An Early Grave (14 page)

CHAPTER 20

‘We have people who can identify Audra,’ said Murray, seated at his desk and munching on a chicken tikka sandwich. ‘Three girls, all Lithuanian, shared a house with her. I also found these.’ There were four DVD cases sitting on the desk, all identical in black plastic, without markings or labels.

‘Where did you get them?’ Tara drew a chair from a nearby desk and sat down, waiting as Murray finished the latest bite of his sandwich.

‘Sorry, late lunch.’ He held an open can of Coke in his right hand and the remainder of the sandwich in his left. ‘Found them in Audra’s room at the house. Buried under a pile of clothes, CDs, make up and stuff. She wasn’t exactly a tidy girl. Clothes on the floor and on the bed, shoes everywhere. I have a couple of guys down there now gathering up the lot. We can sift it and send anything of interest to the lab.’

‘What about her housemates, did they have anything to say?’

‘Funny that. They start off with perfect English, but ask them an awkward question, and suddenly they have only one language. One of them…’ He set down his Coke and pulled a notebook across the desk towards him, flicking over the top page. ‘Laima Gabrys, worked at the Bradbury Hotel with Audra.’

‘When did she last see her?’

‘Couple of days before Audra was found. I suppose that could be the day before she died, depending on the accuracy of Miss Gabrys’ memory.’ He glanced again at his notebook. ‘The last day Audra reported for work was the day before she died and she worked an early morning shift, six to two. Laima Gabrys told me they would stay over at the hotel if they had worked late the night before and were required for breakfast the following day. So it appears that Audra worked late, stayed over at the hotel, worked until two o’clock, and sometime afterwards made her way, or was taken, to the house in Treadwater.’

‘Do these girls know anything about her going there?’

‘That’s when the questions got lost in translation, and the ability to speak in English suddenly scarpered.’

‘You think Audra wasn’t the only girl from that house involved in the activities going on in Treadwater?’

‘Could be. But if they are involved in mucky movies you’d have thought they would have got rid of these.’ He indicated the DVDs on his desk.

‘Have you looked at them yet?’ He shook his head, and Tara guessed he was trying to make light of the task.

‘I thought maybe we could go through them together?’

She rose from the chair with a smile. For a second Murray looked hopeful. Despite his bravado, Tara knew he would take it seriously, but fired him a warning just in case.

‘Let’s not make a party out of this, Alan. No need to round up the boys for laughs. If you need help, get Wilson to go through them with you.’

He nodded his acknowledgement.

‘Depending on what you find, tomorrow we’ll have another word with the girls.’

‘You mean I have to spend tonight watching this stuff? This is
Eastenders
night.’

‘Nice try. I don’t believe for a second you’re the type to watch
Eastenders
.’

She carried the two box-files from her car up to the flat. Once inside, she set them on her coffee table and went for a shower. Another afternoon spent in the company of Callum Armour, and she needed to feel clean. If he did agree to travel south with her she would insist he had a serious wash beforehand and decent clothes to wear. It would be her first order even if she had to pay for it.

She left her hair towel-dry and slipped into a pair of black leggings and a baggy T-shirt. In bare feet she padded back to the lounge and met the stale smell. Those damned boxes still reeked of his pathetic lifestyle. She pushed open the doors onto the balcony, the wind catching the curtain, fanning it back into the room. The fresh air helped cool her down after the hot shower; she opened the fridge and poured some cranberry juice from a carton. She had no intentions of preparing a meal, feeling quite full from the lunch at the pub in Sefton. Flicking on the television to listen to the six o’clock news, she finally settled down on the sofa and began to work on the box-files, still the only evidence she had relating to the deaths of the Latimer College alumni. This time she worked quickly through the jumble in both boxes. Some of the items she recognised from her first encounter but now, having an additional box, she expected to find a lot of things that were unfamiliar yet helpful to her investigation. Everything concerning Callum’s dealings with Merseyside Police and Sefton Council: letters of complaint, replies, advice and pamphlets offering help on home security, DHSS benefits, she set them all to the side. She began a pile of papers and cuttings relevant to the death of Tilly Reason and daughter Emily, one for Peter Ramsey and one for Zhou Jian, although to date there were only two newspaper stories on the scientist, one reporting his death and the other confirming that the death was regarded as murder by Swiss Police. She then examined the remaining items of papers and cuttings. The photograph from the ski holiday suggested endless possibilities for what happened to this group of people. All of them had achieved, to some extent, what Callum told her they had described in their drunken game,
The
Five
Year
Plan
, but surely none of them could have predicted the tragedy that lay ahead? Three people in that picture were dead, and one had disappeared only minutes after it was taken.

Most of the scientific literature from the box-files she placed on the pile for Zhou Jian. The report she’d read briefly from the Soil Association, on issues of food contamination in Britain, and two published papers stating Callum Armour as co-author with Zhou Jian, she added to the same pile. Articles written on the subject of air safety, health issues surrounding the use of mobile phones, the dangers of breathing fumes from diesel engines, GM crops: all of it she dropped on the floor away from the material she considered relevant. The one story that now, for a third time, pricked at her thoughts she set with the group photograph. The appeal for information by Oxfordshire Police on the tenth anniversary of the discovery of Baby Isis, even during her time at Latimer she’d heard the story. Nothing in these box-files contained much by way of happiness. She glanced over several of Callum’s bills for electricity, gas and council tax, and wondered how he managed financially. Was he entirely dependent on benefits? Had Tilly Reason left any money from her successful writing career? Among the bills were several receipts, mostly from ASDA or LIDL supermarkets, nothing of any significance except, perhaps, for the name scribbled in blue ink across one of them. She assumed that it was Callum’s writing. Teodor Sokolowski was a name she had already encountered in the investigation of the murder of Audra Bagdonas. He was proving to be the absentee landlord, the man who owned the house where Audra was murdered. But why did Callum have his name on a till receipt?

CHAPTER 21

He hadn’t slept in his house since the night before he was attacked and wee Midgey savagely nailed to a fence. Not that he’d missed the place much. But he did pine for Midgey. He regretted his failure to protect his only friend. The dog had been his only company in more than two years and his only source of love. He’d felt clean in the hospital, the first time in over two years. Today he’d eaten the best meal since Tilly had last cooked them a dinner of rump steak, sautéed potatoes, broccoli and vine tomatoes. He could see it on his plate, upon their old dining table. The table had been the worse for wear, an antique he claimed; she didn’t agree but loved it anyway. Emily lay asleep in her cot, the baby monitor switched on. They could hear her gentle sighing breaths, the odd murmur as she wrestled on the mattress threatening to wake, demanding attention and scuppering their plans for the evening. Their last evening together as it turned out. Palm Sunday, not that he was aware of the religious significance, but he realised it later when Good Friday became the day scorched in his mind, the day Tilly and Emily were taken from him. He didn’t deserve them, wasn’t worthy, so God had called them home. That’s what the vicar had said at the funeral; God had called them home. Sometimes he longed even for those few intervening days, Palm Sunday to Good Friday, Holy Week, to have spent them together. Instead he had travelled from Shiplake to Oxford on the Monday, spent the week in the lab working hard with Jian and kipping down in his rooms at Latimer. They wanted to push on with Jian’s project, generate some results before the Easter break. Tilly didn’t mind; she would have peace to work on the latest draft of her fourth novel. As long as Emily was settled. They had spoken at least twice each day, fired numerous texts back and forth as Tilly, in addition to working on her novel, also tried to get things packed for their Easter holiday in Devon. That was how he last pictured her, darting about the house, manuscript in one hand, a phone in the other, or Emily in her arms as she searched for shoes, wash-bags and clean towels to pack in the cases. He recalled her exasperated sigh when she realised he was still at the lab instead of sitting on the train for Reading. If he’d caught the earlier train maybe they would still be with him, maybe God wouldn’t have called them home. He’d been running late, and God called them home.

His head pounded again from the trauma of the beating and the jolts of electricity that had shuddered through his body. He’d felt much better lying in hospital. Now the feeling of disorientation returned, of being unaware of what happened but knowing it was bad, knowing that someone had stood over him intending to do him harm. His ribs ached, bruised by the kicks of his attacker, his arms and legs stiff from the reflex of his body as it feebly yet instinctively defended itself.

He went to the bathroom; three pints of beer had that effect on him. Moving afterwards to the back bedroom, thinking only of sleeping for a long time, he stepped between the stacks of books, boxes of ornaments and knick-knacks belonging to his mother, old bedding and towels and the bundles of newspapers he’d amassed in three years. He stood by the window looking into the cul-de-sac, scanning the rear of the houses with their wooden fences, garden sheds and conservatories. For a while he stared at the back door of number six, wondering about Audra. The pregnant girl emerged from the gate of the house three doors down. She looked ready to pop as she wheeled her young son across the tarmac. Suddenly a youth, tall and wiry, appeared from an alley and ran to catch up with her. She stopped, and they spoke for a few moments. Then the girl moved on, the youth watching as she hurried away. He was remonstrating; Callum could hear his raised voice but couldn’t make out the words. The girl turned and shouted something in reply. Walking off again she was around the corner and out of sight in a few paces. The boy, in jeans and an orange basketball vest, watched her go. His head dropped as he turned and ambled in the opposite direction. We all have problems, Callum thought. He would gladly trade all of his for whatever troubled the kid in the street.

He gazed at his bed. After three nights in hospital, clean sheets, soft pillows and adjustable back-rest, he didn’t think he could manage to sleep in this room. When darkness came, though, it didn’t much matter where he lay. His nights were always the same. Tilly and Emily floated in the air before him; now, two of his friends had joined them. If he was lucky he would fall into sleep.

He worried what Tara would ask him to do. He’d spent the last two years doing nothing but building his grievances with the world, with the police, the social services and his neighbours. The less he did the more he feared doing anything. Now she was asking him to go down south. That meant travel; it meant visiting places full of memories, it meant speaking to people he had not spoken to since the funeral. He wouldn’t cope with it. He’d fall to pieces and make a fool of himself. Tara would have to go alone.

Downstairs he settled into the bundles of papers he regarded as an easy chair and watched the light fade into darkness.

*

He heard banging on his door. Loud, insistent. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Let him sleep. He heard muffled shouts. Thumping on the wooden door. Cold and stiff, he lay sprawled over the disintegrating chair as the bundles of paper shifted upon themselves. Still the banging. If only he was properly cold and stiff. Peace then.

But the voice he now heard was not one of menace or threat. A girl’s shout, a pleading call. He rose quickly, and feeling the blood sink to his feet and his head go light he staggered to the front door. He pulled at the bolt, undid the chain and turned the latch. Daylight rushed at him.

‘I’ve been knocking for ages, Callum.’

‘Sorry. I was sleeping.’

‘Yes, well some of us have a day’s work to go to.’ She didn’t wait for an invitation, barging past him into the living-room. In this case it was hardly the right adjective for the place. He closed the door and joined her inside.

She had no time for pity this morning, no time for abhorrence at the state of the place or the state of her host. She had things for him to do, and she was adamant that he would not shirk them.

‘I want all of that taken care of by close of play today,’ she said, handing him a buff folder. He stared at her, taking little notice of the file. ‘No excuses, Callum. You want my help in this; you do as I say.’

He closed his eyes and blew air through his lips.

‘And you needn’t start that pitiful downtrodden act of yours. We all have problems, Callum. You’re an intelligent man. An intelligent man wouldn’t sink to this life. Now read what’s inside. Two minutes and I have to go. I’m due at the morgue by nine o’clock.’

His eyes widened, trying to show an appreciation for her being there with him before she’d even gone to work. She stood with arms folded, waiting belligerently for him to examine the contents of the file. She commentated as he began to read.

‘I want you to set up appointments for this weekend, Friday to Monday, with all of those people. Make up some plausible excuse for meeting them. I can’t do it. When we go to London, I go as your friend. I can’t go as a police officer, understand?’ He nodded and continued reading. ‘Do you have any money?’

‘Yes.’

‘Buy some half-decent clothes. Doesn’t have to be anything formal: shirts, trousers and new shoes. Get a haircut, and make sure that beard doesn’t grow back. I’m not travelling the length of England with a tramp. When you’ve done all of that, start clearing up around here. While you’re at it, look for something in all that paperwork that might give us some clue where Kingsley got to when he bolted and why he wants to kill off alumni of Latimer College. Any questions before I go?’

‘I don’t have a phone. Mobiles are not good for…’

‘Don’t start with all that health scare nonsense. You’re an Oxford graduate; figure something out. I’ll call in on my way home.’

She opened the front door, leaving him clasping the folder that was about to dictate his day.

‘Remember what I said. You mess it up, the deal’s off.’

*

Murray was already waiting inside the city mortuary in Pembroke Place when Tara rushed from her car. She knew he would enjoy seeing her late and fraught, having battled traffic in the city centre at this hour of the morning. Of course, he merely offered a weak smile as if this sort of thing happened regularly. Two women stood close by, looking on as she proffered her excuses.

‘This is Miss Laima Gabrys and Miss Ruta Mankus,’ said Murray, doing well to remember the girl’s names. ‘Miss Gabrys worked with Audra at the Bradbury Hotel.’ She looked to be a girl in her early twenties, but Tara imagined she might have been of similar age to Audra. Pasty skin on a small face, she had delicate looking bones and a thin jaw line. Mousey hair swept back in a ponytail, her pale blue eyes darted nervously from the detectives to her companion. She thrust her hands into the pockets of a grey anorak, and her tight black denims accentuated the thinness of the legs within. Ruta Mankus looked the warmer of the two girls, heavily dyed hair, a deep mahogany, a brown tinge to her cheeks and a mulberry lipstick on thin lips. Her figure contrasted sharply to that of her friend, sturdy thighs, wide hips and a bust stretching her white T-shirt and padded bra beneath. Chewing gum, her expression seemed more chilled out than the nervy Miss Gabrys.

‘I thought you said there would be three?’ Tara asked Murray.

‘Our friend Eva did not want to see her,’ said Ruta Mankus.

‘That’s fine. Has DS Murray told you what to expect when we go in?’

Both girls nodded once.

‘Right, let’s get it over with then.’

Murray led them through a set of fire doors and, thirty feet along a corridor, he turned left and held a second door open for them to enter. This was another aspect of the job that Tara didn’t think she would ever grow used to. She hated hospitals, period. Couldn’t understand how Kate spent her entire working day with the smells, the noises of trolleys wheeling along corridors, beeps and bleeps of medical equipment and worst of all those depressing clothes of smocks and lab coats, the colour coding of careers: nurses in royal blue, sisters in red, doctors in whatever they pleased unless in surgical green. She shuddered at the vision of it all. This room, off the main post-mortem suite, produced an echo from the tiled walls, inducing whispers among gatherings such as this.

A body lay under a white cover on top of a trolley near the centre of the room. A technician, male, late thirties, sallow but clean shaven, stood close by, evidently awaiting the signal from Murray to uncover the face for the girls to witness. Tara moved to the opposite side of the trolley from where Murray stood with the two friends. A little hint given to her by Tweedy was, in circumstances of homicide, where the person required to identify the body might also be a suspect, it made good sense to observe their reactions upon seeing the victim. Murray gave the expected nod to the technician, who then stepped forward and, with two hands, lifted the sheet clear of the head and shoulders of the dead girl. Tara was surprised to see the stronger looking of the two girls, Ruta Mankus, clasp a hand to her mouth, the other hand reaching out to her companion. She whimpered; tears filled her eyes as they looked towards Tara.

‘Can you please confirm if this is Audra Bagdonas?’ said Murray in a formal tone. The smaller girl, Laima Gabrys, nodded slowly, her gaze never once leaving the grey white face of the victim.

‘Thank you, that’s all,’ said Murray to the technician. The head of Audra Bagdonas was concealed once more beneath the stiff white sheet.

Tara led the girls, followed by Murray, to one of the police interview rooms in this homicide section of the mortuary. She offered both girls a drink of water and invited them to sit to one side of a small rectangular table. Murray remained standing, while Tara sat opposite the girls.

‘Before DS Murray takes some details from you both I would like to ask a couple of questions, if you are feeling up to it?’ She looked at the girls, and they both nodded. ‘Tell me about Audra, what kind of girl was she?’

Ruta Mankus sniffed back some tears, but was first to answer. Her English was clear, her words well chosen, but heavily accented.

‘Audra was only teenager. Nice, quiet girl and hard worker.’ Tara waited for the other girl to offer something, but she remained impassive, her pale complexion seemed to have lightened further.

‘Did she have boyfriends?’

The girls looked at each other before Ruta answered.

‘No boyfriends here in England. Boyfriend at home in Lithuania.’

‘What did she do when she was not working? Did she go out with friends? Did she spend time with you?’

‘Sometimes with us,’ said Ruta, ‘But not all the time. We did not know sometimes where she go.’

‘The house in Treadwater, where she was found, did you ever go there with her?’

‘No. I don’t know this place.’

‘Audra had DVDs in her room. Do you know anything about those?’

Tara stared at Laima Gabrys, willing her to contribute something. Ruta Mankus appeared to realise.

‘Laima does not speak good English.’ Murray, standing to the side, rolled his eyes in disbelief.

‘Then perhaps you could translate for her?’ said Tara.

‘We don’t know about DVDs.’

‘The house where you live, do you own it, or do you pay rent?’