An Early Grave (7 page)

CHAPTER 10

She told herself on her way home that she wouldn’t go into the house alone, not without back-up outside. But this was not the route she would take from St. Anne Street to her apartment in Wapping Dock. She drove her own car, a Ford Focus, electric-blue, but she intended leaving a note inside for her colleagues to find if, for some reason, she didn’t make it out of the house.

Tara’s decision to return home after Oxford had been in some ways disappointing enough for her mother Barbara, although now she had her daughter close by, where she could get to see her every week, but it fair knocked the wind from the fifty-year-old school teacher when Tara announced that she was joining the police. Tara, her mother often told her, had a chance of an exciting life, a great career as a lawyer or a barrister, earning good money in a city with better opportunities than Liverpool. On days like this she was glad her mother didn’t know the half of what she got up to in her job.

Turning her car into Sycamore Drive, she wondered again about Callum Armour. He seemed a strange mix of Liverpool and Belfast, inhabiting a world so different from the one she knew while growing up on The Wirral. Their backgrounds were diverse, and yet he also had done well to make it to one of the centres of elitist Britain, the rarefied environs of Oxford.

‘I’ve arranged for a community police officer to call with you,’ she said, struggling once again to find a place to sit in the ramshackle of a living room. ‘They’ll advise you on what’s best for dealing with the harassment you’ve been getting from local youths.’

From his armchair of paper bundles he glared at her through puffy eyes, reddened as if he’d been crying.

‘What about harassment from the police? Who’s going to advise me about that?’

She didn’t reply, didn’t rise to his challenge. She felt nervous enough sitting in this depressing room, and she’d forgotten to leave that note in her car.

‘There is also Community Support which is a charity that helps victims of crime. Here are the contact details; you can give them a call.’

‘Don’t have a phone.’

‘Do you have a computer?’

‘Not anymore. Had a break-in a while back. They took my lap-top, my TV and DVD player.’

‘You should consider getting a mobile phone.’

He shook his head.

‘No way. Those things pickle your brain. One day the world’s going to wake up to the number of cases of brain tumours and mental disorders and finally blame it on the use of mobile phones. By then, of course, the men running the companies making a fortune will be long gone, and it’ll be a heck of a fight to find those responsible.’

‘Just a suggestion,’ she replied. It wasn’t her intention to start a debate on health and safety. She reached out some leaflets, though she suddenly realised that what Callum Armour did not require in this house was more paper. ‘Some information which may be of help. You should check with social services or with the Citizens Advice Bureau about your entitlements. They might be able to help you…’

She stopped, suddenly conscious of saying too much or something that may offend him. Besides, he didn’t appear terribly interested in what she had to say.

‘Do you have a social worker?’

‘You must think I’m a real basket case. What exactly have you heard about me? What do you think I am?’

She really didn’t want to get into this. Hadn’t intended to rile him. Even Midgey shifted his location from the feet of his master to the worn mat under the table. She was slow to answer, but he filled the pause.

‘You know nothing about me.’

‘Maybe that’s down to you. You’ve said little on our first three meetings.’

‘You want to know about the girl, don’t you? That’s the only reason you’re here. To winkle information out of me.’

‘It is my job, Callum. A young girl has been murdered, and so far you’re the only person with information. You seem reluctant to share it with us.’

He shook his head and got to his feet. Tara thought that was an end to it. She’d failed to help him and failed in getting him to talk. Maybe Murray’s way was the right one. Bring him down to the station and let him stew for a day, threaten to charge him for with-holding information. She rose from the uncomfortable, poorly sprung sofa.

‘Not that you care,’ he said, ‘But there’s been another killing.’ He wiped his right eye with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

‘I don’t understand.’

He lifted the fresh copy of
The
Daily
Telegraph
. It was open at the International News section and folded down to the appropriate place as he handed it to her. She read the lead-line and the few sentences printed beneath. ‘
Chinese
scientist
drowns
in
Swiss
lake
.’ It was followed by a brief summary of Dr Zhou Jian’s background, and that he had been attending a conference in Lucerne on food safety. His body was recovered from the River Reuss, and Swiss police were investigating.

‘You knew him?’

Despite the dull hue of the living room, she saw the tears well up in his eyes. Those eyes, she thought, must have shed a pot-full in the last three years.

‘At Oxford. We studied chemistry together, worked in similar fields for our doctorates and ended up in the same department as post-docs.’

‘And you believe this is connected to the other deaths?’

Callum rubbed his forehead roughly with the palm of his right hand. He sighed deeply.

‘Jian was my friend, my closest friend at Oxford. Neither of us fitted there in quite the same way as the others. I was just a kid from Belfast via Liverpool, the first person in my family ever to make it to university, never mind Oxford. I was working class and Irish, not exactly the best foundation for life amongst England’s elite. Jian was different, too. We sort of identified with each other. I really trusted no one else until I hooked up with Tilly.’

Tara was still holding the newspaper. She briefly scanned the story again. Three separate incidents, four deaths, all connected to this sorry man living in squalor on a Liverpool housing estate. All connected to an Oxford college. So far only one of the deaths was regarded as murder.

‘Tell me about the guy who disappeared.’ She knew this was taking her to a place she should not go. Tweedy would do his nut if he ever found out that she had visited a murder suspect on her own. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he would say if he knew she was discussing outlandish conspiracy theories about deaths which had occurred a long way from Liverpool, nothing whatsoever to do with the work of his squad. She told herself she was in her own time, off duty. Her natural instinct was to be inquisitive. An Oxford college linked all the deaths, and she also was connected. She had been a student of the same college.

Callum picked up a box-file from a stack of five upon the floor. Tara recognised its battered state, the label on the side with the words ‘Mass Spectrometry Data,’ the box bursting with papers and letters. He sat down in his chair, the box open on his knee. Tara resumed her uncomfortable position on the sofa, still piled with cardboard boxes and books.

‘That’s him,’ he said, handing over the photograph she remembered seeing previously. ‘Third from the left.’

The photo wasn’t great, not the sharpest focus, but she gazed at the image of the strapping guy, broad shoulders, curly fair hair, square jaw, tight-fitting T-shirt, seated with an arm resting casually on the back of the chair next to him. Without a smile, he stared at the camera. Devoid of any emotion, it seemed to Tara. He reminded her of the rowing crew from her years at Latimer: well-built, self-assured and confident of their destiny. Recounting in her mind the brief story of his disappearance, she found it difficult to believe that this young man had such problems he couldn’t overcome that he had to run away. Such a relaxed pose, he looked the type who could have risen above any problem.

‘He looks fine there, but not as if he’s been enjoying himself.’

‘I suppose we’d all had a skin-full by the time this was taken. It was the last night of our ski trip.’

Callum came over and knelt down beside her. For a moment they could have been a couple browsing their family holiday snaps. Tara suppressed her discomfort at his odour.

‘That’s Tilly,’ he said, placing his forefinger on the image of a slight girl with short brown hair and a beamer of a smile, arms wide as if she were performing in a stage musical. She was standing beside a Chinese youth with dark-framed glasses, thin face and shoulder length hair. ‘Jian, obviously,’ he continued, moving his finger along the picture. ‘First on the left is Charlotte Babb.’ Tara noted the smiling girl with frizzy dark hair, thinking that perhaps she may be prettier in real life, the camera not having caught her in the best light. Her mouth seemed too wide for the narrow face, her cheeks rather bony. She wore a heavy sky-blue polo-neck jumper, which made it difficult to gauge her true body shape. She was seated upon the knee of a very-fair looking man sporting a lewd expression, his tongue hanging out like he was enjoying immensely having a girl sit on his lap.

‘Anthony Egerton-Hyde,’ said Callum. ‘You may have heard of him, stinking rich, somewhere in line to the throne, ninety-third or something ridiculous. He’s a junior minister now, Department of Health.’ She’d heard the name before, but didn’t think it was in either context mentioned by Callum.

She was conscious now of the improved tone in Callum’s voice. For the first time there was enthusiasm in what he said, education in his speech. He didn’t sound a raving lunatic or some head case as Murray and Wilson had described him. The massive chip on his shoulder was greatly diminished.

‘He’s married to Georgina now,’ he said, pointing to another girl standing next to Tilly in the photo. Much taller, slender, long fair hair, not an entirely pretty face, but well-tended and glamorous with it. She was dressed in tight-fitting jeans and white shirt. Even in the photo she looked expensive and yet vaguely familiar.

‘What’s her surname?’ Tara asked.

‘Maitland.’

‘
The
Georgina Maitland?’ Callum nodded rather proudly. ‘The one with her finger in every pie going?’

‘That’s her.’

‘She’s worth an absolute fortune. Fashion houses, beauty treatments, fitness, well-being, spas, good food guides, restaurants. She runs a whole empire.’ Tara composed a mental list of the things she possessed, derived from the world of Georgina Maitland: deodorant, perfume, a couple of dresses, and immediately she was struck by the thought that at that very moment she was wearing underwear by
Georgina
. The girl’s face in the photo brimmed with confidence or glee, full of poise, high cheekbones, and fair hair falling below her shoulders, although Tara recalled seeing a recent photograph in a celebrity magazine, where she sported a deep auburn page-boy style.

‘She was at Oxford with you?’

‘She and Tilly were close friends.’

Tara found herself intrigued by the connections amongst this group of people: a highly successful entrepreneur, a government minister and a famous writer. She could understand how someone of Callum’s background might have found difficulty fitting in with such a crowd.

‘That’s Peter Ramsey who was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral.’

She tried to reconcile the man’s face with the image she’d imagined from reading the reports on his killing. Didn’t look the type to be a priest. Looked more like a hippie on a road trip: long frizzed hair, a goatee and John Lennon glasses. Neither did he look as if he was enjoying himself. He stared, not at the camera, but at Egerton-Hyde, who was hosting Charlotte Babb upon his lap.

‘Who’s the guy beside him?’

‘Ollie Rutherford. He was a school friend of Peter and Anthony’s. Eton, I think. I didn’t know him that well. There were twenty-two students on that holiday; I didn’t know all of them. I was friends with Jian and, of course, Tilly and I were just getting together about then. Georgina, Charlotte and Tilly were mates as were Peter, Ollie and Anthony. Justin had been seeing Georgina, but I think it was over before we went on the holiday. Peter was quite friendly with Charlotte, although she only had eyes for Anthony. We all sort of blended because each of us was friends with someone in the group.’

‘And where were you when all this was going on?’

He looked surprised by the question.

‘I was taking the photograph.’

Tara glanced, quite deliberately, at her watch. He noticed and took the hint, by getting to his feet. She felt it was time to leave, and yet she was truly interested in Callum’s story. She took another glance at the photo before handing it over. Three of those young people, no more than twenty-one years old at that time, were now dead. The man standing over her clearly had been devastated by the loss of his wife and since then had sought answers from a box of news clippings and holiday snaps. She’d managed to get him talking, and yet there was some way to go before she felt like trusting him.

‘Why did Justin Kingsley disappear?’

She was already on her feet to go, but her tendency to question overtook her thinking.

‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking down at the photograph. ‘That night, not long after this was taken, he simply walked out of the bar, and I never saw him again.’ Callum tossed the photo into the box-file.