Road Closed (27 page)

‘You heard any more from Geoffrey, then?’ Maggie shook her head. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace. You ought to report him. Bastard.’

‘Like the manager’s going to take any notice. I’m bloody freezing.’ Alice offered Maggie a cigarette. ‘I’m trying to give up. Oh go on then,’ she added quickly before Alice could put the packet away. They smoked companionably. Five minutes passed. Maggie was about to ask Alice if she still thought it was worth hanging around when suddenly the aisles were packed with shoppers.

By half past one, Maggie was exhausted from the effort of lifting bags down and hooking them up again, hauling banana boxes out of the back of the van to hunt for specific colours, and the effort to keep warm.

‘Must be nice to work in a shop and not have to stand around freezing,’ Maggie said. ‘Got a fag?’ Alice reached into her pocket but before she could oblige, a group of noisy girls stopped at Maggie’s stall. They tugged bags off their hooks and dropped them, calling out, ‘How much for this one? How much is that one?’ None of them bought anything.

‘Bloody time wasters.’

The market was heaving; women struggled with buggies, groups of girls shrieked and flapped, boys prowled or gathered in packs to fuss the girls, and determined women, handbags clutched against their chests, forged their way through crowds of loiterers. The noise rose, an ugly cacophony: laughter, music, babies crying, boys shouting, girls chattering and everyone calling out, ‘How much? How much?’

By early afternoon a steady drizzle had set in again and the aisles had emptied. Maggie was fed up. She had hardly shifted anything all morning despite the bustle, and her shoulders were aching. A few other stall holders began to clear away their stock. Maggie decided to pack up and had unhooked most of the bags when a man paused at her stall. His grey coat was too long for him and a cigarette smouldered at the corner of his mouth. He squinted at the bags still on display before picking up a khaki canvas one. He turned it over in gloved hands.

‘Sell many like this?’ he asked. He had a soft voice. Maggie gave him her patter. It was a popular line, top quality yet cheap. The man examined the bag, opened it up, peered inside, then raised his eyes and stared at Maggie until she began to feel uncomfortable.

‘Do you want to take that one then?’ she asked. He put the bag down and turned away. ‘Please yourself,’ she muttered.

‘You know who that was?’ Alice hissed at her.

‘Who?’

‘That bloke you were talking to just now.’

‘What about him?’

‘You know who he was?’

‘He wasn’t Johnny Depp, that’s for sure.’

‘That was Brenda’s fellah.’

‘What? The one that knocks her about?’

Alice nodded, wide eyed. ‘I think so.’

‘The one who did for poor Lily?’ Alice nodded again. Maggie shrugged and finished packing away her bags. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said at last, straightening up and wincing at the stiffness in her muscles. ‘What a lousy day.’

‘Can only get better,’ Alice answered.

‘That’s true.’

‘You won’t be wanting me to watch the kids after school today?’

‘No, you’re all right.’

Maggie was glad when she reached home. She was impatient to change out of her damp clothes. As she pushed open the gate and hurried up the path to the entrance of her block, a car pulled into the kerb across the road. The driver slouched in his seat. He watched her disappear into the building.

Maggie clomped upstairs to her flat where she changed out of her wet clothes and put her feet up. She dozed for a few minutes in front of the television until the children arrived home from school, noisy and irritable. It was time to make the tea.

‘We’re out of milk, ma,’ Chloe said. ‘Shall I get it?’

Maggie swore under her breath. ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘I need some cigarettes. You can start getting the tea on. There’s some sausages left in the fridge.’

Maggie pulled her collar up as she stepped outside. At least it had stopped raining. She didn’t notice a black car slip away from its parking space over the road. It dawdled behind her, pulling into the kerb a couple of times to allow other vehicles to overtake before it followed her round the corner into a deserted side street.

There was a screech of brakes and a squeal of tyres as the black car careered back on to the main road and drove at speed away from the centre of town towards the bypass.

A few moments later the urgent wail of a siren pierced the quiet of the evening.

49

Body

SOCOs were at work when Geraldine and Peterson arrived. Several uniformed officers were standing around guarding the scene which had been cordoned off. There was no sign of the DCI and no visible activity outside the forensic tent. A group of onlookers had already gathered. They watched Geraldine and the sergeant collect suits, masks, gloves and overshoes from the forensic van. Neither of them spoke as they entered the tent.

The victim lay flat on her back from the waist down. Her upper torso was twisted to one side, her arms flung out on either side of her body. The top of her skull was a mess of hair and splintered bone, the features beneath it splattered with blood but still intact. Geraldine recognised her at once. A navy canvas bag lay on the road beside her. It must have slipped off her shoulder when she fell, spewing its contents on to the tarmac: a well worn tan wallet, shattered mirror, cheap biro, loose tissues, mobile phone with the back fallen off and a bunch of keys.

‘There’s some cards in her purse,’ a uniformed officer announced, pulling them out of the wallet. ‘We’ve got an identity.’

‘Maggie Palmer, market trader, 27 Maple Court,’ Geraldine replied. The dead woman’s eyes were open, her mouth hung slack and one hand appeared to be clawing at the tarmac beneath her.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the WPC said, holding out a market licence.

Geraldine looked up and nodded at Peterson. ‘Another coincidence,’ she muttered. He shrugged. It was only two days since they had visited Maggie Palmer at her home.

‘She looks rather crushed,’ a voice said lightly behind them.

Geraldine turned and acknowledged Dr Talbot. ‘What can you tell us?’ she asked.

The doctor knelt down beside Maggie Palmer and sat back on his heels. He studied the body for several minutes before he leaned forward. Deftly he unbuttoned the dead woman’s jacket and cardigan to view her injuries. Maggie Palmer’s white flesh was exposed to the air. Geraldine shivered as the doctor gently examined the body.

‘There’s remarkably little bruising on the chest, although she was hit here, and here,’ he said quietly, pointing with long fingers. ‘Smashed skull, cracked ribs, crushed pelvis…’ Slowly he felt down the dead woman’s legs. ‘Traces of what looks like black paint in the lacerations around the left knee, which suggests an impact with a black vehicle.’

‘Was it the head injury killed her?’ Geraldine asked, gazing at a pool of blood around Maggie Palmer’s head.

The doctor nodded slowly. ‘The other injuries came after,’ he said. ‘Ribs, pelvis, legs, after the frontal bone.’ He stood up, frowning, and met Geraldine’s gaze. ‘This doesn’t look like an accident, Inspector.’

‘Not an accident? You mean it wasn’t a hit and run?’ Peterson asked.

The doctor shook his head. ‘These injuries are too extensive to be the result of a single impact. Someone ran over this body at least three times, forwards, backwards, then forwards again. As if they were…’ he paused.

‘Making sure?’ Geraldine finished the sentence. ‘We’re looking at murder?’

‘I’ll need to take a proper look before I can give a view on that,’ the doctor hedged.

‘But you said it wasn’t an accident,’ Peterson said.

‘That’s my initial impression, yes, but don’t quote me on it. I need to get the body to the mortuary and conduct a full examination before I can confirm it.’

Geraldine was in a hurry to hear the results of a full post mortem examination. In the meantime, SOCOs continued searching the road surface.

‘What about skid marks?’ Geraldine asked one of the SOCOs.

He shrugged. ‘ABS is standard these days.’

The road had been closed off. Onlookers were questioning the uniformed officers on duty.

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Geraldine overheard one of them say, ‘we don’t have any information for you.’

‘But there was an accident. We know there was an accident. Someone was knocked down right here in the road.’

‘And killed?’ someone else asked.

‘Bella saw the body!’ another voice called out, hoarse with excitement.

‘Of course there’s a body. Why else would they have one of those tent things up?’

‘Perhaps they’re going camping.’

‘For goodness’ sake, show some respect!’ a woman scolded.

‘You tell him,’ another voice chipped in.

Excitement rippled through the waiting crowd when powerful lights were set up to illuminate the road surface. Geraldine wished she could shed the weight of her responsibility and join them as a spectator, but she had seen Maggie Palmer’s eyes staring out of her crushed head. She had heard the doctor’s opinion that this was no accidental death. The growing throng of onlookers was chattering and calling out, as though the incident were an entertainment they
were watching on a screen. A few of them grew restless, and began to drift away. Geraldine watched them leave with a pang of envy. She wished she could share their boredom, go home and forget all about the incident in the street.

SOCOs scoured the tarmac and found tyre marks near the body. When they finished scrutinising the road surface and photographing the tracks, the medical team were able to move the body. There was a suppressed sigh from the onlookers as a stretcher was carried from the tent, the body completely shrouded.

‘Who is it?’ the whisper went round. Geraldine wished she didn’t know. She removed her protective clothing and dumped it in the bin. When she finished she turned round. The doctor had already gone. Only Peterson was waiting for her.

‘What now, gov?’

‘I wish I knew.’

The DI looked so woebegone that Ian Peterson felt an irresistible impulse to comfort her. ‘Cheer up, gov,’ he said lamely. ‘It’s only some woman. I mean,’ he fumbled to find appropriate words, ‘she’s a stranger, is all I meant.’

‘Yes,’ Geraldine agreed, ‘she’s only a stranger.’ To Ian’s consternation, he saw her eyes glisten with tears as she turned away.

He took a step towards her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, gov? You don’t seem yourself… This wasn’t our fault. We can’t stop interviewing witnesses in case something happens to them. And in any case –’

The DI spun round to face him. ‘Don’t presume to know me, sergeant,’ she hissed. If she hadn’t been so angry, Ian would have laughed at her pompous words, but her face was dark with fury. Wisely, he said nothing. ‘I don’t even know
myself,’ she added enigmatically. Ian was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. He didn’t dare ask what she meant. With a sigh, he turned and walked away.

50

Scene Of Crime

Peterson set to work finding out as much as he could about the car involved in the fatal accident. Road Traffic Control had received no reports of a road traffic collision and had recorded the incident as a failure to stop. The SOCO team had found a few shards of glass which they thought came from a smashed headlight. There was evidence to suggest the vehicle was black, and Peterson was hoping the splinters of glass picked up at the scene would enable him to track down the model.

‘Find it,’ Geraldine said. ‘Even if it’s stolen –’

‘Which it probably was –’

‘It might have been driven away from a car park, somewhere with CCTV.’

The sergeant nodded. He turned back to the images on his screen. ‘Once I’ve identified it, I’ll check reports of vehicles stolen in the past day or two,’ he went on. ‘With luck, we might find the vehicle abandoned somewhere.’

Geraldine nodded. Dr Talbot was examining the body, Peterson was tracking down the vehicle. This time, with luck, not even Bronxy would be able to protect Callum Martin.

Geraldine looked up when James Ryder entered her office.

He didn’t return her weary smile. ‘Is it a coincidence, the old guy doing a vanishing act just now?’ he asked. They were all frustrated that Bert Cartwright had not been found.

‘The landlord said he’s always there, day in day out. And he’s not at home sick, sir.’

‘And he’s not in hospital,’ Ryder said. ‘What does he know about Martin, and where the hell is he?’ Bert Cartwright’s
description had been circulated to every force in the country. ‘I’m worried. Geraldine. I’m beginning to think something’s happened to him.’ He sighed. ‘I’m thinking of organising a search of the woods near the old man’s flat.’ A neighbour thought she might have seen the old man walking towards the canal with an unidentified companion on Monday evening. It wasn’t much to go on, but Geraldine thought the DCI was right to follow it up.

At two o’clock Geraldine went out for a coffee. She sat in Starbucks, trying to clear her head. Something had to break soon. Whatever else happened, they couldn’t let Martin walk. But they had nothing to connect him to the hit and run. She considered the possibility that Maggie Palmer’s death so soon after the police questioned her had been a coincidence. But the pathologist had reported that the car had driven backwards and forwards over the body several times. If it had been an accident, the driver would either have stopped, or else panicked and accelerated off in a hurry.

While Geraldine had been on a break, a report had been passed on about a stolen car. Geraldine and Peterson hurried off to speak to the owner. He was pacing in his front garden as they drew up.

‘Has it been found yet?’ he demanded as they approached.

‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ Peterson replied.

The car was a 2002 black Honda Accord. A quick email had confirmed that the tyre tread of the model matched a track they had found at the scene of the hit and run. The black paintwork was a further indication that the stolen vehicle could have been used to run over Maggie Palmer.