‘THINGS ARE COMING together nicely, kiddies,’ said a cheerful DCI Wells. ‘Uniformed have finished with everybody in the original case notes and – guess what – nobody can remember seeing Rebecca Crawford for most of 2007.’
‘And that’s good how, sir?’ asked Mia.
‘Because it means that Rebecca must have been elsewhere for most of her pregnancy. So, where was she? And why did Baxter want us to think they were still in touch? And why – if it was so near to completion – did she abandon the gym? Now, I know we’ve still got to find answers to these bloody infuriating questions, but at least we’ve got questions to find answers for.’
‘Baxter isn’t the baby’s father, sir,’ said Nick, passing him the Crime Lab form. ‘We found that among the papers last night.’
Wells’s eyes narrowed. ‘We?’
‘Me and Mia. I called round to her flat.’
Nick spoke the words without the slightest hesitation. What he did in his own time had nothing to do with Wells. Mia, however, felt differently. As she saw the intrigue in his scrawny features, she couldn’t help but feel awkward.
‘There was nothing else of interest … in the papers,’ she said.
Wells studied the DNA results, a smile hovering on his lips. ‘And did you two form any opinions about the father last night?’
‘No,’ said Nick. ‘But Mia now thinks Baxter might not be our killer. Whereas I still reckon he is, with jealousy as the motive.’
‘Hmm, one of those theories is right.’ Wells opened up his notebook. ‘Uniformed also checked up on Rebecca’s Nuneaton address. 212 Wallace Court. Turns out she was last seen there sometime in January 2007.’
‘Is she still the owner?’ asked Mia.
‘She never owned it. She rented it.’
Nick shrugged. ‘Why can’t we just ask the landlord if she left a forwarding address?’
‘Oh, we’re going to, don’t worry. But something tells me he won’t be very forthcoming.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Because Bryan Baxter’s the landlord.’ Wells grinned at them. ‘See what I mean? All the pieces are coming together. Now we’ve got to make them fit. We’ll have another go at him this afternoon. Let’s make him sweat a bit first.’
Jack came in then, looking harassed. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir.’
‘S’all right, mate. How you feeling?’
‘Confused, sir.’ He stood before Wells, hands on his immaculately-dressed hips. ‘I had a call from Inspector May this morning. That’s why I’m late.’
Wells scowled. ‘What did that tosser want?’
‘He’d heard the CPS was scheduling my first hearing for the end of July, and he wanted me to know so I can prepare my case.’
Mia gasped. ‘They’re actually going ahead with it? But, sweetie, you could get five years.’
‘I know.’ Jack handed Wells an envelope. ‘I had this in the post, sir.’
With all eyes upon him Wells pulled out a Barclays cheque. It was from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority. ‘I can see why you’re bloody confused, mate.’ He held up the cheque. ‘Jack’s been awarded one thousand pounds compensation.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Mia. ‘What’s he going to do, sir?’
‘He’s not going to panic, that’s what.’ Wells returned the cheque to the envelope and passed it to Jack. ‘The end of July’s still a month away, plenty of time for us to shaft that bastard Perry. And there’s still Wednesday night to look forward to.’
‘That’s the tip-off Mia told me about – yeah?’ said Nick, with award-winning nonchalance.
Wells nodded. ‘And if it goes to plan Perry will be shafted – good and proper.’
‘What about his GP?’ asked Mia. ‘D’you still want us to see him, sir?’
Wells glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, go now, kiddies. And don’t forget the warrant.’
Plans and strategies almost always work out smoothly in novels and televised dramas. Real life, however, has a tendency to erect a few hurdles along the road; it creates barriers that prevent people from reaching their all-important goals. And the particular barrier preventing Mia and Nick from obtaining a warrant to search Jason Perry’s medical records came in the shape of magistrate Marjory Hickson.
Mrs Hickson had argued that, as the Crown Prosecution Service was now involved with Jack’s alleged assault case, it was down to his legal team to secure evidence in his favour and his ‘mates in CID’ should leave well alone. Therefore, they were now entering Staples Brook Medical Centre unarmed and dispirited.
The waiting-room was empty. As they approached the desk Mia was jostling to get in front. But when she saw that the receptionist was young and pretty; saw too that the girl was almost licking her lips at the sight of Nick, she said, ‘You’d better speak to her. Try to be nice.’
‘Hi,’ he said, flashing his best smile. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’
‘I’ll do anything,’ the girl breathed.
Nick displayed his warrant card; a move which had the receptionist almost panting. ‘You’re a policeman? How exciting.’
‘I try to be – exciting, I mean – especially with someone as lovely as you.’ He leant across the desk, lowered his voice. ‘Did you know you’ve got the most beautiful smile?’
‘Have I?’
‘I go for smiles.’
‘And you really like mine?’
‘It’s driving me crazy. I can hardly concentrate.’ He leant even closer. ‘First things first though. I’m here on a case. A very important case.’
Her dark brown eyes grew large. ‘What can I do?’
‘I need some information about Jason Perry of forty-five Wilford Road, Staples Brook. Can you give it to me, angel? Please? Pretty please?’
Mia, hovering a few feet away, didn’t know whether to throw up or be impressed.
The receptionist’s pretty forehead crinkled. ‘I’d love to help, but I can’t. I can tell you which doctor he’s with.’
Nick placed a finger under her chin, narrowed his eyes. ‘No need to bother the doctor, is there? That’d take too long. You tell me what I want to know and I’ll show you how happy you’ve made me.’
The girl bit down on her bottom lip, wishing fervently that she could comply. ‘I can’t, honestly, I haven’t got access to the notes. You’ll have to speak to the doctor.’
Nick swallowed a curse. ‘OK, who’s his doctor?’
The girl, finally managing to drag her gaze away from his extremely pleasing features, was typing Perry’s name and waiting for information to flood her screen.
‘He’s on Doctor Fisher’s books,’ she said, once more feasting her eyes. ‘Do you want me to ring through?’
How else will he know we’re here, you dozy cow? ‘I’d be grateful if you could.’
The girl giggled. ‘How grateful?’
Nick held his hand in front of her face, the thumb and forefinger almost touching. ‘About this much.’
‘Oh,’ she said, pouting.
‘I’ll go and sit down while you make the call.’
Nick chose a seat nearest to the desk while Mia wandered across to a display of pamphlets. The receptionist’s eyes stayed glued to him as she spoke into the receiver, her tone stilted and business-like. Why had he turned so cold?
Attempting indifference, she got to her feet. ‘Go through that door there and you’ll find Doctor Fisher in the third room on the right.’
Nick rapped on the door and, without waiting for a response, barged in. ‘Doctor Fisher?’
‘That’s right.’
Mia was brought up short. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
Acute horror flashed momentarily in the doctor’s eyes. ‘I’m extremely busy,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘What do you want?’
Grace Chamberlain uttered those words harshly, without a smile, without even a trace of recognition and Mia was seriously wrong-footed. Still, she bore in mind the woman’s tragic history and the problems that were even now blighting her life – that excuse of a husband for one – and she made allowances.
‘How are you?’ she asked kindly.
‘Extremely busy, as I’ve already said.’
‘I was hoping to see you at yesterday’s service. Your mum said you weren’t well.’
‘I had a migraine.’
‘Are you OK now?’
Grace gave her a frosty look, skimmed her eyes over Nick. ‘I will be when I can get back to my work. I’ll ask again – what do you want?’
While Mia stood in shock at her friend’s hostile attitude, Nick pulled up a chair and explained as succinctly as he could the reason for their visit. ‘I appreciate that without a warrant we can’t expect your cooperation, but our colleague’s future’s on the line here so we’re appealing to your better nature.’
‘Then you’re wasting your time. I have a duty to Mr Perry and, although I sympathize with your colleague’s predicament, I won’t betray his trust.’
‘Perry doesn’t deserve your trust,’ said Nick, barely holding his temper.
‘That depends on your point of view. Now, I need to get on.’ She nodded towards the door.
Mia stepped forward. ‘Please, Grace …’
‘I said go.’
The two women locked eyes. ‘See you at tonight’s rehearsal,’ Mia said.
They left without another word, Nick slamming the door hard. Grace stared after them, breathing heavily as her thoughts returned to the previous night.
She’d had another row with Tom because he was insisting on going down to London again. To ‘network’, as he put it. He’d never get parts languishing in Larchborough. Didn’t she want him to be a success? Didn’t she want him to be creatively fulfilled? He wasn’t her lackey, her pet poodle. He had a right to live his own life, realize his own dreams.
What dreams? It was sex he was after – lashings of it. Tom couldn’t resist a pretty face. That ‘networking’ he spoke about most likely occurred in hotel rooms and a succession of marital beds.
Didn’t she have rights too?
Throughout their marriage she’d carried Tom, had done everything in her power to keep him happy. She’d even agreed to no more babies when motherhood was her one and only dream. Wasn’t that enough?
It was at that point in the quarrel when Grace finally acknowledged the truth. In her husband’s eyes she was nothing more than a walking cash machine. She’d ruined her life, consigned herself to a future of unhappiness and regret for what? – a pretty boy whose ego and sexual appetites far outweighed his common sense and feelings of loyalty. So she’d told him to go to London. She’d insisted. And he could stay there for all she cared. Tom, of course, could see he’d gone too far and had spent the next hour placating her, fawning over her, until eventually she’d granted his wish for a few days away.
Later on – when she was sitting alone and fretting – her father had arrived with a story which made her already frazzled senses reel. He was in a terribly fragile state, desperate to unburden his soul, and he’d used his daughter as one would use a priest in the confessional, only becoming silent when every ghastly detail had been held up to the light. He’d sobbed, and Grace – although stunned – had held him tightly, telling him repeatedly that they’d pull together and get through this.
And they would. Her parents – her father especially – had always been there for her. Now she’d return the favour, even though he’d committed an offence which flew in the face of all her medical ethics.
First off, it was imperative that they get rid of Mia Harvey, which was a great shame in a way. Grace was beginning to enjoy their flourishing friendship. Having another female there to give advice was a huge comfort. But Mia was the police and therefore a threat to her family’s future wellbeing. Holding firm to her decision Grace snatched up her mobile phone and tapped out a number.
‘Dad? Dad, listen, I’ve just had DS Harvey here.’
Silence, and then a hesitant, ‘Why?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with you. But we’ve got to stop her sniffing around, Dad. If I were you I’d cancel the play.’
‘I can’t, I’d be letting too many people down. And what good would it do, darling? We’ll still have police everywhere.’
‘But Mia’s getting too close. She’s becoming a threat.’
‘No, we carry on as normal. Ali said—’
‘Why are you listening to her?’
‘Ali said we mustn’t raise suspicions and she’s right.’
‘She’s just looking to cover her own back. I thought you wanted my help.’
‘I shouldn’t have burdened you. I shouldn’t have—’ Fisher broke off, his voice cracking.
Grace tutted impatiently. ‘Keep it together, Dad. Just listen to me. Cancel the play.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can. Cancel the play. Get Mia Harvey off our backs.’
‘Good news, Charlie, the police have finished with the crime scene.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve finished. We can lay Noah Bailey to rest at last.’
As Reverend Fisher looked up from his desk, mobile phone still in his hand, Frank Lessing stepped back in shock. The vicar’s face was like marble, his beard almost black in comparison.
Frank’s stomach did a sickening somersault. ‘When’re you going to the doctor’s, Charlie?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Let me get you a couple of tablets.’ Frank made for the door.
‘Stop fussing, I said I’m all right.’
Fisher’s harsh tone halted the verger in his tracks. The old man sat in the visitor’s chair before the desk and regarded the vicar’s hunched figure. Poor Charlie was carrying such a heavy load. And there was no need. Should he tell him? Should he put the man out of his misery?
‘Charlie, you don’t have to worry any more. I’ve seen to it. I’ve burned the evidence.’
Fisher glanced up, managed a wry smile. ‘What are you talking about, you old fool?’
‘The burial records for 2006. They’re a pile of ash.’
‘You’ve burned the records? Why?’
‘To stop the police finding out. They’d tell the bishop …’
Fisher shook his head. ‘I’m lost, Frank.’
‘I know. That’s why I did it. I could see what it was doing to you, Charlie. The guilt was weighing you down. It still is.’
‘What guilt?’ The word was spat out, causing Frank to reel back. ‘You can’t just dispose of church records. What were you thinking?’
‘I burned them for you, Charlie. You put little Anna – God rest her soul – in Rufus Medley’s plot and you shouldn’t have done it. Rufus bought that plot in the sixties. But it was the only one left at the time on account of the flood water and you wanted the dear mite nearby. Good job Rufus had no family when he died, nobody to oppose the cremation. Then when the police arrived I thought you were worried they’d find out so I burned the records.’ He gave a hasty shrug. ‘I’m saying, Charlie, I understand why you did it – I’d have done the same – and I don’t want you losing the parish for love of little Anna.’
A low chuckle started in Fisher’s throat and quickly built into a full-blown belly laugh. Frank looked on in wide-eyed horror.
‘Charlie?’
‘Bless you, Frank, you’ve cheered me up.’ Fisher considered his verger through eyes moist with emotion. ‘And thank you for looking out for me. It’s good to know you’re on my side.’
‘You’re not angry?’
‘Why should I be? You had my best interests at heart.’
The verger raised his brows. ‘No more worrying then? No more sleepless nights?’
‘Things of the past,’ said Fisher, smiling.
‘Good.’ Frank eased himself out of the chair. ‘Better get back to them council workers. They’ll be leaning on their spades, having a quick fag. They need me behind them.’
‘Before you go …’ Fisher tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. ‘I’ve decided to cancel the play. It’s too much with everything else we’ve got on.’
‘True enough,’ said Frank.
‘Perhaps you could tell Kate when you’ve got a minute. It’ll be better coming from you. She won’t be able to browbeat you over the phone.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Frank got to the door and turned back. ‘Nice to see you smiling again, Charlie … really nice.’
As soon as he was alone Fisher’s smile became a tormented grimace. If only a pilfered burial plot was all he had to worry about. Would the bishop have banished him for it? That thought had never once crossed his mind. His family had been devastated by the baby’s death, his daughter inconsolable, and he’d selfishly held their feelings uppermost in his mind. Fisher uttered a humourless grunt. Perhaps he’d been undeserving of his calling even then. If not, he certainly was now.
No matter, he’d cancelled the play and hopefully put paid to that detective sergeant’s interest in his family. He’d set the ball rolling … and only his Lord and Saviour could know where it might finally judder to a halt.
‘John Lloyd reckons the murder weapon was made of ground stone and resin, with the gilt as a possible decoration,’ said Wells, holding up the pathologist’s report. ‘What does that bring to mind?’
Mia said nothing; she wasn’t even listening. Grace’s scathing tone in the surgery had really upset her. What could have happened since Saturday to justify such a nasty response?
Jack, too, was lost in his thoughts. With a court case in the offing and being no nearer to proving his innocence, the young detective was starting to doubt Wells’s certainty that the case would be withdrawn. Things weren’t looking good.
‘A garden ornament?’ Nick ventured into the silence.
Wells pulled a face. ‘Not many garden ornaments by the river, are there? Does that mean Rebecca was killed elsewhere and transported to that spot?’
‘There’re plenty of angels and stuff on the graves, sir. Baxter could’ve used one of them. Say it was dark, nobody around, he picks up the first thing to hand….’
Wells was unconvinced. ‘So he’s by the river with a heavily pregnant woman in mid-summer when it gets dark at what … ten, ten-thirty? They argue, he gets angry and wants to kill her. He goes through the gate in the fence to the churchyard, chips away at an angel that’s part of a gravestone, and she just hangs around while he does it. No, mate, it doesn’t make sense. And what were they doing there in the first place?’
‘He could have hit her first, searched for the ornament while she was unconscious.’
‘No, don’t like it.’
‘So the murder must have been committed somewhere else,’ said Nick.
‘I reckon so. But how did he get the body there? Only two ways, as far as I can see. Across the churchyard and through the gate. Or he’d drive to where the anglers park and carry her along the bank, which is what … a couple of hundred yards? I agree with you in one respect, Nick, it must have been dark when he got her there.’
Mia had been listening to the latter part of their deliberations whilst looking at Rebecca’s photograph from the case notes. She imagined the river at night – eerie sounds of water lapping against the bank, rats and God-knows-what-else scuttling around in the undergrowth, owls hooting. Her skin crawled. Whatever had gone on, whatever she’d done to incite murder in the man, Rebecca hadn’t deserved to be dumped without ceremony in such an inhospitable place. Mia just hoped that the girl was dead long before she reached her grave.
She said, ‘Sir, the killer must have known that particular spot would be a safe bet because of the flooding.’
‘Yes?’ said Wells, wanting more.
‘Would Baxter have known though? He’s not familiar with Larchborough. I’m just thinking … could the killer be somebody local, somebody who did know it’d be OK to bury her there?’
Nick jumped in. ‘Don’t forget, Baxter came from Milton Keynes originally. Almost on the doorstep. He could know Larchborough like the back of his hand.’
‘Let’s find out,’ said Wells. He reached for his phone, called Jim Levers on the front desk. ‘Jim, any sign of Bryan Baxter’s solicitor yet?’
A wicked chuckle travelled along the line. ‘The gentleman’s been here a while now, Paul, and he’s getting more than a bit uppity. These legal types, eh? No patience. Don’t know the meaning of the word.’
A terse rumble sounded in the background: the solicitor’s response to Levers’s flippant way with words.
Wells grinned. ‘Tell him his time’s come, Jim. Me and Nick’ll see Baxter in number one. Quick as you like.’