An Early Grave (12 page)

She bought a coffee and cherry scone from the canteen and carried them back to her desk. Twenty minutes later, an email from Assistant Chief Kurt Muetzel, with a pdf attachment, sat in her inbox. When she opened it up, the first page of the seven page document was printed in German, and for a moment she feared the rest would be the same. But it appeared that Muetzel had taken the time, at least, to do a rough translation, some in type, some handwritten, of the main points of the investigation. Tara printed out the document, knowing from habit that holding a piece of paper in her hand was more comfortable to read.

Thirty-one-year-old Dr Zhou Jian from Yanshan University in Qinhuangdao, a scientist specialising in issues of food contamination and adulteration, had been attending the Fifth International Symposium on Food Quality and Hygiene in the Global Market. She skimmed through the information confirming what she had read in the newspapers Callum had shown her. Muetzel had enclosed a synopsis of the autopsy report. Cause of death was confirmed as drowning. The body, fully clothed, had been in the water for approximately nine hours. One abrasion to the left side of the skull with minor bruising. This suggested to Tara that Zhou Jian entered the water immediately after being struck, or perhaps hit his head as he entered it. The next few lines were of more interest. A single puncture wound was detected at the base of the skull. At autopsy, this wound showed penetration and pierce damage to the brain. The wound was consistent with the use of a thin pointed weapon such as a hat pin, needle or even a cocktail stick. There were indications of internal bleeding, but no excessive loss of blood externally. Whether or not he was conscious at the time he entered the water could not be determined, but it was likely that the injury to the back of the head was sufficiently debilitating for him to fall, or to succumb to a force that led to his entering the water. Cause of death was drowning, occurring most probably within a few minutes.

She used a fluorescent marker pen to highlight points of particular interest. Muetzel had been quite generous in the information provided, but so far all she had read confirmed only that Zhou Jian was murdered. There was little information regarding possible suspects or motives. So far no one had come forward who claimed to have witnessed the killing. Police speculated that Zhou Jian had entered the water somewhere between his hotel, The Grand Hotel National on the Nationalquai, and the place near the Rathausquai where his body was found the following morning.

Zhou Jian had travelled alone from his home city, via Beijing, to the conference, although there were quite a few Chinese delegates. Several people came forward who had spent time with him on the evening before his death, but none could offer concrete information except that Zhou Jian had left their company in the hotel to go for a walk. The concierge at the Grand Hotel National said that he had delivered a message to Dr Zhou Jian at around six o’clock in the evening. A receptionist said she had given Zhou Jian directions to the Hotel Des Alps on the Rathausquai. A waitress at a bar on the Rathausquai confirmed that she had served drinks that evening to a Chinese gentleman, but there had been several such men present at the bar, and she assumed all to be delegates from the conference at the KKL. Tara read some handwritten notes scanned into the end portion of the document. From what she could decipher from Muetzel’s rather flamboyant, though perfectly legible style, there were no strong leads in the case. Police were proceeding on the basis that this murder was linked in some way to the conference or to delegates attending the conference. There was a low crime rate in Lucerne, with zero murders in the city for the two preceding years. Attacks of this nature were extremely rare and, for the time being, the involvement of any local criminal element had been ruled out. Muetzel wrote that Dr Zhou Jian had been subject to certain threats in China relating to his work. Currently, an attempt was in progress to trace all Chinese delegates who attended the conference in Lucerne.

She’d learned little from her efforts to verify any of Callum’s theory, but neither could she rule out his claims. No matter who was responsible for the deaths of Tilly Reason and her daughter, Peter Ramsey and Zhou Jian, there was not a hint of motive. Regardless of the possibility that the deaths were linked, because the adults were once students at Oxford, there was nothing to suggest that Justin Kingsley was responsible. Why had any of these people been killed? If Callum’s theories were to be confirmed then she needed him to talk to her, and she needed to get another look at the contents of his box-files.

Before leaving for home she ran a few checks on Justin Kingsley. To date she knew only what Callum had told her and the details of his disappearance recorded in the papers at that time. Firstly, she browsed through articles relating to the missing student. As she expected there had been a flurry of activity immediately following the day Kingsley went missing. Austrian police drew a blank but, never having found a body, the official response was to be positive that Kingsley remained alive. Within a couple of months of the ski-trip, Kingsley’s name had largely disappeared from British press reports. Next she examined notices of annual appeals for information on the anniversary of his disappearance, but these, too, seemed to halt by the fifth year. Finally, she ran his name through the UK police missing person database and that of Interpol. The results were not what she expected to find. Justin Kingsley was not listed as a missing person.

CHAPTER 18

Despite lying in a hospital ward for three days, Callum felt better than he had done in the last three years. The intense pains in his head were now little more than a dull background ache. The bruising on his lower ribs wasn’t painful at all so long as he didn’t stretch. He felt clean and rested. More than anything he had slept, untroubled, except for the night-time disturbances of other patients and the titters of nursing staff going about their tasks as if it were the middle of the day. He tried not to think of all the bacteria lurking in these places, the stories of
clostridium
difficile
engulfing whole wards, and methicillin-resistant
staphylococcus
aureus
, known as MRSA, infections that could be resistant to beta-lactam antibiotics. He was a chemist, not a bacteriologist, but he knew what these infections could do. He didn’t wish to leave hospital feeling worse than when he came in, carrying a disease as well as a broken heart. He wouldn’t give himself much chance of survival. With Midgey gone, the house would feel even more empty and desolate. So little to do with his time and yet his mind still had far too much to think about. Finding out why Tilly and Emily were murdered was always there, but now he needed to find the low-life who had nailed his wee dog to a fence. Also on his mind was that copper, Tara Grogan. Pleasant she may be, and pretty with it, but she was hopelessly lost. She and her colleagues were struggling through an investigation into the murder of Audra, the young Lith girl; how was she ever going to track down Justin Kingsley? Bad mistake, thinking that because she had gone to Oxford, and coincidentally to his college, that she could get her head around this mystery. He knew more about murder inquiries than she did, simply from reading the papers and a few Morse novels. By now, he hoped, they would have finished hanging around the estate, and he would get some peace. Bizees crawling all over Netherton only piqued the interest of mischief-makers in the street. It wasn’t confined to Treadwater, or Netherton, or Liverpool either; happened all over the country.

The doctors had done their rounds and told him he could go home. Just had to wait to be formally discharged by the staff nurse. Imagine looking forward to getting back to a place no one would ever desire to call home. He had to be mad. As he sat on the chair beside his bed waiting for the off, a nurse approached. Definitely not pretty this one, not how they’re supposed to be, not how he remembered them from the movies or when his mates back in sixth form used to brag about pulling a nurse at a nightclub and how obliging they were to open their legs. This nurse was no advert for a healthy living campaign and certainly no smiling face of the year. She was brawn, with red-blotched cheeks and dull brown hair. These thoughts amused him, passed his time and, seated by the window, he watched as she bounded towards him.

‘Mr Armour,’ she said through a tight pursed mouth, her eyes successful in putting him down. ‘A lady phoned to say she will collect you from hospital and drive you home.’ The nurse turned on her heels, her message delivered.

‘Did she have a name?’

She called to another nurse at the nurses’ station.

‘Wendy, did that policewoman who called leave her name?’

‘Yes,’ Wendy answered. She was a nurse who more fitted his perfect picture. ‘But I can’t remember. She was a Detective Inspector, though.’

That was all he needed. He had tried to use her, and now she had turned the table and was trying to use him. Still, it would save him the walk home.

*

Not for a second did she wish to put a foot inside that filthy house. If he was up to it, she’d decided, she would drop him home to pick up his files, and then she would drive them to a pub or a restaurant, or even a park, somewhere where they could discuss the mystery that was slowly encircling her mind. She didn’t want to breathe the stench of his house, so she might as well sit opposite him in a bar while he remained moderately clean.

He looked neither pleased to see her nor grateful for the lift. Par for the course, she thought. He was leaving hospital in the same clothes in which he’d come. Thankfully they had spent time at the laundry, although the grey T-shirt still displayed evidence across the chest of the blood spilt during the attack. She’d never seen him wear trousers other than these olive green joggers with the grey seams. His shoes had seen better days and many miles: brown casual brogues, one sporting a black lace. As she drove from the front car park at the Aintree Hospital, through the ticket barrier and around the one-way system, she wondered when he would ask why she had come to collect him. Or had he simply expected it? All part of the police service? His silence was enough for her to decide that she wouldn’t ask him out to lunch; she would tell him he was going. Don’t give him an opportunity to be awkward. Just tell him what he is doing. Give him a plan. She reckoned it was years since anyone had given him direction.

She stopped the car at the front of his house, and Callum stared at the uninviting façade of screened windows and war-battered door. She summoned the most authoritative yet pleasant voice she could manage.

‘Right, Callum. I want you to pop inside and gather some of those box-files you were showing me last week. Grab a pullover; it’s a bit colder today, and straight out to the car.’

He placed his hand on the door handle.

‘What for?’

‘We have some things to discuss, and I want to do it in more pleasant surroundings than the living room of your house.’ He turned to face her, and she gazed into his eyes. She wanted to smile, to lighten the mood, to seem friendly, but she checked herself. This was a police investigation. No matter how bizarre the situation, about to discuss the deaths of people way off her patch with little clue on how to proceed, this was still her job. She must be professional. She would not sink to his level. Staring him out, she saw the smallest hint of compliance in those blood-shot eyes. He looked like someone who’d been crying forever. She didn’t appreciate that the dullness in his eyes was simply down to his poor living.

He left the car without speaking, walked to his front door, slipped a key into the lock and pushed the door open. Briefly, he turned to face her before going in. When the door closed tight behind him, she wondered if she’d blown it. Five minutes passed, spent gazing about the road, half-hoping to spy Debbie wheeling her young son along the pavement, but there was no life to be had. Treadwater was as quiet a place as it usually was. Murders, violent attacks, threats against neighbours were not so common here. She told herself once more that this estate could be lifted and set on the outskirts of any city. There was nothing special about Treadwater. Neither was there anything infamous. Another five minutes elapsed, and still no show from Callum. She debated whether she should go to the house, order him out, or call for back-up and arrest him for wasting her time. Instead, she decided this should be the moment of decision. If he didn’t return then his quest for justice for his wife and child was over as far as her helping him was concerned. She would drive away and switch her focus to Audra Bagdonas, the murdered girl, the reason why she had first met Callum Armour.

A now familiar figure appeared forty yards down the street. Tara recognised him instantly, and he seemed to notice her car, because he stopped momentarily as if deciding on whether to proceed or to turn and head in the opposite direction. Mark Crawley was alone, tall and brash. Cocky. He walked like he had a TV under each arm, a swagger born of exerting authority in his sordid world. His type wouldn’t see thirty before he saw the inside of a prison. She made a mental note to check him out at the station, annoyed at herself that she hadn’t already done so. While she wondered if he was responsible for the attack on Callum, she realised also that he might have killed Audra Bagdonas. With her attention centred on the approaching youth, she failed to notice Callum emerge from the house carrying two box-files under his arm. He closed his door behind him and walked to the car. Tara jumped when the passenger door opened, and Callum climbed in.

‘Glad you decided to join me,’ she said, starting up the engine. He smiled weakly, said nothing, and she pulled away from the side of the road. She noticed the two box-files and a navy pullover sitting on his lap. She noticed, too, the menacing smirk on the face of Mark Crawley as she drove by.

It was an August day, but hardly recognisable as summer. Puffed grey clouds loomed in the sky threatening to unleash another shower. She drove a couple of miles into open countryside, these places as unfamiliar to her as they were familiar to him. Sefton was not an area for family outings, not when you hailed from The Wirral, not for her family anyway. But today she relished the freedom and the space around her. She felt that space would help her deal with Callum. He would have to talk to her as he’d never done before. Answers, clues, hints: they must be somewhere inside that stubborn mind.

She parked outside a pub-restaurant near the parish church. She told him to bring the box-files with him, and hoped that the pub’s customers would not pick up on the fusty odours from the papers within. Callum behaved like an obedient pet, following behind her as she walked inside, choosing a table in the corner of the room. The two hundred-year-old-pub oozed warmth and rustic charm, odours of roast beef and pork wafting from plates transported by a waitress emerging from the kitchen. The building opened into a series of rooms, each with an open fireplace, exposed brickwork above and surrounding walls clad in wood panelling. Twenty-five customers were scattered about the sturdy tables, the lunch time crowd. It was difficult to judge, in this early part of the week, if the place would become busier as the afternoon progressed. A party of middle-aged women out for a leisurely drive were already eating soup, or pâté and toast. Several retired couples, and one or two business types browsed the laminated menus set in wooden holders on each of the tables. Four men in polo-shirts and trousers of whatever electrical contractor happened to be working nearby that day were busy with generous helpings of cod and chips. No one seemed to take much notice of the couple as they took their seats. They looked an odd pairing: a determined young woman in a plain dark suit and flat shoes, doing nothing to help her lack of height, escorted by a tall dishevelled man who didn’t look as though he could afford to eat there.

A waitress, pleasant, late-thirties, but not one for a lot of chat listed the specials of the day and took an order for drinks. Tara asked for a sparkling water. Callum, seated opposite, hesitated, looking at Tara for approval. She merely widened her eyes. He ordered a pint of lager.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Been on hospital food for three days which was better than I’m used to, but yes, I am hungry.’

She handed him a menu.

‘Knock yourself out.’

They both ended up ordering from one of the specials. For Callum it was sirloin steak with chips and mushrooms, for Tara, sea bass with herb potatoes. He didn’t say much as they ate. She didn’t mind. Having got him this far she reckoned she could get him to open up once the table was clear of food, and they could sift through those box-files. Biding her time instead, she reported her work of the previous day, which she knew didn’t amount to much, but would serve to demonstrate that she was serious about investigating his theory. She had told Superintendent Tweedy it would help gain Armour’s trust and help her to get information on Audra Bagdonas. She had also to be honest. Callum’s story would tweak the mind of any detective. There was a challenge in it that she craved. She needed to get to the truth. In a strange way that she couldn’t explain, she wanted to see that her investigation could change the life of the man sitting beside her. She was aware also that she was breaking just about every rule in the book. But rules were there for the breaking. Aisling and Kate, however, would go spare if they knew what she was planning.

‘Tell me why you believe Justin Kingsley is the killer?’ Her discovery that Kingsley was not listed as missing, she’d already decided, would keep for another time. She didn’t want to give Callum any reason at this stage to believe his theory was correct. He supped contentedly at his second pint of lager, but the suddenness of her question reminded him why he was there. ‘Rule number one,’ she said sternly, pointing a finger at him. ‘I want the truth at all times, Callum. You tell me any lies and I find out then we’re finished, understand?’

He nodded obediently.

‘So far there is precious little to go on. You’re going to have to think, hard. The smallest detail, you have to tell me. You try to be smart with me and I will turn you over to my Superintendent, and he can charge you for wasting police time. Don’t think I won’t. My job is at stake here, too.’

‘OK, OK, I get you.’

‘And rule number two: don’t get snippy with me.’

She ordered a coffee for herself; Callum declined and, like a mother bribing her child with a treat if they behaved on a shopping trip, she promised him another pint when they had finished.

He set one of the box-files on the table and opened the lid. Instantly she caught a whiff of the foul air inside his house, but tried her best to ignore it. Rather than begin trawling through the file, she wanted Callum to attempt answers to her questions.

‘Leave that for a minute. Tell me about Kingsley. Why do you think he disappeared?’

‘I can’t be sure, but something went on between him and Georgina.’

‘During the ski trip?’

‘Yes. But I think it started a few months earlier. They had been together since the middle of our second year at Oxford. Seemed like a match, although Georgina was clearly ambitious.’