An Unfamiliar Murder (19 page)

“That’s Larry,” she replied, “been dead for 12 years now. Never a better
man walked this Earth.”

Townsend pressed his lips together and nodded. “How long were you married
for?”

“It’d be 64 years this year.”

“Wow.”

“Are you married?” she asked as she placed the teapot, mugs and a closed
sugar bowl onto a small tray and carried them carefully over to the table.

Townsend thought about his answer for a moment. “No, not anymore,” he
replied, gingerly.

“Hmm. That’s the modern way. Folks don’t stay married these days.” She
poured out the tea as she spoke. “Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

She passed him a mug of darkly stewed tea and sat down opposite him. “Still,
I expect you haven’t come here to ask me about my marriage have you?”

“No. I was wondering if you could tell me anything about the
Gravell
family that lived at number 16?”

“The
Gravells
?” She looked up, surprised. “My,
that was years ago. What do you want with them?”

“There’s a possibility that a member of their family can help with a case
I’m working on.”

“What sort of case?” she asked suspiciously.

“I can’t say too much at this stage. We’re just carrying out routine
background checks. Do you remember them?”

 
“Yes, I remember them very well.
They had a lovely little girl with blonde ringlets.” She broke off for a
moment, digging deep into the archives of her memory. “Kath, Kathryn..” She
placed her fingers over her mouth and patted gently. “Kathleen, that was it.
She was a real cutie.”

“Can you remember when they moved in?”

She looked up into mid air for a moment. “The summer of 1958. Couldn’t
forget it, my sister Maud moved to New Zealand that year, married a
Kiwi.”

Townsend nodded. “How long were they here for?”

“Five years.”

“You seem sure of that.”

Her face froze and she stared into space, recalling the memories. “Absolutely
sure. You see they moved out in very tragic circumstances.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t see why it would interest you now,” she said, “but anyway, I
don’t suppose it would make much difference. They’ll be all grown up now.”

“How well did you know them?”

“I guess you could say that we were friends,” she hesitated, adding, “in
a neighborly sort of way. I babysat for Kathleen a couple of times. Held their
spare key in case they got locked out . . . But I didn’t approve of what they
did to her. That was just plain cruel.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way they went off and left her on her own like that. And just five
years old. It was me that found her, me that called her aunt. And they never
came back for her, did they? No heart. That poor child. So beautiful and all.
To be deserted by her own parents.”

“Are you saying that they left her alone in the house?”

“Left her alone, deserted her, however you want to word it. They packed
their things and didn’t come back. It was only because I heard her crying
through the wall that I found her, poor little mite. Shut in there, all on her
own. My Larry said, ‘Folks like that didn’t deserve the blessing of children.’

“So you called her aunt?”

“Yes, I had met Aunt Kate many times when she visited. My Larry said she
liked the men, bit of a floozy like, but I thought she was just a working
woman. Not married. She came to get her and took her to live with her by all
accounts. I had a couple of Christmas cards from them, they seemed to move
around a lot, then nothing. Another family moved in and we all moved on.”

“So you lost contact?”

“Yes.”

“Did you inform the police?”

“Sorry?”

“When she was left alone in the house?”

“No. My Larry said we shouldn’t get involved. It was for the family to
sort out. We just called her aunt and she arranged everything. Even spoke to
the Council about the house. Seems like they were behind with the rent as well.”

They sat in cold silence for a moment. She looked up at him. “Things were
different in those days,” she added, as if she read the astonishment in his
face.

Townsend sighed inwardly. It would be unlikely that there would be any
police records.

“One thing always puzzled me about the whole affair,” she said, looking
away absently, her face folding in confusion.

He looked across at her and she was gazing at the net curtain which
covered the back door. “What’s that?”

“Why they left
her
and took the
son.”

Townsend started. “Pardon?”

She looked into his eyes.

“Mind, he was
only a baby at the time, not even walking. But it seemed strange that they
should leave one child behind, but take the other.”

Chapter Fifteen

Helen poured
over Operation Marlon’s policy log. In accordance with police procedure all
major incident managers were required to keep a log in which they recorded all
their decisions, the strategies they set and their reasoning behind it. The
books were numbered and confidential to the force, providing an explanation of
the investigation at every point.

In view of the Super’s threats she wanted to make sure that there were no
gaps, nothing screamingly obvious that she had missed, that an accomplice may
notice immediately – leading to a quick arrest. She looked at her watch. It
read two o’clock. She was desperate. She had just over a day to solve this case
before another senior officer would muscle in.

 
Helen was not laboring under any
illusions. The introduction of an assistant at this point in the investigation
would blight her career, whatever the outcome. In an organization where strong
characters and competition at all levels was rife, it would be seen as a weakness
in her professional ability by her seniors and a failure in her role as an
incident manager by her team.

A single knock at the door caught her attention. Without awaiting
invitation, a disheveled looking Townsend strode into her office. “Ma’am,” he
said.

She surveyed him, then pointed at the chair opposite her. “I gather
you’ve been quite busy.”

He nodded briefly. “I’ve been to Ripley . . .”

“I’m quite aware of where you’ve been,” she said tightly, pursing her
lips.

He faced her, eyes burning, head held high. She stared back at him
fiercely. She could see that he was waiting for a tirade of abuse and, yes,
inwardly she was seething, intent on verbally ripping him from limb to limb.
But Helen needed something, she needed a result urgently, and at the moment,
with a blurred CCTV image all that she had to offer for a potential suspect,
she needed to know what Townsend had gleaned.

When she spoke her voice was calm, calculated. “Right. Out with it.”

He looked up at her, surprised. “Ma’am, I . . .”

“I’m not interested in your explanations, Simon. I’m sure you are well
aware of the tenuous nature of your position on this team and I’m positive that
I don’t need to remind you about the dangerous consequences of covert investigations.”
She fought to keep her voice calm. “I just hope that your journey has not been
completely wasted.”

He raised his eyebrows as he reached into his pocket for his notebook,
then spent the next ten minutes summarizing his findings. As he finished he
looked up at Helen. She didn’t miss the twinkle in his eye. He was obviously
pleased with himself.

“Thank you,” she said, keeping her face dead pan. “I think we need to get
Kathleen Cottrell in immediately, don’t you?” The twinkle disappeared. He nodded
gingerly. She guessed he was struggling to read her this time.
Now you know what it feels like.
“And
ask the team to instigate an urgent trace on the son. We have a starting point
with the name, rough date of birth and address in Ripley - DWP should be able
to help with the rest.”

“Right, ma’am.”

“And no more secrets. In future if you have a hunch, an idea, a feeling,
even a premonition, then you come to me straight away. Is that clear?” He
looked her straight in the eye, his face serious, and nodded.

“Right, that will be all.” A wave of compassion reached her as he rose to
leave the office. Perhaps this was his attempt at an olive branch? Keeping her
face expressionless she called after him, “Simon?” He turned to back face her. “Well
done.”

*
* *

Anna sat in the kitchen picking at a bowl of cornflakes, pushing the
sprinkles of sugar off each individual flake. She sighed, put the spoon down,
closed her eyes and tried to picture Ross in her mind. Ever since they’d met
she had retained this picture of him in her head: he was wearing a white
t-shirt and blue cut off cycling trousers, his brown hair in dire need of a
cut, flopping over his face. He was smiling, that boyish, next door smile that
made his eyes shine, hinting mischievous acts were afoot, he was in the mood to
tease. This is how she always remembered him.

But now when she closed her eyes she could see nothing. As she pulled her
phone out of her pocket her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. It was
the new phone. There were no photos on this one yet. She closed her eyes and
prayed. She had never been a religious person, never quite sure whether she
believed or not, but right now she wanted to believe. She wanted to believe
that somebody or something out there would listen to her, and bring Ross back.

Something made her open her eyes and stare back at the screen. And then
she saw it, the little symbol indicating that she had a voicemail message. A
bolt of lightening shot through her body.

She pressed call and lifted the phone urgently to her ear. It was from a
DS
Strenson
, asking her to call back urgently. As she
pressed the call button she could feel her chest tighten.

“DS
Strenson
?”

“Hello, this is Anna Cottrell. I have a message to call you?”

“Yes, Anna. Thanks for calling back. I just wanted to let you know that
fire service found no body at your boyfriend’s house.”

“So, he’s alive?” A breath of relief gushed out of her lungs.

“All we know is that he wasn’t killed in the fire at his home.”

“So, where is he?”

“We’ve launched a missing persons enquiry and we’re doing all we can to
find him. We’ll keep you informed.”

Her momentary elation was flattened. “Missing persons? What does that
mean?”

“At the moment I think it would be a good idea to keep an open mind. Are
you absolutely sure that there isn’t anyone he might have gone to visit?”

“No, I told the officer this last night.” She scratched her head irritably.

“Has he ever wandered off before, perhaps for some time on his own?”

“Never. He’d never do this to the kids. He was due at work this morning.”

“Are you aware of any financial or professional problems that he may
have?”

“No. He’d have told me,” she said sharply.
What is the point of these stupid questions? Just find him.
“Do
they know how the fire started?”

“The fire officers have confirmed it was arson. That’s all I can tell you
at the moment.”

Arson.
Anna gulped. “Surely . .
. Surely, you don’t think that he started the fire himself?”

“I didn’t say that. But we do have to investigate every option.”

“It’s not true!”

“OK, well you have my number now, Anna. Call me if you think of anything?”

“OK. Err . . . Detective?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think this is linked to the murder in my flat?”

“We have no reason to think that at this stage. We are treating it as a
separate incident.” A short silence followed. “Anna?”

“I’m still here.”

“Call me straight away if he contacts you.”

Anna gulped. “Yes,” she murmured.

“I’ll be in touch.” The line clicked as DS
Strenson
ended the call.

Ross, where are you?

She could hear footsteps behind her, feel the weight of her mother’s
eyes. “Good news?” Kathleen asked gently.

Anna twisted around to face her. “Ross didn’t die in the fire.”

Kathleen moved to sit opposite her daughter. “That’s wonderful news.”

“Is it?” Anna said, her voice brittle. “So, where is he?”

“I’m sure the police are doing everything they can.” They sat in awkward
silence. Anna picked up the spoon and stared at the cereal in her bowl poking
it absentmindedly. “Come on Anna, you have to eat something, love,” Kathleen
said softly.

I don’t have to eat anything.
She
felt like shouting, but her voice was bound to give way, her brain felt too
numb to argue.

“Would it help to talk about it?” her mother continued, sitting opposite,
her eyes boring into her.
She looked
up at her mother, met her eyes momentarily before looking away. Anger suddenly
flared through Anna’s chest. Talk about it? They had never talked about anything.
What about
her
childhood? Did she
know that Anna knew her secret? Would she confide in her daughter anyway?

The constant secrecy was beginning to engulf Anna. “There’s nothing to
talk about,” she answered, “Ross has gone. That’s it.”

“I just want to help, love.”
Stop
it. One moment, I’m ungrateful for being adopted and you’ve done me a big
favor, the next you want to help.
She started to wonder whether her mother
genuinely wanted to help or she was just appeasing her own guilt. But Anna’s
brain was incapable of giving this much consideration. Her head was full. And
it didn’t matter now anyway. What mattered was finding Ross.

She rubbed her hands vigorously up and down her face and thought of Ross
again but still nothing came to her. He was becoming a memory. There was only
one place where she could go to get a proper reminder.

“I’m going out,” she said, pushing the bowl away and standing up.

“Where?”

Anna ignored her and grabbed at her jacket as she made her way out of the
back door. “Do you want me to come with you?” But Anna never heard the end of
the sentence. She had marched to the end of the drive and was now on her way
down the street. She was going to find Ross, even if nobody else could be
bothered to do so.

*
* *

Later that
day, Kathleen Cottrell sat perfectly still, back straight, hands folded
together in her lap. Her appearance was almost fastidious. Short, grey hair was
softly curled back from her face, she wore a red sweater with a medium length,
gold chain around her neck, from which a heart shaped locket hung. Heart shaped
studs decorated her ear lobes and a gold bracelet of hearts linked together
peeped out from beneath her cuff. Townsend guessed that she was one of those
women who would walk through the woods on a wet, muddy day and come out in a
clean wax cotton jacket and shiny wellington boots.

He was furious. Helen had insisted that they interview Kathleen as a
witness,
in one of the suites usually
preserved for rape or child abuse victims, rather than a suspect. Her reasons
behind this were simple: being interviewed as a witness negated the need for a
solicitor; the interviews were recorded by DVD and later admissible in Court,
should the need arise; the interview rooms were more casual and comfortable
than a formal room in the custody block, which may help to draw the requisite
information out of her. Townsend didn’t get it.
Why should she get such special attention? She had withheld information,
hadn’t she?

He couldn’t be doing with the soft leather sofas, the coffee table and
box of tissues, the carpeted flooring, the Monet – Water Lilies print on the
wall. As far as he was concerned they needed to come down on her hard. But, he
wasn’t in charge.
Not yet.

Kathleen’s eyes flickered from Detective Dark, who sat opposite her, to
Townsend and then back again. “Would you mind telling me what all of this is
about?” she said sternly, focusing her attention now on Townsend, rightly
guessing his seniority in rank.

“For the purposes of the recording, could you tell us your maiden name?”
Detective Dark asked.

She turned to face her, head raised in a disapproving manner at this
woman who looked young enough to be her daughter, as if she hadn’t given her
permission to speak. “Gardner,”
she replied confidently. “Now what . . .”

“Have you ever been known by any other names?”

Kathleen’s displeasure at the interruption was obvious, “Cottrell,” she
replied tightly.

“
Before
your marriage,” Dark
continued, ignoring the attempt at sarcasm.

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“What is the name that appears on your birth certificate?”

Kathleen gave her a hard stare, betraying her annoyance at the intrusion
into her personal life. She unclasped her hands, folding her left arm across
her stomach. For a moment Townsend thought she was going to cross her arms
defensively across her chest, but instead she rested her right elbow on her
left wrist, holding her right hand up and out beside her shoulder, as if it
held a cigarette. “I don’t see what relevance that has to your enquiries,” she
finally remarked, stiffly.

“This is a murder investigation Mrs. Cottrell,” Detective Dark said. “Everything
is of interest.”

“I cannot see how my family . . .”

“Let us be the judge of that,” Townsend cut in, “Just answer the
question.” Her eyes switched to him, glaring angrily. The forefinger on her
raised hand started to gently pick away at the skin around her thumb nail, a
habit that could appear vulgar on some people. However she almost carried it
off demurely, appearing not to damage the painted nail.

Townsend stared back at her. She reminded him of his wife, soon to be
ex-wife. They shared the same air of self importance, scratchiness.
Bet her house is like a show home too.
Just like Judy.
He was glad to be rid of
her. Glad to be back in Hampton,
on home ground. Soon the Super would recognize his talents, realize that he had
turned the investigation around. Not like
Lavery
.
Making DCI in ten years on the accelerated
promotion scheme didn’t compare to real police work.

Kathleen sat tall in her chair and took a deep breath. “
Gravell
,” she answered finally, “but I’m sure you know that
already.”

“Why were you reluctant to tell us?” Dark asked.

“It is a part of my life I choose to forget,” Kathleen answered. She had
regained her composure now. The picking had stopped, although the arm still sat
there suspended, the long nails folded delicately.