for the family to sort out. We just called her aunt and she arranged everything. Even spoke to the Council about the house. Seems like they were behind with the rent as well.”

  They sat in cold silence for a moment. She looked up at him. “Things were different in those days,” she added, as if she read the astonishment in his face.

  Townsend sighed inwardly. It would be unlikely that there would be any police records.

  “One thing always puzzled me about the whole affair,” she said, looking away absently, her face folding in confusion.

  He looked across at her and she was gazing at the net curtain which covered the back door. “What’s that?”

  “Why they left her and took the son.”

  Townsend started. “Pardon?”

  She looked into his eyes.

  “Mind, he was only a baby at the time, not even walking. But it seemed strange that they should leave one child behind, but take the other.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Helen poured over Operation Marlon’s policy log. In accordance with police procedure all major incident managers were required to keep a log in which they recorded all their decisions, the strategies they set and their reasoning behind it. The books were numbered and confidential to the force, providing an explanation of the investigation at every point.

  In view of the Super’s threats she wanted to make sure that there were no gaps, nothing screamingly obvious that she had missed, that an accomplice may notice immediately – leading to a quick arrest. She looked at her watch. It read two o’clock. She was desperate. She had just over a day to solve this case before another senior officer would muscle in.

  Helen was not laboring under any illusions. The introduction of an assistant at this point in the investigation would blight her career, whatever the outcome. In an organization where strong characters and competition at all levels was rife, it would be seen as a weakness in her professional ability by her seniors and a failure in her role as an incident manager by her team.

  A single knock at the door caught her attention. Without awaiting invitation, a disheveled looking Townsend strode into her office. “Ma’am,” he said.

  She surveyed him, then pointed at the chair opposite her. “I gather you’ve been quite busy.”

  He nodded briefly. “I’ve been to Ripley . . .”

  “I’m quite aware of where you’ve been,” she said tightly, pursing her lips.

  He faced her, eyes burning, head held high. She stared back at him fiercely. She could see that he was waiting for a tirade of abuse and, yes, inwardly she was seething, intent on verbally ripping him from limb to limb. But Helen needed something, she needed a result urgently, and at the moment, with a blurred CCTV image all that she had to offer for a potential suspect, she needed to know what Townsend had gleaned.

  When she spoke her voice was calm, calculated. “Right. Out with it.”

  He looked up at her, surprised. “Ma’am, I . . .”

  “I’m not interested in your explanations, Simon. I’m sure you are well aware of the tenuous nature of your position on this team and I’m positive that I don’t need to remind you about the dangerous consequences of covert investigations.” She fought to keep her voice calm. “I just hope that your journey has not been completely wasted.”

  He raised his eyebrows as he reached into his pocket for his notebook, then spent the next ten minutes summarizing his findings. As he finished he looked up at Helen. She didn’t miss the twinkle in his eye. He was obviously pleased with himself.

  “Thank you,” she said, keeping her face dead pan. “I think we need to get Kathleen Cottrell in immediately, don’t you?” The twinkle disappeared. He nodded gingerly. She guessed he was struggling to read her this time. Now you know what it feels like. “And ask the team to instigate an urgent trace on the son. We have a starting point with the name, rough date of birth and address in Ripley - DWP should be able to help with the rest.”

  “Right, ma’am.”

  “And no more secrets. In future if you have a hunch, an idea, a feeling, even a premonition, then you come to me straight away. Is that clear?” He looked her straight in the eye, his face serious, and nodded.

  “Right, that will be all.” A wave of compassion reached her as he rose to leave the office. Perhaps this was his attempt at an olive branch? Keeping her face expressionless she called after him, “Simon?” He turned to back face her. “Well done.”

  * * *

  Anna sat in the kitchen picking at a bowl of cornflakes, pushing the sprinkles of sugar off each individual flake. She sighed, put the spoon down, closed her eyes and tried to picture Ross in her mind. Ever since they’d met she had retained this picture of him in her head: he was wearing a white t-shirt and blue cut off cycling trousers, his brown hair in dire need of a cut, flopping over his face. He was smiling, that boyish, next door smile that made his eyes shine, hinting mischievous acts were afoot, he was in the mood to tease. This is how she always remembered him.

  But now when she closed her eyes she could see nothing. As she pulled her phone out of her pocket her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. It was the new phone. There were no photos on this one yet. She closed her eyes and prayed. She had never been a religious person, never quite sure whether she believed or not, but right now she wanted to believe. She wanted to believe that somebody or something out there would listen to her, and bring Ross back.

  Something made her open her eyes and stare back at the screen. And then she saw it, the little symbol indicating that she had a voicemail message. A bolt of lightening shot through her body.

  She pressed call and lifted the phone urgently to her ear. It was from a DS Strenson, asking her to call back urgently. As she pressed the call button she could feel her chest tighten.

  “DS Strenson?”

  “Hello, this is Anna Cottrell. I have a message to call you?”

  “Yes, Anna. Thanks for calling back. I just wanted to let you know that fire service found no body at your boyfriend’s house.”

  “So, he’s alive?” A breath of relief gushed out of her lungs.

  “All we know is that he wasn’t killed in the fire at his home.”

  “So, where is he?”

  “We’ve launched a missing persons enquiry and we’re doing all we can to find him. We’ll keep you informed.”

  Her momentary elation was flattened. “Missing persons? What does that mean?”

  “At the moment I think it would be a good idea to keep an open mind. Are you absolutely sure that there isn’t anyone he might have gone to visit?”

  “No, I told the officer this last night.” She scratched her head irritably.

  “Has he ever wandered off before, perhaps for some time on his own?”

  “Never. He’d never do this to the kids. He was due at work this morning.”

  “Are you aware of any financial or professional problems that he may have?”

  “No. He’d have told me,” she said sharply. What is the point of these stupid questions? Just find him. “Do they know how the
fire started?”

  “The fire officers have confirmed it was arson. That’s all I can tell you at the moment.”

  Arson. Anna gulped. “Surely . . . Surely, you don’t think that he started the fire himself?”

  “I didn’t say that. But we do have to investigate every option.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “OK, well you have my number now, Anna. Call me if you think of anything?”

  “OK. Err . . . Detective?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think this is linked to the murder in my flat?”

  “We have no reason to think that at this stage. We are treating it as a separate incident.” A short silence followed. “Anna?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Call me straight away if he contacts you.”

  Anna gulped. “Yes,” she murmured.

  “I’ll be in touch.” The line clicked as DS Strenson ended the call.

  Ross, where are you?

  She could hear footsteps behind her, feel the weight of her mother’s eyes. “Good news?” Kathleen asked gently.

  Anna twisted around to face her. “Ross didn’t die in the fire.”

  Kathleen moved to sit opposite her daughter. “That’s wonderful news.”

  “Is it?” Anna said, her voice brittle. “So, where is he?”

  “I’m sure the police are doing everything they can.” They sat in awkward silence. Anna picked up the spoon and stared at the cereal in her bowl poking it absentmindedly. “Come on Anna, you have to eat something, love,” Kathleen said softly.

  I don’t have to eat anything. She felt like shouting, but her voice was bound to give way, her brain felt too numb to argue.

  “Would it help to talk about it?” her mother continued, sitting opposite, her eyes boring into her. She looked up at her mother, met her eyes momentarily before looking away. Anger suddenly flared through Anna’s chest. Talk about it? They had never talked about anything. What about her childhood? Did she know that Anna knew her secret? Would she confide in her daughter anyway?