An Early Grave (11 page)

‘So, when are you due?’

‘End of the month,’ Debbie replied, instinctively rubbing a hand across her bump.

‘And this one is yours, too?’

‘Yeah. He’s eighteen months now. Isn’t that right, Curtis?’ She ran her hand through the child’s thick black curls.’

‘I’m sure Daddy is proud?’

‘His Dad’s a prick,’ Debbie announced with vigour.

Tara waited for more.

‘You saw him the other night. Kevin. The friggin’ lizard on the bike?’

‘Ah yes,’ said Tara, recalling the spindly legged youth who seemed to cower behind the girls at the merest hint of trouble. ‘But he must be pleased there’s another on the way?’

‘He’s not the dad of this one.’ She patted her bump again. ‘Mark’s the father this time. He’s the one who took your picture.’

Tara didn’t know how to look or what to say. She knew she had bags of sympathy for this young girl, and she was concerned about the kids. Debbie seemed an attentive mother, but Tara wouldn’t wish that lad in the Everton shirt on her worst enemy.

‘Does Mark have a second name?’

‘Crawley,’ Debbie replied with growing irritation.

‘Why does he have a grudge against Mr Armour?’ The girl shrugged, avoiding further eye contact. ‘Did Mark ever go into the house with Audra or with any of the other girls?’

‘I don’t know everything he does. I better go now.’ She hurried away.

‘Thanks, Debbie. Good luck for the end of the month.’ Turning to Wilson, she said. ‘I didn’t think I was getting old until now.’ She climbed into the car, and Wilson started the engine. ‘I need to call at Aintree Hospital on the way back.’

CHAPTER 16

Wilson remained in the car, fiddling with the radio. Tara asked at reception for the ward to which Callum Armour had been admitted. A few minutes later she stepped from the lift on the fourth floor of the tower block and entered a medical ward. After asking a nurse sitting by a desk where she might find Mr Armour, she was directed to the second bay on the right. She found Callum on a bed by a window overlooking the main hospital entrance. She almost didn’t recognise him. There lay a man looking five years younger, clean shaven, hair washed and brushed, his face, however, swollen on the right side with a purple bruise from his temple to his lower jaw. He attempted a smile when he noticed her approach, lifting his right arm and bending it at the elbow to wave. Two of the remaining three beds in the bay were occupied by men in their late sixties, Tara guessed. They both stared as she passed by, one of them busy expelling phlegm into a cardboard tray. The other lay on his bed, legs crossed at his feet, a Jack Higgins novel open in his right hand.

‘What happened to you?’ Tara’s voice was full of concern, more than she intended to show, compassion overtaking the professional nature of her visit. She quickly moved to his left, hoping his injuries would not look as severe from that side. Already the blood was draining from her head, and she shuddered. Hospitals were not high on her list of favourite places.

‘They killed my wee dog,’ he said, though it was clear that talking was difficult through a swollen face.

Tara pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. She had a sudden urge to touch him, to place her hand as comfort upon his. Just as quickly she withdrew it. Confused by her own feelings, she realised this was going to be an awkward conversation. She kept telling herself that it was purely an interview, aware also that another police officer may well have taken charge of Callum’s case. That really he was no concern of hers.

‘I am so sorry, Callum. Have you any idea who did this to you?’

He looked at her, this time without belligerence, stubbornness or flippancy, but didn’t answer.

‘Didn’t you see or hear anything?’

‘I didn’t hear him speak, but I saw his feet. It was him.’

‘You think it was Justin Kingsley?’

‘Why not? He’s killed my wife and child, my friends from Oxford, why not come after me?’

Tara was more inclined to suspect the kids on the estate, those who harassed Callum, branding him a paedophile.

‘Don’t you think it’s more likely that those kids who hang around your street did this to you? Mark Crawley, for instance?’

He fell silent once again, and once again she realised he was holding something back.

‘We can get you moved from Treadwater, Callum. Somewhere that’s safer.’

‘No way. I grew up in that house. My old neighbours are all right; it’s just these gangs about the place, people who didn’t know me when I was a kid.’

‘Maybe you should take a break, get away for a while. Is there someone I can call for you? Do you have family nearby?’

He shook his head then winced in pain.

‘Parents are dead. Mum died just before Emily was born. Dad went a couple of years ago. That’s why I came home. To look after him. He drank himself to death after Mum. Only fifty six. You know the rest about Tilly.’

‘Do you have friends or other relatives?’ She found this hard going, but she knew nothing about this man except for his theories of how his wife, daughter and friends had been killed. He looked to be tiring of her questions.

‘I have one Uncle, Mum’s brother. Lives in Belfast. Haven’t seen him in years. No close friends.’

‘Tell me what happened to you, Callum. Why have you ended up living like you do? House boarded up, living under siege?’

‘Midgey was my father’s dog. Nine he would have been. I hadn’t the heart to get rid of him when Dad died. He ended up good company for me.’

‘I know it’s difficult at the moment, but they say whenever a pet dies you should go right out and get another one. A bit like falling off a bicycle. Getting straight back on is all part of the healing process.’

‘Do you think I should have done that after Tilly and Emily died? I should have gone straight out and got myself another family?’

A nurse came into the bay, performing her observations of each patient: blood pressure, temperature, asking the old men how they were feeling and whether they needed something for pain. She seemed a pleasant girl in the royal blue of a staff nurse, a round face, freckled nose and short black hair. She looked at Tara and, although it was not official visiting time, she appeared to understand that Tara was no ordinary visitor.

‘I’ll come back later and do you, Callum,’ she said smiling at them both.

‘Thanks, Ruth,’ Callum replied.

‘What did you do after Tilly?’

‘Do you mean apart from wishing every day that I had the guts to join her?’

They both let that one hang for a moment. She examined his face, blotched red in places from the shaving of his beard, removed in order to treat the gashes under his chin. She had decided he was a handsome man and tried to picture him as a student at Latimer, then as a young husband to Tilly and father to Emily. How utterly sad it was to witness the decline of a decent man who now seemed hell-bent on wasting the remainder of his life. With most silences between two relative strangers someone always succumbs, feeling the need to plug the gap.

‘I couldn’t stay on at Oxford,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t live at our house in Shiplake. For one thing I couldn’t stand the pain of having to drive over that level crossing every day. My post-doc project was nearly complete anyway, so I got myself a job teaching chemistry, in a private school of all places. At least Sussex was well away from Oxford.’

‘Did it not work out?’

He laughed at the question. But at least he was engaging with her and seemingly glad of the company.

‘Understatement of the year.’

‘What happened?’

‘Four months in to the job and it was okay. Most of the teachers were friendly, and the students didn’t seem to mind me. Then a fifth-former, a girl, very pretty but knew it, and confident beyond her years - precocious, I’d say in hindsight - offered herself to me.’ He closed his eyes as if he were picturing the scene all over again. ‘I didn’t. Honest, I didn’t lay a finger on her. But for some reason, whether it was revenge for my rejecting her, I don’t know, she went to her parents, and obviously they took it to the headmaster. Luckily for somebody, I’m not sure who, the board of governors wanted to avoid any unpleasantness. That’s how they put it. I’d only been there a few months, didn’t even have to resign. They let me go, for want of a better phrase.’

He’d gradually slipped down the bed in the time Tara had been there but, with some difficulty in a hospital gown, he managed to right himself.

‘And you came home to Liverpool?’

‘Only option I had left. Dad was very ill by then, so I moved back to look after him.’

‘When did the trouble start with the local youths?’

‘It began slowly after Dad passed away. I know my appearance went to pot, and it puts some people off, makes them suspicious. Doesn’t take long for rumours to start. I have wondered though if somehow word found its way from Sussex to Netherton about me being let go.’

‘You’re thinking of Justin Kingsley?’

‘Why not? Easy enough for him to have set me up. Paid the girl to make the accusation. Then he spreads a few stories around Treadwater.’

‘You’re letting your imagination or your paranoia run away with you.’

‘The murder of Tilly and Emily is not down to my paranoia.’

He looked away from her, watching the man across the bay struggle to climb out of bed. Tara didn’t have the answers Callum needed to hear, and she resorted again to the guise of social worker.

‘Maybe we can get some of your neighbours together, to make a stand against these kids? I can get the Community Liaison Officer to advise on Neighbourhood Watch, and we have a Youth Diversion Scheme that can perhaps deal with this particular band of kids, try to steer them into doing something positive for the area.’

He looked neither impressed nor interested in her suggestions, his response merely to reach for the newspaper lying on the trolley over his bed.

‘I found this,’ he said, reaching her
The
Guardian
. She spotted the story immediately, but didn’t get to read it. ‘Jian was murdered, Tara.’

She glanced at him, the first time he had called her by her first name. It seemed to herald an upward step in their precarious relationship.

‘He drowned in Lake Lucerne, but that was after someone rammed a spike into his brain. That’s four murders, Tara: my wife, my daughter and two friends. Three of them, alumni of Latimer College. You tell me there is no connection.’

CHAPTER 17

Superintendent Tweedy, Tara saw through the glass partition, stood in his office talking down at Murray. She didn’t think it a private conversation and tapped lightly on the door. Tweedy acknowledged her with an upward twitch of his head, and she stepped inside.

‘Tara, how did you get on?’

‘Not much to add, I’m afraid, sir. A neighbour, three doors down from the scene, told me that there were several girls and men who came and went from the house. She wasn’t aware of the alleged activities going on inside. One other thing, Callum Armour was attacked last Friday night. He’s in hospital with concussion, some cuts and bruises.’

‘You think it’s related to the murder of Audra Bagdonas?’ Tweedy asked.

‘Not sure at the moment if the attack is relevant, but I still believe Callum Armour holds more information than he has so far provided.’

‘Why don’t we pull him in again?’ said Murray.

‘He didn’t say much last time,’ said Tweedy. ‘Unless we have the evidence to charge him with something connected to the murder I think he will remain silent.’ Tara considered it an appropriate time to explain a little of the game Callum was intent on playing. She told her colleagues that she believed Armour was using his knowledge of the murder as a bargaining chip to persuade Merseyside Police to investigate his theory of why former Oxford students from the same year and college had died in tragic and suspicious circumstances. Tweedy listened studiously as Tara related Callum’s theory about his wife and daughter’s killing, despite it having been declared an accident. Murray didn’t look as if he believed a word when she explained that the so called ‘Thomas Becket-style-murder’ of Peter Ramsey in Canterbury Cathedral was in some way connected to the death of Tilly Reason. Tara didn’t think either man would buy into the third piece of the puzzle, when she mentioned the murder in Switzerland of Chinese scientist Zhou Jian. It seemed implausible, even to her, that a student who disappeared ten years ago had returned with a strong motive for murdering his former friends from university. She tried to convince her boss that it was worthwhile to continue trading off in order for Armour to reveal more about the murder of Audra Bagdonas.

‘His head’s full of crap,’ said Murray. Tweedy glared in surprise at his Detective Sergeant. Tara and Murray both knew well that the Superintendent was not one for crude language. ‘Armour has all sorts of theories about killings,’ Murray continued. ‘He’s a paranoid conspiracy theorist, rambles about global food poisoning, airline safety and people threatening him. All rubbish. He wastes more police time.’

‘Not all rubbish, Alan,’ said Tara. ‘He was attacked with a Taser, and whoever did it also nailed his pet dog to a garden fence.’

‘Dear, dear,’ said Tweedy, in his usual troubled voice. ‘So how do you suggest we proceed, Tara?

She and Murray stared at each other, posturing some might call it.

‘I think Alan should continue with his leads: interview Audra’s work colleagues and the people who shared a house with her, find the film makers and get a definite ID on them. I would like to spend some time on Callum Armour’s claims about the murders of former students, including his wife.’

‘All off our patch,’ said Murray, engulfed by his self-confident smirk.

‘If he is correct about this, then more people may be at risk. We can at least pass on our information to the appropriate authorities. Let them check it out?’

Tweedy, looking pensive, sat down at his desk, his palms together like a child in prayer. Tara saw him glance at the black leather-bound Bible that always sat on the left-hand corner of his desk. She wondered how often he found answers to difficult problems within it, or gained inspiration from it.

‘Okay, Tara. You may have a tentative look into his story if it helps you to gain Armour’s trust. Remember that these deaths all occurred off our patch. Please do not overstep your mark in dealing with other police forces, and if Mr Armour is not forthcoming soon with what he knows of the girl’s murder then you will arrest him and charge him for withholding information. Alan, you may continue with the case as discussed.’

Murray looked far from pleased as the pair left Tweedy’s office.

‘You’re wasting your time, you know?’

‘We’ll see. But I want to try this, because Callum Armour knows more about the killing of Audra Bagdonas, and I can’t think of a better way for him to give us that information.’

‘The threat of jail usually works.’

The pair stopped by Tara’s desk. She was eager to get Murray out of her hair. She wanted to prove or disprove Armour’s theory as soon as possible.

‘I don’t think even the threat of death would be enough for him. He is a man who is living only for one thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘To find the person who killed his wife and child.’

‘You said yourself it was an accident.’

‘If I find that to be true and there’s no connection to the other deaths then we can try it your way. Until then, you get on with what the Superintendent gave you to do, and let me do my job.’ Murray looked surprised by her candour, and walked off. Tara didn’t want him as an enemy, but it wasn’t the first time she felt the need to put him in his place.

She wasted no time in gathering information on the deaths of former students of Latimer College, Oxford. Her intention was to have enough of the truth about each death to confront Callum with it and convince him that despite his heartache at the loss of his family there was no foundation to his theory. Or perhaps she would have sufficient facts to show Tweedy that there was some credence to Armour’s claims. It would have been easier if she still had the tatty box-file of news clippings and photographs, but she began working from memory, typing key words into her computer and reading the various news reports of the killings. Tilly Reason was uppermost in her mind. If there was anything that pointed to murder and not a horrific accident at the level crossing then she could move on to the others. She remembered the chilling story Callum told her about him receiving a sympathy card and reading it on the train on his way to meet Tilly. He was adamant that he wasn’t mistaken about the timing of events. He’d received the card at the Chemistry Department in Oxford only a few minutes after speaking on the phone with his wife. As Callum had told her, the report on the inquest into Tilly and Emily’s death, printed in the
Oxford
Mail
, made no reference to the sympathy card. The accident, it seemed, was a case where a driver had become impatient waiting at an un-gated level crossing, or was complacent in believing they could drive across before a train arrived. One passage in the report, and Callum had mentioned it that first time she visited his house, stated that the CCTV at the crossing wasn’t working on the evening that Tilly and Emily were killed. At the time of the inquest no witnesses had come forward. All other evidence suggested an accident. The injuries of mother and daughter were consistent with an impact of train upon car. There was nothing to suggest they had been killed beforehand and then placed inside. No one, however, could say for sure that Tilly’s car had not been deliberately placed on the railway line, or had not been shunted onto it by another vehicle.

But why? Tilly Reason was an up-and-coming children’s author, married to an Oxford scientist. What possible motive could anyone have to do them harm? Callum had made no other suggestion about the killer’s identity other than Justin Kingsley. Why? It seemed that Callum was unable or unwilling to answer that question. Kingsley disappeared seven years before Tilly Reason died. If he was the killer, and harboured a grudge against his friends, why wait so long before taking action? And why wait another three years before striking again?

Late in the afternoon, around four, she lifted the phone and dialled the number of Kent Police in Canterbury. She kept one of the news reports open on her computer as she spoke on the telephone. She explained to the desk officer who she was and asked to speak with a detective dealing with the Peter Ramsey murder investigation. A minute later a rather up-beat male voice came on the phone.

‘Hello, Detective Inspector Iain Barclay, can I help you?’

‘Hello Inspector, I’m Detective Inspector Tara Grogan of Merseyside Police.’ She paused, but Barclay made no reply, merely waiting for her to continue. ‘I’m investigating the murder of a young girl in Liverpool, and during my inquiries I’ve met a potential suspect who claims to know something in connection with the murder of Peter Ramsey in Canterbury Cathedral.’

‘Oh yes?’

Barclay’s interest seemed aroused, although having spoken only two phrases so far Tara could only assume that ‘Oh yes’ meant that she should continue.

‘His name is Dr Callum Armour…’

‘Ah. Must stop you there, I’m afraid. We already know of this Dr Armour. We got a letter, several actually, but the first arrived a day or two after the Ramsey killing.’

Tara’s hopes were raised, slightly. Callum was already assisting with their investigation.

‘Bit of a crackpot that one,’ said Barclay. ‘Told us the murder of Peter Ramsey was linked to the murder of his wife, three years ago.’

‘Yes, that’s what he told me.’

‘We checked his story. His wife was killed in an accident at a level crossing. So said the report from the inquest. He also claimed that a friend from his days at Oxford was responsible for the death of his wife and for the murder of Ramsey.’

Tara sensed that she shouldn’t add a corroborative yes to this information.

‘Turns out the guy disappeared ten years ago in Austria - sorry, I can’t recall his name.’

‘Justin Kingsley.’

‘Mmm, that’s him. I contacted his father. He’s a flipping QC in London. Went through me like the proverbial dose for raking up the past regarding his son’s disappearance. The lad hasn’t been seen in ten years. Seems to me this Dr Armour is a bit of a time waster. Not an amateur sleuth by any chance? Too many murder mystery weekends?’

In Callum’s defence, she ran through his theory mentioning that the murder of Zhou Jian in Lucerne a couple of weeks ago, added weight to the argument that someone was embarked upon a series of killings linked by the victims having all been students at Latimer College. Barclay did not subscribe to her theory.

‘We are working on the lines that a religious nut, someone with a grievance against the church, is responsible for the Ramsey killing. But thanks for the information. If you find that it does begin to fit, give me a call.’

‘Can I ask you to do likewise?’ said Tara. ‘Thank you for your time.’

‘No problem.’ She got the impression from Barclay that he didn’t think much of Callum’s suggestions, or of her for bringing them to his attention.

There was little point, she thought, in making contact with police in Oxfordshire regarding the death of Tilly Reason. She was certain they would merely quote the verdict of the inquest. That left her with the option of getting something useful from police in Switzerland.

She found a number from a website for the main police station in Kasimir-Pfyffer-Strasse in Lucerne. A female answered when she rang and, fortunately, spoke excellent English. Tara explained who she was and why she had called. Within a minute she was put through to the senior detective handling the investigation into the murder of Zhou Jian. His name was Kurt Muetzel.

‘May I help you, Inspector Grogan?’ The man had quite a pleasant voice but spoke slowly, perhaps owing to English being his second language.

‘I wonder if you could provide me with some details relating to the death of Dr Zhou Jian?’

‘May I ask why you have an interest in this case?’

Tara explained as best she could, hopefully without sounding a complete idiot, about the connections she believed existed between the deaths of Tilly Reason, Peter Ramsey and Zhou Jian. She decided not to mention Callum’s name, in case the Swiss police, as that of Kent, already had experience of the man’s theorising.

‘These deaths, you say, occurred in Kent and Oxfordshire?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And why are the police in Liverpool involved in these cases?’

Clearly it was going to be difficult to get past Kurt Muetzel. He was understandably cautious. She embellished her role somewhat to avoid the mention of Callum Armour.

‘I’m investigating the murder of a young girl in Liverpool. I uncovered this story in the course of my inquiries. I really thought nothing of it until today, when I read in the newspaper that the death of Zhou Jian is regarded as a murder. It may only be a coincidence, but it has a bearing on the credibility of a witness to the murder of the girl.’ A slight distortion of the truth, but it was an easier option than to say she was curious about Zhou Jian because she was curious about Callum Armour.

‘It sounds very complicated, Inspector Grogan. I do not envy your task; we do not often investigate homicide in Lucerne. If you provide me with a verifiable email address I will send you information I have about the death of this unfortunate Chinese scientist.’ Tara took a note of his email address.

‘Thank you, Inspector Muetzel. I really appreciate your help.’

‘Assistant Chief Muetzel,’ he corrected her. ‘Goodbye, Inspector Grogan.’

Her face flushed at the
faux
pas
, but she was pleased he had agreed to help. Immediately she fired off an email to verify her identity.