An Early Grave (21 page)

CHAPTER 33

For several moments Charlotte Babb stood in her doorway, a hand over her mouth, unable to speak. Her brown eyes glowed behind her reading glasses. Surprise, shock, delight, elation; words were not big enough.

‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ she said at last as her visitor stepped into the hallway. The pair hugged, kissing each other on both cheeks. ‘This seems to be the weekend for reunions.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Callum’s coming to visit tomorrow. Why don’t you stay tonight? It would be great, the three of us together after so long. Please say you’ll stay?’

‘Sorry, Charlotte I’m afraid I can’t.’

Her face looked pale and sad even before the refusal. Alone in Oxford, her life had stalled, her friends from college days having long departed the city. Some, Tilly and Peter, she would never see again.

‘Come in, and have some tea then?’

‘I’ll come in for a bit, but no tea thank you.’

She closed her front door behind her guest, and they stepped arm-in-arm into the cosy lounge. The room was set for the maximum personal comfort of a lonely woman. A soft and deep sofa, with large cushions and a woollen throw resting on the back, angled for the best view of the television, its screen way too big for the room. The walls and bookshelves were adorned with pictures of younger days, teenage activities and life at Oxford, including the same photo of the ski party to be found in Callum Armour’s box-file. Charlotte gathered a couple of hardback books lying open on the sofa and set them on a cluttered coffee table. The television in the corner was showing a historical documentary on the English Civil War; she muted the sound. She was hardly dressed for welcoming guests: black leggings, beige T-shirt and a ragged pink woollen cardigan that she self-consciously pulled around her wide tummy. Her plump face was unwashed and pale; it saw little daylight but for the short journey to and from work each weekday at the Ashmolean. Late in the evening, she seldom gave thought to brushing her thick dark hair, long devoid of any recognisable style. She had no one to make it worthwhile looking good for. Perching herself on the edge of an armchair, she smiled warmly as her visitor sank into the cushions of the sofa. She couldn’t recall the last occasion when she had a visitor sit in her lounge, never mind such a dear friend.

‘How come you’re here in Oxford?’ she asked.

‘I’m just passing through; I thought I would give you a call, see how you are.’

‘We haven’t seen each other in ages, and now you’re just passing through?’ She was conscious of sounding bitter, hadn’t intended to be. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’ She pulled a tissue from a box on the coffee table and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t mean to get upset. It’s been so long; I miss all the good times we had.’

‘I do, too.’

‘Why do things have to change so much?’

‘We mustn’t live our lives in the past, Charlotte. People change; we have to move on.’

‘Please stay with me, just for tonight?’

‘Next time, I promise.’

CHAPTER 34

The damned annoying ring-tone woke her from a fitful doze. She couldn’t remember what she’d done with her phone, and by the time she fished it out of her handbag the call diverted to voicemail. She rolled onto her back and prayed her head would soon clear. That she would awaken from the confusion of disappearing people, secretive, suspicious, frightening people. The display showed a missed call from Kate and two messages. Turning on her side, she curled herself to a foetal position and scrolled through her inbox. Both messages from Kate: R U OK? Times two. In no mood for conversation, she replied with a text to say that she was fine and would call when she got home.

She crawled under the sheet and cried until sleep took her.

He made it to breakfast before her, and it was saying something when she reckoned he looked much better than she did.

‘Morning,’ he said with a smile that was not reciprocated. ‘I thought you weren’t meant to look like a cop?’

She felt like thumping him. No time or inclination to wash her hair, she’d pulled it back behind her head and secured it with a black scrunchie. Black, it seemed, was the order of the day; she faced him in a black blouse and slim black trousers. The look would be complete when she donned her black jacket on the way out to the car.

‘Needs must,’ she replied coldly. ‘And thanks for the compliment.’ She realised how bad she must look; she hadn’t even applied lippy, never mind face-paint and mascara.

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Fine. Eat your breakfast. We’ve another long day ahead.’

Callum had an address for Charlotte. Bridge Street, just off Botley Road in Osney. He seemed rather upbeat as she drove the M40, and she let him talk if only to prevent her having to say anything. Murray had the facts that might well prove him to be a killer, but her instincts told her that whatever had occurred in Treadwater on the night Audra Bagdonas died did not point to Callum as a murderer. She was going to have to wrestle with those thoughts for the remainder of the day until they made it home to Liverpool. She hoped for a message from Murray to say they’d got it wrong; then she hoped not to hear anything at all. How would she handle the situation if she were to find out Callum was responsible? She needed something else to think about.

‘Tell me more about Charlotte?’ she asked him.

‘Never really moved on after graduation. Loves Oxford, I suppose.’

‘What does she do?’

‘Works as a researcher in the Ashmolean. Lives on her own. Last I heard anyway. We used to meet for lunch every couple of weeks when I was still in post-doc. Then there were the reunions.’

‘Reunions? Is this another of your revelations I should already know about?’

‘It was girls only: Tilly, Charlotte and Georgina.’

‘How often did that happen?’

‘About twice, maybe three times a year. Usually in Oxford at Charlotte’s place. She was the main instigator. They came to our house a few times, and also stayed at Georgina’s place in London. Once I remember they went down to Anthony’s house in Norfolk. I don’t think I was ever told the half of what went on there.’

‘I take it things stopped after Tilly…?’

‘Long before then, actually. Georgina was always too busy, and the three of them could never quite agree on dates. There was no big row, or anything, more a breakdown in communication. Charlotte has tried to keep in touch with me since Tilly died, but I’m not good at replying to her letters. She’s really looking forward to me coming, though. And I should have told you…’

‘What?’

‘She loves to cook. She’ll insist on doing lunch.’

‘Great,’ said Tara. Something else to endure on this awkward day.

She found it hard to imagine a reunion for her in the same mould as Charlotte, Tilly and Georgina’s. There were no close friends made from her time at Latimer. Her occupation with one guy, and his apparent obsession with her, did not leave time or space to develop close friendships. But in Liverpool she had Kate and Aisling, the three of them closer than sisters.

She thought she might feel something tug within as she approached Oxford, but today felt so much like a day of business her mind paid little heed to personal memories of the place. A dull sky sagging with low cloud didn’t improve the mood, and by the time she turned into Bridge Street, stopping outside a compact-looking end-of-terrace, spits of rain streaked down the windscreen. Callum gazed at the red-brick house, its neat window boxes brimming with geraniums, petunias and lobelia. But he made no attempt to climb out of the car.

‘You OK about this?’ he asked.

‘Yes, why shouldn’t I be?’

‘You don’t seem yourself today.’

‘So you know me well already?’

He smiled at her. She smiled back, intending it to be a sarcastic gesture. Still he wavered.

‘I just want you to know, I really appreciate all you’re doing for me. For the first time in three years I feel I’m doing something worthwhile. I’m getting justice for Tilly and Emily.’

She couldn’t fashion a reply. Nice words, but if he was involved in the murder of Audra Bagdonas they meant nothing at all. She peered into his dark eyes, searching for the truth. He returned her gaze. Suddenly, she glanced the other way, worried that something inappropriate were about to happen. That she could do without.

Eventually, he got out of the car and walked purposefully to the front door of the house. He pressed the bell, but got no immediate reply. Tara joined him by the door, and gazed up and down the narrow street, seeing no one. Callum pressed the bell again.

‘Does she go out on Sunday mornings?’ she asked.

‘No idea, but she knows we’re coming today.’

‘Maybe she’s at church?’

‘Charlotte? I don’t think so.’ He tried again. Tara stepped to the right of the front door and peered through the window. A small living room, neatly furnished with modern sofa, chairs and bookcases. It stretched all the way to the back of the house such that she could see through the rear window into an enclosed garden.

‘What do we do?’ he asked.

She didn’t much care at this stage. She was thinking ahead, to the drive home, to hearing whether or not Callum was implicated in the murder of Audra Bagdonas. She doubted they would learn much from Charlotte anyway. The rain became a heavy drizzle. They couldn’t stand there all day. Callum persisted with the doorbell, while Tara returned to her car. She watched as gradually he got soaked, his long hair hanging in wet strings. He paced up and down between Charlotte’s house and the next, a wide lane separating the two. Tara lowered the window on the passenger side of the car.

‘Why don’t you give her a call?’ She reached her phone to him. ‘Do you have her number?’

He shook his head.

‘Take a look round the back, maybe she’s in her kitchen and can’t hear the doorbell.’

She climbed out of the car again and followed him along a gravel-filled lane between the two rows of houses. They stopped by a wooden door in a high garden wall. Callum tried the latch, but found it locked. He looked again for inspiration from Tara.

‘Help me up.’

She raised her hands towards the top of the wall and waited for him to grasp her waist and lift. She felt brief exhilaration by the height she gained as his solid hands locked on her hips and thrust her skywards. Once her arms were on top of the wall she grabbed hold and managed to swing her legs over to sit on the ledge. Looking into the tidy garden, there were no obstacles in her way, but neither was there anything to help her slip gently down. Gazing at the house, the kitchen appeared deserted. She pushed off the ledge and landed, thankfully, on both feet in a soft patch of lawn. Quickly, she released the latch on the garden door and let Callum enter. She told herself they had already gone too far; there was a perfectly rational explanation for Charlotte not being home. They should have had the patience to wait in the car. With no reply at the front door she should have insisted on driving away. Now she had climbed a garden wall, and that action alone filled her with apprehension of what they were about to do next.

Callum knocked on the back door, while she peered through the kitchen window. Everything looked clean and tidy, nothing out of place. Except one thing. A drawer in the kitchen unit lay open.

‘Try the handle, Callum.’

He twisted the knob, and to his surprise the door eased open.

‘Charlotte? Hello. Anybody home?’ he called. With no response, again he looked at Tara for guidance.

‘We’d better take a look inside.’

He stepped into the kitchen, and Tara followed. Not the most up-to-date fixtures, stainless steel sink and draining board, an old four-ring element cooker, fitted cupboards and workbench, though not such a professional looking job. Tara saw that the open drawer contained cutlery. She left it as it was and walked through the doorway into a narrow hall with stairs to the right and a door to the left, tightly closed.

‘Check upstairs,’ she said. ‘I’ll look in here.’

The living room looked more spacious and bright than she’d thought from peering through the window. A folded copy of the
Oxford
Mail
lay on the two-seater sofa, a TV remote control sat on the arm of a chair, the red standby light glowing on the TV in the opposite corner. A coffee table, between the sofa and fireplace, sat cluttered with books, a box of tissues, sweet wrappers, two coffee mugs, an empty wine glass and a plate with three expertly decorated cup-cakes. She heard a muffled shout followed by the rumble of feet on the stairs.

Tara stepped back into the hall. Callum shoved her against the wall as he rushed by.

‘Callum?’ She hurried after him, through the kitchen, finding him in the yard bent double. ‘What’s wrong?’ Crying and retching, he could scarcely summon a reply.

‘Charlotte,’ he said then threw up.

On several occasions, in her brief years of policing, she had to view dead bodies as part of an investigation. Now, it seemed, she must view one before any investigation had even begun. Leaving him in the yard coughing and gasping at the fresh air, she re-entered the house and slowly climbed the stairs. Her heart thumped in her chest, a fear only of the inevitable. Each footstep creaked on the landing, but her attention soon fell upon the walls and doors of the upper floor. Spattered blood and bloodied hand prints had been swiped across the paintwork and wallpaper. Facing her were two doors ajar and a third tightly closed. One room seemed bright beyond the door, the other dimmed perhaps by drawn curtains. She chose the latter, nudged the door with her elbow, conscious that this was a crime scene, trying to avoid adding to the woes of those whose job it would be to investigate. Her eyes flitted to the centre of the room, to the bed. Empty. A plain duvet lay un-ruffled, no sign that anyone had slept there. Speeding up her actions, she rushed to the brighter room shoving the door wide open. It took all the strength she had not to replicate Callum’s reactions. See the victim, and you won’t stop searching for the killer. A woman lay on the bed, eyes open, her blood-soaked head set to the left as if keeping watch for those who might come and go from the room. Impossible to judge the true colours of the duvet and the rug on the floor. All were drenched in blood that had spurted and seeped from the lacerations on the legs, arms and stomach of the dead woman. Her leggings had been ripped apart, the sleeves of her cardigan shredded and her wrists and forearms sliced open. She’d put up a fight, Tara believed. Pillows were scattered about the room, a small television knocked over on the dresser, and a shattered glass lying on a bed-side table. In the murders of Peter Ramsey and Zhou Jian, as far as she knew, no weapons had been found at the scene. Not so this time. She forced herself to look at the wooden handle of the knife, its blade buried deep in the chest of Charlotte Babb.

Tara placed her hand on Charlotte’s forehead. Stone cold. She remembered the open drawer in the kitchen and, for now, assumed that the knife had come from there. It suggested that perhaps this killing had not been planned to the same extent as the others, not like Peter Ramsey or Zhou Jian. Was that the reason for such carnage? Had the killer struck out suddenly from rage? Had Charlotte angered her attacker to the point where they’d lost control?

Tara jumped at Callum’s voice from downstairs and stepped into the landing.

‘We better get out of here, Tara. You can’t get mixed up in this.’ His voice sounded shaky. ‘I can’t take any more.’

‘Too late, Callum. We have to call the police.’

‘No. Let someone else find her. We haven’t done anything.’

‘Doesn’t work like that.’