The Deep End, page 14
‘Ours neither. Miss Stuart Davies met the legal thresholds that apply here.’
‘Do they live at the same address?’
‘No, but we have many photographs of them together, and messages on her phone. It was important for us to assist the coroner at the earliest possible opportunity.’
‘And what about my sister’s bank accounts? Does this woman have access—’
‘There is no need to be alarmed. We have not given her anything that she did not have before. She has not been allowed access to your sister’s possessions.’
‘I’m very upset; this is not right.’
‘If you give me your telephone number, I will encourage her to call you, to put your mind at rest.’
‘But this woman is a total stranger. How can I be reassured?’
‘Mr Lezcano, I know this is a very stressful time, but if this woman made your sister happy in her final months and years, I think this should be a source of comfort to you and your family.’
‘But you are a detective, no? Why would you be involved if she had not been murdered? Or the victim of some fraud?’
‘CID was brought in on a precautionary basis, but I have to say that the evidence points to suicide. I realise that may not be any comfort to you, but we see ourselves as working on the family’s behalf to provide facts about her death.’
The man’s grumbling continued for some minutes before Talantire was able to finish the call. He seemed to be hinting that his sister had money, but there was no evidence of that. They may have only looked back at six months of her financial records, but her lifestyle over a longer period seemed to hint at a very basic standard of living. If Katarina Lezcano had money coming down the line, she certainly didn’t seem to be counting on it.
* * *
It was four hours later when Talantire headed off for the nightshift, with a boot full of all the overnight things she would need to stay with Adam for at least a couple of nights. Social services had been brilliant in the end; they had found a static caravan for Nadine and the kids in Sunnysides, a seasonally underused mobile home park on the edge of Barnstaple. It would tide them over until the start of the tenancy in Camborne. Urgent reports, referrals and so forth would be triggered, along with counselling for both Nadine and her husband Roger. Sorting all that lot out had taken hours, as she had predicted.
Only after Nadine had returned her keys did Talantire replace all the fuses. Nadine got the children to say ‘thank you for having me’ and apologised for the disruption. ‘I’m sorry we’ve got no time to clear up,’ she said, as they wheeled out their luggage.
Daniel had revealed to her in the last few minutes that they had kept themselves warm by running the oven on max with the door open, and taking it in turns to press down the toaster and hold their hands over the top. That was the price of leaving the kitchen socket circuit on. There would be quite an electricity bill to pay.
She slid her Ford into the Barnstaple police car park and went up into CID. Maddy Moran was at her desk on the phone, so Talantire simply logged in to see the latest. She was hoping that James Garrett would by now have been tracked down, but there were no sightings on the record. However, there were more forensic details emerging about Katarina Lezcano. Toxicology tests on her brain and other organs confirmed the damage that exposure to heavy metals had done to her. But it was still unclear how she had been poisoned and if it was deliberate or an accident. Police had gained access to the seafood shack in Brixham where she worked, and with the help of the local authorities had taken samples of the foodstuffs in the freezer for testing. Results were awaited.
The ballistics report, however, had arrived. The email was concise.
The Beretta was a deactivated weapon, with no firing pin and some permanent damage caused to the interior of the barrel. That explained it being lighter than the spec. Its origin was unclear, though the deactivation was in a style used by the Dutch government.
Talantire was relieved that it wasn’t a workable weapon, but she was still alarmed that something like this could turn up in the hands of a vulnerable and troubled woman like Katarina Lezcano. It was only legal to own such a firearm with the correct certificate, and none had been found. The Beretta wasn’t on the official register. How on earth had she got hold of it? Through Garrett, perhaps? That would be something to ask him, if they ever found him.
She turned back to the photographs on the case, including those of the artworks that had been found at her caravan. The amazing sculpture of the woman, holding her own throat, was so prophetic and so significant that it demanded further investigation. She rang PC Tim Caldwell and spoke to his mother. She told her that Tim was with the physiotherapist and was off duty until Wednesday. He would be on crutches for six weeks. She made it sound like Talantire’s fault.
‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ she responded.
‘I hope they get that bastard soon. Tim was only doing his job. He didn’t deserve that, did he?’
‘No, he certainly didn’t.’
Talantire hung up feeling vaguely guilty.
Maddy was off the phone and greeted her. ‘How’s the domestic mayhem?’ she asked.
‘Better, hopefully. They’ve moved out to a caravan park. I would be happy never to see any of them again. They left my place like an absolute tip. The daughter is a total nightmare.’ She regaled Maddy with the details.
‘My sympathies.’
‘I’ll go back and tackle it in a day or two, but I’m staying with Adam until Thursday.’
‘Well, that will have its advantages, I’m sure,’ Maddy said with a salacious grin.
‘So no signs of Jimmy Garrett?’ Talantire asked, anxious to change the subject.
‘Nope,’ Maddy responded. ‘We weren’t getting anywhere on the vehicle trace. However, we have got some CCTV which appears to show someone dressed like him on an illegal e-bike in Teignmouth, so that’s how he could be getting about.’
‘When was that?’
‘Three days ago.’
‘So before the assault on Tim?’
‘Yes.’
‘I took that call from Katarina’s older brother, who’s never heard of Mary Stuart Davies. He seems quite irate about her identifying the body.’
‘He wouldn’t talk to me,’ Maddy said. ‘Has he heard from the son?’
‘No. And I think it’s very fishy,’ Talantire said. ‘Why wouldn’t he have returned home?’
‘I haven’t had chance to think about it,’ she responded. ‘We had fifteen arrests last night, and I’ve been pulled in all sorts of directions.’
‘I’ll give you a hand, if you like. But I want to check some of these details on the Lezcano case, because you’re too busy and Tim Caldwell is off sick and time is moving on.’
‘Right,’ Maddy said.
‘I mean, what if her son poisoned her, Maddy? That would explain why he’s in no hurry to come back. She had written about falling out with him.’
‘It’s plausible, I suppose.’
‘What kind of work does he do?’
She looked at her notes on the system. ‘Secretarial. He’s a temp, with SelectStaff in Exeter.’
‘Did you ring them?’
‘Tim did. There are a few notes. He’s not taken up any placements since September. That seems to coincide with his absence abroad.’
‘Okay leave it with me.’ Talantire looked into the records PC Caldwell had made, which looked fairly thin and amateurish. He seemed not to have checked up on the young man’s passport to see if he was genuinely abroad, nor was there any attempt to trace his phone, whose number had been recorded on his mother’s own device.
Talantire decided to make a few broader checks into the woman’s death, including further investigations into her partner, Mary Stuart Davies. Looking again at the messages on the woman’s phone, her plight seemed obvious. Worsening health, mood swings and estrangement from family and friends. It was no exaggeration to say that the poisoning was the trigger which caused her life to unravel. So how had these heavy metals got into her system over such a prolonged period?
Talantire had a theory, and if there was time enough at the end of her shift, she might be able to check it. Of all the nights in the year, the tail end of national hangover day might be one quiet enough.
* * *
It was still dark at seven a.m. when Talantire arrived at Hilditch Farm. She had rung the farmer, Tony Conybeare, the evening before to say that she planned to visit early, if she got time. Conybeare said he was always up before six, and any time after that would be fine.
It was a cold, blustery morning, with sporadic heavy rain, and Talantire made sure to don her wellingtons and waterproofs before she made her way down the muddy track. The torch beam caught the jagged branches of hawthorn and blackthorn bushes that lined the path. The caravan, four hundred yards beyond the main farm buildings, was just visible behind a screen of straggly bushes, still displaying tatters of crime scene tape. Conybeare had confirmed that nobody had been down here since the police search the previous week. The only footprints Talantire saw were the deep rain-filled hoof marks of cattle which had crossed the path between two barns.
She fished in her pocket for a bunch of keys which worked all three police padlocks: one for the caravan and two for the sheds in which the dead woman kept her artwork. She was aiming for the largest shed but noticed that the caravan’s padlock appeared to be missing, as was the hasp to which it had been attached. She played the torchlight over the steps up to the caravan door, which revealed fresh mud.
Someone had been here recently, and she had a pretty good idea who it might be.
Wary of the experience suffered by PC Caldwell, she backed away behind one of the sheds so she could call in for assistance without being overheard. As she was making the call she saw, against the back of the shed, an electric bike partially covered by a tarpaulin. She played the torchlight on the ground and saw from the muddy tracks that it had been brought in from a different direction up the hill from the far end of this meadow, rather than past the farmhouse up the hill. If there was a way in from the lower part of the meadow, that would explain why Conybeare wasn’t aware of the unexpected visitor.
She had just called in the discovery of the e-bike when she heard the rattle of the caravan door. She killed the call and clicked off her torch, making her way as silently as she could across the muddy ground to the next shed. Light, from a mobile phone, was playing across the other end of the hut where she was standing. Aware of Garrett’s record of violence, she considered her own weapons: she had in the pocket of her anorak a pair of handcuffs and a PAVA spray, plus in her hand a powerful lightweight torch. Not much, but something, if it came to a fight. She stood with her back to the wooden shed, breathing as lightly as she could as slurping, sucking footsteps approached unseen. The phone light illuminated the opposite shed, and the reflection from the shed window dazzled her. Her enemy was just around the corner, to her right. The rules of engagement dictated that she should declare herself as police and demand her opponent surrender.
She had a different plan, but then the control room ruined it.
Her phone rang, and she tossed it far into the darkness. The phone light followed the splash it made in landing, trying to find the source.
She could see his silhouette, a male, stockily built, facing away, towards the ringing phone. ‘Do you want some, copper?’ he whispered, turning from side to side, unsure where she was.
‘Yes.’ She took one step towards him and kicked sideways at the back of his knee. The man staggered and yelled, but did not fall. She flashed the torch on for a moment, enough to be clear as he turned to her that this was indeed James Garrett.
She saw he had a knife, serrated, six inches, made for steak, but not bad for penetrating guts. He went for her, and she vanished into the darkness behind the shed. She heard the slop of his muddy footsteps, and waited with her PAVA spray just around the next corner.
He wasn’t stupid; he lunged with his knife arm around the corner, and found the sleeve of her anorak, and a sting of flesh penetrated beneath. The pull of the knife made her fumble the spray, which discharged into nowhere, then fell to the ground.
With her anorak snagged by the knife, she rounded the corner fully and braced against the shed side with her other hand. She kicked backwards and high, her boot connecting to something hard, the side of his head or jaw. He staggered back and swore, his breathing heavy, and his light fell into the mud, face down, leaving only a faint halo on the ground. She hoped he would reach for it so she could kick again, with more power.
But he backed away, breathing heavily, until she could no longer see him.
They were fighting blind, but she rated her chances.
He was less fit than her, that was obvious. But he was probably stronger. She could play for time if she could keep out of his reach. But waiting until backup arrived – that would be a long combat. And her PAVA spray and phone were in the mud somewhere. She took two quiet backward steps into the open before briefly clicking on the torch in her left hand. His face was caked in mud, and there was blood, but the knife glinted as he waggled it backwards and forwards in his hand. She clicked the torch off for the safety of darkness, as he advanced cautiously.
‘Garrett, just lie down, you’re under arrest,’ she shouted.
‘Arrogant bitch! I’m going to slit your throat. No copper arrests me. No woman, neither.’
She stumbled into some rusted piece of agricultural equipment in the mud behind her, half-buried, tines exposed. She corrected her balance and stepped backwards over it, as Garrett advanced. She could feel the rusted structure, a harrow perhaps, and took one more step backwards to be free of the heavy frame. She felt the edge of its contours with her boot and felt sure that her enemy was unaware of it.
‘Come on then, if you’ve got the bottle,’ she taunted, clicking on the torch and shining it into his face. He rushed for her and immediately tumbled down onto the harrow. He screamed in pain, and she could see him face down, spreadeagled on the triangular frame. She couldn’t see the knife, but did see that he was trying to pull himself up with his left arm, not the one the knife had been in. That other arm, somewhere below him, couldn’t help him unless he dropped the weapon. She jumped onto his back, and fighting to keep her balance, stamped his head hard onto the metal, which brought a new cry of pain. Kneeling down now, she grabbed his left wrist and slid the cuffs over it, then clipped it on to the harrow. She then jumped off, as he wriggled himself around. When she next got to play the torch over him, she could see he was knotted, his left arm behind his back, one leg badly twisted and the glint of the knife in his right.
‘Not so impressive, James. Brought down by an unarmed woman.’
He swore at her, bellowing his frustration, as he attempted to free himself. She let him struggle breathlessly for a minute, while she regained hers and called in for backup. Then, using the torch, she found and picked up her phone and PAVA spray. She waited out a minute of threats and swearing, until his movements slowed and his cursing deteriorated into breathless acceptance of his predicament. Time to ask a question or two. She stood over him, a boot resting on his knife arm, until he took the hint and dropped it.
‘Did you poison Katarina?’
‘No way! She was my friend. I liked her.’
‘Did you supply her with a gun?’
‘What gun?’
‘A Beretta, which we found in the back of a sculpture.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’ He didn’t sound quite surprised enough at the revelation. Talantire assumed he was lying.
‘Did you supply her with drugs?’
‘Only weed, as a painkiller. She was suffering a lot.’
‘So you didn’t charge her anything?’ Talantire said, folding her arms.
‘I gave her a big discount. I didn’t do anything wrong. My whole life you bloody coppers never leave me alone.’
‘Try going straight, it usually works.’
‘I did, but you lot never, ever believe. Once a crook always a crook.’ He tried to throw her off, and she stepped away watching as he once again became furious, rattling the handcuffs as he tried to stand.
‘It’s up to you to prove us wrong,’ she said.
‘Yeah, right. I saw that old git, Sergeant Huchinson, in the pub. He started this whole thing up again.’ Rain was pouring across his face now, and a mixture of mud and blood ran diagonally down his cheek and jaw.
‘He’s long retired now,’ Talantire said. The rain intensified, and she pulled up her hood.
‘Unlock me!’ he yelled, rattling the handcuff. ‘I’m in agony.’
‘So was PC Caldwell after your assault on him.’
‘Good. I’m glad. I think you broke my leg.’
‘You should look where you’re going, shouldn’t you? I’ll unlock you when help arrives.’
* * *
Garrett was in a police interview room by ten a.m., fortified by a strong cup of coffee and a Greggs sausage roll. His leg had been bandaged and there was a dressing on his cheek. He was a picture of sullen disappointment, still in handcuffs, and eyed Talantire with smouldering anger. The doctor in A&E had diagnosed a hairline fracture of his eye socket where Talantire had kicked him. As she sat opposite him, she was flanked by PC Caldwell, who had come in specially, on crutches. On the other side was a duty solicitor, a bored-looking woman.
Garrett steadfastly stuck to his story that he was a friend of Katarina Lezcano, having originally met her at the seafood shack, for which he had done some deliveries. After hearing of her illness, he offered to supply her with cannabis, of which she was a small-scale user already.
‘So, Mr Garrett, why did you so violently resist arrest?’ Talantire asked, while PC Caldwell nodded his head vigorously. ‘This could all have been a very civilised discussion.’
‘Because I’m sick to the back teeth of you lot. I get stopped and searched at least three times a year when travelling around in my van.’
