The Moth Catcher (6 page)

‘He told the agency he was interested in natural history and this was an area he hadn’t explored yet.’

‘I suppose that could be true. If he had an ecology degree.’ But Vera thought the request lay at the heart of the case. They needed to know exactly what had brought Randle north.

‘I’ve spoken to the mother.’ Joe’s voice was sombre. He was a great family man, a bit too soft-hearted for a policeman, in Vera’s opinion; but then she thought Holly was heartless, so perhaps she was never pleased.

‘And?’

‘She’s older than I was expecting, in her late sixties. She said Patrick came when she’d given up having another child. He read directly from his notes. “But not an afterthought – a consolation.”’

‘I thought he was an only son.’ Charlie looked up from his sandwich.

Vera gave a slow clap of her hands. ‘So you’re awake after all. And listening! I was wondering.’

‘There was another boy,’ Joe said. ‘Simon. He’d have been nineteen years older than Patrick. Apparently he committed suicide. When he was a student.’

‘Oh,’ Vera was moved almost to tears. ‘The poor woman.’

‘Patrick did his first degree in York and his Masters and his PhD in Exeter.’

‘Not one of the posh ones then?’

‘Posh enough,’ Joe said. ‘Apparently. I asked Sal. She’s already been reading up on unis. We’ve got high hopes for our Jess.’ There was a moment of silence and Joe looked up at Vera. ‘The mother would like to come up to view the body.’

‘Oh,’ Vera said again. She thought that would be a job for Joe. He was good at all the touchy-feely stuff and he’d know how to handle it. Though maybe Holly needed the practice. ‘Well, I suppose that saves us having to make the trek down to chat to her.’

Vera perched on a desk, her fat legs swinging. She was wearing square lace-up shoes and her feet banged against the table leg. She was aware that the team was waiting for her to speak. ‘So we’re starting to build up a picture of the youngest victim, but we still don’t know anything about the older man.’

Joe stood up. She realized he wanted them all to take notice of him, and that wasn’t like Joe. He waited until he had their full attention before he spoke. ‘We know where he was yesterday morning.’

Vera turned slowly to face him. She stopped her legs from swinging. ‘And where was that?’

‘Kimmerston Front Street. A BBC
Look North
reporter was canvassing opinion about immigration from the EU, and our second victim was one of the people stopped.’

‘And you know this how, Joe?’

‘I saw him on breakfast telly and called the BBC in Newcastle as soon as I got in. The reporter isn’t at his desk yet, but they could tell me where the film was made.’ Joe tried not to grin.

Vera began to chuckle. ‘You spawny git, Joe Ashworth. Better to be lucky than to be smart any time. I don’t suppose the reporter asked for his name?’

‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll soon find out.’

Back at his desk, Joe called the BBC in Newcastle and was put through to the reporter, who sounded older and more experienced than he’d looked on the screen.

‘So you’re saying that one of the guys I interviewed was the victim in the Gilswick double-murder?’ In his head the man would be imagining a spot on the national television news. Fame at last.

‘That’s not information that we’d like to make public at this point. Not until we can be sure of his identification, and his family have been informed.’

‘Of course.’ So the man was responsible at least. He knew he’d still be able to use the clip, once they gave permission, and he’d get credited then.

Joe took a deep breath. ‘Did you take his name?’

‘I didn’t get a chance. I don’t like to hassle people and I wouldn’t have spoken to him, but he walked straight towards me on the pavement. I thought he must be interested in getting his face on the TV, and most of the punters I’d spoken to were younger, so he’d be a good contrast. Maybe bring a different perspective. That was why I pushed it, when he refused to engage.’

‘Why did he approach you then, if he didn’t want to be interviewed?’ Anyone in the street with a clipboard and Joe immediately crossed to the other side.

‘I don’t think he noticed me. He seemed completely preoccupied, wrapped up in thoughts of his own. I think he was startled when I spoke to him.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ Joe was starting to think that he wasn’t being so lucky after all.

‘He walked away up Front Street and I’m fairly sure that he went into an office on the corner.’

Joe shut his eyes and pictured the scene. Front Street had a row of traditional shops and then there was a newer place. Ugly. Glass and concrete, with the concrete disfigured with damp. Pale-green paint. It had a shop with cards in the window, and inside a row of computers that looked more like gaming machines. And perhaps getting work in Kimmerston was a bit of a lottery. ‘The Job Centre?’

‘Of course! That’s it. Yes, he went into the Job Centre.’

Joe thought his luck must have held out after all. If the man was a claimant, they’d have all his details on file. And if he’d made an appointment or spoken to an officer, it would be easy enough to get a name. Though it was more likely, Joe thought, remembering the grey suit and the old-fashioned specs, that their victim worked there. He looked like the stereotypical civil servant.

‘What time were you recording in Kimmerston?’

‘I started just after midday. We waited for the clock on the market square to finish chiming before we began. Finished about thirty minutes later. We didn’t need much to go with the news report.’

So their grey man could have been out of the office for his lunch-break.
Joe pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and went out. The Job Centre was only five minutes away and Vera always said that face-to-face interviews were more valuable than the phone. He took with him the head-shot of the victim.

It was another sunny day. In the street a couple of young mothers sat at tables outside the coffee shop in the square, chatting as toddlers in buggies snoozed. Elderly women were taking their time shopping, stopping to greet friends and catch up on gossip.

In the Job Centre Joe waited in the short queue at reception. A woman scarcely looked away from her screen. ‘Yes?’

He held out his warrant card. ‘I’d like to speak to a manager.’

‘Oh.’ She scurried off. Joe looked around and thought the place was depressing. Lots of grey people. An overweight man studied one of the computer screens and walked out, apparently disappointed, letting the door slam behind him.

A woman with a baby in a buggy was having an argument with a member of staff. ‘So what am I supposed to do about childcare?’

‘I’m sorry.’ The officer was young and seemed close to tears. ‘I don’t make the rules.’

Not much of the joys of spring here.

A middle-aged woman appeared through the door that said
Staff Only
. ‘Come through.’ Brusque, no wasted words. Well-cut hair, a black pencil skirt and black jacket. A woman with ambition. She led him through a large open-plan office and into an interview room. ‘How can I help?’ The tone of her voice made it clear that her time was precious.

‘I wonder if you can tell me who this man is?’ He laid the photograph of the grey man on the desk in front of her.

He was so certain that the grey man had been a colleague that he expected an immediate response. But her only response was a question. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘We suspect that he might have been the victim of an incident last night, and we need to inform his family.’
Incident
, he thought.
A useful catch-all word.

‘I don’t recognize him.’ The woman was staring at the photo. ‘But I don’t spend much time on the floor. You’d need to ask the customer-service staff.’

‘He doesn’t work here?’

‘Oh no!’ As if it were impossible that someone working in the Job Centre could be involved in any sort of incident at all.

Downstairs the war of attrition between the young officer and the single mother was continuing, though it seemed to be reaching a climax. ‘I can’t be doing with all this now, you stupid cow – I need to get the bairn to the health visitor, or they’ll have the social onto me for neglect.’ The mother was screaming at the top of her voice, her face red with anger and embarrassment. Suddenly she stood up and walked out.

In the room there was no reaction at all, except for a small sigh of relief from the young officer. Joe approached her. ‘Is it always like that?’

‘Nah,’ the woman grinned. ‘This is one of the quiet days. And to think I joined up because I thought I could make a difference.’

He introduced himself and then held out the photograph. ‘Do you recognize this man? He was in yesterday lunchtime.’

‘That’s Martin Benton.’ She didn’t have any curiosity at all about why Joe would want to know. ‘He’s just been assessed as fit to work, after a long time on invalidity benefit. We’ve been helping him back to the job market.’

‘He had an appointment with you yesterday?’

‘Yes, the initial interview, so I could explain the process and the responsibilities of the jobseeker. But when he came in he’d already decided to take the self-employment route.’

‘Did he say what work he intended to do?’

‘I don’t think so, and really it wasn’t relevant for our purposes. He’d decided not to claim benefit. That was all we needed to know.’

‘But you’ll still hold all his details. His address and previous work record.’

‘I’m not sure I can give you that information. Data protection.’ The room was quiet now and the sun was streaming through the windows, making it feel very hot.

‘Well, I can get a warrant of course, but your supervisor said you’d be able to help.’ Joe nodded towards the door that said
Staff Only.
He thought the people upstairs in the open-plan office had it easy.

The young woman shrugged, tapped a few keys and hit the print button. ‘I’m leaving anyway,’ she said. ‘So sod it – it’s their responsibility. I’m going back to uni to do a social-work course.’

‘This’ll be good practice.’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘That’s what I thought.’

She held out two printed sheets.

In the cafe on the square Joe drank milky coffee and read the life history of Martin Benton. The facts, at least. It seemed to Joe that there was little here to bring the man back to life. He’d been forty-eight when he died and he lived in a suburb of Kimmerston. He’d gained eight GCSEs at reasonable grades and three A levels, then got a degree in maths from Northumbria University. He’d done a postgraduate teaching year and had worked in a number of local high schools for fifteen years. There was no explanation for his decision to leave teaching. His most recent employment had been three years before, when he’d worked as an admin officer for a small charity. After that he’d been registered for invalidity benefit until, under the new regime, he’d been assessed as fit for work.

There were some gaps in Benton’s employment record: a couple between teaching posts, and a longer spell before he began work for the charity. If he’d been a different kind of man, Joe would have suspected criminal activity. Spent spells in prison wouldn’t necessarily have to be declared. His record could be checked, but it seemed unlikely. Qualified maths teachers didn’t usually become petty criminals.

There were no details of Benton’s family history. Joe found himself hoping that in the house in Laurel Avenue there would be a wife waiting for him – that the grey man hadn’t been a loner. He pictured someone soft and comfortable, with an easy smile, and began to imagine reasons why she might not have reported her husband missing the night before. Then he told himself that such speculation was ridiculous and he should check out the address to see.

Laurel Avenue was a quiet terrace on a hill on the edge of the town. Neat little Edwardian houses with identical porches, and a footpath that separated the homes from tiny gardens. At the back, yards and a narrow street for cars and bins. Joe preferred new houses that took no maintenance, but he could see the attraction of living here. The kids could play out, because there was no traffic at the front, and there was a view of the hills. It felt as if you could be in a village. Some of the gardens were planted with raised beds of salad leaves, wigwams for runner beans, but number twelve held the traditional square of grass with flowerbeds round the edges. The lawn could have done with a cut, but the place wasn’t overgrown or neglected. At the bottom of the garden stood a square plywood box that, from a distance, Joe took to be a hutch for a small pet. Curiosity took him over the grass to look, but there was no animal inside; instead an aluminium funnel and a large bulb. Joe was none the wiser.

There were three steps up to the front door. He rang the bell and waited. Pressed it again and listened to make sure that it was working. No response. Perhaps the comfortable wife of his imagination was out at work.

He was thinking he’d go round to the back and see if he could find a way in, without breaking a window, when a neighbour appeared. Elderly, plump. White hair in tight curls. She looked like Benton’s imaginary wife, but thirty years older.

‘Martin’s not in.’

Joe stepped over the low wall that separated her front step from number twelve. ‘Has he got any family?’

‘Who wants to know?’ She gave him a lovely smile, but her words were sharp.

‘Police.’

‘Come in then, and we can talk. They’re a nebby lot round here.’ Another smile. ‘As you can see. I’m Kitty Richardson.’

Inside the place was polished. Every surface in the small living room gleamed in the sun that came through the bay window and smelled of lavender. In a corner a yellow budgie sat on a perch in a cage on a stand. Joe thought little had been changed since the house was built.

‘You’ve been here a while?’

‘Since we were first married.’ She settled on a high-backed chair facing the television and nodded for him to take the sofa. ‘My Arthur passed away on my seventieth birthday, but I stayed on. No point moving when my friends are all here.’ She nodded towards the partition wall that separated her house from Benton’s. ‘Elsie was like a sister to me.’ A pause, then a confession. ‘When she went, I missed her more than I did Arthur.’