Ann Granger (10 page)
Authors: That Way Murder Lies
He climbed the narrow stairs. At the landing he stopped and looked up. The recessed hatch in the ceiling was closed but a ladder propped against the wooden frame showed how someone might get up into the roof space.
‘Darren!’ Stebbings called up. ‘Your mum’s got your tea on the table. Come on down here!’
There was a sound of movement above his head. Footsteps caused wooden boards to creak.
‘I’m coming!’ a voice called.
Stebbings made to turn away but then stopped, chewed his lower lip in thought and climbed a couple of rungs to reach up his long arms and raise the hatch. He shifted it to one side and hauled himself up into the attic.
It had been converted into extra living space. His son was sitting there in front of a flickering computer screen. On the table beside it, an ink-jet printer whirred and delivered up coloured prints in a steady progression. On the far side of the room, a table was laden with dusty jars of chemicals and basins. But if Darren had once made a foray into traditional photographic development, he’d apparently abandoned it in favour of technology. At this father’s appearance Darren started guiltily and flung a nervous look over his shoulder. Stebbings looked round him with disgust.
‘It’s about time you stopped messing with this lot!’ Stebbings pointed at the computer and then at the printer. ‘Look at the money you’ve spent on that. And that fancy camera. Gadgets, that’s what they all are, just fashionable toys. A waste of good cash. You youngsters, you’ve got more money than sense.’
‘It’s going to be my career!’ his son said defiantly. ‘I earned the money to pay for all this myself. It’s an investment.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. How are you going to earn any kind of a living doing this? You’ll need to get a proper job.’
‘I can make this pay,’ Darren said obstinately.
‘I’ll believe that when I see it!’ was the paternal retort.
‘Well, just you wait then, and you will see it!’ Darren told him. ‘There’s good money to be had. Magazines and newspapers, they’ll pay for a good pic!’
‘Pic? What the hell’s a pic? Don’t tell me, I know. Listen to me, boy, where do you think you’re going to get these snaps that the press are going to pay you so much for?’
‘You have to find out where celebrities are. Then you wait, catch them unawares.’
‘I never heard anything so daft in all my life. I think there’s something wrong with your brain!’ Stebbings suddenly reached out and grabbed one of the glossy prints as it emerged from the machine.
‘Hey, leave that!’ Darren darted forward to rescue it but his father put out a long arm and pushed him back roughly. Darren stumbled and grabbed at the computer bench to steady himself. ‘Leave that, Dad, please,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s not dried off and you’ll get fingerprints all over it.’
‘Just want to see your work!’ Stebbings said. ‘Since it seems it’s going to earn you a fortune!’ He studied the print and then picked up the others, studying them one by one, his expression growing darker. Finally he held up one of the sheets. ‘Where did you get this? And the others like it?’
At the quiet menace in his father’s voice, Darren blanched, but managed to reply with a show of confidence. ‘I took them.’
‘I know you bloody took them!’ his father shouted. ‘When?’
‘Friday, Friday evening,’ Darren muttered, avoiding his father’s eye.
‘Did she know?’
‘No, Dad, honestly. I – I was practising, you know, pretending I was snapping a celebrity. She wasn’t a celebrity but she was the nearest I could get to it. I watched her and I reckon I managed some good pics. Of course she didn’t know. The whole point was that she didn’t see me. She was only interested in the horses and I was over behind the trees. Don’t damage them, Dad, please! Don’t go putting your fingerprints all over them or creasing them
up! I’ll have to print them again. That photo-quality glossy paper is expensive!’
up! I’ll have to print them again. That photo-quality glossy paper is expensive!’
‘I always thought you didn’t have much sense,’ his father said, breathing heavily. ‘But now I know you’re plain stupid!’ In a sudden movement he tore the photograph in two.
‘No!’ Darren flung himself at his father and tried to wrest the remaining photographs from him but in vain. He was thrust back again and this time tripped and sprawled on the floor.
‘Where’s the film?’ Stebbings demanded. ‘Come on, hand it over!’
Darren scrambled to his feet and whimpered, ‘There’s no film, it’s a digital camera! It’s some of my best work, Dad! Don’t destroy it!’
‘And who are you going to show it to, eh? If anyone sees these you know where you’ll end up? In a prison cell, that’s where! What were you going to do with them, anyway?’
‘Nothing, just keep them. Dad, what are you going to do with them?’ Darren’s voice trembled. He was near to tears.
‘Do? Burn them. And you think yourself lucky that I’m doing it! Are there any more?’
Darren whispered, ‘No.’
Stebbings pointed at the camera. ‘There’s none in that thing?’
Fatally, Darren hesitated.
‘What’s it got, then, if it’s got no film?’
‘It’s got a memory card,’ Darren muttered.
‘Then let’s be having it!’
Darren slipped out the little card and handed it to his father, who stared at it mistrustfully. ‘You’d better be telling me the truth about this damn thing.’ Stebbings was struck by a thought. ‘Your mum seen these?’
Darren shook his head.
‘Then we don’t tell her, right? We don’t tell anyone!’
Easter Sunday morning. The bells were ringing out from Bamford’s churches. The sky was still overcast although there
were signs the sun might break through later. But it was still cool and people who, only days earlier, had worn light spring clothes hurried to church in winter wool jackets. Jess Campbell, in the cramped little flat she was renting, was in the middle of a long and difficult telephone conversation with her mother.
were signs the sun might break through later. But it was still cool and people who, only days earlier, had worn light spring clothes hurried to church in winter wool jackets. Jess Campbell, in the cramped little flat she was renting, was in the middle of a long and difficult telephone conversation with her mother.
‘Yes, Mum, I know I said I’d come down on Easter Day while Simon’s home and have lunch with you, but I can’t. I’m on duty. There’s been a serious incident.’
‘But I wanted us all to be together!’ Her mother’s voice was plaintive. ‘It’s special, and not only because it’s Easter. Simon’s hardly ever in the country these days.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Jess drew a deep breath. ‘It’s not like I haven’t seen Simon. He was here Thursday and all Friday morning. I’m really sorry, Mum, but I just can’t come.’
‘What kind of incident?’ Mrs Campbell was asking, her voice suspicious. ‘What’s so serious you’ve got to be working over a holiday?’
‘It’s a – a sudden death. It might be linked to something else. Look, Mum, police work is like that. Things happen. We have to deal with them. They just don’t always happen at convenient times.’
‘I know it’s important, your work,’ her mother said. ‘But you never seem to have any free time. We hardly see you. I keep wishing that you’d get a job nearer home.’
‘This is a good move for me, Mum. I’ve got real responsibility here and if I can make a go of it, don’t blot my copybook, well, that’s got to be good, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, dear, of course it is,’ said her mother in that way which meant she hadn’t a clue what Jess was talking about.
When she put down the receiver Jess was surprised at the strength of the regret she felt.
She went to the window and threw it open. The flat was in a small block which had been built on the site of a former grain merchant’s store. It overlooked a dull road of crumbling Victorian houses, most of which seemed to be in multiple occupation, if the
number of dustbins cluttering the tiny neglected forecourts was anything to go by. At least the flat, although dimensionally designed to accommodate munchkins, offered privacy of a sort, far better than sharing a house. But it wasn’t home any more than any rented accommodation could feel like home, not a true home. There was always the knowledge that it was somebody else’s really.
number of dustbins cluttering the tiny neglected forecourts was anything to go by. At least the flat, although dimensionally designed to accommodate munchkins, offered privacy of a sort, far better than sharing a house. But it wasn’t home any more than any rented accommodation could feel like home, not a true home. There was always the knowledge that it was somebody else’s really.
Jess had always rented, for convenience’s sake. But she knew she ought to buy. Getting on the property ladder, that was what it was called. Now she’d come to Bamford she’d thought more seriously about it than ever before, even to the extent of looking in estate agents’ windows. But it wouldn’t be easy. Any decent place carried a hefty price tag. She didn’t really want another flat. She fancied a small house or cottage. Not too much garden, though, because she had no time for that. Not stuck out in the countryside, either, but near enough to shops to be able to scurry out for a pint of milk or a takeaway meal when necessary, because cooking was another thing she didn’t have time for.
She moved back into the flat and gazed round her with increasing dissatisfaction. It had the look of a place which had been furnished with a view to renting it out. Every stick of furniture was cheap and some of it second-hand. The coffee table was marked with rings from the drinks glasses of previous tenants. There was an unsightly stain on the cord carpet which suggested someone had had an accident with a curry. Perhaps this thought of food prompted her to go out to the kitchen, a mere cupboard of a place in which it was just possible to turn round. She opened the fridge. It contained some butter, a pack of cheese and half a bottle of white wine which she’d opened the previous evening. When you sat alone before the television of an evening, drinking wine and watching made-for-TV films which had obviously rolled off the conveyor belt of some production company, put together from assembled parts like so many kit cars, then you knew your private life wasn’t a life. It was an existence! The two days of companionship afforded her by her brother’s visit had only served
to underline the loneliness. Jess slammed the fridge door shut. She’d have to stop off somewhere and pick up some groceries, bacon and eggs. She couldn’t go on living on takeaways. Her rubbish bin was crammed with little foil cartons. Her diet was probably nutritionally unsound. She was becoming deskilled in kitchen tasks to an extent which would shock her mother.
to underline the loneliness. Jess slammed the fridge door shut. She’d have to stop off somewhere and pick up some groceries, bacon and eggs. She couldn’t go on living on takeaways. Her rubbish bin was crammed with little foil cartons. Her diet was probably nutritionally unsound. She was becoming deskilled in kitchen tasks to an extent which would shock her mother.
That brought back the memory of the recent phone conversation. Of course she wanted to be there with them. She could imagine her family, what they might be doing. They’d all been to church, her mother had said. The meal was cooking. Jess could almost smell it in imagination, each of the savoury aromas wafting from the kitchen. It would probably be roast beef. Or it might be chicken. No, Simon was there so her mother would have bought a nice piece of beef. The best china would have been brought out for the occasion. Of course Jess wanted to be sitting there with them to eat it. But she couldn’t and that was that. She was twenty-nine and far too old to be suffering homesickness! Snap out of it, she told herself sternly.
To dismiss the images, she first ate two of the chocolate creme eggs her brother had left for her in advance of the festival, then got in the car and drove over to Regional HQ.That had a deserted air about it; far fewer people than usual could be seen around the place, just the duty team looking glum because they had to work and everyone else was enjoying the Easter holiday. The office they’d given Jess had previously belonged to Inspector Pearce whom she’d never met but of whom she’d heard so much. Pearce had cleared out his belongings but had missed one, a snapshot of a pretty girl holding a puppy. That must be either his girlfriend or his wife, she’d thought when she’d found it in the drawer. She had put it in an envelope, meaning to send it on to him, but hadn’t yet done so. The only other thing he’d left behind was a depressed-looking dusty cactus with a spider living in the heart of it. Jess had shaken out the spider and was doing her best to revive the plant but didn’t hold out much hope for it. It had the look of a cactus with a death wish. Jess collected a cup of coffee from the dispenser
to wash away the cloying sweetness of the eggs, and settled down to work.
to wash away the cloying sweetness of the eggs, and settled down to work.
The annoying thing in all investigations was the time-consuming composing of reports and despite several other things she wanted to be doing, she had to complete her report on Saturday’s events. To ensure accuracy she opened up the notebook in which she kept a virtually minute-by-minute account of her actions on Saturday, her thoughts and her reasoning. She frowned now over her note on the discovery of the partly obliterated tyre mark. Sergeant Ginny Holding, who had been given the job of checking it against all the vehicles owned by the Jenner family and anyone resident at the house at the time or visiting, was out there somewhere even now about this task. Her remit included the dead woman’s car, a blue Volkswagen Golf. The visitors’ cars, of course, included Markby’s own. He’d understand that his tyres would have to be checked against the imprint, along with all the rest. Any other vehicle used on the estate would be checked as well. She hoped to have Holding’s report by Monday afternoon.
Jess paused at this point to read through what she’d written. She needed urgently to talk to the Jenners again. That was, she needed to talk to Jeremy again and to Alison for the first time. Her last job the previous evening had been to drive to Overvale House and inform Jeremy Jenner his daughter had died from a stab wound. Jenner had at first been shocked in a buttoned-up sort of way, but Jess’s tentative request to see Mrs Jenner before Monday caused an eruption.
‘You know the doctor gave her a sedative. She’ll still be woozy tomorrow and as soon as she’s thinking clearly I’ll have to break the news of Fiona having been stabbed. She’ll need time to get over the shock. I’m also still trying to get in touch with my ex-wife, Fiona’s mother. That’s going to be a damn difficult business. What the dickens am I going to say to her? How can I explain it? You’ll have to come on Monday.’
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