‘Was he wearing a suit? A uniform maybe?’
‘No.’
‘What about the car? Make? Colour?’
‘Burgundy. Might have been a Passat. That sort of size. Oldish.’
‘Registration? Even a partial would help.’
‘Sorry.’
It could be nothing, Zigic thought. Was almost definitely nothing. People pulled off the road for all sorts of reasons. Mostly innocent and even if they were up to no good it would be a leap to assume it had anything to do with Dawn.
‘I need you to come to Thorpe Wood and make a formal statement, Mr Westman.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes,’ Zigic said. ‘I’m sure you realise that this is a very important matter and the more information we can get and verify, the better chance we have of catching whoever was responsible.’
He nodded, but the panic was clear on his face. He’d been in police stations before, maybe he thought they hadn’t checked his record yet and walking into one again, of his own free will, was a risk best avoided. As if he had another option.
Zigic gave him a card. ‘You can drive in yourself or I can have somebody come and collect you if that’s easier.’
‘No, I’ll drive.’ He looked down at the card. ‘I want to help.’
A few minutes later, sitting in his car parked at the kerb opposite the entrance of the yard, waiting for Ferreira to answer her phone, Zigic saw Westman leave in his pickup truck and wondered if he’d have an alibi ready when he was asked for it.
Dawn Prentice’s house was still wrapped in police tape when Ferreira drove past, but a few of her neighbours had made the short walk to the edge of the village since the news broke and a small collection of bouquets now sat at the gateway.
She stopped the car, threw it into reverse and got out to look at them, found the usual bland messages of condolence and regret and wondered how many of those people had been to the house in recent months, if any of them had given Dawn and Holly a moment’s thought when they were still alive and in need of real emotional support. She took out her phone and carefully photographed the little shrine, ensuring the names were in shot, curious whether any of the women – and they were all women – would come forward in the next couple of days.
The neighbouring house cracked and creaked, its blasted shell settling as it continued to cool, occasional distant thuds as something inside fell. The debris remained on the driveway and in the front garden but the road was clear, everything that had scattered brushed up into a mound just off the pavement, waiting for the owner to return and begin the fight with his insurance company.
If he returned. No word yet and no reply to the messages they’d left on his phone.
She got back into her car and drove to the village green, where the mobile incident unit was set up, an ugly white brick of a vehicle which the cottages around seemed to be shuttered against, gates closed, blinds drawn.
Zigic was already there, standing in the doorway talking to Parr.
‘Julia Campbell,’ he said, coming down the steps, leaving Parr to his work. ‘She’s been here this morning, wanting information about Dawn and Holly.’
‘What did they tell her?’
‘She already knew some of it. Sally’s been gossiping.’
‘Maybe that’s why Warren didn’t bring her to the ID with him.’
‘Cracks appearing so soon?’ Zigic asked, smiling humourlessly.
‘Widening, I’d say.’
‘Interesting that the new woman and the best friend are so close.’
Ferreira nodded. ‘She’s picked her side.’
Julia Campbell’s house was a minute’s walk from the green, tucked away down a narrow lane barely one car wide, behind the village chapel; a long and low stone cottage with a thatched roof and a wooden porch almost completely covered in glossy ivy. Tiny windows looked out across the road, the view from them partially blocked by metal planters running wild and full of tumbling purple flowers.
It was so different from the places they usually found themselves. No sheets tacked up across the windows, no broken bottles in the garden or foreign voices whispering from inside, scared and suspicious, and Ferreira realised it was the nicest house they’d been to since moving into Hate Crimes. So idyllic she found herself wondering how anything bad could happen here. You’d have to go looking for trouble, she thought.
Zigic knocked on the front door and it was answered instantly by a heavily pregnant woman with a lot of curly brown hair and a haunted expression, dressed in a Breton tunic, skinny legged in tight white jeans.
Julia Campbell was all fizzing nerves and excessive good manners. She shook their hands, her gold bangles jangling, and drew them inside, through a claustrophobic hallway, cluttered with painted furniture and too many clashing rugs, into the sunlit kitchen at the back of the house. Another room holding twice as much stuff as it was designed for. She offered them tea and put a plateful of home-made biscuits on the table as they sat down, busied herself with the kettle and cups.
Ferreira watched her while Zigic went through the formalities, answering her questions about the murder, being more evasive than usual. Quickly he moved onto her pregnancy and when was it due and did she know what she was having, talking about his own baby that was on the way – a girl, much to his wife’s delight. Ferreira wasn’t sure if he was trying to create a connection with Julia or if he just wanted to talk about it. You couldn’t fake that glowing pride.
Julia looked too old to be pregnant, she thought. Forty, at least, and washed out despite the flawless yummy-mummy uniform and the swipe of geranium-pink lipstick.
Warren said she lived for other people’s problems and Ferreira could easily imagine Dawn and Sally and however many other women were in Julia’s circle, sitting here of a morning, drinking tea and eating her home-made biscuits while they poured out their traumas.
Ferreira didn’t trust people like that. They took while they appeared to be giving, were nothing but gossips who paid for their information in baked goods and murmurs of sympathy.
‘How long have you known Dawn?’ Zigic asked.
‘Oh, years. Since her and Warren moved into the village.’ Julia sat down, pushed a white ceramic pot across the table. ‘There’s sugar if you want it. Um, it must be ten or eleven years now. They bought a lovely big house on Back Lane but when Holly had her accident things got slightly tight with Warren and his business and they lost the house.’
‘Did Dawn have many friends in the village?’
‘I’m not sure how much she saw of them any more.’
‘What about boyfriends?’ Ferreira asked.
‘I wouldn’t call them boyfriends,’ she said sadly. ‘Dawn desperately needed a boyfriend, a stable one, someone who’d look after her. But most men aren’t prepared to take on a woman with kids, let alone a kid like Holly.’ She glanced away from them. ‘Warren was a marvellous father before the accident, absolutely dedicated to her, but look, even he left when the going got tough.’
‘These non-boyfriends,’ Ferreira said. ‘What did she tell you about them?’
‘She found them online. I didn’t think it was a very good idea and I told her so. I mean, getting involved with someone you don’t know like that. Letting them come into your home … Holly was there, she was a vulnerable girl. God knows who those men were.’ The hard line of her mouth set slightly firmer. ‘It was so selfish of her.’
Easy for you to say, Ferreira thought. Nice house, settled marriage, baby on the way. She wondered how long Julia would last as a single mother with a disabled child before she went looking for some not entirely safe fun to remind herself she was alive.
‘Why didn’t Dawn find a babysitter?’ Zigic asked. ‘She had friends still. She had you.’
Julia’s fingers strayed to her necklace. ‘I did go around and look after Holly when she asked me to. Once a week or so. I never minded spending time with Holly, she was a lovely girl. No trouble.’
‘But you said Dawn had men at her house,’ Ferreira said. ‘Why did she do that when she could have asked you to help out?’
‘I’m not sure.’
It sounded like a lie. A slight hesitance in her tone, the way her eyes dipped. Ferreira wondered if Julia’s friendship with Sally had trumped the one she had with Dawn. Some people would always make you choose.
‘Do you think one of them was responsible?’ Julia asked, looking to Zigic for her answer. ‘Please tell me Holly wasn’t … wasn’t
hurt
?’
‘We’re still waiting for the results of the autopsy,’ he said.
Julia pressed her hand to her mouth and blinked away the brimming tears. ‘She’s at peace now. I suppose we should try and take some comfort in that.’
Zigic nodded, agreeing even though he looked slightly disturbed by the idea.
They had discussed the possibility of a mercy killing during the morning briefing, a flippant suggestion from Parr, provoked solely by Holly’s condition, which was swiftly disregarded. Holly had suffered a prolonged and isolated death, trapped in a house with her mother’s corpse. By no measure could that be considered merciful.
‘When was the last time you saw Dawn and Holly?’ Zigic asked.
‘Sunday. Not yesterday, last Sunday. I dropped by for a couple of minutes to give her some jam, we’ve had a glut of plums this year.’
‘Did Nathan go with you?’
Julia blinked rapidly. ‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a simple question,’ Ferreira said.
‘No, I don’t think he did.’ Julia reached for a biscuit and bit it in half, avoiding looking at either of them. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘We understand Nathan was a regular visitor.’
‘Dawn was very kind to him,’ Julia said. ‘And Caitlin. She really was very good with children. It’s a shame she didn’t have more.’
‘And what about Holly?’ Zigic asked. ‘How did Nathan get on with her?’
Julia brushed a few biscuit crumbs off the polka-dot tablecloth. ‘He made an effort with her. He’s very young for his age but he understands what she’s been through. It wasn’t easy to talk to Holly.’
‘She could communicate perfectly well, I understand,’ Zigic said.
‘Yes, she could talk but she’d become very introverted over the last six months.’ Julia put the rest of the biscuit in her mouth. ‘She just didn’t want to talk very often. What can you say to someone in her situation?’
‘Maybe Nathan can tell us,’ Zigic said. ‘What school does he attend?’
Julia looked between them quickly. ‘He doesn’t go to school.’
‘Why?’
‘He has, um, a very particular and challenging combination of educational needs.’
Zigic straightened in his seat. ‘Which are best handled by him not going to school?’
‘It’s a complicated situation.’ Julia got up from the table and went to the sink, threw her tea into it and washed the cup, bracelets jangling furiously.
Ferreira glanced at Zigic, saw his attention fixed on Julia’s back.
‘Are you home schooling him?’
‘Yes. Something like that.’
‘We’d like to speak to him, Mrs Campbell.’ Julia turned around but didn’t move from the sink. ‘Now, please.’
‘This has got nothing to do with Nathan.’ Her voice was low and hard and suddenly it was as if they were dealing with another woman altogether. ‘I won’t let you upset him.’
‘I don’t think you understand what’s happening here,’ Zigic said. ‘Two people – friends of yours – have been killed. Nathan might have seen something that can help us catch this monster.’
‘He doesn’t know anything.’
‘Then he can tell us that himself.’
Zigic nodded at Ferreira and she got up, making for the kitchen door. The house was small, he wouldn’t take much finding and Julia could complain about their tactics later if she wanted to. Right now talking to the boy was what mattered.
Julia moved to block her path.
‘Wait.’ She put her hands up. There were tears in her eyes again and Ferreira saw how hard she was fighting to stay calm. ‘He’s not here.’
‘Where is he?’ Ferreira asked.
‘He ran away. Saturday afternoon. We haven’t seen him since.’ The tears came then and they looked genuine. ‘He’s such a sweet boy, he’s not capable of surviving out there on his own.’
Zigic took her by the arm but she shrugged him off, returned to the table and gently lowered herself into her chair, one hand cupping her bump. Ferreira nodded towards the door but he shook his head.
She thought of the doctor’s initial assessment at the crime scene. If he was right Dawn was murdered two days before Nathan went missing.
‘Have you reported it?’ Zigic asked.
‘Of course I have.’
‘Who’s the officer you’re dealing with?’
A shutter came down behind Julia’s eyes. ‘I’m not allowed to discuss this. I’ve signed agreements. Confidentiality agreements.’
‘Don’t you want to find Nathan?’ Zigic asked, sitting down near her, trying the gentle approach. ‘You realise he might have seen something that scared him. It’s probably why he ran.’
‘I can’t,’ Julia stammered. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t help you.’
Ferreira walked over to her, leaned on the table, into her face. ‘What’s Nathan done?’
‘Nothing.’
‘If you’ve signed confidentiality agreements he’s done something serious.’
‘No,’ Julia snapped. ‘He needs to be somewhere safe. That’s why he’s here. I’m supposed to keep him safe.’
She broke down and Ferreira walked out of the kitchen, leaving Zigic to mop up the spilled emotions; be the good guy.
Upstairs she went through the master bedroom; four-poster bed, black beams and white linen and an ancient-looking rocking horse with a maniacal face. Then a girl’s room done out in predictable pink and frills, impermanent and impersonal despite the little touches Julia had added to make it appear homely. There were no photographs, very few clothes. Ferreira wondered how long the foster daughter had been there and how long before she moved on, whether it would be to a better life.
Nathan’s room was the smallest in the house, a single bed pushed against the wall, a pine wardrobe and sea-green walls. They didn’t have a warrant but they could get one if she found anything.
Ferreira looked in all the obvious places, then the less obvious ones. There was nowhere to hide anything significant in the box room and what she saw suggested the boy owned very little. A few changes of clothes, a few comic books. No laptop or phone, but he’d probably taken that with him when he ran.