An Early Grave Page 9

  ‘Is it the same case?’ Kate asked as Tara, a movie chosen at last, slipped the disc into the player. Kate held aloft one of the Tilly Reason books.

  ‘Is what the same case?’

  ‘You told me that you bought the Tilly Reason books because they were connected to a case. Is it the same case you were thinking about the other night?’

  ‘Yes. No. Sort of.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Tara, pick one will you?’

  For a brief moment they were back as teenagers in Tara’s bedroom at her parent’s house in Caldy. They were supposed to be revising French but, after a couple of minutes, Aisling started rambling on about Greg Downey, the guy to whom she most wanted to give her virginity. Kate laughed nervously at the thought, and threw Craig Reece into the mix. When Tara failed to contribute a boy’s name, the other two rhymed off a list from which she had to choose. Despite her reluctance, they never failed in getting Tara to reveal her teenage fantasy. She felt exactly the same feeling now as she decided it would do no harm and cause less fuss to relate the story of Callum Armour.

  CHAPTER 13

  He always thought of his father when he stood on the green. Midgey scampered about, working up to doing his business while Callum gazed across the expanse of grass, bordered on each side by the maze of houses that was Treadwater Estate.

  ‘It’s a lot safer for you in this part of the world, son,’ his father once said, a man, a former soldier, happy to be home in his native Liverpool. ‘None of that craziness that goes on in Belfast.’ His mother didn’t always agree that Liverpool was any better. She never regarded it as home, and pined for the Shankill Road until the day she died. It took a few years for Callum to shake off Belfast and assume the air of a Scouser.

  The smell of mown grass mingled with the odour of damp but warm evening air after a shower of rain. He wore only a grey T-shirt, heavily stained with his staple diet of beans on toast, and jogging trousers that were the same pair he’d worn for weeks. He would have to wash and change soon, although the choice of clothes available in his sparse wardrobe was limited. Strange that he was even thinking such things, of being clean and looking tidy. Hadn’t thought that way for years, not since Tilly. Was he now thinking like that because of a policewoman?

  His father was raised in Treadwater. He used to tell him about the time as a young boy, when he paraded around the streets with dozens of kids demanding the Council provide playing fields. Amazing to think that nearly fifty years on the housing estates remained separated by those fields, and that no one ever attempted to bury them under more houses. It left a more pleasing outlook. Since his return to Treadwater after Oxford, after Tilly, Callum had never felt safe living alone in the house, and yet only two hundred yards from there he felt perfectly at peace in the middle of the green at eleven-thirty at night.

  A couple of fellow late night dog walkers strolled along the paths that sliced through the lawns, their dogs prancing around, sniffing the litter and mown grass. He came out here most nights, and most nights, while he waited for Midgey to get busy, he would stare longingly towards the house in which his father had been raised. His grandmother’s house, she long since dead. The place didn’t look as though it had changed in the sixty years since it was built. The playing fields, too, were holding their own, and yet so much had changed. People had moved on, grown up, married and raised children; parents and grandparents had passed. He wished he could grab a piece of now, even the tiniest piece and hold onto it for ever, tuck it away like a fossil in a shoe box, keep it unchanged. Daft, of course, because even if he could look at his piece of now everyday he would continue to change. He was changing, always changing. He wondered if that was the reason Tilly chose to write about time travel, to somehow have a fixed point, a point of reference in time around which she could build her story. Sooner or later though you would approach that fixed point, pass it by and disappear over the horizon. Turn back time; oh, how he longed to do just that.

  Midgey ran on ahead. He’d finished for the night and, with a faint call from Callum, skipped over the grass, across the road and soon was tracing the narrow alleys, through the parking bays and making for home. Callum didn’t bother with a lead. His father had trained Midgey well. He came to the call; at nine years old, ancient in dog years, he was wise to traffic, and he didn’t chase other dogs or cats. Callum followed, over the road, into the alley, through the walkways by the houses and into the next alley. Hardly a breath; such a calm evening. He heard a yelp. A dog screeching in pain. He quickened his step. Midgey. A figure appeared to his left as he emerged from the alley into a parking bay. He turned to look. Heard another squeal. Something touched his neck. His body shook violently, pulsing. He hit the ground, his hands useless in breaking his fall. Still shaking, he felt confused that he couldn’t move to get up. He saw feet, two pair. One foot swung, and he felt a deep pain in his side. But his shaking didn’t stop. Laughter, a girl’s giggle. Still the yelping of some poor dog. He tried to rise again, but another foot swung, and his jaw smacked shut. Warm liquid spewed through his teeth, sprinkling the pavement with little dots. Another pain to his lower back and he collapsed once again. He felt the warmth of the ground on his cheek, and in the midst of his trembling, he felt the vibration of retreating steps, heard laughter, heard a dog yelping, heard laughter, footsteps fading, heard laughter, and he didn’t feel like moving. He could stay here forever. Had he captured his tiny piece of now?

  CHAPTER 14

  Aisling sat at one end of the sofa with Kate’s right foot on her lap. Carefully, with a steady hand, she brushed the deep violet liquid over the nail of Kate’s big toe. Tara had been done already, hands and feet a joyful pink. She’d told her friends about Tilly Reason and Callum’s theory on how his wife and daughter were killed. She did not tell them about her current investigation, the death of a Lithuanian girl called Audra. Aisling posed the first question.

  ‘Why has he involved you in all of this?’

  Tara explained the connection with Latimer College, Oxford. From there she linked the murder of Peter Ramsey and the drowning in Switzerland of the Chinese scientist Zhou Jian.

  ‘Sounds like a real life Agatha Christie,’ said Kate.

  ‘Tara’s far too young to be Miss Marple,’ said Aisling, tapping Kate on her left foot to indicate that it now required nail varnish. Ignoring the quip, Tara continued with her story.

  ‘Callum believes that all the murders are connected to his student days.’

  ‘An old student with a grudge?’ said Kate.

  ‘One of his friends disappeared during their final year. Callum is convinced this guy has a score to settle with some or all of them. He’s living on his nerves at the moment. Between his thinking that Kingsley is out to get him, and the local roughs throwing bricks at his house every night, calling him a paedophile, I don’t think he ever gets a wink of sleep.’

  ‘What sort of people are you getting mixed up with?’ said Aisling, sounding concerned. ‘Surely you’re not paid to handle all that heartache. You’re not a social worker, Tara luv.’

  Again Tara was not distracted from the telling of her story. She knew both girls would enjoy the next part.

  ‘Callum showed me a photograph of all his mates at Oxford. Apart from the three people who are dead, guess who is also in the picture?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ said Kate.

  Tara and Kate watched Aisling as she thought the question through, both girls knowing that she would always rise to a challenge. Kate begged her to give in, but Aisling was determined to have a bash.

  ‘It’s either somebody famous or somebody we knew from school? Am I right?’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve narrowed it down,’ said Kate.

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘There you go; she’s just cut her odds in half.’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘What do you mean both?’ said Kate.

  ‘There are two of them. Husband and wife nowadays, but not back then.’

&
nbsp; ‘Georgina Maitland and what’s his face?’

  ‘How the hell did you know that?’ cried Tara. Kate roared with laughter. Luckily Aisling had momentarily ceased applying nail varnish as Kate threw her feet in the air.

  ‘I read something the other day, at the hairdressers, about Georgina Maitland being an Oxford graduate. I meant to ask if you knew her, Tara.’

  ‘Thousands of people have gone to Oxford, Aisling. I’m not mates with all of them, you know. Why say her name?’ Aisling shrugged indifference to the question.

  ‘That Georgina Maitland is some operator though,’ Aisling continued. ‘Last year she was the fourth or fifth highest earning woman in Britain. I was reading about how she does it, you know, how she goes about earning her money. Thought maybe I could get a few tips from her.’ Aisling placed her feet on the sofa so that Kate could take over nail varnishing duties. ‘Here’s how she does it. She finds a product, usually a fashion range, a make-up or perfume. Then she markets the hell out of it as an exclusive brand, supposedly expensive, the sort of thing only the celebs can afford. When she’s got loads of exposure, like in a major fashion show, or she’s paid a supermodel or actress to prance about in one of her frocks at a film premiere, she switches tack and makes the same product available on the high street.’

  ‘Sure, that’s what all the big fashion houses do. Bring out a cheaper version for the masses,’ said Kate.

  ‘No, this is exactly the same product but at high street prices.’

  ‘But she would lose on that deal,’ said Tara. ‘She couldn’t possibly afford to do that.’

  ‘She could if the original, so-called designer version was as cheap as chips to start with. All she did was stick a hefty price tag on it. The stuff is reasonable quality, it isn’t complete rubbish, but it certainly ain’t haute couture.’

  ‘But the celebs would kick up a stink if they sussed it?’ Kate argued.

  ‘Why? Their reputations are at stake, too. They’re not going to come out and say we’ve been wearing absolute tat to the Oscars. They’re going to say that Georgina Maitland produces high quality but affordable clothing. Besides, she doesn’t have to do it anymore. She’s made her name. Now she’s into health products, beauty treatments and luxury spa centres all at affordable prices. I saw her on a cookery programme the other night. She has a range of luxury foods coming out: breads, fruit compotes, yoghurts and breakfast cereals. Everything you need to start the day, according to the ads.’

  Tara was grateful for the information, saved her half an hour on the internet.

  ‘And what do you know of her husband?’ she asked.

  ‘Anthony Egerton-whatsit?’

  ‘Egerton-Hyde.’

  ‘Complete tosser. Tory junior minister. Now what have the Tories ever done for us?’

  ‘Oh, please don’t start on the politics,’ said Kate. She was almost finished at Aisling’s slender feet.

  ‘So, Tara, are you going to sleep with this guy?’ Aisling sounded more serious than light-hearted. Tara glared at her friend, astonished by the question.

  ‘For goodness sake, Aisling. I’m trying to help him, that’s all. Besides, he is still a suspect in a murder investigation.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Superintendent Harold Tweedy was holding his regular Monday morning court with the squad of detectives he had assigned to various cases, including the murder of the young girl found on the Treadwater Estate. Tara was not pleased, but realised she had only herself to blame. She hadn’t divulged the name of the murder victim, because she didn’t want to further involve Callum Armour in the investigation, at least not until she had the full measure of the man. She knew he had more to tell, but he was playing a game with her, and she was determined that eventually he would give her the whole truth. It was galling then to hear DS Alan Murray receive the plaudits from Tweedy for getting an ID on the girl.

  ‘Thanks to Alan’s hard work over the weekend,’ said Tweedy, ‘We now have a name for the victim, subject to a positive identification. Alan, would you care to explain?’

  Murray looked fired up to deliver his findings. He had that bubbling, dedicated enthusiasm that seemed so false to Tara. One of the traits she’d noted in the man since they had both joined Tweedy’s team a year earlier. She always felt the need to compete with him. She wasn’t sure if that came from within or whether he invoked a competitive spirit between them. Murray didn’t appear to behave in this manner with the other detectives in the office. She took it personally. At times she thought it came down to her being the senior officer, despite his longer service in the police.

  ‘Ok,’ he began,’ Firstly, I thought I should widen the criteria for possibilities as to the victim’s background. The word burned into the girl’s flesh we believe to be in Polish, suggesting that the victim is of that nationality. But I thought perhaps she could hail from any of the ex-pat communities around the city. There had been no reports of missing persons from locals, and so I contacted as many ex-pat community groups as I could find listed.’

  Tara stared coldly at the Detective Sergeant. Bull-bloody-shit, she fumed. She’d instructed him to do just that, and he didn’t even have the decency to glance in her direction, never mind credit her with the idea.

  ‘Anyway, cut a long story, turns out a group of hotel staff, all from Lithuania, had expressed concern to a local community liaison officer who deals specifically with Lithuanian workers that one of their number had not reported for her shift for more than a week. Bradbury Hotel, in the city centre. I tracked some of them down at their work, and their description of their colleague matches that of the victim.’

  Tara thought him long-winded. She thought it good work, of course, but Murray was milking it.

  ‘Do you have a name, Alan?’ she asked curtly.

  ‘Audra Bagdonas. Seventeen years old. Lithuanian. Been living in Liverpool for six months.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘A house on Stanley Road. Shared with others, I’m told, but no names as yet.’

  ‘Family?’ Tara asked, keeping up the pressure.

  ‘Don’t know if she has family living here. If not, we’ll try to get a contact through the consulate for possible family in Lithuania.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Alan,’ said Tweedy.

  Tara noted on her first day in this squad how Tweedy always addressed his officers and staff by first name. She knew him to be a religious man, and at times when he spoke he sounded just like a Sunday school teacher, always sincere, like he cared deeply for their welfare. His manner brought a certain placidity to the situation. They were investigating a vile murder and yet, speaking in such calm matter-of-fact tones, they might have been brain surgeons or stress guidance counsellors.

  ‘Hopefully, we have now identified the girl,’ Tweedy continued. ‘We need to establish a motive, and so far Tara’s contact, Dr Armour, has suggested that adult films were being made at the house. We should continue to work with that lead. Alan, if you can visit the girl’s home on Stanley Road? See what you can find. Tara and John, I want you to return to the scene of the killing. It’s been almost a week since it happened. Ask around now that you have a name and some background to this poor girl. See if we can rule out the possibility of a hate crime on racial grounds.’

  Tara continued to seethe as they left Tweedy’s office. After a Friday evening of straight talking with her friends she felt buoyant and confident, in the right mood to stand up for herself. She made sure Tweedy was still in earshot when she spoke to Murray.

  ‘Seems like my hunch paid off, Alan. Any joy with the porn movies?’

  Murray didn’t reply until he’d reached the relative safety of the detectives’ open-plan operations room, beyond the narrow corridor leading from Tweedy’s office. Tara reckoned that if Murray had found any information on adult film making he would be too embarrassed to share it in front of Tweedy. He was more likely to choose a time when he could embarrass her instead.

  ‘Yes, I forgot to mention it,’ he said
rather sheepishly. ‘Found several contacts by asking at a couple of the sex shops around Bootle. Nothing illegal, just a bit earthy. Uncensored stuff. A woman in one store told me that quite a few mucky films are made on Merseyside. Another product for the black market and, of course, the local mobs are getting some of the action. She didn’t sell any of it though. Didn’t believe her on that score. She also told me that many of the stars of these films are young immigrant girls. Some of them are prostitutes and others, far from home and controlled by pimps, get sucked into the porn business. In fact, the woman in the shop was Polish.’

  ‘Do you think she’s involved in any of this movie making?’

  Murray shrugged.

  ‘We can always pay her another visit, make it official,’ he said.

  He left her with much more to consider than she’d bargained for, with her feeble attempt to embarrass him after his showing off in front of Tweedy. The evidence so far pointed at a sex crime, connected with adult movies, but Tweedy’s suggestion of a racially motivated killing also struck a chord. She thought immediately of the rough-cut boy who had snapped her picture outside Callum Armour’s house. For that matter, she thought also of Callum who was ever slow to reveal what he knew. She found it strange that he’d known the girl’s first name. Was he capable of murder when he lived in fear himself, his head bursting with theories of how his wife, daughter and student friends had perished? Why burn the letters of a Polish word, a derogatory word, into the girl’s flesh? Surely the hard-nut in the Everton shirt didn’t have the ability to translate a word from his limited vocabulary into a foreign language. She’d be surprised if he could write his own name.

  Tara and DC Wilson drove out to Netherton, to the Treadwater Estate. Her twenty-seven years spent without ever visiting this part of Liverpool, and now she was driving through its streets for the fourth time in less than a week. This morning they arrived in a marked police car at the back door of the house where Audra Bagdonas had died. Three other cars sat in the parking bay. She saw signs of life in some of the houses; laundry hung on the rotary line of the house next door to the crime scene, a kitchen window open at the next house in the row and the sound of hammering from somewhere nearby that reverberated off the walls around the cul-de-sac. Tara climbed out of the car and for a moment stood gazing around her. How could somewhere so peaceful, so normal of a weekday morning, be the scene of a murder of a young girl whose life began hundreds of miles from here, in a land so different from this one? Strange how events conspired to bring the girl to this street at a particular time. A date with destiny. A day of reckoning, the day of her death.