An Early Grave Page 8

  ‘It’s all right, Callum. Go back inside. This young man was just leaving.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Either that or I have your friend’s car lifted for no tax. I’d reckon no insurance as well. If you like I can have it searched for blow or amp. How about possession of stolen property?’ She indicated the mobile phone in his hand. A pure guess.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, luv.’ With that he backed away as Callum continued to look on.

  ‘If you remember anything about the people using that house, you can let me know, girls.’ She handed her card to the pregnant girl then turned to her car, giving a faint grin of acknowledgment to Callum. The Everton shirt held his phone in the air and called out.

  ‘Hey cop.’ When she turned around he snapped her picture. ‘Something to look at when I go home.’ He mimed a wank which drew laughter from the others.

  Callum waited until she had driven off, but the attention of the Everton shirt was swiftly re-focussed upon him.

  ‘You know what happens to touts round here, Stinker?’

  Callum turned away, no stomach for a fight.

  ‘And paedos,’ said the boy on the bike, evidently feeling a tad braver. As Callum reached his door the Everton shirt stepped into the garden aiming his mobile. Callum slammed the door, but the youth already had the picture.

  CHAPTER 12

  The water was hot, hotter than she usually could bear. Tonight she needed it that way. She needed to wash, if it were possible, a whole day down the drain. The home of Callum Armour clung to her clothes, soiling them. The smell of old air, never replaced, never freshened, had penetrated her jacket, her blouse and trousers. Dog hairs had woven their way into the cloth and Callum’s stale breath into her hair. She had to wash his house, the street, Treadwater Estate from her body. Such menace in those kids, the threat of harm and pain seeping from their attitude, she knew she could never belong there, and would never wish to do so. Was it merely her unease at driving alone into an area so alien to her own? She worked the shower gel into a lather, spreading the soap from her shoulders and breasts down her stomach, across her lower back, between her legs and between each toe. Then she stood rigid for several minutes, allowing the jets to flush it all away. An hour had passed since leaving the house, and still she trembled. Most of her anguish was down to that thoroughly nasty kid. At some point in his life someone had taught him to speak his foul language, to act like he had a certain nobility, a guardian of his territory, and yet she wondered if he spoke to his friends or his family in the same manner. Those young girls in his company, were they really impressed that he spoke to a woman, a woman he didn’t know, with such utter bile and contempt? Did they look up to him? Despite the antics of the lout she realised, stepping from the shower cubicle and reaching for a towel, that her shaking was also attributable to the behaviour of Callum Armour. How long did he think she would put up with his antics? What exactly was he expecting from her? That she would drop everything and get justice for all the wrong in his life? Find this Kingsley and pin the deaths of four people on him? And while she was busy doing that Callum Armour could swan about the place ignoring the fact that he had information on the girl murdered on his estate? Were there any decent people left in this city? Someone with respect for the police, appreciative of their efforts to find those who perpetrated the vilest of crimes and to bring them to justice? Wrapping the towel around her almost twice, because there wasn’t much of her, as her mother often said, she padded into her bedroom pondering what she could do to unwind. She dried her hair with a hand towel but didn’t feel like plugging in the dryer and straighteners. If she left it as it was, by morning it would be declared a disaster area. Despite her tiredness, she reckoned it would be a while before she could settle down to sleep. She pulled a pink T-shirt-style nightdress and a pair of panties from a chest of drawers. When she was dry she put them on, brushed her hair and gathered the dirty clothes littering the floor. Her blouse and suit she dropped straight into the laundry basket, noting that the trousers and jacket required dry-cleaning. As she retrieved her bra and panties from the bathroom she recalled the face of Georgina Maitland from Callum’s photograph and examined the label on the back strap of the bra. Georgina, certainly not a cheap brand, it carried that notion of exclusivity, worn by the rich and famous, and yet affordable to the masses. She would enjoy telling Kate and Aisling of her connection to such fame. It would annoy the hell out of Aisling, she always bragging of her rubbing noses with celebs.

  A mug of Chai tea and two rounds of toasted granary bread, a tomato sliced on top, was her treat for the evening. Legs folded beneath her on her oh so comfy sofa, she channel hopped the TV unable to settle on something decent, something worthwhile to watch. Ignoring a plethora of police drama, brimming with smart cops deciphering obscure leads as people were murdered in a stunning village, or an Oxford College, and finding the answer as the killer was about to strike again, she settled on a cookery channel. Within seconds she felt hungry again and fetched a packet of cheese and onion crisps from the larder. She followed the crisps with a carton of strawberry yogurt, noting by the meagre contents of her fridge that she needed to do a shop before Kate and Aisling came the following night. Ten o’clock and that was her evening. She wondered if life could improve for her. Did she have prospects? Job prospects? Men prospects? Family? Or was this it? Twenty-seven, alone, tired and anxious of what her days might hold in store. She found a channel with re-runs of American sit-coms, something with laughter as she fought to erase unpleasant visions. Uppermost in her mind, the word kurwa burned into the white flesh of a young girl, seemingly unloved by anyone or, at least, unmissed. Most of the night she spent on the sofa, dozing, turning over, wincing from the crick in her neck, and pins and needles in her hands, until she realised this wasn’t her bed and finally crawled to the comfort of pillows and duvet.

  *

  ‘Morning, Alan. How did you get on with the porn movies?’ She spoke loudly, deliberately so. The heads of fellow officers and clerical staff turned to gaze upon the blushing face of DS Murray. He cleared his throat. She prolonged her satisfied grin.

  ‘So so,’ he replied, feigning a search of his desk. She knew he would have something for her. He was good at his job despite the odd hot-headed lapse. He handed her a sheet of A4. ‘A list of known exponents in the field of adult film making on Merseyside.’

  There were only seven names on the paper, but it was a start. She’d already decided not to divulge the girl’s name, or any of the information Callum had provided the night before. She wanted to avoid further rash questioning sessions that ended with a scolding, however subtle and veiled, from Superintendent Tweedy. Instead, she would issue a few instructions based on her latest knowledge.

  ‘I won’t hold you back,’ she said to Murray. ‘I’m sure you’re keen to follow up on the names.’

  Murray shrugged his compliance.

  ‘While you’re at it, I want you to make contact with immigrant community groups dealing with Lithuanians.’

  ‘I thought you did that yesterday?’

  ‘That was the Polish community. I think we should spread it out. We have no positive ID on the girl, although it seems likely that she is an immigrant. Just as likely to be Lithuanian as Polish.’

  ‘Or Romanian, or Latvian, Estonian, Bulgarian.’

  ‘Now you’re getting it,’ she said, walking off then turning round once more. ‘Although I’d put money on her being Lithuanian. And don’t forget to go see that letting agent about the house. They need to confirm that Teodor Sokolowski is the owner. And find out who is currently renting the place. A list of previous occupants would be useful, too.’ By the time she’d finished, she’d reached her own desk.

  The remainder of her day she spent going through what meagre evidence they had so far gathered on the girl found dead on the Treadwater estate. She found it difficult to keep thoughts of Callum Armour and his theories from interfering with her work. Very soon she
’d embarked on outlandish theories of her own, theories of connections and coincidences. Callum had suffered terrible loss, and yet now he found himself central to a murder investigation. An alumnus of Latimer College, he was faced with an investigating officer who was also an alumnae of the same college. She found difficulty in dismissing the situation from her thoughts.

  Before heading home she drove to the Liverpool One shopping mall. In WH Smiths, she went to the children’s section and quickly located two of the three novels Tilly Reason had published before her death. A fourth novel had been published posthumously. She was interested in the girl who had once been a student at her old College only four years before her. Reading something of Tilly’s might help her understand what Tilly had shared with Callum and why he was so utterly destroyed by her death.

  Both books had more than four hundred pages with a similar style cover to those of the Harry Potter stories. There was a feeling from the layout of the blurb on the back cover that these books were aimed at a similar readership.

  First Form Time Traveller’s Club was the title of one, The Clock-tower, the title of the other. The short paragraphs written on the back of The Clock-tower indicated that this was the second book in the series. Some of the review tags hailed Tilly Reason as a new dawn in children’s writing, the books for the enjoyment of kids of all ages, even Mums and Dads. Tara paid for both at the cash-desk then hurried round to Marks and Spencer’s Food Hall with a mental list of goodies to buy for her night in with the girls.

  Home for Tara was a top floor apartment on the South Quay of Wapping Dock, in the re-developed Mersey docklands. A fashionable, historic block of brown bricks, it at least provided a view across the river. The apartment had cost her, but it was her one indulgence since leaving Oxford, her one treat paid for by her life as a Detective Inspector. With a recent decline in property values, however, she found herself in negative equity. Just as well she wasn’t planning to move out in the near future. Each of the river-facing apartments had a small balcony, designed optimistically to enjoy pleasant summer days spent watching the ships sliding to and from the docks in Birkenhead and the crowds milling to and from The Echo Arena. In three years of living there, Tara reckoned she’d spent no more than half a dozen balmy days gazing from her open window, sipping a Zinfandel and reading Sophie Kinsella. Apart from the noise of city traffic it was peaceful here. She couldn’t argue with that, although, relaxing on her sofa in front of her forty-two inch flat screen, she could be anywhere in the world. Across the river from where she was raised and yet she remained within touching distance of her mother, father and two older brothers. Whenever she decided to come back to Merseyside after Oxford she’d told herself that it would be different. Nothing wrong with Liverpool, and she would defend it to the hilt, but her life had moved on when she made it to Oxford. Coming home didn’t have to be a backward step. Becoming a police woman, and her in possession of a law degree from one of the most prestigious institutions in the world, was not a backward step. She couldn’t face a life of corporate law. Contracts, business and finance agreements in the city were not for her, no matter what it paid. Sometimes though, she did wonder how things would have turned out if she had taken that route.

  She threw open the double doors onto the balcony in hope, if nothing else, that the rain would stay away, and maybe the sky would clear and the three of them could watch the sun going down. Ditching the black suit on her bed, she made a quick change into a royal blue vest, denim shorts and a pair of flip flops. May as well get into a holiday frame of mind. She placed four bottles of wine into the fridge: two sparkling rosé and two Chardonnay. Several cans of lager remained from their last girl’s night four months ago. She didn’t drink much beer. Half a dozen cheeses, bought from M&S, she placed on a chopping board and set them aside to come to room temperature. She opened a packet of mixed crackers and laid them on a plate. From two carrier bags, she removed a selection of spicy finger-food: onion bhajees, samosas, butterfly prawns with sweet chilli sauce, chicken goujons, mini pizzas, salami, pepperoni, tortilla chips, sour cream, salsa and breadsticks. She always bought too much for them to eat. The food that required heating she placed on baking trays, ready to pop in the oven when the girls arrived. She realised that Kate would probably double up on the food she’d just bought and top it off with ice cream and Pavlova. Aisling, of course, would add considerably to the wine in the fridge. The three of them always went overboard. Always had. Finally, before going for a shower, she did a quick browse on her iPod, set it to shuffle songs and placed it in the dock. Take That and Shine killed the silence, purging her living room of its emptiness as she headed to the bathroom.

  Tara was surprised, when she opened her door to Kate, to see the orange hair still present. Usually, Kate wouldn’t let something quite so loud continue for more than a couple of days. It was all the more striking against the blue nurses’ uniform.

  ‘I came straight from work,’ she said, a Bag for Life in each hand. ‘Thought I could change here before Aisling sees me. You know what she’s like about depressing clothes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. Look at the state of me.’ After her shower Tara had pulled on the same vest and shorts. Her apartment still felt warm and stuffy despite the doors open onto the balcony. She poured two glasses of sparkling rosé and carried them out to the table, while Kate showered and changed.

  ‘That feels much better,’ Kate said, emerging in a pair of fawn leggings and a flowery print smock. She held one of the Tilly Reason novels in her hand. ‘You reading this? I saw it on your bed.’

  ‘Only bought it this afternoon.’ Tara handed her friend a glass of wine as she joined her on the balcony.

  ‘Our Yvonne loved this one. I think there were three or four in the series.’

  Tara pictured Kate’s youngest sister, a rather introverted teenager who devoured books and DVDs with equal passion and fervour.

  ‘Don’t really know why I bought them. It sort of has a connection to a case I’m working on.’

  ‘Tilly Reason,’ said Kate, reading the back cover. ‘She was killed in a car accident or something. I remember Yvonne talking about it. She reckoned the books were going to be huge, but nothing ever came of it. I suppose maybe her family didn’t want all the fuss after she died.’

  A fair point, thought Tara as she considered sharing some details of Callum Armour with her friend. Before she had the chance, her door buzzer sounded, long and deliberate.

  ‘That’ll be our darling Aisling,’ said Kate, taking a hefty gulp of wine.

  ‘Deep breaths,’ said Tara, making for the door.

  ‘Start without me?’ said Aisling, bounding in, dropping bags to the floor, clasping Tara by the arms and placing a smacking kiss on each cheek.

  ‘First drink of the day,’ said Tara.

  ‘That’s the God’s honest truth,’ Kate called from the balcony, holding her half empty glass aloft for Aisling to see.

  ‘Kate, be a love and pop down to the motor for me. I couldn’t manage the wine, not in these heels.’ Tara glanced at the shoes. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘They are high,’ said Tara, still gazing at the patent leather open-back shoes in black, orange and bronze.

  ‘It’s a wonder you can walk in them at all,’ said Kate. Aisling was not to be put off.

  ‘Alberto Guardiani, a snip at three hundred.’

  ‘You’re joking?’ said Kate, heading out the door and making for the lift. ‘More money than sense, Aisling luv.’

  ‘Have you been to work in those?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Bought them at lunchtime. I’ve been sitting at my desk all afternoon. But wait till you see what I’ve got for you. I think it’s perfect.’

  When Kate re-appeared with two heavy looking carrier bags and clinking bottles, Tara was already modelling a purple satin dress, string shoulder straps, cinched at the waist and revealing lots of leg. Aisling beamed at her purchase.

  ‘What do you think, Kate? Our Tara won’t have any bothe
r pulling them wearing this. Couldn’t resist it. All you need now is a decent pair of heels.’

  ‘You mean, like the shoes I got her?’ said Kate with a wide smile.

  ‘What are you pair up to?’ said Tara.

  ‘We both think you’re spending far too much time in black trousers,’ said Aisling. ‘You’ll turn into a fella if you’re not careful.’

  Kate produced the taupe shoes with lofty heels, and Tara had little choice but to slip them on. The slim design complimented her tiny feet and slender ankles.

  ‘Kate, that’s far too much to spend on me. There’s no need. I’m not poor, you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, they’re not Guardiani. Not that I didn’t see the perfect pair for you. We can go shopping tomorrow if you like?’

  ‘Thank you both, very much. I don’t deserve you two, really I don’t.’

  ‘Now you can impress that new man of yours,’ said Aisling.

  ‘What man?’ Tara was incredulous.

  ‘The one you couldn’t stop thinking about the other night.’

  ‘That was a case, Aisling. I was thinking about a case. He’s not my fella.’ Kate laughed. Tara wasn’t sure if she was laughing at her or at Aisling for being so presumptuous.

  ‘Worth a try, I suppose,’ said Aisling. ‘Time I had a drink.’

  A couple of hours later the three of them sought a warmer refuge in the lounge after sitting on the balcony waiting in vain for the sun to appear from behind heavy clouds so they could watch it set. They’d eaten far too much and now were well on the way to achieving a balanced diet by drinking too much also.

  Tara stopped the iPod before it finished a piece from the musical Songs for a New World. She lost a vote, two-to-one, in favour of a girlie flick, the choice already narrowed to The Holiday or Leap Year. Since she’d lost the vote, she let Kate and Aisling argue over it. Having placed her gifts carefully in her bedroom, Tara had earlier returned to the comfort of her shorts and vest. Aisling and Kate were brilliant; she loved them dearly, but would never have chosen such clothes for herself. She promised, with some reluctance, to wear them on their next night out.