An Early Grave Read online

  ‘She helped bring closure to the case?’

  ‘She helped confirm our thinking that Crawley was trying to fit Callum Armour for the murder. We believe also that Debbie was responsible, in the first instance, for contacting the police about the killing. If you remember we received an anonymous call.’

  ‘What about these people who were making films?’

  Only a man like Tweedy could make it sound such an innocent pursuit, she thought.

  ‘One of the two men is Teodor Sokolowski, the owner of the house. The Lithuanian girls told us that he owns several across Merseyside. Rents them to migrant workers, usually girls; and he uses that as a platform for recruiting prostitutes and girls who are willing to participate in adult films.’

  ‘Have you spoken with these men?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Murray. ‘They high-tailed it back to Poland as soon as they heard of the murder. We’re making contact with the Polish authorities to have them arrested. Although they’re not implicated in the murder they have some explaining to do of their activities.’

  ‘And the two girls?’

  ‘Terribly frightened by the experience,’ said Tara. ‘They were not surprised that Crawley was responsible for Audra’s death, but they didn’t speak out for fear of what Sokolowski might do. They couldn’t draw attention to his operation.’

  ‘Audra had marks on her chest, a word of some kind?’

  ‘Crawley’s work, sir. Kurwa is a Polish word meaning whore. Ruta Mankus told me the men said it a lot to the girls during the filming. It became a play word. Apparently Crawley asked what it meant, and he began using it. All of them thought it was funny.’

  ‘So he burnt that word into the girl’s flesh to shift the blame for the killing towards the Poles?’

  ‘Exactly. I called Debbie after Crawley folded. She told me that when she followed him into the house he was using a cigarette to brand the word on Audra’s chest.’

  ‘Terrible business,’ said Tweedy, shaking his head and closing his eyes to shut out the disturbing vision.

  Tara and Murray spent the rest of the day preparing formal statements, firstly from Mark Crawley in the presence of a solicitor. A night in a cell helped cultivate an attitude of remorse, and he didn’t argue much over the content of his statement. The girls, Ruta Mankus and Laima Gabrys, had been allowed home the previous evening, but instructed to return, after a night’s rest, to make their statements. When it came to Callum’s statement, at Tara’s request, she and Murray worked together. They included the final piece of information Callum had revealed, that he’d witnessed Crawley’s coming and going from the house and Debbie’s involvement in the early hours of the morning. It helped Tara confirm the sequence of events she’d put to Crawley, but it continued to rankle that Callum could have saved her days of trouble if only he’d been forthcoming when they’d first met. She realised, of course, he’d used his knowledge to bargain a favour, and she had acquiesced. This morning, seated opposite his drawn face, not well-rested after a second night in a cell, she wanted nothing more than to be well rid of his scheme and his theories. When they finished with the statement, she told him he was free to go. He knew better than to raise the topic of his private sojourn to find his wife’s killer.

  *

  Aisling threw her arms around her in the middle of Liverpool One, dozens of shoppers and workers looking on as they tried to reach the escalator.

  ‘We were so worried about you, luv,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been fine, honestly.’ Kate took her turn with the hugging, then kissing Tara on both cheeks.

  Still holding her, she said, ‘You are not good at keeping in touch these days, especially when you promised.’

  ‘Sorry about that. Things got a bit hectic, but I was always safe. I can take care of myself, you know?’

  Aisling didn’t look convinced.

  ‘When are you going to pack it in, Tara?’ she said as they stepped onto the upward escalator. It was a timely opportunity for a non-reply. She didn’t need a lecture, not after the last few days. The three of them were out for pizza and then to the cinema. The subject of work, as far as she was concerned, had already been exhausted. She was determined to enjoy herself.

  ‘What film are we going to see?’ she asked. The shopping centre had become a handy and favourite place for all of them. Aisling was easily parted from her money in House of Fraser, Harvey Nichols or Ernest Jones. Kate and Tara tended to browse rather than buy, but it was an entertainment to watch Aisling pontificate over a new dress, to try it on, decide it didn’t fit, then decide it did, but she didn’t look right in it, to replace it on the rack, move to another and repeat the process. She could walk away from three or four dresses and coats feeling pleased that she hadn’t succumbed. Kate and Tara knew she would return a day later and buy the lot.

  ‘It’s for my work,’ she would say. ‘You girls are lucky not having to worry about what to wear every day. I can’t turn up at a reception or go to a hotel to meet some gorgeous celeb dressed like shit.’

  ‘Has to be something funny,’ said Kate. ‘It’s been a helluva day; I don’t want to see anything violent or anything sad.’

  ‘I’m with you, Kate,’ said Tara. Aisling was already knitting her eyebrows.

  ‘Doesn’t leave us much,’ she said.

  They consulted the listings at the cinema before heading to the restaurant. A romantic comedy was the obvious choice, Aisling out-voted. They looked a dysfunctional trio entering the restaurant. Tara, as usual, had shown up in working clothes. Kate, orange hair fading to light brown, had managed a quick change from hospital fatigues to a striped jumper, stretch jeans and brown ankle boots, which left Aisling to shine in a long-sleeved, stretch-dress well short of her knees and a pair of high and shiny black heels.

  Tara realised from the moment she sat down to dinner that she wouldn’t get through the evening without giving a run-down on her travels to London. Relieved that the investigation into the murder of Audra Bagdonas was largely complete, and telling herself she would have no further dealings with Callum Armour, she related the entire story of the mysterious deaths of the Latimer College alumni. Reaching the end, or at least the point where matters now stood, she was amazed to find that Aisling was most intrigued and not prepared to let the matter rest. So much for her habitual concern that Tara was not cut out for police work, and should be looking for an alternative career that would bring her happiness and a rich husband. Kate was just as bad, the pair of them taking turns to guess the identity of the killer, like they were playing Cluedo.

  ‘Well, I think it’s that Egerton-Hyde fella,’ said Aisling, taking her last mouthful of linguini. ‘Doesn’t want to be exposed as gay and he married to Georgina Maitland. What did she ever see in him, anyway? The cream of the British aristocracy, rich and thick. It’s all that in-breeding you know. Besides, you can’t trust politicians.’

  ‘No, it’s not him,’ said Kate. ‘I would say the one who has the quiet girlfriend, what’s his name?’

  ‘Ollie Rutherford?’ Tara replied incredulously, taking a substantial gulp of rosé and regretting what she’d started. She hadn’t really considered Rutherford as the killer. Perhaps he did have something against the others.

  ‘It’s always the quiet one, isn’t it?’ said Kate.

  ‘But what motive could he have?’ Aisling replied.

  ‘I don’t know; maybe he’s mixed up in shady business deals. Maybe he holds a grudge for something. What do you think, Tara? You’re the bizee.’

  ‘Sssh!’ said Aisling. ‘There’re bad people about this city you know. You don’t go advertising the fact that you’re a cop.’

  ‘Thanks, Aisling,’ said Tara, ‘But most of the restaurant just heard what you said, never mind Kate.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate. ‘At least I said it quietly.’

  ‘Tell us anyway, Tara. Who do you think killed all those people?’

  Tara shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know, and
to tell you the truth I don’t care. It’s over for me anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you want to find out who did it?’ said Aisling. ‘If it was me, I wouldn’t settle until I found the answer.’

  Tara glared at her friend. She felt weary from a discussion that would achieve nothing.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ she said. ‘Telling me to get out of the police, and now you want me to solve a crime just to see if you guessed it right. It’s not my patch; it’s not my job. You want to find out who the killer is? You go and play with Callum Armour. I’ve had my fill of him.’

  Aisling stared open-mouthed, unable to speak.

  ‘It’s all right, Tara, don’t upset yourself,’ said Kate, placing her hand on Tara’s.

  ‘I’m not upset. I just wish you wouldn’t keep on about it.’

  Aisling found her voice.

  ‘Tara, I know you’ve had a hard time of it, luv, but don’t take it out on us. We’re your best friends. We thought making light of things would help you get over them. If you want our help we’re here for you. But it seems to me this guy Callum has affected you in some way.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The way you talk about him. I know you’re angry with him for not telling you things, but your eyes light up every time you mention his name.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Aisling.’

  ‘I know you well enough by now, Tara. You haven’t finished with him. Not by a long way.’

  CHAPTER 42

  He made his own way home on the bus. Tara didn’t offer him a lift. She never even said goodbye. As far as she was concerned the previous three days didn’t happen. And where did that leave him? Exactly the same place he was before they met.

  ‘You been away, Callum?’ said Billy Hughes, on his doorstep smoking a fag.

  ‘London for a couple of days.’

  ‘Missed all the fun round here, mate. That young gobshite Crawley was the one that killed the girl. And him gonna be a dad.’ Billy shook his head. ‘Crazy people round here.’

  Callum smiled weakly and slipped his key into the lock. Billy stood watching, his gut poking out from under a faded T-shirt. He exaggerated his glance upwards at Callum’s window screens.

  ‘See those screens? You can probably take ‘em down now that dickhead’s inside for murder.’

  Callum paid him the courtesy of looking up also, but tearing down the screens was hardly top of his list of things to do. He stepped inside, closing the door as his neighbour paddled down the path to toss his fag butt into the road.

  The house was quiet as it should be, but he found it unnerving. Moving from room to room all he saw was Charlotte with a knife in her heart. He wracked his brain for a theory to account for the deaths of his friends. And why not him? If Kingsley were to blame, why hadn’t he come for him? Why wasn’t he lurking in a bedroom or keeping watch on the house from across the road? Nothing made sense. Tara may have learned a lot more about the people who were dead, about Tilly, having met her parents, about Justin, having encountered his father, Georgina, Ollie and Anthony. But he had gained nothing. None the wiser. All he’d done was accompany a stroppy policewoman on a journey through England, through his life, and it ended with him losing another friend. Tara got what she wanted. She had eventually coaxed the story of Audra out of him. She had found her killer; he’d got nothing.

  He needed food in the house, the bare essentials for living: milk, bread, butter and tea. Some beer, maybe. For now, he saw nothing beyond the accomplishment of that task. Decisions on his future were for later. Climbing the stairs, he went to the bathroom and opened the door of the hot press. Inside, concealed by a couple of well-worn towels sat a Victoria Biscuit tin. He lifted it out and dropped to his knees, placing the tin on the floor. He had no idea how much cash was packed inside, but this was how he did his banking. There were half a dozen tightly rolled packs of notes: tens and twenties and several cheques, un-cashed, royalty payments from Tilly’s books. From a loose bundle of fives, tens and twenties, he pulled out a twenty and replaced the lid. A Chinese takeaway might just hit the spot. He replaced the tin in the hot press and went downstairs. As he opened the front door it slid over the mail he hadn’t bothered to lift earlier when he arrived home. He stepped outside, pulling the door hard behind him. Among the letters on the hall floor: one from the council, a gas bill, an invitation to sign up for a new credit card and notice of a clothes collection for a cancer charity, lay a booklet in a polythene package, the latest edition of the Oxford Alumni magazine.

  *

  Tara scarcely lifted her head all morning. It was one thing bringing a case to a close in the practical and verbal sense, it was quite another unenviable task to make sense of it all in writing. She thought if she immersed herself in the business of detective policing and only in the area relevant to her unit, her station, to the Merseyside Police, it would suppress the irritation of how matters were left with Callum Armour. Superintendent Tweedy, at the conclusion of their meeting the day before, had inquired of the scene she and Callum stumbled upon in Oxford. He spoke out of genuine concern, she felt, but offered no suggestions on a course of action, nor did he reprimand her over her relationship with a man, who had been a suspect in the murder of Audra Bagdonas. Kate and Aisling’s attitude surprised her. They saw something in her relationship with Callum that she hadn’t seen or, if she was honest, had tried to ignore. She thought she was helping him. He played his bargaining game, but in the end she got the truth about Audra, and he was no closer to finding his wife’s killer. Somehow, from her explanation to Kate and Aisling, the pair of them decided she had a thing for Callum. She helped him, because, deep down, she wanted him.

  At lunchtime she went out on invitation from Murray. Not a celebration, but a sort of wrapping up of one case before the next would, all too soon, swirl around them like an incoming tide. They drove out to Sefton village, to the same pub where she’d taken Callum two weeks earlier. It was nearly three when they got back to the station, and Tara having enjoyed the food and, surprisingly, Murray’s company, felt quite relaxed. The feeling of being at ease for the first time in weeks very soon evaporated. Waiting for her in reception was Callum Armour.

  Murray had the good sense to leave them alone but, before taking to the stairs, he cast an icy glare at the dishevelled creature. Callum, too, had the good sense to wait until Murray departed. Tara waited also. She intended to play it cool with him. Treat him courteously in a professional manner. She could hide her true feelings from him with an un-smiling expression, but she couldn’t hide them from herself. She felt a rise in her tummy, the sensation you get when a lift descends suddenly. She was pleased to see him.

  ‘How can I help you, Callum?’

  He had difficulty suppressing his excitement. Realising she had every right to send him packing after the way he manipulated her case to suit his own ends, he had planned to apologise first then ask after her well-being. Instead, he gushed what he had really come to say. The dark stubble would soon be a beard once again, his two-week-old clothes, in need of washing, looking no better now than the decrepit jogging trousers and soiled T-shirts. His breath reeked once again of garlic and cheap lager. He reached her the latest Oxford Alumni magazine.

  ‘Take a look at this,’ he said.

  Feigning indifference, she accepted the magazine and began leafing through it in a cursory manner.

  ‘Centre pages,’ he said, urgently.

  She opened up at the centre, but he didn’t give her the chance to read.

  ‘The Annual Alumni Reunion. Third weekend in September. In Oxford.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Look who’s invited to Latimer as the guest speakers.’

  She skimmed through the first column of the article.

  ‘Anthony Egerton-Hyde and Georgina Maitland,’ he said, gleefully.

  She read the legend beneath the photograph of the couple.

  ‘Two of Latimer College’s alumni successes of the last decade, Anthony Egerton-H
yde and Georgina Maitland. The husband and wife team will share some of the secrets of their amazing rise to prominence in British public life.’

  She handed back the magazine, but said nothing.

  ‘Don’t you realise what this means?’ said Callum, brandishing the open pages. ‘We need to go there, Tara. Kingsley won’t miss out on the opportunity. If we show up and I convince Ollie to go along then all the survivors from our circle of friends will be there. It’s our best chance to corner Justin and get to the truth.’

  ‘It’s not my business, Callum,’ she replied, walking to the stairs.

  ‘What? You want to find the killer, don’t you? You’re the detective.’

  She returned to face him. The airy feeling in her tummy had flown, replaced, once more, by a fiery temper.

  ‘Firstly, it’s not my business. Secondly, it’s no concern for Merseyside Police. They pay my wages. It’s not on my patch; I’m not interested, and most importantly, even if I was, I know from experience that I can’t trust you.’

  ‘But I can’t do it on my own.’

  ‘Can’t trust you, Callum.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry for the way I acted, but you would never have helped me, you would never have given the slightest thought to my problem if I had told you everything from the start. You’d have got your murderer, and I’d still be languishing in that damned house of mine.’ He looked sincerely into her eyes, the last point of appeal. It hung between them for a moment until her head began to shake from side to side.

  ‘No, Callum. I gave you every chance to tell me all you knew. It wasn’t simply about Audra’s murder. You neglected to tell me about Peter Ramsey’s relationship with Egerton-Hyde; you didn’t mention Tilly and Justin having been a couple, and the best one of all you thought it irrelevant that you’d shared a bed with Georgina. You decided that this case, these murders, are all down to Kingsley and his disappearance, but there are secrets remaining, Callum, and they all seem to point to this band of people. Anyone of them could be the killer, and I’m afraid that I include you in the list.’