Authors: Elizabeth Corley
‘I’m D—’
‘Ssh, yes, I know who you are. Sit down.’ She glanced around as if suspecting eavesdroppers but they were on their own. ‘You came to see Mr Winkworth about a customer, David Smith.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘The walls are very thin, Chief Inspector. We have few secrets at the Coalbrook and Watersmere. Tea?’
‘You said you might be able to help me?’
‘Yes, but if Mr Winkworth finds out I’ll be in terrible trouble.’
‘I see. Well look, I don’t wish to encourage you in anything that might…’
‘Oh shush, it’s all right. As soon as I heard you were a policeman, I knew it would be about poor Mr Smith.’
Fenwick sipped his tea and did his best to look calm.
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve worked at the Society for twenty-four years, ever since I left school, and David Smith senior was one of my customers. His son was named after him. Mr Smith was always nice to me, even when I was new and used to get into a bit of a fumble. Aren’t you going to make notes?’
‘Of course.’ Fenwick pulled out a rarely used notebook and took down details of her name, address and, after much twittering, her age.
‘So you knew Mr Smith. What sort of man was he?’
‘Oh quiet, shy. Not given to chatter but he always had a smile and a kind word for me.’
‘Did you know his son?’
‘Young David? Not really. In the early years he used to come in to the branch with his father but that stopped. I think there was a bit of trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘He was ill or something and away from home for a long while. I know because Mr Smith mentioned that it put his schooling back.’
‘Why did you think my visit had something to do with Mr Smith?’
‘He had his salary paid into our instant access account and he had a savings account too. A very steady man, Mr Smith. Once a month he’d come in to have his passbooks updated. He didn’t need to but he said he liked things regular. Well, one month, it would be roughly fifteen years ago I think, he comes in and withdraws three hundred pounds in cash!’
‘I don’t see anything unusual about that.’
‘It was a lot of money, Chief Inspector and it wasn’t just that once. Every month he came in and withdrew three hundred. His deposit account went from several thousands to nothing over the years.’
‘And what did you conclude from this, Miss Spinning?’
‘I worried about it because he’d been such a careful saver up until then. And I thought perhaps he’s started gambling. I sort of hinted at it once when he came in but he made it clear he’d never placed a bet in his life. So then I thought it must be a mistress! But I saw him and Mrs Smith together and I couldn’t believe that either. So in the end I thought, it’s blackmail.’
She delivered her last word with a verbal flourish and looked expectantly at Fenwick, who tried to hide his disappointment.
‘An interesting theory, Miss Spinning.’
‘Emily, please. What do you think?’
‘Do you have any corroborative evidence?’
She looked at him blankly.
‘Proof?’ he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as impatient as he felt.
‘Well no, not really but he started to look very worried.’
‘Money worries?’
‘I don’t think so. He’d just paid off a twenty-five year mortgage and had a decent job with the Council.’
Fenwick finished his tea and stood to leave.
‘Don’t go yet. What are you going to do?’
‘Try to find Mr Smith, of course, and his wife.’
She looked at him darkly but he didn’t have time to worry about her disappointment.
‘You don’t think he’s dead then?’
‘What!’ He sat down abruptly. ‘Why should that be the case?’
‘I don’t know. Just a feeling. If he had been blackmailed then it would make sense if he killed himself when the money ran out.’
‘But you’ve just told me that he owned his own house.’
‘I know but why else would he disappear? He stopped coming in suddenly one summer. There were some letters and phone calls, then nothing.’
‘Perhaps he and his wife left the area.’
‘Then he would have closed his account – very particular like that was Mr Smith.’
‘I see; well there’s certainly a lot of food for thought here, er Emily.’
‘Good. I hope he’s alive and that you find him. He was a nice man.’
‘Any idea where I should look?’
‘Start with his brother, Frederick. They didn’t get on, in fact I heard they wouldn’t even speak to each other, but he’s kin so it’s worth a shot.’
‘I didn’t know he had a brother. Do you know where he lives?’
‘Used to have a house in Elm Street. Assisted. Never did a full day’s work in his life that man. Chalk and cheese those brothers were. Poor Mr Smith.’
Fenwick paid for their tea and left but Emily ran out after him.
‘If you do find him, will you give him my very best, from Emily, and tell him I still work, you know, at the Society.’
‘Of course I will.’
Fenwick walked the short distance to Elm Street and found Frederick Smith’s house. Paint was flaking from the windows and there was an old washing machine on the front lawn keeping company with three cars in various stages of disassembly. He could hear a radio blasting from a shed at the back of the property and followed the noise.
A short, squat man was bent over a car battery on a bench.
‘Mr Smith?’
‘Who wants him?’ The man didn’t bother to turn around.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick, Harlden CID.’
The man froze for an instant then carried on working with studied casualness.
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you for a few minutes about David Smith.’
That brought him round. Fenwick stared at the blotched face boasting three or four days of stubble and was surprised to see the mouth smile.
‘Well, well. At last. What do you need to know?’
‘Where to find him.’
‘Hah!’ The man laughed and spat into the greasy dust at his feet. ‘Buggered if I know. Haven’t seen him around here for a couple of years. Good riddance.’
‘Could you be more precise about when you last saw him?’
Smith scratched an inch of bare flesh between his T-shirt and jeans, leaving a black mark on the skin.
‘Must have been…around Christmas three years ago. He was with a mate in some shopping centre. Can’t remember where.’
‘You saw your brother three years ago?’
‘No, I’m talking about his son David. Haven’t seen me brother for longer than that.’
‘Did you speak with your nephew?’
‘What? You must be joking. Soon as the bastard saw me he legged it. He knew what he’d get from me if I caught him.’
‘And what would that be?’
Smith shut his mouth and it twisted into a bitter grin.
‘Never you mind. That’s family business.’
‘You say he was with a mate, male or female?’
‘Young lad. The one they took in. Thick as thieves they were.’
‘Wayne Griffiths?’
‘If you say so. Never knew his name.’
‘You assumed that I wanted to find the son not the father, why?’
But Smith went quiet and refused to say any more no matter how hard Fenwick pushed him. In the end, he decided he was wasting his time.
‘If you remember anything at all, please call me on this number. It’s important.’
‘What’s he done then?’
‘I can’t tell you that. We’re just anxious to find him. He may have information that would be helpful.’ Fenwick opened his scruffy notebook again and Smith looked at him with deep suspicion.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Just need to confirm your name and address, sir.’
Smith rattled them off quickly, keen to see him go.
‘And you live here with…’
‘My wife, June.’
‘Any children?’
Smith flushed and looked down at his workbench.
‘We live on our own.’
‘But you do have children?’
‘I don’t see it’s relevant.’
‘Just a formality.’ Fenwick watched a vein at the side of the man’s head pulse.
‘One daughter, Wendy.’
‘Age?’
Smith rubbed his forehead, leaving a slimy trail of oil.
‘Twenty-three, I think. Haven’t seen her for a while.’
‘Did Wendy know her cousin or Wayne Griffiths well?’
‘None of your fucking business.’ Smith took a step forward, his body pumped, his face red. ‘Now get out of my house and don’t come back without a warrant.’
* * *
Fenwick wrote up his slim reports and wondered what his superiors would think about the flimsy results of a day of chief inspector’s time. Not a lot probably, but at least he was starting to frame questions that would take his investigation further. Why had Fred Smith jumped to the conclusion that he was there about David Smith junior? And why had he said ‘at last’?
He rang Emily Spinning and waited obediently while she put a video in to record Eastenders.
‘Right, there, I’m all set, Chief Inspector. How can I help?’
‘I spoke to Frederick Smith.’
‘Ah. What did I tell you?’
‘He mentioned that he had a daughter.’
‘Oh yes, Wendy. Nice girl. Looked the image of her mother. Haven’t seen her for years. Always wanted to be a nurse.’
‘Do you recall anything about Wendy’s childhood? How well did she know Mr and Mrs David Smith?’
‘Gosh. You’re taking me back now. Let me think…’ There was a long moment’s silence. ‘I could be wrong but I think her uncle and aunt used to take her on holiday. They had nice summer holidays at a chalet they’d bought years before out in the country. I think Wendy went with them before the two brothers fell out.’
That was all she could remember. Fenwick left her to her television and checked his watch. He just had time to call the children before bed. Knotty came in as he was blowing Bess a kiss and did a hasty about turn. Fenwick called him back.
‘Before you start I want you to listen to something. Sit down and relax, man.’
Knotty folded his long, gangly frame onto a convenient chair. He looked like a stick insect with a weird fungus invading its face. The acne had taken a turn for the worse during the day.
‘Here are the facts as we know them about the Smiths: Mr and Mrs Smith had a son, David, who is now twenty-seven years old. They fostered Wayne Griffiths ten years ago when he was fifteen. He and David junior were in the same class at school and were apparently mates. Mr Smith senior withdrew £300.00 in cash, every month for four years up to the point at which he disappeared. He had a major falling out with his brother Fred, even though previously he’d been generous enough to take his niece Wendy on summer holidays with them. Now what does that suggest to you?’
Constable Knots stared at him blankly. Fenwick waited. Intimidated by the silence the poor man eventually forced himself to speak.
‘Ah, that we haven’t got much to go on, sir?’
Fenwick grimaced wearily.
‘Possibly, but we have got the first pieces of a jigsaw, we just don’t know what picture to make yet. We need to create a credible hypothesis based on the facts as we know them, which might then lead us to ask further questions in order to test our assumptions and complete the pattern.’
Blankness changed to confusion. Fenwick missed Cooper and Nightingale. His sergeants would be ready with equal measures of scepticism and theories of their own. He sighed deeply and confusion morphed into despondency on Knotty’s face.
‘Go and get me some fresh coffee, black, no sugar. Leave your reports with me.’
Knots might not be the brightest penny in the jar but he was quick. Fenwick had only just finished reading the file when he returned with a tray.
‘Supper, sir. Thought we might be here for a while. Chicken and ham pie or sausage roll?’ Fenwick chose the pie and Knotty’s face brightened.
He ate as he wrote while Knotty chewed as quietly as he could.
‘Right, Knotty, this is our work for tomorrow.’
Constable Knots swallowed and read the notes with his mouth half open.
Hypothesis
: David Smith Jnr met Wayne Griffiths in computer class, became significant influence on him.
Persuades parents to foster Griffiths.
They engage in series of (sexual) minor crimes and/or assault of Wendy Smith.
Frederick Smith finds out and blackmails brother.
Questions/Actions:
‘Blimey!’
Fenwick knew that he was showing off, and to the least demanding of audiences, but the reaction vindicated his use of the day. Had he sent Knots to do this work on his own they would be no further forward.
‘You can start drawing up a list of interviews on question three.’
‘Where are you going, sir, if you don’t mind my asking.’
‘To find a WPC and re-visit the Smith’s old house. I’ll see you back here.’
For two days he fought the urge to rampage through Telford in revenge for the girl’s survival. He’d been unable to rationalise the fact that she’d managed to outwit him by playing dead long enough for the taxi-driver to return and act the hero. When the desire for action became too great he paced the hills around the cottage from sun-up to sunset, trying to drive the memory from his mind. Twice now he had failed to complete the task that he’d set for himself. It was all Griffiths’ fault. He’d jinxed him with his stupid letters and half-arsed ideas.
The police still hadn’t linked the girl he’d killed in London to Griffiths’ rapes. He’d taken the finger, just like he’d done with the bitch in Wales who had refused to die, so why hadn’t they made the connection? Because they were stupid, that’s why. He’d have to draw them a fucking map! But he didn’t want to resort to sending letters again.
As he ran up one hill and then the next, forcing the blood to flow fast, a new idea began to develop. At the top of the highest rise he paused and drew in long breaths. It was extraordinarily simple. What if he just left Griffiths to rot in jail? He’d been stupid enough to get caught, let him pay for it. Wayne had never been more than an appreciative audience. Why had he saddled himself with such a loser in the first place? Smith couldn’t admit to himself that adulation from someone like Griffiths had once mattered. As he walked back to the cottage the limits he felt he’d allowed Griffiths to build around his life dissolved.
He would do what
he
wanted to do in his own way and he would start with a quick visit to Wendy. It usually perked him up and the cottage was starting to drive him mad again, as it always did after a few days. He couldn’t bear to be enclosed in one place for long. Constant movement about the country was the only way in which he could ease the tension that was now inside him all the time.
He arrived unannounced and woke Wendy from sleep.
‘Any letters?’
He wanted to stop the postal service and destroy all links with Griffiths.
‘I haven’t been. You know I can’t when I’m on nights.’
‘You don’t have to sleep all fucking day do you? Lazy bitch.’
‘I’ve not been feeling too good. In fact, I’ve been quite ill.’
‘Weak as dishwater you are. No stamina. Look, I want to know if I’ve got mail. Sort it.’
She struggled out of bed to find him a beer and food.
‘I’ll go tomorrow.’ There was a pause and she picked at a dry bit of skin on the end of her sharp nose, a habit he hated. He’d kill her for it one of these days. ‘How long are you here for?’
‘Don’t know. I’m working on a project. Might take a while.’
‘What sort of project?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Oh.’
That was it. End of conversation. She left a lot to be desired but what little spirit she’d been born with had been beaten out of her by her old man. He considered her greatest assets her lack of imagination and low intellect.
The next morning he woke up with a clear sense of purpose. Directionless rage had been superseded by excitement for a plan so daring it left him breathless at his own audacity. He exercised for half an hour, feeling strong and powerful again, and tried to balance his desire to hunt down the policewoman with the decision he’d made overnight to go after the taxi girl a second time. Both were compelling but to contemplate killing specific victims was a new experience.
It was ten years since he’d first witnessed death and enjoyed that exquisite feeling of liberation. Despite the impact of seeing life expire close up, it had taken him seven years to cross the line and kill, and then it had been by accident. Only afterwards, when he’d pulled away from her and seen the bloodshot eyes and gorged tongue had he realised what he’d done.
After his first kill the others were easier but infrequent at first. He’d remained cautious, changing location frequently to avoid creating a pattern. The fringes of cities were places that bestowed anonymity and had an acceptance of random violence. This year he’d killed twice within a month, a pace that he found exhilarating. But he’d also failed to kill twice, he reminded himself bitterly.
After Wendy had left he wasted an hour trying to plan the taxi girl’s death before giving up as there were too many unknowns. He would tackle it the way he did best, going prepared for every eventuality and then relying on instinct and opportunity. He would succeed despite the high risk.
With renewed confidence he opened up the files he’d extracted from the policewoman’s computer. As she had gone online in an Internet café the majority of the stuff was irrelevant. For the rest of the day he trawled through hundreds of electronic files, his mood of elation dying. When Wendy returned from work he slapped her about a bit for making too much noise then bundled the rest of the printouts, his laptop and discs into a bag. As soon as she’d fed and bedded him he would leave. The thought of another night with her locked up in the flat suddenly nauseated him.
It was late evening when he drove away. During the ride home he thought about the implications of abandoning Griffiths. He might talk. It was unlikely but he had to be prepared. That would mean selling the house and cottage and moving. Abroad would be good. Wendy would have to be disposed of, but that would be at the last minute, in case he needed her beforehand. The idea of wiping out the remnants of his past and starting over was appealing. He’d managed to do so with his parents’ lives, so his own should be easy.
The thought triggered an old memory and with it unease. Had he eliminated every trace of them? Nothing was left at the cottage but what about at the old family house? He couldn’t be certain that he’d been as thorough back then. The idea grew into an obsessive need to check and be sure. It was important to him that every sign of his existence should be eradicated, otherwise the fresh start he wanted would be tainted. On impulse he decided to visit the house that night, to be sure that all traces of the Smith family had been destroyed.
Janine switched off the TV and put the guard around the fire. Even in the middle of summer the house felt damp. It was isolated and old fashioned but all they could afford. Ever since that policeman had called she’d felt unsettled. Carl had picked up on her mood and grizzled from the time he woke from his nap to when she put him down for the night.
Janine missed her husband with a passion when he was on long haul in Europe. On top of that she was nervous out here on her own. When it grew dark she decided to go to bed early and watch TV. The doors were bolted but the old sash windows were easy to open. All someone needed to do was break the glass and flick the catch. She snuggled down under the covers.
He was hiding outside, excited and too impatient to wait for morning. He’d seen some ugly cows in his time but the bitch in there won the prize. He would be doing the world a service if he put her out of her misery. At least she went to bed at a decent hour. Not long now and it would be safe to go in. He told himself that he was only going to search for anything of his father’s, stuff he should have burnt long ago. If she stayed asleep, and if he didn’t need to go into the bedroom, then he wouldn’t do anything. Or so he tried to convince himself as he sucked deeply on his cigarette but his free hand found the new knife lying snug in the pocket of his jeans. He stroked its warm smoothness and thought how different it became with the blade out.
* * *
‘Come on, Constable, it’s gone eight o’clock. I’m pushing my luck calling this late as it is. I thought you said you knew a short cut?’
‘I did, I mean I do, sir, but the signpost was down. The river’s over there so I just need to take the next right.’
Fenwick breathed slowly to calm his irritation. It was always unwise to lose one’s temper, more so when on strange territory and particularly with a woman. He also had to remember that
she
was doing
him
a favour. Constable Powell had been about to go off duty when he’d found her in the canteen and told her his problem.
‘It’s just up there on the right.’
She steered the patrol car down a lane and turned the car into the drive. The house was in darkness.
‘Great, just what we need. She’s gone to bed.’
‘Maybe she’s watching TV without the lights on.’
They waited a long time in the porch then rang the doorbell again. Janine opened the door a crack, saw the policewoman’s uniform and opened it wide.
‘Bill?’ she said, her face full of unspoken horror for her husband. Constable Powell calmed her and introduced them, explaining that their visit was urgent.
‘Come in then, but for heaven’s sake be quiet. Carl’s a light sleeper.’
She led them into the kitchen.
‘What do you want?’
There was defensiveness in her voice that put Fenwick on immediate alert.
‘Have you found any papers, anything at all that might have been left behind by the owners?’
‘I told you before, nothing. There must’ve been loads of tenants before us. If there’d been anything they would’ve passed it to the agents.’
‘What about the loft?’
‘I can’t believe there’d be anything up there after all these years.’
‘Would you mind if we checked? And in the shed and garage. You’d be amazed what people forget.’
‘Well you can look outside as long as you’re quiet but I’m not having you rummaging around upstairs. You’ll wake Carl.’
Robyn Powell went to search the outbuildings. When they were on their own Fenwick’s face hardened.
‘Mrs Grey,’ she started at his change of tone. ‘I’m not in the least interested in what your husband is up to.’
She was bone white now, staring at him as if he were a mind reader.
‘I want to catch a killer, a nasty vicious man who tortures his victims before he kills them. If there’s any trace of him left in this house I want to find it and I won’t stop until I’ve searched. If you deny me now I’ll simply return with a warrant and then it’ll be all over, won’t it?’
‘And you promise not to tell?’
‘About what?’
The poor woman looked as if she was about to be sick. It was time to try sympathy.
‘Look,’ he said with a sad smile, ‘you can’t undo the fact that I’m here. If you help me I won’t personally say anything about what I may see, OK?’
‘And your colleague?’
‘I can’t speak for her. So if we’re going to look upstairs we should do it now while she’s busy.’
Janine rubbed her head in worry, but she went to a kitchen drawer and found a set of keys.
‘You’ll have to go up there, I hate that ladder. Give me a minute.’
On the count of ten he went to find her.
She’d spread a duvet cover and dressing gown over piles of cartons. He could read names of popular brands of cigarettes in the gap between one cover and the next and sighed with relief. Only petty smuggling. He’d been afraid it would be drugs. If it had been, his promise would have meant little.
The attic was almost empty. He took a builder’s light from a hook and crawled forward on rough flooring, catching his knee on a raised nail as he did so. His trousers tore and he felt a stab of pain as it broke the skin.
‘Bugger! Why is it always this knee?’
Muttering he crawled forward, feeling a bigger fool by the second. He saw a battered suitcase, a bin liner and a box that said ‘A4 paper’ on the side. The suitcase held clothes that reeked of mothballs, the bin liner old curtains, but when he opened the box he found a photograph in a frame on top.
‘Could you give me a hand? I’m going to wrap something in a curtain and lower it to you. Got it?’
‘Yes; you’re bleeding, and you’ve wrecked your trousers. I hope this is worth it.’
‘So do I. Now I need you to sign a paper and it will say that you gave this to me willingly.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘It will be a lot simpler and one good turn deserves another.’
She signed grudgingly, hating him with her eyes but he didn’t care.
Constable Powell was waiting for them downstairs. On the way to the car she turned to Fenwick.
‘There’s something funny going on there, Chief Inspector. She was so nervous.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘Whilst I was outside I had a good poke around and there were dozens of empty cardboard boxes, the sort you see wholesale cigarettes in. Her husband’s a lorry driver isn’t he?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well then. What do you think?’
‘I think that you’re smart. Make sure you put all that in your report.’
‘You don’t want to handle it?’
‘Not my patch, not my case and you deserve the credit,’ he smiled into the darkness.
* * *
He waited for the lights of the police car to disappear then tried to decide what to do. The man had been carrying something and he’d worked out what it might be. A box had turned up from his dad’s office one day and he’d put it to one side to deal with later. He’d burnt so much stuff that he could not believe he had forgotten the box.
On impulse he wheeled his bike out into the lane. He wasn’t used to being out of control and he needed to find out why the police had been at the house. The car had disappeared by the time he was on the main road but he guessed that it had gone towards Telford and caught up within minutes. They went into the Police Station but the woman was back out again almost immediately. He let her go and waited for the man.
It proved to be a long wait. At eleven o’clock he reappeared carrying an overnight bag. Another man was with him, much younger, with acne. They kept on foot so he left the bike and fell in behind them, used to being discreet when he needed to be.
The street was empty and he could hear stray strands of their conversation.
‘…a walk will do us good, Knotty. It’s only half a mile.’
‘But sir, my blisters!’
‘Don’t whinge.’
They stopped outside a B&B and the young one started up the path.
‘This is it?’ The older man asked.
‘Yes, sir. The hotels were so expensive.’
‘Very well. Go on.’
The door was answered at once by a woman.