An Unfamiliar Murder (18 page)

But where was Ross now? Ross’ disappearance
had
to be linked with the murder investigation. She was convinced
of it.

Helen picked up the phone and dialed urgently.

“DS
Strenson
?”

“Alison, this is Helen
Lavery
.”

“Oh, hello there. Did you get my email?”

“Yes, thank you. Could you do me a favor?”

“What are you after?”

“Can you get an e-fit done of the man seen with Ross last night please?
It’s possible there is a link to my murder enquiry.” Helen had learnt about
e-fits on a recent training course and whilst it was being rolled out
throughout the UK,
not all forces including
Hamptonshire
currently had
the relevant technology. It was much quicker and cheaper than obtaining an
artists impression, and astonishingly more accurate in most cases.

 
“I didn’t think we had the
resources for that, ma’am.”

“We don’t, but Berkshire do. If you
phone this direct number,” she scrabbled around in her briefcase for her
notebook and read off a number, “and ask for DS Shaw, he’ll sort you out. We
have an agreement with them for this sort of thing. Tell him to mark it priority.”

“Certainly, ma’am. Umm . . .”

“What is it Sergeant?”

“What about the cost?”

Helen sighed. Why did finances always have to get in the way? “I would
have thought that tracing this man would have been crucial to your
investigation. It’s also possible that there is a link to my murder inquiry.”
The line went silent. “Who’s your Inspector?”

“DI
Wilden
.” Now Helen understood. Paul
Wilden
was renowned for being tight with his budget.

“Any problems, get him to ring me.”

“Fine.” She sounded relieved. “I’ll get onto it right away.”

There was a knock at the door as she replaced the receiver. “Come in!”

Jessica Keen bit her lip as she walked into Helen’s office. Although she
had worked as a support officer for the homicide team on many occasions she had
rarely been into a DCI’s office. And she hardly knew this one.

Helen looked up. “What is it, Jessica?”

“DS Pemberton said you were asking about the checks into Kathleen
Cottrell’s background?” She spoke nervously, the words rushing out of her
mouth.

Helen sat back in her seat and smiled kindly. “Sit down.” She gestured at
the chair opposite.

Jessica sat down with her hands in her lap, folding them together time
and time again, as if she were ringing out wet washing.

Helen watched her for a brief moment. “Don’t worry Jessica. You are not
in any trouble,” she reassured her.

“Oh. OK. Well, I was carrying out the background checks on Anna’s parents
and discovered that Kathleen changed her surname.”

“What, before she got married?”

“Yes, she was born
Gravell
, but changed her
name to Gardner
when she was seven.”

“I didn’t know that. Did you inform DS Carter and the Holmes team
collators, so that they could cross reference the information and get the right
checks done?”

Jessica chewed the side of her lip now. “No. Well you see, Inspector
Townsend told me not to. Said it might be nothing. That he would look into it
personally and then come to you direct if there was anything in it.”

That explains everything.
Townsend had not been present at the morning briefing and when Helen asked
Pemberton where he was, he’d said that he was on enquiry in the West Country
and would be back later. Nobody seemed to know any details about the enquiry.

 
“I see. Thank you for letting me
know.” So that was why he hadn’t responded to her call. If there was one thing
Helen hated, it was covert by-investigations and secrecy. Whatever the results,
they always ended in tears.

*
* *

Townsend
rapped the door hard for the second time and sighed heavily. Why didn’t people
invest in doorbells or proper knockers? His enquiries were proving fruitless,
having spent the last ten minutes banging on the doors of empty houses. He had
tried number

As he turned and walked back down the path he saw an elderly man
struggling with three bags of shopping. The old man didn’t look at him, but
concentrated on heaving his groceries. Wisps of grey hair, from beneath his
tweed cap, blew gently in the wind.

“Excuse me?”

The old man looked up, visibly startled by the size of Townsend. But
instead of answering he bent his head downwards and ambled along.

“Hey. I’m talking to you.” Still no response came. “Please, I’m the
police.” He was walking behind him now, amazed at the pace that he had suddenly
managed to find. Townsend was ferreting through his pocket for his warrant
card, finding it as he caught up with the man who didn’t even reach his
shoulder, and stepped in front of him, waving it.

The man looked up with fear in his eyes. “I can’t help you,” he said
gruffly and made to walk on.

“Please?” Townsend moved in front of him, blocking his path.

The old man dumped his shopping down now, anger clouding his face. “I
haven’t done anything and I don’t know anything,” he said sharply.

“You’re out early to do your shopping,” Townsend said in what he hoped
was a friendly tone. “The shops have barely been open an hour.”

“That’s the way it is around here, as if
you
didn’t know it. You have to get up early, before
they
wake up.”

“Who?” he asked, not sure whether or not he really wanted to know the
answer.

As he stared up at Townsend his angry expression turned to confusion. “Your
accent isn’t from these parts is it?”

“No, I’m just here on some enquiries. Before who
wake up?” He lowered his tone to place an emphasis on the word
‘who’.

“The
yobs
. Lazy beggars. Can’t be bothered to
work. They don’t need to when they can live off the State, do they? And if they
need a little extra, they hound us.” You can’t tell me it isn’t the same where
you come from? You’ll see none of my kind out here in the afternoons.”

“You should tell someone. Things can be done about this sort of thing you
know.”

“
Hmph
! Things can be done? You’re definitely
not from round here. Half of them have got ASBOs and it makes absolutely no difference.
Even the local Bobbies turn a blind eye. ASBOs! Not worth the paper they’re
written on.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m not from around here,” Townsend said, as
gently as he could. “I’m from the midlands. I’ve come over to trace an old
family that used to leave at number 16?”

“Number 16? You’ll be lucky. The world and his wife have lived there over
the years. Never known a house change hands so much. Wouldn’t be surprised to
hear that it’s haunted or something.”

“You’ve lived here a long time?”

“Fifty three years. Too long. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to be
getting back.” As he bent down and gathered his bags, his hands shook
violently.

“The
Gravell
family,” Townsend said quickly. It
was worth a try. If he had lived here all that time maybe, just maybe, he might
remember something.

“Never heard of them!” His voice rasped as he started to make off down
the street.

Townsend watched after him and sighed deeply. His day was rapidly moving
from bad to worse.

Then, just as he reached the corner the old man stopped and jerked his
head back round to face Townsend. Without putting his bags down he shouted, “You
could try Lucy Walker at number 18. She’s lived here forever.”

Townsend’s shoulders drooped. “Tried that. No answer. But thanks anyway.”

He was just making a mental note to call back later when the man shouted
again, “You have to bang really hard. She’s almost deaf.” And with that he
scuttled off around the corner.

It had started to rain, heavy drops falling from the dark sky. Townsend
turned up his collar. Maybe he should just give it one more try? It would only
take a couple of minutes. What did he have to lose?

Townsend retraced his footsteps back to number 18. The front garden of
the grey semi-detached house was surprisingly well kept. A square patch of lawn
was flanked by borders, well stocked with low maintenance shrubs: Lavender,
Potentilla
, Broom. He thought how pretty it would look in
spring and summer.

He knocked at the green, council issue door and stood for a moment. There
was no answer. Taking a deep breath, he tried again and, remembering the old
man’s words, rapped harder then glanced across the garden. There was a
weathered, wooden bench underneath the window, in dire need of a paint job with
a slat missing. He wondered when somebody had last sat there.

Just as he was about to turn away, he heard a noise in the hallway, a
soft shuffling of footsteps that were gradually getting louder, then a cough.
Bingo!
Metal clanked together as locks
were drawn back, the jingle of a chain sounded. The door shuddered slightly as
it opened revealing a very small gap, the tension straining the chain, just
enough for a pair of deep blue eyes to stare out.

For most of his life Townsend had enjoyed the benefits of his 6ft,
5inches. Towering over friends and colleagues, he had become accustomed to
looking down on people in the literal sense. However, this was undoubtedly the
smallest adult he had ever faced. Well aware that deterioration of bone composition
caused people to shrink as part of the natural ageing process, he found himself
staring back at an elderly women who was no taller than Tilly, his 10 year old
niece, and she was small for her age.

“Yes?” There was a rasp to the woman’s voice, as if it had been worn
almost hoarse over the years.

He spoke as loudly as he felt politeness would allow. “I’m sorry to
bother you, ma’am. My name is Detective Inspector Townsend. I’ve been sent here
from Hampton
police on some enquiries.” He flashed his warrant card in front of her face.

She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized it carefully, as if she were
reading a newspaper article. “What do you want?” There was that rasp again, in
every word she spoke.

“I’m looking for Lucy Walker.”

“That’s me.”

“An elderly gentleman,” Townsend cringed as he realized that he didn’t
even take his name. He pointed weakly towards the corner, “said you might be
able to help.”

The pair of eyes studied him for a long moment. “What did he look like?”

She doesn’t seem very hard of hearing, thought Townsend. “Who?”

“The elderly gentleman?”

“Flat tweed cap and long beige raincoat.” As he spoke he raised his hand
to just below his shoulder indicating height.

It seemed to work. Recognition showed in her face, but she didn’t mention
his name. “How do I know you are who you say?”

“You are most welcome to ring Hampton
police station. I can give you the number.”
Please
don’t
.
That’ll really open the
hornets nest.

She moved away from the door and, just as he thought she was going to
take him up on his offer, he heard the sounds of the metal chain being removed
before the door was opened wide.

The lace collars of a cream blouse sat over a lilac cardigan that looked
hand knitted, which was fastened across her chest. Navy stretch trousers hung
off her frail frame and a pair of pink, slip-on slippers covered her tiny feet.
Her short, white hair was curled away from her face, in the way hairdressers
‘set’ elderly ladies hair. “You’d better come in.”

“Thank you.” He followed her over the swirly, seventies style, hall
carpet along to the last door on the right, which led into a small, but tidy,
fitted kitchen. White fronted cupboards and drawers, edged with silver handles,
were fitted on three sides and at the far end sat a table, half of which was
folded down. The grey, Formica work surface and the beige, mock tile effect,
linoleum floor were spotless, apart from a few cat biscuits scattered around
the edge of a bowl beside the backdoor. Townsend stopped and looked around the
room. He hated cats. For some reason they sensed his dislike and always made a
beeline for him. But he could relax. There was no sign of
moggy
today.

“Sit down.” She pointed at one of the chairs beside the table.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get you a tea or coffee?”

 
“I’ll have a tea, please.”

She shuffled over to a white, jug kettle and flicked the switch. Although
she moved reasonably quickly, he noticed that one of her feet seemed to be
almost dragged across the floor. “So, Ernie said I could help you, did he?” she
said with her back to him, pulling two flowered mugs off a wooden, mug tree.

Townsend reached into his inside pocket for his notebook and pen and
jotted down the name ‘Ernie’. “Yes, he said that you’d lived here a long time.”

“Sixty two years next month,” she replied, as if it was such an
achievement that she should be nominated for an OBE. She continued to prepare
the tea, grabbing a metal teapot and placing tea bags in carefully.

“That is a long time. I bet you’ve seen lots of changes.”

She turned to face him. “You can say that again. 1948 I moved in. Of
course Larry was still alive then.” She glanced across at a photo on the
windowsill of a grey haired man sitting in an easy chair, a yellow bird on his
shoulder.

Townsend rose and walked over to take a closer look at the photo. He
could see now that the bird was a budgie. “Is that your husband?”