An Unfamiliar Murder Page 4

  And despite them drafting a statement together, outlining her movements earlier in the evening, an alibi which didn’t allow time to commit murder, she still found herself in this small, airless room, two tapes recording her every word simultaneously. She pondered at how she had woken up this morning and begun a perfectly normal, routine day. How could she have gone from sublime living to a state of ridicule, in a matter of twelve hours?

  The detective spoke again, breaking through her thoughts. “What time did you leave work this evening?”

  Anna took a deep breath. “I’ve already said this in my statement,” she said, exhaling with her response in an effort to give a definitive answer. Will had presented her statement to the detectives at the beginning of the interview. The larger detective read it out for the purpose of the tape and suspended the interview for a few minutes whilst he had taken it out, she presumed to his superiors. When he returned he said that the matters raised would be investigated and then, instead of releasing Anna, returning her clothes, apologizing for the inconvenience to her evening, allowing her to go home, he had commenced the interview, questioning in his own way.

  “In your own words please,” he said, solemnly.

  “I left work at four thirty. You can check with my colleagues.

  I . . .”

  “Names?” She looked up as he interrupted and then sighed.

  “Erica Smith was in the staff room when I left. My boss, the school headmaster, is Jason Randle.” The smaller detective was scribbling down the names on his pad.

  “OK and where did you go at four thirty?”

  “I retrieved my bike from the back of the building and rode it to the Tesco store on Cross Keys roundabout.”

  “What time did you arrive at the Supermarket?”

  “I’m not completely sure, but I think it was around a quarter to five. I locked my bike and went into the shop to get some serviettes for my mother’s dinner party.”

  “How long were you in the shop?”

  “Again, I’m not exactly sure, but it was probably around three quarters of an hour. As I told you, my till receipt will be in my rucksack, that will tell you what time I reached the checkout.”

  The detective raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “That’s rather a long time to shop for some serviettes!”

  “Well, as I said in my statement,” she enunciated every syllable here, nodding at the detective as she spoke, “I saw an old school friend in there.”

  “Yes,” the detective now referred to a copy of the statement which he held out in front of him, “A girl named Charlotte?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t know her surname?”

  “No, she’s married now and I didn’t think to ask it.”

  “Maiden name?”

  “I can’t remember,” Anna replied, shaking her head.

  “And you can’t recall what she was wearing?”

  “No,” Anna said weakly. For the first time she realized how unreal this might sound, as if she were trying to dig herself out of a hole.

  “Did she give you her number?” the detective asked, breaking the silence.

  Anna closed her eyes and rested her fingers on her temples in an attempt at coherence and rationality. She couldn’t afford to lose it now. She kept her eyes closed as she answered the question, “I haven’t seen Charlotte since we were in sixth form together, six years ago. It was a chance meeting. I didn’t have a pen, so she punched my number into her phone. She kept me talking for ages, catching up, and that’s why I was so late leaving the store.” When she opened her eyes the smaller detective was staring at her as if she were an obscure painting in a gallery.

  “How did you pay?” the larger detective asked finally.

  “By cash.” She realized the reason for his request immediately, guessing they would probably be able to trace a credit card purchase. But there would be no way of tracing a cash transaction. “They were only a couple of pounds,” she added, as if to justify her actions.

  “Which till did you use?”

  “One near the main entrance.” Anna cringed at her response, frustrated at her inability to remember minutiae. She had never possessed that gift of recalling particular items to memory like what somebody was wearing, what time she had seen them, what make of car they drove. It always amazed her how witnesses to crimes would remember those details. Her friends often teased her at her lack of observation. A work colleague had recently given birth and, having been one of the first friends to visit, other colleagues had asked her if the baby had hair. She couldn’t remember.

  Anna looked up and met the detective’s eyes as he spoke. “Anna, are you sure that there isn’t anything else you would like to tell me?” She stared at him, puzzled.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are telling us you left work at four thirty, went to the supermarket until five thirty, and arrived home at six o’clock to find the stabbed body of a complete stranger in your flat. Is this right?”

  “Yes,” she replied, weakly. She was starting to doubt herself.

  “Are you sure that you didn’t recognize the dead man?”

  “No, I told you so,” she said, quietly. The detective glared at her, as if she were hiding something. She fidgeted in her chair uncomfortably.

  “Do you know a man named Jim McCafferty?” Anna was silent for a moment, as a shiver rippled down her spine.

  “No.” Both detectives continued to stare at her in silence. As she looked back at them a chord struck in her brain. “Was that him?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “The dead man? Yes. His name was Jim McCafferty.” The name made him sound so real, so alive.

  At this point Will interrupted. “Look, my client has co-operated fully and given you an alibi for her movements this evening which, I’m sure you can see, demonstrates that she could not have committed this murder.” He paused for a moment. “Unless you have anything new, I feel it is far time she is released.”

  “That’s my problem,” said the larger detective, ignoring the solicitor, instead addressing Anna direct. “Your alibi is not straightforward.”

  “What do you mean?” Anna gasped, fear rising within her.

  “We have checked your personal belongings and, while there is a packet of serviettes in your bag, there is no receipt indicating when and where you bought them.” She stared at him wide eyed. “With respect Miss Cottrell, we need to investigate your alibi thoroughly before it can be substantiated. You have told us that you met an old school friend in the store but cannot even remember what she was wearing or what her surname is. You have also told us that you do not know the victim. Unless you can tell us anything else, anything that can be confirmed this evening, then we will be forced to detain you overnight while we continue with our enquiries.”

  Anna could feel her hands quiver, her body start to shake all over. When she finally spoke her voice was barely audible, “I haven’t done anything wrong. Please?” She turned to face her solicitor. “Will, I can’t go back into that room. Do something.” The words caught in her mouth.

  She could see movement around her, smell the familiar bleach in the air, hear voices in the background, but couldn’t decipher the words. It was as if they were speaking in a foreign language. Doors were banged shut, walls closing in. She was confined in an ever decreasing space, choking behind all those closed doors . . .

  Finally, she felt a hand on her shoulder, heard Will’s words as he slowly spoke, “Anna, breath. Try to be calm.” She gulped in huge mounds of air, staring into space as the oxygen filled her lungs and fed her brain, allowing the panic attack to pass. As the color returned to her face he asked, “Can I get you anything?”

  “Some fresh air,” she said, looking up at him longingly.

  “Unfortunately, that is the one thing I cannot help you with at the moment . . .”

  * * *

  He drove slowly down the dirt track towards the edge of the lake. With headlights extinguished, the ride
was tricky, but thankfully the recent icy weather meant that the ground was hard. He pulled up at the end, got out of the car and stood, listening for any sound in the darkness. All was silent. He had chosen this area because the water was deep, from within a couple of meters from the edge.

  Quietly, he opened the boot and, as he lifted the dirty hold all, winced slightly. The bricks inside made it heavy and he congratulated himself for deciding to drive down. It would have been cumbersome to carry any distance. Walking towards the water’s edge he started swinging the bag, gently at first and then faster and faster until he eventually swung it out into the water. It sat there for a split second, the surrounding water bubbling at its side, examining its new gift, before encasing it, pulling it from sight.

  Breathing a sigh of relief he stood there momentarily, again listening for any sound of life. He heard a rustle in a nearby tree, from where a bird emerged, disturbed on its roost by the splash of water. Then nothing. Walking back over to the car, he placed a hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a box. Removing a short stalk of wood, he struck it and threw it onto the backseat of the car. Hovering a few feet away, he watched as the flames licked through the interior, fascinated by the power and destruction contained within one match. Finally, satisfied, he turned up the back collar of his jacket and started walking back up the track. Round one complete, and now for round two.

  Chapter Four

  Killers never look as you expect them to. The job had taught Helen to be non-judgmental. There is no stereotype in murder. She knew that most victims were actually killed by someone they knew but it never ceased to amaze her, what could lurk beneath a normal, healthy skin.

  As she lay in bed the following morning, these thoughts occupied her mind. She methodically considered the limited evidence before her. It was fraught with difficulties, little holes that prevented one piece linking to another. Firstly, Anna was a size 8, 10 at most – how would she be able to move a middle aged man almost twice her weight? Also, the knife on scene didn’t appear to match with the wounds applied to the victim, so where was the original murder weapon? And, if Anna had committed this crime she should be drenched in blood from head to foot, so why did her clothes only contain small traces? Then there was her alibi - why hadn’t she told the police at

  Flax Street about leaving work early, going to the supermarket, seeing a friend? Was it because she was in shock or did she later realized that it deliberately put her away from the scene? She tried to turn the evidence around, to look at the flip side. Perhaps Anna didn’t arrive home and encounter a burglar, maybe she had an accomplice? She knew that the murder took place in her flat, in the afternoon, and a man was stabbed, possibly with a hunting knife. Why her flat? What was her link to this man? Was Anna mixed up in something and somebody was sending her a message? She wasn’t known to the police and her background and profile certainly didn’t fit this explanation. It didn’t add up.

  Helen sighed. Was she missing something? Her brain was starting to feel like it had been bashed about like mashed potato. She opened her mouth and yawned deeply then raised her hands, allowing her fingers to massage her temples. As she rested her arms down she glanced at the empty bed next to her: the crisp clean, creaseless pillows, the undisturbed duvet. A pang of loneliness shot through her chest.

  Gently, she turned over, pulled back the bedclothes and climbed out, reaching for her dressing gown and pulling it around her shoulders as she crossed the landing, her slippers softly creeping over the carpet. She peered around Robert’s bedroom door. He was fast asleep, his body completely still. She marveled at how his face looked astonishingly childlike whilst sleeping.

  Matthew had taken to closing his bedroom door in recent months. She opened it gently, just enough to squeeze her body through. The room was dark, forcing her to blink twice to allow time for her vision to adjust before bending down beside his bed. Drawing a deep breath in relief, she saw that he lay on his side, his breathing slow and regular.

  Many years ago she had been on holiday in Spain when a teenager in the hotel next door had choked to death on his own vomit. The memory made her shudder. If she closed her eyes she could still see the despair in his mother’s face. Your children weren’t meant to die before you, even the thought was inconceivable. Perhaps the hangover would teach him a lesson against future bouts of binge drinking? Resisting the huge temptation to lean down and kiss his forehead she made her way slowly back to the door. He wouldn’t welcome the intrusion into his room or the interruption to his sleep.

  Helen walked downstairs, gingerly lifting her feet as if they were crossing hot coals. Although they had lived in this new build for almost twelve months, she still half expected the odd squeaky floorboard or creaking door and moved around the house gently, as if to avoid them. When she finally reached the kitchen, she flicked the light switch, turned and instantly gasped, lifting her hand to her mouth.

  “You startled me!”

  Jane Lavery sat at the kitchen table, her hands cradling an almost empty mug of warm milk. She looked up at her daughter. “Sorry.”

  “What are you doing, sitting in the dark?”

  “Can’t sleep, legacy of old age,” she replied, staring into space.

  “Why didn’t you put the light on?”

  “Didn’t want to disturb the boys.” That was just like her, not wanting to disturb the children. Both boys slept at the back of the house, directly above the kitchen. Whilst Matthew would need to be physically roused in the middle of an earthquake reaching eight plus on the Richter scale, Robert was a light sleeper and easily disturbed.

  Helen cocked her head to read the station clock on the kitchen wall. It was 6.30AM. She turned and flicked the kettle switch. “Want some coffee?”

  “No thanks,” her mother replied, removing her hands from the mug to rub her eyes and smooth back her grey hair. Jane Lavery had a classic appearance, one of those few women who could still wear their hair pulled off their face at sixty-five and look attractive. She was blessed with kind, grey eyes and softly defined cheekbones. “What time did you get in?”

  Helen turned to look at her. “Just after midnight.”

  “How are things?”

  “A bit manic. We’ve got lots of work to do.”

  “I’ve ironed you some shirts and aired you a couple of suits. They’re hanging in the utility.” She nodded towards a door at the back of the kitchen.

  Helen breathed a smile. “Thanks, Mum, you’re a star.” She finished making her drink, sat down opposite her and swallowed a huge gulp of milky coffee.

  To move back in with her mother after John had died had seemed the obvious thing to do. John’s Army pension barely paid the rent and Helen had battled with the demands of looking after her children, getting a job to pay the bills, running a home. It had been a compromise, but one heavily outweighed by her mother’s devotion to the boys and her flexibility when it came to childcare: helping with homework, driving them to clubs, collecting them from school when necessary. It would have been very difficult to find a nanny so committed and flexible enough to withstand the anti-social shifts imposed by the police force.

  They were so close that Helen could not imagine life without her. But sometimes that closeness inevitably meant arguments, disagreements, as they got under each other’s feet. Two women from different generations, wrestling with their contrasting lifestyles. And, as the years passed, they found themselves clashing more and more.

  Over the years the compromise had become habit, but Helen became aware that they couldn’t continue like this forever. Finally, twelve months ago, they bought this new house together, building a granny flat on the side with adjoining doors for access, both up and down stairs. Jane Lavery now had her own living room, bedroom and bathroom; a gesture intended to give both women their independence. But, in spite of this, she still spent the majority of her time in their shared kitchen.

  She looked across at her daughter. “What time is Robert’s football this morning?”

/>   “Eleven o’clock,” she replied. “Perhaps you’d better take Matthew with you? He’s in no state to be left on his own.”

  “No problem. What time do you think you’ll be back?”

  “No idea I’m afraid.”

  “The golden hours.” Jane Lavery sighed and pushed her lips together. Having lived with a senior police officer for most of her life, she was well versed in police terminology.

  “You’ve got it. Anything could happen. Are you sure you can manage?”

  “Two teenage boys and a footy pitch,” her mother’s lips curled up into a smile, “I think we’ll manage.”

  Helen rose and moved around the table to place her empty mug in the sink. She placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll keep in touch.”

  Jane Lavery lifted her own hand and placed it over her daughter’s. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  Hampton Mortuary was a grey, pebble dash building located in the west of the City, the opposite side to Cross Keys station. In normal circumstances the journey would take around half an hour, but the traffic was busy this Saturday morning, due to early onset of Christmas shoppers, and it was well after 10am by the time Helen and Townsend battled through the congestion.

  The monitor on the wall buzzed as Helen pressed it. A voice answered and she announced their arrival, watching as the door clicked open. Inside, the Mortuary was surprisingly modern, having benefited from an injection of cash the council needed to spend at budget year end, the previous year. The work had only just been completed. The newly tiled floor shone in the reception area, the desks looked as if they were straight out of IKEA and the walls were gleaming in freshly painted magnolia.

  They made their way up to the lab. As they donned gowns, overshoes and gloves they could see Charles through the lab windows. The naked corpse was laid out flat on its back on a waist height table and Charles hovered around it, examining and measuring external wounds, recording his findings into a tape recorder which was cast aside as he photographed the body from various angles.