Stop Dead (24 page)

‘So what about the DNA?’ Geraldine prompted him.

‘Yes, I was coming to that. We found a strand of hair entangled in the victim’s watch strap.’

‘A shoulder-length dark hair?’ Sam said, her voice raised in excitement.

‘No, it was a shoulder-length blonde hair.’

Geraldine and Sam looked at one another in surprise.

‘Do you mean to say there are two women committing these murders?’ Sam asked.

‘That doesn’t necessarily follow,’ Geraldine pointed out, but she couldn’t conceal her dismay at this new twist in the case.

It was all becoming disturbingly complicated.

‘S
till no identification for the old man?’ Reg asked. ‘It’s over four hours since he was found.’

‘Four hours since he was found, but around sixteen hours since he was killed,’ Sam replied. ‘He was in the water all night but no one’s reported him missing yet.’

‘It’s only one night,’ the detective chief inspector pointed out. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s noticed yet.’

‘But an old bloke like that,’ Sam protested. ‘Wasn’t there anyone keeping an eye out for him? You’d think someone would have noticed when he didn’t go home last night.’

‘The divers are still out looking in case a wallet fell out when he went in the water, but they haven’t found anything yet,’ Geraldine told the detective chief inspector.

He gave her a worried frown.

‘It’s an expensive business searching underwater,’ he said tetchily. ‘And they could look for days without results if the contents of his pockets were carried further along with the current, or buried in sludge at the bottom. He was in the water overnight. Is it worth continuing with the search, I wonder? For all we know, this could have been a mugging that went wrong and all his possessions might have been taken before he went in the water. He wasn’t wearing a watch, was he?’

Geraldine realised the detective chief inspector was posing a series of rhetorical questions. It was hardly worth pointing out that muggers didn’t normally mutilate their victims’ genitals.

‘I’m going to call off the search,’ Reg said, suddenly decisive, then hesitated. ‘We’ll give it another twenty-four hours and then call it a day.’

‘Twenty-four hours is generally called a day,’ Sam pointed out with a grin.

Reg glared at the sergeant as he left the room and Geraldine couldn’t help laughing.

Later that morning a woman telephoned the station to report that her neighbour was missing. He was an elderly gentleman, she said, very small and quiet. Geraldine had nothing pressing on her desk so she went to question the concerned neighbour herself.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ she told the duty sergeant as she left the station, ‘but I might as well go and check it out, seeing as this is the only missing person whose description might possibly match the body that was fished out of the canal.’

Dudley Court was a depressing development of run-down concrete blocks off Dartmouth Park Road; a row of identical ugly constructions put up when high rise flats were seen as the answer to a spiralling housing shortage. One wilting tree grew in the corner of the estate in apologetic recognition that this dreary artificial zone was more than a hideous vision of the future, it was a fragment of a green planet. Having tracked down the right block in a maze of streets around Archway, Geraldine gave the foul-smelling lift a miss and chose instead to trudge up the stairs to look for Mrs Edie Foster on the third floor.

The interior of the block was as miserable as its façade, and she restrained a grimace at the greasy feel of the bell. A dog began yapping hysterically on the other side of the door while she waited. The door was opened by a rotund woman in her seventies who peered anxiously at Geraldine through thick lensed spectacles before issuing a shrill command to ‘Get back in here,’ as a bedraggled Yorkshire terrier rushed out to snuffle wetly at her ankles. The little terrier continued sniffing at Geraldine’s feet, its short tail wagging with excitement. The woman lunged forward and made a grab for the dog which slipped around behind Geraldine’s legs, growling softly. Geraldine held out her warrant card to introduce herself.

‘Come on in, then,’ the woman said, with a hurried glance along the corridor. ‘Only we’re not supposed to keep pets here. Everyone does of course, but it’s best not to advertise the fact. It’s against the rules – oh!’

She broke off, remembering who she was talking to.

‘It’s not like it’s against the law,’ she added, flustered, ‘it’s just the rules. But as long as he’s quiet – anyway, Toby’s not mine, he belongs to Maurice next door, my neighbour that’s gone missing. I phoned you about it. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

As she followed Mrs Foster into a tiny living room, Geraldine reassured her that she wasn’t calling about the dog, but in response to Mrs Foster’s report about her neighbour.

‘It’s his dog,’ the old woman repeated. ‘And that’s how I discovered he was missing. Poor Toby.’

She leant down to pat the little creature’s head and the dog twisted round to lick her fingers.

‘Toby never makes a sound, he’s a good boy, aren’t you, Toby? Yes, you are. But he’s been making a terrible racket all day, howling and yelping, so I knew something was up. I left it as long as I could bear it and then I went in to have a look, he was making such a din. I just knew something had happened.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘Me and Maurice, we’ve got the keys to each other’s flats. We’re not close, nothing like that – he’s a funny man, very private, very shy. But we keep each other’s keys, just in case. It’s so easy to lock yourself out, isn’t it? We’ve done it a few times, both of us, so it’s handy to be able to knock next door for the spare.’

Geraldine waited a moment while Mrs Foster patted the dog’s head and fussed over him.

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why I phoned you people.’

The old woman’s eyes opened wide as she described how she had gone in next door fully expecting to find her neighbour had passed away.

‘To tell you the truth, I was that relieved he wasn’t there, dead or dying. I was afraid I’d find him on the floor, you know, in a pool of blood or something, like you see on the telly. I mean, it could have been an intruder, couldn’t it? But he wasn’t there, only poor Toby going crazy all on his own. That’s how I knew something was wrong because Maurice would never have left Toby like that without food or water. Not in a million years. He loves Toby, doesn’t he? Yes he does.’

She bent forward to fondle the dog again.

Geraldine could have shown the old woman a photo of the body, but she decided not to tell the old woman the police suspected Maurice had been pulled out of the canal. Instead she asked for the key to the flat next door, hoping to find a photograph as a means of establishing whether the body found in the canal was indeed Maurice.

‘Do you think I ought to let you in there?’

‘I can call the station to send a couple of officers to break the door down if you prefer.’

‘Oh dear no. Wait a minute then, while I fetch the key.’

It was a depressing job searching the musty flat next door: a free standing wooden wardrobe stuffed with cardigans and jumpers, grimy bathroom, kitchen smelling of dog food, living room covered in a fine film of dust. She wished she had brought Sam with her for company. Hidden in a drawer she found proof of the dead man’s identity: his face gazing stoically up at her from a small framed photograph. She found no evidence of alcohol anywhere in the flat.

W
hen she called the police station on Friday morning Amy learned from the desk sergeant that Guy had been released the previous day. Although pleased, she was nevertheless upset that he hadn’t been in touch with her as soon as he had left the police station. She went straight home to check the answer phone machine on her landline, though Guy always called her mobile. There were no messages. Puzzled, she keyed in his number on her mobile.

‘This is Guy. I can’t speak right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’

The normality of his tone was reassuring, but she needed to know where he was. She punched the number in again and then again, although it was pointless; each time she heard the same message after the beep.

‘Where are you?’ she asked out loud.

With gnawing unease she ran out to her car and drove to Guy’s flat. If he was there she should be with him, like old times, before all the problems that had beset them since Patrick’s death. She drove fast, swearing at a red light, unbearably impatient now that she had decided to go to him. She knew that once he saw her, he would stop being angry with her.

The door creaked open. A wiry little man peered at her from beneath a straw coloured fringe.

‘I’m looking for Guy,’ she blurted out.

‘You’re looking for a guy?’ the man repeated.

He looked her up and down before shaking his head. He looked wary.

‘Sorry, love, not interested.’

Amy felt her face burn.

‘No, you don’t understand.’

She felt close to tears.

‘I’m looking for someone whose name is Guy. He lives here.’

‘Alright, love, keep your hair on. I was pulling your leg. I can see you’re not on the game, at your age. Now, who was it you were after?’

Forcing herself to speak calmly, Amy repeated that she was looking for Guy.

‘He’s a friend of mine, a close friend.’

The man shook his head.

‘Sorry, love, you’re too late.’

‘Too late? What do you mean? Where’s Guy?’

She should have realised something terrible had happened when he hadn’t been in touch or answered his phone.

‘He’s not here any more. He moved out,’ the man explained.

He started to close the door.

‘Moved out?’

‘Yes. He’d been in some sort of trouble with the police from what I heard. Anyway, he scarpered without giving notice. Left a load of gear here as well. I only moved in here yesterday. It was all a bit sudden, but the room came up and I was desperate and here I am. So it worked out well in the end.’

He grinned at her.

‘You missed him. Isn’t that just typical?’

‘Where did he go?’

‘How would I know? I’d have thought you’d know that, seeing as you’re close friends.’

He spoke the last two words with a sneer and Amy felt herself blush.

As the door shut, she stared at the familiar peeling paintwork on the front door, fighting back tears of frustration. A horrible sick feeling clutched at her guts, like a parasite sucking her energy. Panicking, she drove home and ran through the house to Patrick’s study. She hesitated before opening the door to what had been her husband’s private space. She hadn’t been in there since his death, had hardly ever gone in there when he was alive. Only the police had been there, looking through his papers. Entering, she thought she caught a faint whiff of Patrick’s aftershave and felt the breath catch at the back of her throat. She wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible.

To her relief she discovered the household files all neatly organised and she found what she wanted in a box file labelled Maintenance: a series of invoices from Winhold and Co, the firm which had constructed their conservatory three years earlier. Pleased that Patrick had kept the relevant documents, she jotted down the address and phone number of the firm which employed Guy. He might want to avoid her after all that had happened, but she knew he would change his attitude once he saw her again. He had to. He couldn’t abandon her now.

To begin with, the receptionist at the building firm where Guy worked didn’t understand Amy’s request. Her pencilled eyebrows frowned elegantly.

‘If you have a complaint against one of our employees, it’s Mr Furrows you need to speak to. He’s out on a job at the moment but he should be in later. If you’d like to leave your number, I’ll see he gets the message –’

Amy interrupted impatiently to explain that she didn’t want to lodge a complaint against Guy. She just needed to speak to him.

The receptionist looked edgy. Tapping the end of her biro on her cluttered desk, she gave a forced smile.

‘I’m afraid we don’t give out personal details of our employees to –’

She paused and stared at Amy, one eyebrow raised as though questioning her motives for wanting to know the whereabouts of the young builder.

‘He’s a friend … ’ Amy stammered, ‘I just need to see him. Surely there’s no reason why you can’t tell me where he’s working. I’m not asking for private information. He’s – he’s a family friend. ’

The receptionist tapped her biro more rapidly on the table and here eyes flicked sideways to a white board on the wall. Amy followed her gaze.

‘It’s not really for me to deal with this – if you can wait until Mr Furrows comes in …’

Amy adopted an authoritative tone with the young woman.

‘I’m afraid this can’t wait.’

‘I’m sorry, madam, but I really have to check with Mr Furrows. I can try and contact him?’

As the receptionist turned to her phone Amy glanced over at the white board, scanning down a list of names until she saw Barrett, the third name under a heading White House Hotel. Without another word she turned and hurried away.

Guy cringed when he saw Amy walk through the door. For an instant he considered blanking her, but he knew he could never carry it off. She might get hysterical, which would be even more embarrassing than if he just talked to her. He would get rid of her as quickly as he could and then wing it with his workmates; he would never live it down if they discovered the truth. He was rehearsing what he was going to say when Amy rushed at him, tears in her eyes. His fleeting sympathy was choked by anger that she had tracked him down to confront him in front of his mates.

She looked a sight, her eyes puffy, her hair a mess; even her lipstick looked ugly. She seemed to have aged in the few days since he had seen her. He couldn’t believe he had once been so infatuated with her.

‘Guy!’

She made no attempt to speak quietly so he seized her by the elbow and propelled her back through the open doorway into the hotel foyer where he led her into a shadowy corner, away from public scrunity.