An Early Grave (3 page)

A few steps took him from his kitchen through a darkened hallway into his sitting room. The large window was screened with wire mesh like that of the kitchen. He could see out well enough, but anyone on the outside had a harder job seeing in. It was filthy on the outside, too, and with the screens fixed in place was not easy to clean. Despite the mesh protection, the glass had a huge crack running from the centre to the bottom right-hand corner. The sitting room looked cramped but had little furniture. A scuffed leather two-seater sofa sat against the wall, opposite a fire place that his late father had boarded up years ago. Instead he had electric storage radiators in each room. It was just possible to decipher a coffee table, close to the window, covered in newspapers, magazines, empty take-away cartons, pizza boxes, coffee mugs and a couple of photographs in cheap frames. The remaining space in the room scarcely allowed entry from the hall, access to the coffee table or to the single armchair sitting by the wall opposite the window. Bundles of newspapers, text books and several dozen box-files occupied most of the floor space in the room. The only seat available for use was the armchair, but it was far from a conventional piece of furniture, constructed entirely from bundles of newspapers tied with string and used as building blocks. The dog had its favourite place and lay down on an old door mat under the coffee table.

Mumbling to himself, he began a search of the room, lifting one pile of magazines, transferring them to another, before up-turning the lot and starting over. He knew he’d seen her face before, and his attempts to find her grew more frantic as he shuffled magazines, newspapers and supplements, one stack toppling into another. Several minutes later, his hand finally pulled a magazine from the jumble on the floor. He stared at the cover, flicked it open and leafed through it, excitedly. On the penultimate page he found her, the image that struck him the second he’d fixed his eyes on Detective Inspector Tara Grogan. He examined the coloured photograph, a little grainy, but there was no doubting. First instincts absolutely correct. He read the single paragraph below the picture giving brief details on the life of Tara Grogan. With her background, she could be the one to help him. She could find the man who killed his wife and daughter.

CHAPTER 4

They sat around the desk of Superintendent Tweedy. A man in his mid-fifties, he had a pinched face and wore thick-framed spectacles too wide for his narrow head. His once fiery-red hair was long since greyed and the flesh was beginning to sag below a pointed chin. He looked like he needed a good feed. Looked as though he’d never had one. An olive green shirt and tartan tie hung loosely around his neck, and he didn’t quite fill the tweed sports jacket. He was on his feet moving back and forth to a white-board, where gradually he added the known facts of the girl’s death on the Treadwater Estate.

Tara sat, legs crossed, with a notebook on her knee, while Murray slouched with hands in pockets and feet outstretched. Wilson’s head, supported on both elbows, leaned over a notepad on the desk.

‘Likely cause of death?’ asked Tweedy, writing in black upon the board.

‘Suffocation,’ said Tara. ‘A pillow, most probably, but there was nothing found in the room. No clothing, pillows or duvet.’

Wielding the marker pen, Tweedy turned to face his team.

‘Approximate time of death?’

‘The medical officer estimated late evening to early hours of the morning,’ Tara replied. ‘We should get confirmation later today.’

He wrote again on the board.

‘Thanks for that information, Tara.’

Having relayed the few details from her notes, Tara turned to a fresh page in her book, ready to note anything significant that may be said.

‘Now, what do we know about the house?’

‘No one living there permanently at the moment,’ said Murray, without shifting from his position of comfort. ‘House is privately owned by a Teodor Sokolowski. His home address is listed as Katowice in Poland. Seems he owns a couple of houses in Netherton and several around Merseyside. They’re usually rented out to Polish workers.’

‘No one in the vicinity knew of any girl living at the house,’ said Wilson. ‘No reports of suspicious activity, no complaints of noise from neighbours living either side.’

‘No identity for the victim, as yet,’ Tara added.

‘Ok,’ said Tweedy, stepping away from his board. ‘Not much to go on, so far. Alan, I suggest you check the other houses owned by this Teodor person. Try to contact him, or at least establish his present whereabouts. Tara, it might be worth visiting some of the local Polish community groups. See if they know of anyone who is missing and has not been reported to police. John, have you made any progress on the meaning of that word?’

‘Googled it, sir. It means bitch or whore in Polish.’

‘The killer making a bold statement regarding his victim? Has the makings of a motive, I would suggest,’ said Tweedy.

Having issued his instructions, Tweedy dismissed them to their desks.

Tara sat down at her computer to check out a list of community groups in Netherton, Bootle and Walton. Her mobile rang; the sound of Lady Ga Ga,
Born
this
Way
, broke the relative quiet in the open-plan office.

‘Are you on for tonight?’ It was her close friend Aisling. Straight to the point, she didn’t bother with hellos.

‘Absolutely,’ Tara replied. ‘The last two days have been pants. Stuck in the middle of a fresh murder inquiry.’

‘Joys of policing?’

‘Hardly that, but I’m looking forward to getting out for a few drinks.’

‘Kate’s booked
Mal
Maison
for dinner at eight o’clock then out for a couple of bevvies. It’s going to be great! We haven’t been out for ages. I’m off to buy shoes in honour of the occasion. Kate’s having her hair done…’

‘Have to go, Aisling. Some of us have work to do.’

‘OK, I’ll see you later. Bye.’ She felt bad cutting her friend off in mid-flow. Such a bubbly soul and thank God for her. At times she couldn’t have managed life without her. But right now she had the image floating before her eyes of the poor girl lying dead in the house on the Treadwater Estate. Perspective. Sometimes you needed perspective. Her office phone rang, and when she picked up another female voice told her she had a visitor at the front desk.

‘What’s the name?’

‘Mr Armour,’ the desk officer replied. There was a pause. ‘Sorry, a Dr Armour.’ The voice fell to a whisper. ‘If you ask me, he doesn’t look much like a doctor.’

She quickly leafed through her notebook; it took a second for the name to register. The strange guy from Treadwater.

‘Did he say what he wants?’ The line went quiet, while the desk officer asked Armour his business.

‘Says he’ll only speak to you.’

‘I’ll come down.’

He looked exactly as he had done the day before. Same clothes, wet straggly hair, for it was still raining outside, the same vacant expression and arms by his sides. A large carrier bag from LIDL hung from his right hand. Before she judged him too harshly, she realised that she must also look the same to him: same clothes, same hair, although she had showered since they last met. Didn’t think that could be said for her visitor.

‘Dr Armour, what can I do for you?’ She tried to sound pleasant, smiled and made a deliberate effort to give him his proper title. He didn’t look bothered either way.

‘You said to get in touch if I thought of anything.’

Several people walked by staring at the man who looked every bit the tramp. Smelt that way, too. Tara braced herself for the awkward conversation ahead.

‘Do you want to come through to my office?’

He reached out the LIDL bag, but made no effort to go with her.

‘This might be of help.’ He stared down at her through watery eyes, his breath reeking of beer. She had no choice but to step closer to accept the bag. She took a handle in each hand and peered inside to see a battered grey box-file. Armour was already backing towards the exit.

‘Are you sure you won’t come through?’

He shook his head, turned and walked out.

‘OK, thanks. Nice talking to you, too.’

Holding it well in front of her, she carried the bag upstairs to the office and laid it down flat on her desk. She thought of donning a pair of latex gloves just to remove the box-file from the bag. There was a strong aroma of Dr Armour, stale, heavy smells of cooked food, damp clothing and dog. She shuddered. Couldn’t manage it, not without gloves. She removed a pair of latex disposables from a box in the top drawer of her desk and slipped them on. To her far left she could see Murray looking on with interest, but when she glanced across he quickly returned to his computer screen. Removing the box-file, she returned it to the desk and dropped the bag to the floor, hoping it was well out of smelling range. It was a standard office box-file, bulging with papers, the words ‘Mass Spectrometry Data’ written in purple marker on the side. The catch on the lid was broken, but was held fast by a thick rubber band. Once open, she removed the papers inside one by one, anticipating the information she was expecting to discover on the murdered girl.

Ten minutes later, feeling very perplexed, she had a growing pile of dog-eared and grotty papers littering her desk. Nothing amongst them had any relevance as far as she could tell to the death of the young girl on the Treadwater Estate the day before. At the bottom of the box, she was treated to a crust of toasted bread and a sprinkling of mouse droppings. Shaking the last few papers free of crumbs and mouse poo, she carried the box-file to a waste bin and tipped out the mess. She felt cheated. That filthy man had just wasted her time and probably exposed her to all kinds of diseases. She returned to her desk with the intention of gathering up the pile of rubbish and sending it on its way, when she wondered if she might have missed something. Maybe, in a bizarre fashion, this peculiar man really was trying to pass on information. She browsed the papers for a second time. There was a mixture of newspaper clippings, scribbled notes, magazine articles, reports, photographs and letters. She flicked through a hefty document of more than fifty pages from the British Soil Association, reporting results of an investigation into the use of chemicals and drugs in the rearing of food-producing animals. Particular emphasis on South East Asia, China, USA and the European Union, she noted. There were scores of hand written comments in the margins throughout the manuscript. Setting this to one side, she sorted through a number of letters all addressed to Callum Armour from the Merseyside Police. They dated back nearly two years, the latest one less than a week old. Most of the correspondence was in acknowledgement of Armour’s numerous complaints alleging personal threats, attacks by local youths, incidents of missiles being thrown at his home, three attempted and one successful break-in, and one incident where petrol had been poured through his letter box and set alight. It appeared that Callum Armour had not replied to any of the letters but had continued to lodge complaints. One letter, six months old, had offered advice on improving security at his home, suggesting window screens and the installation of CCTV. Tara didn’t think much of the letters or the advice. To her, it was an admission of failure, an admission that Callum Armour’s problems could not be solved by the Police, and he was simply being told to live with it. By this point she had drifted into a world of Callum Armour that had little to do with her murder investigation, and yet the contents of the box-file were making interesting reading. She lifted a photograph, stuck to a piece of newspaper, and studied the figures in the picture. Eight young people, possibly students, were gathered around a table bedecked in beer glasses and wine bottles. In the background was a bar which had the look of somewhere rustic and continental. Could have been anywhere but she got the impression this was a holiday shot. She held onto the photo while continuing to sift the papers. Without lifting it she read a newspaper cutting with the lead-line stating, ‘
Son
of
top
lawyer
missing
on
ski
-
slopes
.’ There was no way she could tell the date or from which paper the article came, but she noticed another on the same incident.
The
Richmond
and
Twickenham
Post
reported that ‘…
student
Justin
Kingsley
from
Chiswick
went
missing
while
on
a
ski
-
trip
with
fellow
students
in
the
lake
resort
of
Strobl
,
Austria
…
’

She placed a magazine article with the headline ‘
Chinese
baby
milk
contaminated
with
chemical
used
in
plastics
,’ on top of the Soil Association Report. Another paper on a scientific study into health problems from using android mobile phones landed in the same pile. She moved on to a renewed appeal by Thames Valley Police, printed in the
Oxford
Mail
, for information regarding the tragic discovery of the body of a new-born baby. This appeal marked the tenth anniversary of the discovery in a shallow grave in a wooded area close to the River Isis. The baby boy, who was given the name Isis by officers investigating the case, had been found by a librarian while walking her dog. Despite extensive investigations and publicity at the time, police had never found an explanation to the circumstances surrounding the tragedy. Next she read a newspaper headline from a particularly gruesome murder, a case she recalled from the television news a couple of months back. Tabloid headlines at their most sensational: the words ‘
Copycat
Becket
Slaying
,’ occupied most of the front page. Several sheets of
The
Daily
Mirror
were folded over, and Tara read through them briefly, noting all the connections, true or fabricated, with the murder of Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral in 1170. The reporter hadn’t missed the opportunity to describe entrails spread across altar steps, speculating on whether Peter Ramsey was considered by some as a turbulent priest and if he had been marked as a future archbishop. Tara winced. So far she had succeeded only in adding depressing thoughts to her already sad workload. Then she sat forward in alarm, her attention grabbed and shaken by another newspaper cutting, and suddenly she felt awash with sympathy for the down and out, who had just traipsed out of the station. She read a report of the inquest in Oxfordshire of the death, three years ago, of children’s author Tilly Reason, aged twenty-seven, and her one-year old daughter Emily Armour. Mother and daughter had been tragically killed at a railway level crossing near the village of Shiplake. Tara noted the verdict: accidental death. She had to assume that baby Emily was Callum Armour’s daughter. Murray said as much when they’d met Armour the day before. Surely such a tragedy would tip anyone over the edge? Little wonder that Armour was such a distant individual.

There were many more pieces of paper within the box, but she’d read enough. She’d learned nothing to help her with the murder case. Why had he given her all this irrelevant information? What was he trying to tell her?