A Little Death Read online

  Dee handed her the coffee. ‘He’s not at the actual mill. There’s a large area of open land next to it. Our subcontractors are preparing part of it to create a habitat for herons. People tend not to like herons because they steal fish from garden ponds.’

  She laughed. ‘The way I see it, it’s what herons do. It’s their job.’ Sipping her coffee, Hanson asked, ‘Have you worked here long?’

  ‘About seven years.’

  ‘It sounds like you enjoy it.’

  Dee sat at her desk, waving Hanson to a chair. ‘I do. Aiden’s easy to work for. He does his own few letters as long as they’re straightforward, keeps track of Renfrew’s financial side, prepares all the business accounts. He’s mostly in the office which suits him, although he does get out occasionally.’

  Seeing that Dee was pleased to have someone to talk to, Hanson asked, ‘What about Mr Downey?’

  ‘It’s chalk and cheese with those two. Hugh oversees the actual projects and negotiates and plans new ones. I more or less have to stand over him to get him to sign time sheets and return people’s calls but his work is very physical and he’s often overstretched so I haven’t the heart to be cross with him.’

  Hanson glanced around the spacious hall with its black and white tiled floor and large palms in planters. ‘You don’t have any other administrative help here?’ she asked conversationally.

  ‘No. Just me. Hugh’s wife used to do a couple of days a week but that was before she got ill.’

  Hanson recalled her last visit here and Malahide’s question to his business partner. ‘Is that Nan?’

  Dee’s face registered surprise. ‘He talked about her, did he? He doesn’t usually.’

  ‘A little,’ said Hanson. True. Sort of.

  ‘She’s not doing too badly now but it was a shock when it happened, I can tell you.’

  Dee lowered her voice, although as far as Hanson was aware they were the only people in the building.

  ‘A stroke. At forty-five. Can you believe that? A year ago this May just gone. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘Do you ever feel that some people have really bad luck?’ She didn’t wait for a response. ‘Take Aiden, for example. He sails through life, cool, calm and collected, as they say, everything organised and nothing ever seems to happen to him.’ She laughed. ‘Not that I want it to, of course. I’m saying his life goes calmly on, like Mrs Malahide’s. Fit as a fiddle, she is.’

  Seeing Hanson’s confusion, she said, ‘His mother.’

  Hanson sipped coffee. ‘It is bad luck to have a stroke so young.’

  ‘Hugh was off for weeks when it happened and Aiden had to shoulder all of Hugh’s work responsibilities the whole time he was off.’ She looked pensive. ‘I never thought Aiden would cope with being on site and having to instruct the subcontractors. He’s a bit on the fussy side, not one of the boys, if you know what I mean, but he managed it although he looked half-dead. It’s Hugh and Nan I feel sorry for.’

  She gave Hanson a conspiratorial glance. ‘Nan mentioned that one or other of his parents had poor health and he had to help out when he was young. I think she feels bad that he’s in that position again. He has to help her quite a bit.’

  ‘How is Mrs Downey now?’ asked Hanson.

  ‘She’s pretty much OK but Hugh never stops worrying about her. Whenever he has a minute in the working day he’s on the phone to see how she is and if he can’t reach her he’s off home. I tell him to relax but I understand his worry. I think he’s afraid she might feel unwell and have a fall or something.’

  Hanson decided to raise the reason for her visit. ‘Do you recall anyone, a student, requesting an internship here last year?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It’s like work experience.’

  Dee shook her head. ‘No. Nothing like that’s ever happened since I’ve been here.’

  The sound of a car door closing filtered in from outside.

  ‘That’s probably Hugh,’ she said.

  She gave Hanson a hesitant glance. ‘Look, I’d rather you didn’t mention what I’ve just said about Nan. I wouldn’t want him to know I was talking about him.’ She grinned. ‘Aiden says I talk too much.’

  She began tapping her keyboard as Hugh Downey came through the front door.

  ‘Dr Hanson, I hope you haven’t been waiting long? Dee, be an angel and put some coffee on.’

  ‘A few minutes at most,’ said Hanson.

  ‘Good. Follow me.’ He turned to the secretary. ‘Forget the coffee. I’ll chat to Dr Hanson then pop back home for five minutes on my way back to Sarehole.’

  Getting a look from Dee, Hanson followed him. He was dressed for heavy work today in a blue cotton shirt, black cargo-style trousers and boots. He led her into a huge, front-facing room with a high ceiling, draped curtains and comfortable sofas. Just this side of sumptuous. She glanced down at a large, soft cream rug.

  Downey sat at the ornate desk, indicating a chair for her. ‘I’ve been at Sarehole since early this morning.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘Never tell a busy person how hard you’re working, right? OK, Dr Hanson, what do you want to know?’

  She reached into her bag. ‘We showed you a photograph last time.’

  She placed it on the desk. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought it again. It can be difficult sometimes to recall someone from a brief look, particularly if the memory is fairly old. Would you mind taking another look?’

  He reached for it. ‘No problem.’ Hanson watched as he ran his eyes over it, taking his time.

  ‘You said she was a student?’

  ‘Yes. Nineteen years old. We know she disappeared sometime after six on Sunday the twenty-third of June last year.’

  He shook his head and handed the photograph back. ‘How terrible. Sorry, but I’ve never seen her.’

  It seemed there was little else to say but Hanson wanted to explore every possibility, rather than return here. ‘Did Renfrew have any casual staff here around that time? Is it possible the office was open at weekends?’

  ‘Casual staff, no. The work our subcontractors do is hard, very physical.’ He grinned. ‘If I so much as suggested weekend working of any description, I’d have anarchy on my hands.’

  A shadow passed over his face. ‘I guard my weekends as much as the next person. It’s family time. I’m afraid I can’t help you, anyway. I was hardly in the office between the sixth of May and the end of June.’ He looked away from her. Hanson glanced at the ring on his left hand.

  ‘You took some leave,’ she said.

  He gathered papers on the desk, not looking at her. ‘Not of the holiday kind. My wife was ill.’

  She recognised the same brusque tone she’d heard on their first visit when Malahide had enquired after Nan. He looked across the desk at her and she could see he was uncomfortable.

  ‘This is something I don’t tend to talk about but given the reason you’re here, I know this isn’t a social conversation. I wasn’t in the office at all during that time. My wife had a stroke last year. She was in hospital for several weeks. The hospital let me stay with her at night because she was very frightened. There’s a lot of criticism about hospitals these days but they were excellent.’

  ‘Which hospital?’

  ‘The Queen Elizabeth not far from here. After that she went to a rehabilitation unit close to where we live in Moseley. They were excellent too.’ He studied his hands. ‘She found it hard to do things for herself. That whole episode was a shock for both of us and an additional cruelty for Nan. She’s an accomplished artist yet there she was, struggling to hold a spoon.’ He stopped, looked away, then back to Hanson.

  ‘I don’t know where all that came from. All you wanted to know is what I was doing back then.’ He glanced around the elegant room. ‘This place is our livelihood but I can tell you that that kind of sudden, unexpected event shows you your priorities. As far as I was concerned, Renfrew had to take care of itself while she was so ill. Aiden kept the projects ticking o
ver that whole time.’ He looked away again.

  ‘I owe Aiden a lot because I knew he would find it stressful. Aiden’s the idealist in this setup but typically he doesn’t get his hands dirty. I’m no idealist. I see conservation as the thing now and I’m lucky to have the skills for it. It’s me who gets the dirty hands.’

  ‘Mr Malahide stepped up when you needed him,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Twelve-hour working days, sometimes in the office, mostly on site, was a complete departure for him, although it helped that he lives here. Not far to go home.’ He smiled, looking suddenly younger than the mid-forties he had to be.

  ‘Mr Malahide lives here?’ repeated Hanson.

  He nodded. ‘When we first got this place Aiden liked the look of the self-contained flat on the third floor so we agreed he’d have it.’

  Hanson brought the conversation back. ‘The last time I was here with my colleague we asked about internships and Renfrew’s involvement in such schemes. I was wondering if you’d had any more thoughts about it?’

  He gave a slow headshake. ‘Sorry. Like we said, we don’t offer anything like that. We’re just too small an outfit to bear the insurance costs and the kinds of projects we undertake wouldn’t be suitable for young people. Was the firm whose details I gave you any help?’

  She shook her head. ‘Afraid not, for very similar reasons to yours, but thank you anyway.’

  Sliding Elizabeth’s photograph into her bag she glanced around the room then down to the thick, pale rug. There had to be thousands like it in this city.

  Reaching for her bag she said, ‘I wish my office was as luxurious as this.’

  He shook his head. ‘It isn’t mine. It’s Aiden’s. He’s a sucker for comfort. He spends a lot of time behind this desk so I don’t begrudge it. Mine’s a cell by comparison.’

  They walked into the hall. Dee, the secretary, was nowhere in sight. At the front door he turned to Hanson.

  ‘I’m really sorry we can’t help. Good luck with your case. She looked like a nice girl, the one in the photograph.’

  ‘Yes. I think she was. Nineteen is too young to suffer that kind of end.’

  Downey looked subdued. ‘I can hardly remember being that age. Media vita in morte sumus.’

  She gazed up at him. ‘“In the midst of life we’re in death”.’

  He smoothed his hair, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘It’s a realisation that hit me like a train last year. One minute everything in your life is going along just fine. You’ve got everything you want and the next, it’s hanging by a thread. Well – that’s how it felt.’

  He opened the door for her. ‘I’ve got a reputation now among friends and colleagues for giving unsolicited advice, mostly of the “enjoy and appreciate what you’ve got while you’ve got it” variety.’ He gave a fleeting smile. ‘I try to keep a lid on it.’

  They shook hands. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Downey.’

  He gave a brief wave then slowly closed the door.

  TWENTY

  Back at the university, Hanson dropped her phone into her bag. She’d spent several minutes following up similar setups to Renfrew, including two on the outskirts of the city. Like the one whose details Hugh Downey had supplied, none of them offered work experience placements.

  The phone on her desk rang and she snatched it up. ‘Yes!’

  Silence. It was of the same quality as a silent call she’d had earlier. It had been followed immediately by one from a third-year student so Hanson hadn’t had a chance to retrieve the number. Now she sat with the phone pressed to her ear, listening.

  ‘Who is this?’

  Maybe it was the effort of trying to hear something, anything, but she thought she detected something faint, the muted ripple of a low laugh. Gripping the phone she waited, saying nothing, hardly breathing. It went dead.

  Uneasy, she replaced it, her hand still on it, one name inside her head. Chris Turner. She leapt as it rang again.

  ‘What!’ she demanded, robbed of yet another chance to obtain the number.

  ‘Who’s snapped your garters?’ It was Watts.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve called me this afternoon?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yeah, and just as well by the sound of it.’

  ‘I’ve had two silent phone calls.’

  ‘Ring one-four—’

  ‘I know that. This phone doesn’t have a number calling indicator so it was my first thought, but before I could do it somebody else rang. And now, you.’

  ‘Probably one of them end-of-year student pranks. How about something else to think about?’ Without waiting for a response, he said, ‘Forensics are at the garden centre where Amy Bennett was attacked. Fancy a ride there?’

  ‘If it’s soon. Have you heard how she is?’

  ‘According to the hospital this morning, mother and unborn baby stable was all they’d say.’

  Mother.

  ‘Something else you might like to know. I’ve been in with the chief this morning. Nuttall tried to block it but the Bennett case is now officially ours. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.’

  Arms folded, Hanson contemplated the garden centre bathed in bright sunlight. It was certainly an attractive place, surely a magnet for visitors in weather like this. Her gaze moved slowly over the front aspect of the main building. It was constructed of wood painted a delicate eggshell blue, a tall, humming soft drinks dispenser against it. Multiple pots of flowers stood on the ground either side of the main doors. But there were no plant-seeking visitors today. The whole area was cordoned off, officers at the roadside waving would-be customers away.

  Keeping to the perimeter of the thickly gravelled parking area, Hanson’s eyes drifted across to the other side and the heavy tree cover along it. She gazed up at the fresh green foliage and tried to imagine how the place looked in darkness. She came up with two words. Lonely. Secluded. She shook her head. It wasn’t somewhere she would have chosen to stop at night if she were alone. Apparently, Amy Bennett had had no choice. Watts had told her that Amy was having car trouble.

  Glancing to the left of the building she saw a sign pointing to a narrow pathway and a twenty-four-hour restroom. Amy was seven months pregnant. Yet another reason to stop at what must have felt like a desolate location at that late hour.

  Watts was at the other side of the parking area talking to Adam and a couple of his forensics team, their heads close as they looked down at a picnic table which Adam had pressed into service. Others of his team were on kneeling pads examining the outer edges of the area beneath the trees.

  Watts looked up, hooking a finger in her direction as an officer headed towards her with shoe covers. Putting them on, she joined Watts and the forensic officers at the table. Heavy duty white paper had been spread on it. She looked down at the several clear plastic trays containing numerous items: buttons, coins, several discarded admission tickets and a glove which looked far too small to have belonged to an adult and had probably been here a while. Hanson knew from experience that most if not all of these items would eventually prove to be irrelevant. Two small items of thick paper printed with a series of squares in various shades from light to dark green caught her attention.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘They’re sheets for identifying the type of soil in your garden,’ said Adam. ‘They sell them inside but we’re bagging everything that doesn’t look like it’s been here since Domesday.’

  Hanson looked to where Watts was now standing at the edge of the parking area, almost within the trees. Nearby, a forensics officer was on his knees pouring what she knew to be distilled water into a plastic bag of white powder, squeezing the bag to mix water and powder together.

  She went to him. ‘You’ve found some impression evidence?’

  ‘Come and see.’

  She followed and he pointed beyond the gravel, to where the earth looked soft. ‘There, see? A section of tyre track. According to our information Amy Bennett said that there was a vehicle already parked, almost wit
hin the trees when she arrived.’ He pointed to the thick gravel surface on which they were standing.

  ‘This generates a lot of dust in dry weather so on and off during the day employees mist it with water. The surface around the trees is more soil than gravel. It gets any run-off and stays damp. We might get a cast good enough to identify the tyre make and type.’ He looked up.

  ‘Here comes the other print.’

  Hanson followed his gaze to an officer holding out a light coloured item to Adam who took it from him and brought it over. It looked to Hanson to be the impression of some kind of heavy soled shoe.

  ‘One of the first things we found here,’ said Adam. ‘Made by a man’s boot, judging by the size. It was in the same area as the tyre impression. I’ll let you know when we’ve examined it if there’s any more to say about it.’

  The bright sun, the passing traffic noise, the voices of the forensic workers dimmed around Hanson as she turned her back to the road and again faced the pale blue building. She was thinking of Amy Bennett driving in here, heavy in body, tired and distracted, wanting only the safety and comfort of home. Her car had delivered her into mayhem.

  Hearing shrillness she saw Watts bring his phone from his pocket and speak into it. He looked at her, cut the call and walked towards her, his face closed.

  ‘Amy Bennett’s gone into labour. I’ll keep you posted as and when I get anything else.’

  Hanson looked at her watch as the sun slipped behind cloud, taking some of the day’s brightness. ‘I need to get back to work.’

  ‘I’ll drop you and go on to headquarters.’

  They returned to the city in silence, Hanson’s thoughts on Amy Bennett in darkness and chaos, held, immobilised as her attacker spoke to her, repeating words which sounded to Hanson like they were a deliberate choice. How did that fit with the way he’d attacked her? From what they knew he’d seized her before she knew what was happening. A blitz attack. She gazed out of the window at rolling fields rushing past. The intention behind blitz was immediate incapacitation. The attacker had achieved that. He could have made whatever plan he had in mind easier by rendering her unconscious. He hadn’t.