Authors: Angela Dracup
‘She got up to go to the kitchen. And then she started crying, and he went to put his arms round her. And then he put his hands inside her dressing gown and started pawing her. He used to do this quite a lot, and he’d look around at me to see how much he was winding me up. My mum started whimpering, pulling away from him and telling him to stop, but he just carried on. And all at once I heard my voice, really loud in the room, like when you turn the telly volume right up. “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY MUM!” And he turned around and laughed at me, showing all his big yellow teeth. “I’ll have my hands on your mum, whenever I like sonny-boy”, he said.’
Craig stopped, looking towards Josie, breathing hard, his eyes blazing with the memory. ‘I went into the kitchen and took out a knife my mum had bought from her catalogue, thinking she might do some cooking one day. It was called a kitchen devil, really sharp. I went back into the living room and I stuck it in Jackson’s back.’
Josie nodded, calm and unperturbed. ‘What happened then?’
‘He made a sort of gurgling noise and fell on the floor. And then I don’t really remember much after that, until the police were there, and someone from the Social. My mum had passed out on the sofa. I told the police I’d stuck a knife in Jackson and that I wasn’t sorry. And I hoped he was dead. Which he was.’ He stopped. ‘That’s it, really. And I
was
glad I killed him,’ he said fiercely.
Josie spent a few moments considering all this. ‘That’s what you told yourself,’ she said, ‘when you were twelve. Because you’d got rid of the man making your mum’s life a misery. But later on you’d feel rotten about killing someone. And maybe you still tried to tell yourself you were glad. But deep down you weren’t. That’s my guess.’
‘How do you know that?’ he demanded, amazed. ‘No one else ever told me that.’
‘It’s just one of those life things you sort of know, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘My mum died when I was twelve,’ she told him. ‘I was the eldest, so I became the little mother … at least that was what my dad used to call me. I started looking after my kid brother and my dad as well. I knew what the suffering of her loss was like for them and I missed her simply desperately myself, so I grew up pretty fast. And, you see, Craig, when you were twelve you did something for your mum which you thought was a good thing to do for her at the time. I can understand that. And you had to grow up all of a sudden too because of what happened after that.’
‘But it was wrong,’ he insisted.
‘Oh yes. But you didn’t mean it to be like that. You didn’t plan it. It happened, like a wave rolling over you.’ She drummed her hands on the table. ‘Where’s your mum now?’
‘Dunno. She doesn’t want to see me.’
‘You don’t know that, Craig. She might have changed. She might be longing to see you. You need to think about that. I lost my mum for ever, and I’d do anything to get her back. But I can’t … I can never have her back. And if your mum is still alive, I think you should do anything to get her back. What have you to lose?’
Craig felt suddenly exhausted. He let out a long breath.
‘Would you like to stay on and help out here?’ Josie asked. ‘I really need a good reliable worker. Helping out at the bar, a bit of cleaning work. You could learn to cook if you wanted.’
He stared at her. ‘Do you mean that? You don’t know anything about me, except I’m a murderer.’
She smiled. ‘You can learn quite a lot about a person when you’re working as a team mopping up a floor with them. Why don’t you give it a go for a few weeks? If you don’t like it, you can move on. I pay a pound more an hour than the most of the pubs round here.’
He stared at her, not knowing quite what to say. Longing to stay here and work for her. Not daring to believe he’d been offered the chance.
‘I can’t start right now,’ he said, suddenly remembering. ‘I’ve been on the run. I’ve got to give myself up to the police.’
Josie’s mouth fell open. ‘Hey, you’re certainly full of surprises.’
‘I haven’t done nowt wrong again. I promise. Do you believe me?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes, thousands wouldn’t!’
‘Will you go to the station with me?’ he asked. ‘Walk in with me? That’s all. I’ll be all right then, and you can come back here.’
‘Well, thanks,’ she said, grinning. ‘Yes, of course I’ll come with you.’ She got up. ‘Go and have a wash and comb your hair. I’ll be waiting for you. And look sharp, I’ve opening time coming up.’
She was as good as her word. She walked him to the station and up the steps, pushing him gently forwards. And then she turned around and left.
There was a female officer on the front desk. She looked business-like and brisk. She was dealing with an anxious woman who had lost her purse containing all her credit cards. Craig licked around his lips as he waited to be attended to, standing patiently behind the worried woman as though he were in the bus queue. His heart was thumping so hard he was surprised no one had looked around to see where the noise was coming from.
The woman eventually went away, having repeatedly asked for reassurances that her purse would be found. Craig thought this was a pointless exercise. It either would or wouldn’t be found whether she kept on nagging the policewoman or not. His heart was galloping like a racehorse now, the tension within building steadily with the waiting and frustration.
He stepped forward. ‘Yes,’ the police woman said, her tone crisp.
‘I’m Craig Titmus. I’m an ex-con and I’ve come to—’
‘Yes?’
‘I think there’ll be an alert out. I’ve not seen my probation officer when I should. I think it’s today.’
He half expected an army of strong men to burst forth from the innards of the station, push him to the ground and handcuff him.
‘Can I have your name again?’ she asked, unperturbed, as though he were Mr Ordinary.
He spoke it very slowly and she was tapping it into the computer as he did so. Her eyebrows moved slightly. ‘Now then, Craig. You’re quite right. There is an alert out for you.’ She looked him over, with impartial assessment. ‘Well done for coming in. I’m going to ask another officer to come and speak to you. In the meantime, maybe you could turn out your pockets for me. I’ll make a note of everything and give it back to you.’ She was going on to explain that what she was asking was a safety precaution, but Craig was already doing what she asked. He had been well schooled in obedience to authority. He knew it was invariably the best way to save your skin. He took out his loose change, and then Ruth’s wad of twenty-pound notes, followed by the mobile and a half empty packet of crisps he had bought at the pub the previous night. Also the paper napkin Josie had brought him with his plate of food, now grubby and crumpled.
‘Any weapons?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘OK. We’ll check further on that later. How come you’ve got all this money?’
‘I borrowed it from my friend, Mrs Hartwell. I got it to keep safe for her. I’m going to give it back.’
‘I see. And the mobile, is that yours?’
‘No.’
She looked hard at him.
‘That’s Mrs Hartwell’s and all.’
‘Really.’
Rebellion stirred within. He leaned slightly towards the woman, looming over her, letting her feel the full force of his big physical presence. ‘I’m a murderer,’ he told her. ‘I’m not a thief.’
She stood her ground bravely. ‘OK, just keep calm, Craig.’
‘I’ve done me time,’ he said. ‘And I ’aven’t done nothing else wrong since I came out.’
At that point an impressively burly uniformed officer accompanied by a female uniform were buzzed through the security door and came to stand beside Craig. The woman put her hand gently on his arm. ‘We’re just going to check you for weapons, Craig. Is that OK?’
‘What?’ He wasn’t used to people asking permission to do things to him.
‘We need to be sure you’re not carrying anything which could be used as a weapon.’
‘Go on, then.’ He put his arms out to the side and spread his legs. The male officer stepped forward and ran his hands swiftly and expertly over Craig’s body and limbs. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘Come on lad, let’s get you into an interview room and then we’ll have a little chat.’
Having sampled a small amount of Sir David’s peaty Laphroaig and chatted with him about family and world affairs for half an hour, Swift eventually made his farewells and got behind the wheel of his car once more. Before firing the engine, he selected a CD of Haydn quartets which had come free with one of the big Sundays a while ago. He pushed the disc into the player and the music sprang out, its crispness lifting to the spirit, and in no way interfering with his thoughts on the interview with the amiable Sir David.
He tried to pick out the salient points, the issues to discuss later with Cat.
First of all, why had Harriet omitted any mention of Julian Roseborough in her account of the desert murder. Why omit something so crucial, something which was surely potentially helpful in pulling Brunswick out of the frame.
What role might Roseborough have taken in the murder of Christian? If any? And why?
What might Cat be able to tell him about Roseborough, who was apparently a friend of Jeremy?
He made a small sound of annoyance through his teeth. He could have done without that kind of connection turning up.
A call came through on his bluetooth. It was Ravi Stratton. She told him that Craig Titmus had reported to the station in Thirsk.
Swift disliked driving and talking even with the hands-off equipment. ‘Give me a minute, Ravi, I’ll park up and ring you back.’ He pulled into a conveniently near lay-by and turned off the engine. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes, he’s talking to the Thirsk CID now.’
‘Did he have anything of interest on him?’
‘Two hundred pounds in notes and a mobile phone. He told the front desk both the money and the phone belonged to Ruth Hartwell.’
‘Right. Can you get the IT team in Thirsk to access the details from the phone and send them on to us. And if there are any photographs, to e-mail them though to me right away.’
‘I’ve already asked the Thirsk team to get in one of the local probation officers to talk to Craig. Fix up some temporary accommodation in Thirsk if the station don’t think it’s necessary to keep him.’
‘Does it sound as though he’s likely to be charged with any offence?’
‘They didn’t say so. He has broken the terms of his licence, of course. He was supposed to report in to his probation officer earlier today.’
‘Right. Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see how things pan out. Cross any shaky bridges when we come to them.’
‘How did your interview with the ambassador go?’ she asked.
‘It was interesting. I’d rather not talk on the phone, Ravi. I’ll get a report to you as soon as possible.’
Having cut the connection with Ravi Stratton, Swift punched in Cat’s mobile number.
She answered almost instantly. ‘Ed?’
‘How are things going?’
‘Not sure. I’ve seen Brunswick and I had one of those feelings that I was on the scent of something. And then I’ve been following up a hunch which seemed a bit interesting, but now I’m not so sure about that either.’ She laughed. ‘But I’m quite enjoying myself, anyway. You know, being on some sort of trail even if it’s not the right one. And London is so gloriously big and anonymous.’
He could hear the lift in her voice. Already she was coming round after Jeremy’s assault. And maybe enjoying the freedom of being fairly sure he wasn’t in the near vicinity.
‘Has Brunswick given you anything new?’
‘Contrary to what he told us earlier, he and Christian have been buddies in recent years. Drinking partners and so on. Harriet doesn’t join in, and probably doesn’t know.’
Swift’s mind raced. Christian, Brunswick, and Julian Roseborough all on a night out together. What had been going on between them? Both in the distant and the recent past? He decided not to mention David Colburn’s account of Roseborough to Cat at this stage. No need to cloud her day, as yet. That would come soon enough.
He told her about Craig and the hopefully significant discovery of the mobile phone. ‘Are you coming straight back?’ he asked. ‘Or taking some time out in Bond Street?’
‘What? On a DI’s salary? I’m thinking of buying a coffee and a sandwich and relaxing with a stroll along the Regents Canal.’
‘Really. Aren’t there more exciting sights to see?’
‘Time will tell. I’ll give you all the details when I see you. I’m aiming to get the 7.05 out of Kings Cross. Be back in Leeds just after nine.’
‘I’ll pick you up.’
‘No need.’ She was sounding so much brighter.
‘Yes there is,’ he said gently. Perhaps more for himself than for Cat.
At the Fox and Hounds Hotel on the north-west section of the Leeds ring road, Lynne, the chambermaid who looked after floor two, was getting a little worried about the state of Room 26. She hadn’t been able to get in there to tidy up and put out fresh towels that day. The Don’t Disturb notice had still been hung on the door handle at 10 a.m. this morning. And it was now at 6 p.m. in the evening and it had not been moved. At the Fox and Hounds they liked to continue the old-fashioned service of turning down the beds in the evening and ensuring that the fridge, the bar and the tea-making facilities were all topped up. She was keen to get all that done without delay.
She stared at the door for a few moments, then knocked on it with gentle fingers. ‘Room service,’ she called out, beginning to be concerned. She put her ear to the door. There was no sound. She turned the key in the lock and went in. At least she tried to go in. But there was an obstacle behind the door. She pushed hard, but the resistance was too great. Looking into the room she could see the figure of a man slumped on the carpet. He was fully dressed. neatly pressed grey trousers and a dark-green sweater. He even had his shoes on. He must have fallen forward when he fell, as his face was hidden from view. Around his head was a huge sticky halo of blood. Lynne’s hand flew to her mouth but she made no sound. She closed the door and went quickly downstairs to locate the manager.
When Swift arrived back in his office, he went straight to his computer and accessed his e-mails. The file from the IT department in the Thirsk station was the first he opened. He went straight to the section labelled camera storage. Scrolling down the screen he found some stills of the frontage of the London Canal Museum and further stills taken at different points along the towpath of the canal. And then there was a short video. The stills had been taken in the daylight, but the video was shot in fading evening light, making the quality of the picture grey and grainy. It appeared that the photographer had been on the move as he filmed, the images being subject to a degree of jerkiness. But the story told in the film was unmistakably chilling. A stumbling male figure was making his way down the towpath, his footsteps uncoordinated and tremulous. As he weaved his way along there were a number of occasions when he seemed dangerously near the edge of the water and about to topple in. And then, with one clear fluent movement, a man following drew alongside, stretched out his arm hand and simply tipped the drunk into the water with the pressure of his outstretched fingers. As the body slowly disappeared, the killer lingered to watch. He took out a cigarette and lit it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs as he surveyed his night’s work. His profile was in clear view, but in shadow. And then he suddenly turned and faced the camera head on, his body stiffening. At which point, the video came to a sudden end.