An Early Grave (4 page)

CHAPTER 5

‘Fancy a run out to Treadwater?’

She’d stuffed all the papers back in the box-file, replaced it in the carrier bag, crossed the office to Murray’s desk and invited him to accompany her to Armour’s house. She didn’t feel entirely confident going alone.

‘Why, what’s up?’

‘I’ll explain on the way.’

Twenty minutes later, Murray pulled the car into a lay-by at the front of the house, which sat back from the road and was separated from it by a pavement and a strip of grass two yards wide. Tara gazed at the house; number twenty-four, Sycamore Drive, not a tree in sight. No more appealing from the front than it had been from the rear, with a battered front door and metal screens, the colour of mud, fixed to the windows.

‘Wait here,’ she told Murray. ‘This won’t take long.’ She pushed open the car door, climbed out and retrieved the LIDL bag from the boot, holding it as far away from her as possible. As she crossed the strip of grass she noticed to her right a group of six young people, three boys and three girls, in their mid-teens she guessed, standing by the alley that led to the parking area behind the houses. All of them halted their conversation to watch the young woman approach the front door of Dr Stinker. When she glanced their way, the girls sniggered, and one boy, wearing a blue Everton shirt, whistled at her. She responded with a peeved stare, but he wasn’t in the least intimidated. The brief encounter merely gave rise to more laughter. Tara stared at the front door of the house, weathered yellow paint awash with scrapes, burn and scuff marks. The word ‘paedo’ had been spray-painted in green below the letter-box, although the smudged letters suggested there had been some attempt to wash it off. There was no door-bell or knocker, so she made a fist and tapped on the wood. She waited about thirty seconds before adding another, more determined, thump upon the door. Turning round, she saw Murray looking on from the car, his habitual bemused smirk playing on his face. Still no reply. She knocked again.

‘He doesn’t answer the door,’ one of the youths shouted.

‘Only opens it to kids,’ said the Everton shirt. The others laughed.

She tried peering through the living-room window, but the screens were effective, and she saw only the grime upon the glass. A car horn blared. She looked reproachfully at Murray and he shrugged his shoulders. But it did the trick. A few seconds later she heard some movement on the other side of the door, a chain loaded in its lock. Eventually, the door opened on the chain, and the now familiar dirty face peered out.

‘Dr Armour, would you mind opening the door please?’ It slammed shut with a bang, a chain rattled, and then it opened wide, the dark shape of the man looking all the more vague and sinister when framed by the gloominess of the hallway.

‘Thought I should return this to you, Dr Armour. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how any of this information is connected to the murder of the girl.’ She reached out the bag, and he took it with both hands, although his eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘Do you have any information relevant to our inquiry?’

He didn’t reply. She was frustrated by this man, yet somehow she felt pity or sympathy now that she knew something of his past.

‘If you think of anything that has a bearing on this case please get in touch. If not, I’d prefer if you didn’t waste our time.’

She turned to go.

‘More people will die,’ he said in a croaky voice.

She turned back to face him.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He shook the LIDL bag.

‘In here.’

‘I don’t understand. Are you telling me this box of papers
has
got something to do with the girl’s murder?’

His nod was barely perceptible, but a tremor passed through Tara’s stomach.

‘Do you want to explain?’

He nodded again. She didn’t fancy stepping into the house, but they couldn’t struggle through this conversation on the doorstep.

‘May I come in, and we can discuss it?’

Armour stepped forward and peered into the road. Murray looked on intently. The teenagers watched from the entrance to the alley, two doors down.

‘Okay,’ he said, stepping back, allowing her to enter.

‘Go on, Stinker, give her one,’ a youth shouted.

‘Don’t bend over in there, luv,’ said the Everton shirt. More laughter sounded from the group.

Armour stared at her, waiting for her to step inside. When the door closed behind them she felt the air cooler, though it was ripe with the stench of dog, of cooked food and body odour. He led her from the darkness of the hall, which at some time in the past, she thought, must surely have been bright with new paint, clean walls and deep carpet, into the living room, where the level of light rose as an evening sun did its best to squeeze through the dismal screen on the window. Woodchip paper covered the walls, where over the years several layers of magnolia had been applied. There were dust marks on the chimney breast where pictures had once hung. Looking around, she couldn’t see an obvious place for her to sit. The brown and white dog rose from its bed, came and sniffed at her shoes, wagged its stump of a tail, waddled to a spot beneath the coffee table and lay down again. Tara waited for some guidance from her host, but he had already sat down in a strange makeshift armchair constructed of newspaper bundles. Gazing around her at the hoard of papers, and the detritus of poor living, she spotted a tiny space on a sofa otherwise crammed with files. She forced herself to sit.

‘So, tell me about the box-file?’

He had the bag on his lap, and from it he removed the battered file. After some searching among the papers, he produced a newspaper cutting and offered it to Tara. She could see it was one reporting the disappearance of a student while on a ski holiday in Austria. She looked inquiringly at Armour in a way that suggested he should explain.

‘He’s back.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Justin Kingsley disappeared ten years ago in Austria, but he has returned to England.’ He rifled the box again, growing impatient with his search. Clearly, Tara had upset the definite order of its contents. He showed her the piece reporting the copycat Becket murder.

‘He did it.’

‘Justin Kingsley?’

He nodded and resumed his rummage in the box, producing next the inquest report on the death of the children’s writer Tilly Reason. Tara took the paper from him and for the second time that day read through the story. Again, she noted the inquest verdict as accidental death.

‘He did it.’

Tara felt her unease grow. Clearly this man had no intention of giving her information about the girl murdered in the house close by. Did he know anything of the murder? That she couldn’t yet tell. For a second she thought that maybe this file had come from the murder scene, or the victim had given it to him before she died, or that he killed her to get hold of it. Tara felt a sudden panic that she had to get out of the house. This man was a nutcase. Murray was just outside; she could make an excuse to return to the car. Her dinner date with the girls; she could use that. But it was as if Callum Armour had suddenly read her thoughts, sensed her confusion, saw the fear emerging on her face. He began talking. Openly.

‘She was my wife, and Emily was my daughter. He killed them both. I know it. Then, for some reason, he killed Peter Ramsey, and I don’t think he’s finished.’

‘It says here that the inquest recorded accidental death?’ Armour shook his head, lowering it into his hands. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed back tears.

‘It was murder.’

She scanned through the story on the Cathedral slaying.

‘Kent Police are working on the basis that this was committed by a religious fanatic or someone with a grievance against the church?’

‘It was Kingsley.’

There was a sudden banging. The front door. Armour jumped in fright but made no attempt to rise from his seat. The dog went spare, barking loudly at the window. Tara stepped through the stacks of papers, made her way to the hall and opened the front door.

‘You all right, Mam?’ Murray was intent upon coming inside, but she pushed him gently back.

‘I’m okay. Wait in the car. I won’t be long.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ll explain later.’ She closed the door and picked her way back to the sofa in the living room. Armour was again searching through the box-file.

‘What motive would this Justin Kingsley have to kill your wife and child?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘And Peter Ramsey?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why would he have waited so long since the time of his disappearance before killing any of these people?’

Armour stared coldly at Tara.

‘I don’t know.’

Further questions, she realised, would be futile. The man was living with his traumatic past and coping badly. He looked lost. His eyes moved, searching for the answers as if they should be right there in front of him, printed on one of the many cuttings from newspapers and magazines littering his room. It wasn’t hard to recognise a broken man nursing a broken heart.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Callum, but I don’t think I can help you. These deaths are all tragic, horrible for you, and sometimes it’s hard to face up to something when you really believe differently. I’m sure the police in Kent are working very hard to catch the person who killed Peter Ramsey. Maybe if you have some information that might be of help you can contact them directly, or I could do it for you. My job at the moment is to catch the person who killed the girl we found in the house behind yours.’

Tara jumped suddenly as Armour leapt from his seat and dived towards her. She struggled to her feet, to avoid his lunge then blushed instantly, realising he was not coming at her.

He looked shocked by her reaction then he began rummaging through the files on the sofa. Papers were tossed across the room as he discarded one box after another. Relieved that she wasn’t under attack, Tara looked on helplessly as his search became more frantic.

‘What are you looking for?’ Ignoring her question he lost himself in his quest. A mobile beeped. She had a text.

‘Where r u?’

It was Aisling. Tara replied that she was running late and would join them soon. Callum stood before her brandishing a greetings card. She took it from him and gave it a cursory examination.

‘
With
Deepest
Sympathy
on
the
Death
of
Your
Wife
,’ she read from the printed card. Nothing written inside, merely a picture of flowers below the message on the front. Slowly she shook her head.

‘I don’t understand.’

He looked quite pleased with himself, the closest he’d been to smiling.

‘I got this on the day Tilly and Emily died.’

‘It’s a sympathy card, Callum. I’m sure you received lots of them.’

‘It was given to me before she died. I was on my way home. She was on her way to pick me up at the station when she was killed. I had the card with me on the train.’

For the first time she became conscious of his strange sounding accent, a blend of Scouse and Northern Ireland.

‘I told the police about it at the time, but they said that I was probably mistaken. I wasn’t thinking straight, upset by the death of my wife and daughter. Eventually, one of the officers on the case tried to check up on it, but he drew a blank. Wasn’t even mentioned at the inquest.’

She looked again at the picture of flowers, such paltry comfort to a man who’d had his whole life torn apart.

‘You’re sure about this?’

He nodded once.

There was an almighty crack, and instinctively they both ducked. The noise came from the back of the house. The dog barked. Tara rushed through the hall to the dreary kitchen. Callum followed her.

‘It’s those damned kids,’ he said.

‘Open the door.’ She stepped back as he fumbled with a key and released a hefty bar lock. When he pulled the door open, she barged past him into a small yard. She heard laughter and running footsteps. A male voice jeered. A female giggled. Standing on tip-toes and peering over the wooden fence, she spotted one youth lingering at the end of the street. The Everton shirt.

‘Why don’t you grow up,’ she shouted. The reply was a volley of whoops and jeers. Turning to Callum, she offered a look of sympathy. He didn’t appear to notice, and with head lowered returned to his kitchen. She watched him restore his home to a secure footing, locking the door and drawing the bolt. She smiled, a gesture of understanding, but again he dropped his gaze.

‘The CCTV wasn’t working,’ he said on his way back to the living room. She hadn’t noticed any at the house, recalling the police recommendation that he should have it installed. ‘At Shiplake crossing,’ he added.

‘Oh, I thought…’ she didn’t bother explaining.

‘Justin must have known that it wasn’t working and took his chance.’

‘To do what?’

‘He must have pushed Tilly’s car onto the crossing into the path of the train, or drove it on himself then put Tilly at the wheel. To do that he must have killed her first.’