Tuesday
‘Can I help you?’ A bright, musical female voice answered Marvik’s summons on the intercom of an Edwardian house which had been converted into apartments on the Bognor seafront. He flashed Helen a relieved look and quickly introduced himself, apologizing for disturbing her so early. It was just on nine o’clock and he and Helen had spent an hour kicking their heels along a wind-blown, tired and dejected Bognor promenade on a cold, damp early-March morning. The only coffee shop that would normally have been open, one of the large national chains, was closed for refurbishment. So it seemed was Bognor – although not for refurbishment, judging by its appearance – and there was hardly a sign of any of the sixty thousand inhabitants.
Helen had remarked, ‘Now I know why King George said “Bugger Bognor”.’
Marvik had replied, ‘We’re not seeing it at its best.’ Into the intercom he said, ‘I’d like to talk to you about your brother, Mrs Snow. I understand it might be painful for you but it is very important. I’m happy to explain outside if you prefer.’
‘Are you from the police?’
‘No.’ There was no reason for her to admit him or to agree to speak to him but she said, ‘Third floor,’ and the door release buzzed. He pushed it open. The hall was spacious, clean and well decorated, albeit blandly in magnolia with a beige carpet.
‘Needs a splash of colour,’ Helen muttered as they climbed the stairs. Her tone was light but he could hear and sense her tension.
The door of flat twelve was open before they reached it and standing on the threshold was a short, plump woman with curly white hair wearing red voluminous trousers and a loose-fitting hip-length green and blue top with sequins. She more than made up for the lack of colour in the hall. Beside her was a small West Highland terrier.
‘I apologize for disturbing you,’ Marvik began. She was studying them curiously but not warily. Marvik suddenly saw what she must, a muscular, broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a scruffy woman with heavy, dark eye make-up, black tights, big black boots with a purple coat and purple hair. He thought they were enough to make Amelia Snow slam the door on them and call the police but her fleshy face broke into a broad grin.
‘It’s not often I get such interesting callers. Come in. You look frozen to the bone. That wind off the sea at this time of the year can cut right through you.’
He stepped in, exchanging a quick glance with Helen, who seemed as surprised as he was by their welcome and by the warmth and trusting nature of Amelia Snow. It boded well for their mission.
They followed her into a well-proportioned, high-ceilinged room partly decorated in Helen’s favourite colour, purple, contrasting with green. It should have been hideous but somehow it wasn’t. In front of Marvik were two sets of long French windows that gave on to small verandas each with black iron balustrades and a view of the grey sea. The room was comfortably furnished with an assortment of easy chairs covered in bright fabrics and throws and an untidiness that was homely rather than slovenly. It was also extremely cluttered and very warm.
‘You look as though you could do with a coffee.’
Helen nodded eagerly. She unfolded her arms and stopped shivering. Marvik unzipped his jacket.
‘Take your coats off. The heating’s on full pelt. Life’s too short to be cold,’ she called out as she entered a room on the right giving off the lounge. The little dog followed her.
‘Thank you,’ Marvik replied, as the rattle of cups reached them. He shrugged out of his jacket and looked for a suitable place to put it.
She popped her head out of the kitchen. ‘Just sling it where you like.’
He draped it over one of the easy chairs. Helen raised her eyebrows at him, wrenched off her coat and threw it on top of his before sauntering to an open door on their left.
Marvik turned to study the photographs on the cabinets. There were several of her dog and a few of her with her dog, taken, by the look of the settings, on various holidays, but there was one of her taken several years ago standing beside a sturdily built man who Marvik thought might be Bryan Grainger. There was a similarity between them in build and around the eyes. But whereas Amelia Snow’s face had lost its shape because of the excess flesh around it, this man’s still retained its square-jawed ruggedness. He was about late-forties and confident looking and when Marvik’s eyes travelled up to the numerous paintings on the walls he saw one of the same man, this time looking thoughtful and preoccupied, perhaps even troubled. The other paintings were a mixture of people undertaking various activities: a man behind a market stall selling oranges; a fisherman huddled in the cold and rain on the beach; a woman pushing a child on a swing in the park. They were good.
Helen’s voice came from the distant room, ‘You’re a painter,’ she called out. Marvik joined her in what was clearly Amelia’s studio. It was as chaotic as her lounge and there were two further French windows looking out to sea.
‘I dabble,’ came the distant reply.
It looked more than dabbling to Marvik.
She appeared in the doorway.
‘They’re really good,’ Helen said with genuine admiration. ‘I used to love art at school but never got to take it seriously.’
‘Maybe you should. You obviously have a taste for the dramatic.’ She nodded at her hair.
Marvik wondered if Helen would be insulted but she smiled with real warmth.
Amelia Snow added, ‘Although that purple sailing jacket rather lets the side down.’
‘I had to buy it very quickly and at the last moment. My other coat got thrown away,’ she added pointedly with a glance at Marvik.
‘Come and have coffee.’
Marvik was glad to find Amelia Snow so open and friendly; it made his task of questioning her much easier. But it didn’t mean he would get the answers he was seeking. A coffee pot, three mugs, a plate of chocolate biscuits, milk and sugar was waiting for them on a tray on a circular table in front of the big marble fireplace. The dog settled itself at Amelia Snow’s feet.
‘Is that your brother, Bryan?’ Marvik asked, indicating the painting he’d been studying earlier.
‘Yes. I finished that two months before he died.’
Marvik took the coffee mug from her. He said, ‘This is Helen Shannon.’ He watched for her reaction. He could feel Helen holding her breath. But Amelia Snow showed no recognition of the name.
‘Help yourself to biscuits.’
Helen picked up one. ‘My sister was Esther Shannon, she was murdered in 1997 and your brother investigated the case.’
Amelia Snow looked sympathetic. ‘And that’s why you’re here to ask me if he discussed it with me. I’m sorry, dear, but Bryan never talked about work. He was a very self-contained man, dedicated to his job, too dedicated I often thought, and he considered me too flighty, but we rubbed along well enough for brother and sister although we were never what you would call close.’
Marvik felt the disappointment keenly. Another wasted morning. But they couldn’t just leave and besides, even if Bryan Grainger had never talked about his work, there was still his death and she could give them more information about that. But first he asked her about the painting.
‘What did you talk about while you painted him?’
‘We didn’t, that’s probably why he looks reflective.’
‘Or puzzled.’
She studied it. ‘Maybe he does.’
‘And rather sad,’ added Marvik, ignoring Helen shifting impatiently beside him. ‘Perhaps he was thinking through his old cases or wondering what to do with the rest of his life.’ Was that Bryan Grainger he was describing, or himself? But he had a job to go to in a week’s time and one he knew he felt no enthusiasm for. Perhaps he would once this was over, if it was over. And if it wasn’t then he’d have to tell Drayle that he needed to postpone his start date.
Amelia said, ‘Bryan loved his job and he didn’t really want to retire but he had no option – you had to go then, once you’d done your thirty years, although I believe it’s different now and police officers can rejoin as civilians.’
And was that what Duncan Ross was going to do? Marvik wondered. He’d said not but maybe he’d miss it too much to sail away into the sunset on his refurbished boat.
She continued. ‘Bryan had decided to set up on his own.’
‘A private detective?’ Helen asked with her mouth full of biscuit.
‘Not divorces, husbands spying on wives and vice versa, but something more substantial or rather meatier, so he said, but don’t ask me what because I have no idea. It wasn’t long before he was killed and I never had the opportunity to question him further about it. He didn’t intend staying in the area though. He told me he was going to sell his flat. He said it had been a mistake to buy it and I agreed with him; the gentility of Chichester didn’t suit him. I’m sorry about your sister, dear,’ she said to Helen. ‘Bryan’s death was sudden and shocking. I felt very angry that his life had been cut short in so cruel and callous a manner but I can’t even begin to imagine how you must have felt when you must have been nothing but a teenager and your sister much younger than Bryan. I won’t ask you how she died because I’m sure you don’t want to dredge it all up, but did my brother get her killer?’
‘He thought he had and so did I but …’
‘Now you’re not certain.’ Her eyes flicked between them. ‘Something has happened to doubt that conviction. You think my brother made a mistake?’ she said, disturbed.
Marvik hastily answered. ‘Not necessarily. It might have been the only decision he could make given the evidence, but other information has come to light since then to throw doubt on it.’
She sipped her coffee and scrutinized him closely. ‘Are the police re-investigating it?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a private detective?’
What did he say to that? If he said yes, perhaps she’d ask for some kind of identification and that would catch him out in a lie. He didn’t think she deserved that. She’d trusted them. ‘Sort of. I’m looking into the background of the murder unofficially, but with Helen’s approval.’ Perhaps she’d think they were lovers. It didn’t worry Marvik if she did. She seemed to accept his explanation.
‘And you’re wondering if he ever expressed doubts about the case? Well he didn’t. Not to me.’
‘Did he ever talk about DI Duncan Ross? He worked with Bryan on the investigation.’
‘No. I don’t recall the name.’
Marvik left a short pause before saying, ‘What was your brother doing in Brighton on the day he was killed?’
‘I don’t know. He might have been there looking for somewhere to live and work.’
Marvik thought that unlikely at eight thirty at night.
‘I’d assumed he’d return to London though. The police have never said why he was there and they’ve never apprehended who killed him.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A week before he died. And that was the last time I spoke to him.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Very cheerful, elated almost, because he’d made a decision about his life and the future.’
Or because he’d discovered something connected with Esther Shannon’s murder, Marvik wondered. He couldn’t see how any of this helped them. ‘I suppose the police asked you these questions.’
‘They didn’t actually. They just told me that Bryan had been killed, they were very sorry but they were doing all they could to find the driver. They put out appeals for witnesses and for the driver to come forward but no one did.’
‘But the case is still open?’
‘As far as I’m aware. No one’s been back to tell me anything more.’
Helen interjected. ‘Aren’t you cross about that? Surely they can do something.’
‘I’m disappointed, but getting het up about it would be a wasted emotion. It would only hurt me. It can’t do Bryan any good. And the driver who killed him can’t have any conscience so getting angry and letting it eat into me would destroy my life and no one else’s.’
Helen frowned as she considered this.
Amelia Snow continued. ‘Wailing and moaning about it and badgering the police won’t achieve anything, so I get on with my life as best I can. It’s certainly what Bryan would have wanted.’
But Marvik thought Bryan would have wanted more than that. He would have wanted his killer found and punished. He recalled what he’d read in the newspaper articles when he’d visited Littlehampton library. Grainger had been walking towards the seafront. There had been only one witness, Linda Hannam, but she’d only seen Bryan’s body on the wet road.
‘Did the witness reveal anything that could help the police?’
‘If she did they didn’t tell me, and I think they would have done. The post-mortem found that Bryan wasn’t drunk, there was no alcohol or any other drug in his system. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Marvik swallowed his coffee. He half expected Helen to jump in with a question but perhaps she was thinking of her sister being in the wrong place at the wrong time – only Marvik didn’t believe that for either Esther or Bryan Grainger. They had both been targeted.
He said, ‘What happened to your brother’s belongings?’ Could Grainger have left some note or indication of what he was doing? But if he had then the police hadn’t found it. Or had they, and passed it on to the person who had killed or organized the killing of Bryan Grainger?
‘There was very little on him when he was killed, just his wallet with credit cards intact and some money.’
‘No mobile phone?’ asked Marvik, suddenly more alert.
‘No. I gave the police the number and they tried it but it had been disabled. They thought it must have fallen from Bryan’s pocket when he was struck by the car and someone picked it up from the gutter, or wherever it had landed, and walked off with it.’
That was possible but Marvik was beginning to wonder if the driver had stopped and quickly searched Grainger and removed anything incriminating.
‘What about the keys to his flat?’
‘It’s funny you should ask that,’ she said, stroking the dog before looking up at Marvik. ‘I didn’t even think about them when the police handed me Bryan’s belongings. I didn’t go to the hospital because he was already dead. I just accepted his personal items without really registering what they were. But when I went to his flat, two days after his death, there had been a break-in.’
Marvik’s nape hairs pricked. Helen almost choked on her biscuit.
‘The front door was locked, so I had no idea what I was about to see until I let myself in.’
‘How?’ Marvik sharply interjected.
She looked puzzled, before her expression cleared and she smiled. ‘I had a key and Bryan had one for my flat, in case we lost it or anything happened to one of us. I thought his keys had been lost in the accident but when I saw his flat had been entered I wondered if someone had picked them up along with his mobile phone and got hold of the address, and had come looking for valuables. That really hurt. To think that someone could do something so despicable.’
But would a former copper keep his address with his house keys? Unlikely, thought Marvik, and the address wouldn’t have been on his mobile phone, not unless he’d given his address in an email sent from it or on something ordered over the Internet. If so that meant whoever had stolen the keys and phone could have hacked into his email and web accounts, just as someone appeared to have hacked into his.
‘Was anything taken?’ he asked.
‘I don’t really know because I didn’t know what Bryan kept there.’
This was frustrating but relevant and Marvik pressed on. ‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘Of course. And before you ask they didn’t catch who did that either,’ she answered, looking bewildered. ‘I don’t see how this is helping you.’
It wasn’t. Not in the way she meant. Did he tell her that he thought her brother could have been deliberately targeted to silence him? If he did he didn’t think she’d believe it anyway. She wasn’t stupid, just very trusting and a bit too innocent.
He said, ‘I just wondered if Bryan might have kept notes on his old cases and had jotted down something that might help us find out who killed Esther.’
‘Well I didn’t find any notebooks or diaries when I was clearing his flat. There were several of my mother’s diaries but that was all.’
‘No computer?’
‘No.’
And Marvik thought that a little unusual. There didn’t seem to be anything further she could tell them and Marvik again apologized for having brought back unpleasant and sad memories for her. He rose to indicate to Helen they were leaving. Amelia Snow pulled herself up and showed them to the door, the dog trotting at her heels.
At the door Marvik turned back. ‘Where was your brother’s funeral held?’
‘At Chichester crematorium. Several of his colleagues came. I don’t know who they are so I can’t help you there but the undertaker might still have a list of them on file. Ryans in Bognor. I hope you get to the truth,’ she said, looking at Helen. ‘But if you don’t, don’t waste your life wondering or worrying about it. Easy enough to say, I know, far more difficult to carry out. I’d like to know how you get on.’ She reached into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out a card.
Helen took it. ‘I’ll come and tell you.’
‘That would be nice, dear.’
Helen thanked her for the coffee and biscuits. When outside the building she turned to Marvik. ‘Do you think that whoever ran him down took his computer and any notes?’
‘Sounds likely. I think he must have been re-investigating Esther’s murder.’
‘But why was he in Brighton? As far as I know Esther never went there. Maybe she did though and didn’t tell me. We didn’t confide in one another. Brighton is a notorious place for lovers, isn’t it? Could she have gone to a hotel with a lover, the same man she met in London before she was killed? Or perhaps she went with Blackerman if they were having a fling.’
Marvik didn’t know. ‘Let’s call on the undertakers.’
They found Ryans in a large building erected in the mid-1860s which, along with conducting funerals, boasted selling houses and household items, or so stated the ancient sign above the door. Marvik didn’t know if they did either these days and he wasn’t interested in finding out. He asked the elegant blonde in the plain black dress at reception if it was possible to have the list of mourners for Bryan Grainger’s funeral in 2004.
The receptionist said she would call Mrs Snow for her permission to release it and if granted she would post or email him a copy. Marvik couldn’t wait that long. He said he had just come from Mrs Snow’s and if the receptionist could call her now and ask, they would wait or return to collect it.
Amelia Snow gave her permission and the receptionist asked if they could call back in an hour. They walked down to the beach and along the promenade after Marvik had called into a local stationers and consulted an ordnance survey map. He didn’t buy it but replaced it on the shelf once he’d found what he was looking for. He also withdrew some money from the bank. Crowder knew he was in Bognor anyway and if anyone else was monitoring their movements they’d be long gone by the time they discovered that he and Helen were here.
Helen seemed rather preoccupied. Marvik didn’t disturb her thoughts but focused on his own. Grainger had probably gathered many enemies in his career, villains who would like to see him dead, but he was convinced that he had been about to reveal something significant connected with Esther Shannon. The police’s inability to find any leads on his hit and run and the break-in at his flat seemed to indicate even more strongly that behind this was someone very powerful in the police force, or the intelligence services.
They ate a very early lunch in a steamy café behind the seafront that seemed to specialize in serving baked beans with everything. Helen expressed the view that she liked Amelia Snow but said very little else. Marvik let her be. When they returned to the undertaker the list was waiting for them.
‘It might not be a complete list of mourners,’ the receptionist informed Marvik. ‘We took the names of all those who entered the crematorium before the service, on Mrs Snow’s instructions, as she wanted to write to them all and thank them for coming, but there could have been others who slipped in after the service had started.’ He wondered why Amelia Snow hadn’t given them the list of names and addresses if she’d written to them all, but perhaps she’d destroyed it or lost it, which wouldn’t be difficult he thought given the chaos of her flat.
Marvik tucked the list into his jacket pocket. He found a taxi outside the railway station, and as the flat countryside sped past them he withdrew the list and scanned the names. Only one registered with him and that was Duncan Ross, whose address was simply given as Sussex Police. That wasn’t unusual though because looking at Grainger’s other former police colleagues they’d also done the same. There were a few from the Met who might be worth speaking to. He handed the list to Helen and asked if she recognized any of the names on it. She studied it for a moment then shook her head. As they neared the marina Marvik leaned forward and asked the driver to divert to Copse Lane, Itchenor.
‘Why there?’ Helen asked.
‘Something I want to see,’ he answered with a glance that indicated he wasn’t about to expand on that.
It was a five-mile detour from Chichester Marina by road and about the same distance on foot. The map he’d consulted earlier had shown him there was a public footpath from the marina, skirting Birdham Pool and then following the coastline before crossing some farmland and into Copse Lane.
The taxi turned into Itchenor Road then indicated right into Copse Lane. Marvik asked the driver to slow down. As they drove past the select, large and very expensive houses Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘There’s a lot of money here; you got rich friends?’
He didn’t answer.
He found the house he was looking for. It was on his left and the last in the cul-de-sac, which culminated in woods. It backed on to Chichester Harbour and opposite it he could see a footpath leading into the woods. The entrance to the house was secured by electronic gates behind which was a long sweeping driveway to a large sprawling brick built property under a slate roof surrounded on either side by shrubs and trees. He gave instructions for the driver to head for Chichester Marina. After he’d paid him off, Helen said, ‘So who lives there?’
‘Vince Wycombe. Blackerman’s barrister.’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘He’s done well for himself. You going to see him?’
‘Later, maybe.’ And without her tagging along. ‘First I want to get this list to Shaun and ask him to check out the names. I also need to know if he’s got anything further on Esther’s employment with Danavere.’
‘Who’s Shaun?’
‘A friend of mine who’s helping us.’
‘The one with the boat?’
‘Yes.’
Helen halted on the pontoon. ‘I’ve been thinking about what Amelia said about her brother having his mother’s diaries. Esther didn’t keep a diary, as far as I know, but she did keep hold of mum’s. When Esther died and I had to clear her things, I found them in her room in a shoe box. There were no other notes or any letters or postcards. I’ve never looked at them. I just wondered … It’s a bit of a long shot, but they meant a lot to Esther; do you think she might have written something in them?’
If she had then Marvik doubted they would have remained in that shoe box in Esther’s room. ‘Where are they?’
‘At the house.’
Or perhaps they weren’t. Perhaps they’d been taken long ago or had been what the intruder had been after when he’d trashed Helen’s house on Sunday. There was only one way to find out. But first he said, ‘Let’s get back to the Hamble.’