The Deep End, page 18
* * *
Back at the house, Geoff told his hosts what he had encountered as breakfast was being prepared. ‘I had to force my way through the hedge to get onto the footpath, and then to get onto the beach, I had to climb over a locked gate at the end. Luckily, Sprocket was able to slide through the gap underneath.’
‘There’s new people who seem to be running it now,’ Anne said, as she worked the grill, from which delicious smells of bacon and sausage emanated. ‘They bought the arboretum as well as the crem business. My hairdresser’s husband works there part time on the garden maintenance, and he says they’re from London. Certainly not from round here.’
‘There’s a lot of money in pets,’ said Keith, looking at Sprocket, who was lying on the settee, staring at them. ‘Gourmet pet food, ice cream for dogs, vets’ bills through the roof. And specialist cemeteries.’ He sipped his coffee and winked at the dog. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, do you, Sprocket?’
Geoff laughed. ‘I still feed her the basic mix; none of the bloody pouches. And she likes it well enough, don’t you, Sprocket?’ The dog looked from one to the other, knowing that something relevant to her was happening, but not what. ‘She didn’t like that smell, and neither did I.’
After they finished breakfast, Geoff and Keith retreated to the lounge. Geoff had his laptop with him and logged on to Companies House. He looked at the listing for Willows Equine and Pet Memorial Ltd. The company had been set up only six months ago, and had a single director by the name of Lyndsey Smith, born in May 1981, whose address was given as that of the memorial centre. She’d never been a director of anything else. Geoff was a little surprised that there were no other directors. He switched to the company’s website, which had no mention of the woman. It was, however, slick and full of the unctuous parlance used by undertakers about ‘absent friends’ and ‘dignified individual cremation treatment’ for everything from gerbils to ponies, with prices to match. The crematorium was closed to visitors all day on Thursdays, when the cut-price communal pet cremations took place.
So that was what he had witnessed.
* * *
The first Thursday of the new year dawned with a watery sun as Talantire drove back from Tiverton to Barnstaple. She just had time to spend two hours at home before beginning her shift. She arrived there just before nine. Everything looked normal, but as she let herself in, the enormity of the mess still to be cleared up hit her with force. She attacked it with vigour, discovering various pieces of clothing left behind by the children, discarded tissues, scratches on the worksurfaces and a thumb-sized green plastic arm on the stairs, which must have come off one of Danny’s toy figures.
She had texted Roger to ask if there had been any news on Nadine, and at 9:30 a.m. he called her back.
‘Hi, Jan. No sign of her. But I’ve been relieved of normal duties to help look for her.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m just at the end of Cornwallis Avenue. I’ll be with you in two minutes.’
She looked out of the window and could see a patrol car approaching. It looks like he had the kids with him, too.
Not wanting anyone to see the state of her place, she stepped outside to meet him. Roger was in uniform. A fit-looking fellow, average build, dark eyes. She couldn’t help imagining him hitting Nadine. Emotions rush to judgement, even when the intellect hesitates.
‘Nice to meet you, Roger,’ she said, offering a hand which he shook firmly. Millie had emerged from the car too, leaving Danny in the front passenger seat. She was wearing a hooded top with her hands thrust deep in the pockets, and was making teeth-chattering noises and rubbing her arms.
‘Can we come in for a moment, Jan?’ Roger asked, glancing at his daughter.
‘It’s a bit of a mess, but yes.’
‘But it’s our mess, so the kids are going to help, aren’t you, Millie?’
She gave an expansive shrug, and thrust herself even deeper into her hoodie, her head bowed. Talantire led them in, hearing Millie’s loud tut as she saw the state of the place. In truth, it was already a lot better than Talantire had found it. The furniture was the right way up, but there were binbags half-full of rubbish at the bottom of the stairs, and it still had a stale smell. Danny joined them, with an Action Man in his hands.
‘I was thinking that Millie could mop the kitchen and clean the work surfaces while Danny cleans the bathroom. By way of saying sorry,’ Roger said.
‘It’s a nice offer, thank you, but it’s not necessary. I don’t have long before my shift starts.’ Both kids scarpered out of the door, straight back into the patrol car.
‘Ah.’ He looked around. ‘Nadine’s car triggered two ANPR cameras on the way to Tiverton, including the one on the roundabout at the end of the A361 where it meets the A396, but nothing beyond. So that’s where I’m heading, once I pick up the children’s aunt at Barnstaple station. She has come down from Manchester to babysit at the caravan park.’
‘That’s a relief, that someone will look after them.’
‘Absolutely.’ He stared out towards the car. ‘Those injuries on Nadine, by the way, were self-inflicted.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I questioned Millie about it, about when she first saw the bruises. She said that Nadine hit herself with a hammer. She managed to do it a few times on her own body, but… well, I’ll get her to tell you in her own words.’ Roger went out to fetch her from the car, and the girl stood with them in Talantire’s entrance hall.
‘Millie, tell her what you told me,’ Roger said.
Millie shrugged and turned to Talantire. ‘Yeah, well basically, I heard a shout of pain in the bathroom and saw Mum with a hammer in her hand, and she’d whacked herself on the arms and shoulders, and was sort of strangling herself to make bruises on her neck. I asked her what she was doing, and she said “Trying to get us somewhere to stay with Auntie Jan.” Then she told me: “I need a black eye, but I haven’t got the courage.” She was waving this hammer around. I told her she was being stupid and she’d give herself brain damage if she hit herself on the head with a hammer. I looked around and reckoned I had the answer. I got a tin of beans, wrapped it in a face cloth, then stuffed the whole lot in a sports sock. I gave it to her, but she still couldn’t do it. So she says: “Would you, Millie? Sorry to have to ask.” So I said yeah, no worries. Lie down and close your eyes. And I smacked her with it really hard. She screamed so loud that Danny even came up and left his PlayStation.’ A smile played across her face.
‘How could you do that to your mother?’ Talantire asked.
‘She asked me, didn’t she?’ Millie rolled her eyes as if it was obvious. ‘I’m an obedient kid, basically.’
Talantire looked at the child and realised she had found a bone fide psychopath; intelligent, cold, rational and without a hint of mercy. She’d grow up to kill, she was certain of that. Maybe she already had. She then looked at Roger, who was staring at his eldest child, as if to ask did I really spawn this creature? He and Talantire exchanged a look as weighty as a report for child referral.
* * *
After the Lister family had driven away, Talantire rang the control room to ask for a patrol car to check the last ANPR sightings of Nadine’s Volkswagen. It turned out that Roger had already requested it, which was something of a relief. She then rang Sergeant Beatrice Dodds, Nadine’s boss and the head of Camborne community police. The two officers knew each other well, having worked together on the Bodmin Moor joyriding case.
‘Hi Beatrice. Can I ask, did you give PC Roger Lister permission to look for his own wife?’
‘Not exactly. I gave him time off to go and see his kids. Why?’
‘He arrived at my home in a patrol car and seems to think he’s got permission to try to track her down himself. Obviously, if she’s found dead, he would be—’
‘—the prime suspect, I agree. I notified her as a missing person this morning. I believe DS Moran has been assigned the case, as it’s on Barnstaple’s patch.’
That was good news. A good officer, an ally, a friend.
‘Suspicion of the husband isn’t just theoretical, either,’ Talantire said. She described the bruises on Nadine, Roger’s denials and the almost incredible explanation that the daughter had confessed to helping her mother make them.
Beatrice blew a long sigh. ‘Do you think Roger coached his daughter to give that confession?’
‘It crossed my mind, but I have to say it seemed like a voluntary, indeed almost enthusiastic, revelation on the part of the child. I genuinely think Millie enjoyed it.’
‘Well, we are in wild speculative territory here, Jan,’ Beatrice said. ‘Let’s just find the woman ASAP.’ It was exactly the kind of robust and practical suggestion that Talantire would have expected from her. She readily agreed. After the end of the call, Talantire looked around her untidy home. She sealed the bin bags, dumped them in the wheelie bin outside and decided to leave everything else until later. She wanted to find Nadine herself. It suddenly seemed a very important thing for her to do.
If Nadine was dead, there were three people in the frame. Husband Roger, of course. He had argued with her for months over her affair. Brent West, who thought he had silenced her with the NDA. Finally, Nadine’s own daughter had to be considered. That would be dark territory indeed.
* * *
She arrived a few minutes early for her shift at the office and immediately filled in a docket for the evidence bag with the data stick which she had taken from Alex Brown’s flat. She had already copied across all the data stick files onto her own personal laptop, but registered it as unread when filling in the docket, and on the case file. She copied the most crucial files onto a new data stick, intending to hide it at home, just in case. DCI Winterflood, who had taken over from her on the Lezcano case, would get it later that day through the internal post.
Seeking confidentiality, she went into a meeting room, sat down and then rang PC Tim Caldwell, who was working now in Exeter. She asked about his broken patella, and softened him up with some small talk, about ‘driving a desk’. He laughed. ‘I’m actually really enjoying the interactions with the coroner and the Crown Prosecution Service,’ he said.
‘Enjoying the CPS? Well, it’ll soon wear off, I guarantee it.’
She found out plenty about the case that she dared not try to get from Winterflood directly. First, that the small-time drug dealer James Garrett seemed genuinely to be a friend of the dead woman. He’d been interviewed numerous times now, and his consistent line had actually checked out. Mary Stuart Davies had met him too, apparently. Second, that the seafood at the restaurant that Lezcano worked at was not the source of her poisoning. Analysis of the seashells found in the caravan and of the dust around her grinding machine revealed that it was the shells themselves that were the source of the heavy metal poisoning.
‘I had a feeling that that was the root of the problem,’ Talantire said. ‘I read up about a real-life case in Canada of a woman, also an artist working with seashells, who became sick from the contaminated dust.’
‘That case was mentioned in the lab’s report,’ Caldwell said. ‘It said that even though the mussels were probably safe to eat in normal quantities, the shells concentrated the toxins found in the waters, and inhaling the dust got it straight into her lungs and bloodstream.’
‘That’s exactly the same, then.’
‘So there was no foul play; that was Winterflood’s conclusion,’ Caldwell said. ‘It was definitely suicide.’
‘Maybe it was, but it was triggered by the absence of her son, Alex Brown. And as far as I can see, there is nothing new on the case files about him. Has he been in contact?’
‘No, ma’am. The coroner is very disappointed, seeing as he’s next of kin.’
‘You are aware that his phone was in the UK when he was claiming to be in Morocco, aren’t you? He texted messages to us, saying he would be in contact on his return.’
‘Yes, but DCI Winterflood doesn’t think it’s significant.’
‘Really? You know that Alex Brown worked at Middlemoor as a temp in the office of the deputy chief constable?’
‘I had heard that, yes. I never met him.’
‘And he’s disappeared, Tim.’
‘Look, do you want to talk to Winterflood? He’s sitting right here.’
‘Yes, all right.’
The phone was passed over and Talantire heard the baritone rumble of the DCI’s voice. ‘What can I do you for, Jan?’
She laughed at the informality. ‘Look, Fred, I know I’m banging on about the same thing—’
‘—what a surprise—’
‘But I’d like to suggest to you that this whole case is completely the wrong way round.’
‘Go on then. Give us the Brent West angle, because I’m sure that’s where you’re heading.’
‘All right. You’re looking at the probable suicide of a woman, found washed up on the south coast of Devon, agreed?’
‘I’m with you so far.’
‘But as a result of our inquiries, we have discovered that her son’s unexplained and uncharacteristic absence, particularly over Christmas, may well have contributed to Ms Lezcano’s decision to take her own life.’
‘Possibly, yes.’
‘He claims to have been in Morocco, and we know his phone was there, for a while—’
‘—and he sent a postcard, which is in our possession,’ Winterflood added.
‘But he still claimed to be there in the last week, while the phone from which that message was sent was definitely in the UK.’
‘Jan, there are all sorts of reasons why the relatives of the dead may want to lie to us.’
‘I know, but Alex Brown was the original complainant who kiboshed Commander Brent West’s attempts to become chief constable of Devon and Cornwall.’
‘How on earth do you know that?’ Winterflood whispered. The change in noise indicated he had moved away from his desk. A door closed, and the background hubbub diminished. ‘That is information you should not have. Even I only got a glimpse of it. I’m not allowed to keep a record of it on the case file.’
‘I’m a detective, Fred. It’s my job to know these things, and I have impeccable sources.’
‘You found something at the flat, didn’t you?’
Talantire realised Winterflood was pretty shrewd.
‘No comment.’
‘You could be sacked for this, Jan. You know you are off the case. Final written warning and all that.’
‘I wasn’t off the case at the time when I was at the flat. You know, Fred, isn’t it funny how everybody seems to know what’s on my personnel file and yet I can’t find important information on anyone else’s file, even though it may be a murder.’
‘Jan, please. I’ve indulged you pretty well on this so far. You have a terrific reputation and your brain is second to none, but this obsessive hatred of Commander West is going to be the downfall of you, honestly. I’ve heard it from many sources that you’ll just stop at nothing—’
‘— what sources?’
‘You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine. But you won’t, of course—’
‘My source? Okay, I found a data stick in Alex Brown’s flat, detailing his complaint, mentioning Brent West was caught screwing a female officer on the chief constable’s desk, while wearing most of his full dress uniform, on an otherwise quiet Easter Sunday. Probably some juvenile dare.’
‘It was all made up, Jan. I shouldn’t tell you this, but as you are already a friend of Alex’s you will know—’
‘I’ve never met the guy!’
‘He said otherwise.’
‘It wasn’t him saying it, Fred, it was—’
‘Why this obsession, Jan? Look, whether you know it or not, Alex Brown is gay, and he made a pass at Commander West, who is, I think we can all admit, a very good-looking fellow. And when he was rejected, he took it out on the man by inventing this tale.’
‘That might be Brent West’s story but—’
‘It’s Alex’s story, Jan, not Commander West’s, though he did corroborate it. Alex himself told HR when he withdrew the complaint on September 12.’ Winterflood was speaking slowly, as if explaining to a petulant child why their upset was so unreasonable. It just inflamed her anger.
‘Fred, you’re not thinking this through. Brent West wrote Alex Brown’s apology and sent it from Alex’s phone, so he was corroborating his own story. That is not corroboration—’
‘How could—?’
‘Because I’m convinced Alex Brown is dead. Brent West murdered him, then electronically impersonated him, pretending to be in Morocco when he was back here in the UK.’
Winterflood laughed, softly but dismissively. ‘Brown’s phone was in Morocco, at least for a while. And explain the postcard, which we can prove has Alex’s signature, because I checked it myself, and also bears a bone fide Moroccan postmark. Answer me that, and then I’ll take it seriously. Against my better judgement, I’ll pretend this phone call never happened. Luckily for you, Wells won’t get to hear about it.’
He hung up.
Shit. She had said far more than she had intended to. As Winterflood had hinted, if he told Wells, she’d be fired. She emerged from the meeting room, feeling that all eyes were upon her. But in fact, it wasn’t true. Maddy Moran and Dave Nuttall were standing around a terminal talking earnestly to two uniformed PCs. They looked like they had far more important things on their mind.
‘What is it?’ she asked as she made her way across.
‘They found Nadine’s car, at Knighthayes Court, the National Trust place.’
‘Any sign of her?’
The two uniformed cops shook their heads gloomily.
‘Let’s go,’ Talantire said. ‘Right now.’
Chapter Twelve
Knighthayes Court was a grand Gothic Revival house standing in 262 acres of parkland just off the A361, a mile or so north of Tiverton. Talantire had passed fairly close by herself just yesterday, on the way to Exeter. Nadine’s Volkswagen was found away from the main car park, on a side road off the main driveway near a private cricket pavilion, which was closed for the winter. Talantire arrived as the back passenger with Maddy and Nuttall in the spare unmarked car, a Vauxhall estate. A steady rain beat down as Nuttall eased the car up towards the VW, next to which was a CSI van and three Tyvek-shrouded technicians working away on the outside of it. There were three patrol cars up near the main house, and they’d heard over the radio that a search of the grounds was being organised with the aid of National Trust volunteers.
