Something Evil Comes Read online

  ‘We can’t locate Callum Foley.’

  Delaney looked at him. ‘I wish I could be of assistance but I’ve never heard of a Callum Foley.’

  Watts slow-nodded, recalling a brief exchange between Hanson and himself a short while ago: you could only drag information out of somebody if there was something to drag. He got to his feet. ‘Our investigation is widening. I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that we’ll be back here to see you again.’

  Delaney also stood. ‘Of course, Detective Sergeant. You and your colleagues are welcome here at any time.’

  Hanson looked across the kitchen to where Maisie was listlessly prodding pasta with her fork. She had tried the sympathetic approach, moved to reasonableness and five minutes ago she’d arrived at direct-and-fractious which had also got her precisely nowhere. She took a deep breath. ‘All I want to know is why you didn’t say you were finding three lectures a week difficult?’ Silence. She ran a hand through her hair. ‘It’s not like I didn’t suspect you might be having difficulties, Maisie. You’re only thirteen and you’re sharing a lecture room with eighteen—, nineteen-year-olds. You know I wasn’t in favour of the increase to three days. I thought it might be difficult but your father said to let you have a chance—’

  Maisie jumped up, face furious. ‘Don’t you dare blame Daddy! You’re always the same, Mom. You think you know everything and you’re on top of everything and know best and nobody else has a clue. That’s what Daddy says and he’s right!’

  Hanson watched, open-mouthed as Maisie stormed from the kitchen, listened as her feet pounded the stairs, followed by a door slam, wondering in some idling compartment of her mind whether it had lengthened the hairline crack in the plaster above it. She folded her arms around herself. On top of everything? Me? If only.

  ‘Is it safe to come in?’ She looked up at Charlie’s tentative face, giving him a weary grin.

  ‘Yes. The fallout is all mine.’

  He smiled. ‘How about some tea? Brandy?’

  ‘Both?’ She shook her head. ‘Tea would be good.’ She watched him cross the kitchen. ‘Maisie has always been spirited but lately we seem to clash more and more.’

  He filled the kettle. ‘Probably because lately she’s thirteen. Try not to get overwhelmed by it and don’t doubt yourself.’

  Since their reconciliation there had been a tacit agreement between them that the past they had shared should stay exactly where it was. She watched him assemble cups. She needed to ask the question. ‘What was I like at thirteen, Charlie? Was I awful?’

  He looked at her and shook his head. ‘The worst.’ She laughed. He brought cups to the table and sat opposite her. ‘You were as feisty and opinionated as Maisie. Like most thirteen-year-olds, in fact.’

  She stared out of the window into darkness. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing, Charlie. Not here, not at headquarters and I’m falling behind at work. Which isn’t unusual when I’m part of an investigation but …’ She rested her head on her hand. ‘I’m tired of playing catch-up in my own life.’

  ‘Would it be easier if you just had home and the university?’

  She gave it some thought. Possibly. But that would mean no police colleagues. No Corrigan. Plus, her work with the force had been a strong factor in her promotion. It validated the work she did at the university. If she ended her association with headquarters it would be like pressing her own professional self-destruct button. And no Corrigan. Oh, shut up.

  ‘Family is a given, Charlie, and I can’t give either of the other two up.’ She stood. ‘It’s only half-nine but I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Good idea. It will all look different tomorrow.’

  She went out of the kitchen and upstairs, taking her doubts with her.

  SIXTEEN

  Coming into the Saturday morning calm of the psychology building, Hanson was resolute in what she needed: catch-up time. A normal day’s work. Over the next three hours she checked and emailed four of the most urgent research papers to their respective journal editors. She looked at the hard copies stacked neatly in the out-tray on her desk ready for posting. Job done. She was now on the phone, listening to Corrigan’s voice.

  ‘Callum Foley has dropped off the radar. He’s had no involvement with any official body of the kind a young guy with no job and no money would need. We thought he might be living rough so we checked the official homeless services here and in London. Their data’s not reliable because of the nature of the client group but it was worth a try. We got zip. He could be just about anywhere.’

  ‘What about his family?’ She listened as Corrigan spoke away from the phone. ‘Hang on there, Red.’

  Watts came onto the line. ‘Doc, we’ve tried making contact with Foley’s mother but the phone is dead and she’s not answering her door to a uniform. Could you go and see if you have better luck?’

  Hanson wrote down the details. ‘OK. I’m onto it.’

  ‘Very upbeat,’ he said. ‘I like it.’

  She smiled into the phone. ‘Try it yourself sometime.’

  ‘Too much of a realist, doc. I had a word with Fellowes after you left yesterday. It’s possible he didn’t remember Flynn or this Foley. I went to see Delaney. He told me he himself had no dealings with the drug group at all, which is why he didn’t see a link to Matthew Flynn. He says he doesn’t know Brad Flynn and he didn’t recognise the name Callum Foley.’

  Searching for a bell and not finding one, Hanson thumped the flaking paintwork on the door. A second thump dislodged more flakes. ‘Mrs Foley? Can you open the door, please?’ She paused, waiting. ‘Mrs Foley …?’ The door opened a few centimetres, part of a blotched face visible in the narrow space.

  ‘If you’re not from the Social or the surgery you can piss off.’

  Hanson placed both hands against dirty wood. ‘Please, Mrs Foley, I need to talk to you.’ The minimal resistance on the other side stopped. She pushed at it as the woman she’d come here to see shuffled away.

  Stepping inside, Hanson went from crisp late-autumn air into a miasma she could almost taste. The over-ripe, sour smells of stale alcohol, cigarettes and acrid body odour dropped on her like unwashed wool. Shallow-breathing and only when she had to, she walked inside the room Mrs Foley had disappeared into to find her slumped on a greasy-looking sofa pulled up to a blasting gas fire, surrounded by a detritus of take-away food containers and junk mail, her head and neck sunk into her shoulders. The heat and the rancid smell of the place made Hanson’s senses reel. She swallowed.

  ‘I need to talk to you about your son Callum.’ She looked into veined eyes in the seamed, blotchy face, guessing that Foley was still several years short of her fiftieth birthday.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say about him. I only see that bastard when he’s after something.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  Foley’s wavering head turned in Hanson’s general direction. ‘You think I keep a bloody engagement diary on the go? If I did, there’d be sod-all in it.’ She lit a cigarette, fingers trembling and pulled in smoke. ‘It was months ago.’

  Hanson was still standing, the carpet lifting whenever she moved her feet. ‘Was it in the summer? Before that?’ She watched as Foley drew in more smoke.

  ‘Couldn’t say.’

  ‘You said Callum generally came when he wanted something. The last time he came here, what did he want?’

  ‘He never said but I could see he was in trouble.’ She laughed, quick and humourless. ‘Ha! He was always in bloody trouble, but this time I knew it was something big.’ Hanson saw her eyes narrow, the hand holding the cigarette making small jabbing movements. ‘Oh, yes. Big trouble. I thought at the time, He’s upset somebody, the stupid bastard. I told him to hop it. I didn’t want trouble following him to my door.’

  Hanson frowned. ‘What was it that made you so sure he was in trouble?’

  Foley glanced up at her and away. ‘All edgy, he was. I’d never seen him like that.’ There was a pause. Hanson waite
d. ‘I did wonder at the time if he was back on the stuff.’ She pointed across the room to a low sideboard. ‘When he thought I wasn’t looking, he went through that, all quiet like, but I saw him. Probably looking for whatever he could take and flog. Ha! That’d be the day.’ She gave Hanson an unsteady, up-down look. ‘You got kids?’ Hanson said nothing. Foley shrugged, pulled in more smoke. ‘Take it from me, don’t bother. All they do is take-take-take then bugger off.’

  Hanson pointed to the sideboard. ‘Mrs Foley, is it OK if I take a look inside?’

  Foley squirmed, looked up at Hanson, her eyes narrowing. ‘Why?’ Getting no response, she shrugged, fell back against the sofa, face crumpling. ‘He never gave me anything in his whole miserable life except trouble.’

  Ignoring the maudlin sobs, Hanson went to the sideboard and opened its two wide doors. Inside was a jumble of items including empty cider bottles and one of whisky, almost empty. She didn’t want to have physical contact with anything in this house but she had no choice. Reaching inside she removed the bottles and placed them on the sticky carpet, reached again and pulled out a mix of papers, mostly bills and yet more junk mail. Hanson began examining every item. She was stopped by something unexpected.

  ‘Mrs Foley? Mrs Foley.’

  Foley looked up through half-closed eyes. ‘Yeah?’

  Hanson was holding up a photograph. ‘Is this your son, Callum?’

  The eyes took time to focus. ‘Yeah. That’s him. Tosser.’

  Hanson longed to be outside, away from bitterness and hopelessness. ‘May I borrow it?’

  ‘Do what you like. It’s no use to me.’

  Resuming her search, Hanson was near the bottom of the pile when an envelope got her attention. The only one she’d found. Through its window she could see money. She lifted it out by one corner, pulled the torn edges apart and gazed down at a single fifty-pound note. Replacing all she’d removed from the sideboard except for the envelope and the photograph, Hanson went to Foley. ‘I need to take this envelope with me, Mrs Foley.’

  Foley struggled upright, eyes narrowing on it. ‘Hey! I can see money in that! Give it here.’

  Hanson put the envelope inside her bag. Foley looked at her, enraged. ‘Who do you think you are? That’s mine! It’s in my house and possession is nine … summat of the law …’

  ‘This is police business. I’m taking it.’

  Foley was on her feet, swaying. ‘I’ve got expenses. You know how much gas costs these days? And cider, thought Hanson.

  She opened her wallet, took out a twenty-pound note, under no illusions about how it would be spent. ‘I’ll leave you this in exchange for the envelope.’

  Foley pointed a finger. ‘You taking me for a mug? Twenty quid for fifty! I’ll have the law on you …’

  ‘I’ll make sure that your son’s photograph is returned to you.’

  Snatching the twenty pounds, Foley began waving her arms. ‘Don’t bother. G’on! Bang the door shut on your way out, you snotty cow and leave me in peace …’

  Hanson was inside her car, its windows fully open, waiting for her call to be picked up. ‘PM suite. Chong speaking. Hi, Hanson.’

  ‘If you’ve got a minute I need you to read out the serial numbers of the fifty-pound notes found inside Matthew Flynn’s boot.’

  ‘Hang on.’ She was back promptly. ‘OK, the numbers are …’

  Listening, Hanson gazed at the number on the note lying in her lap. Thanking Chong, she cut the call. Two missing young men, one known to be dead, the whereabouts of the other unknown. It didn’t look good for Callum Foley. She started the engine.

  Hanson got out of her car, quietly closing its door. She’d been drawn here. Matthew Flynn and Callum Foley had known each other in life. Both were known to have used drugs. And both had been sent to the One Day drug support group run by this place. She looked from the church to the spacious grounds, headstones leaning like random teeth. The whole place was deserted and deathly quiet except for the low hum of traffic some distance away. They didn’t know where Matthew Flynn was killed or when but this had been his resting place. She went to the church door. It was shut tight. She looked towards Church House. There was no car outside. It had a shut-in look. Whoever had interred Matthew here had got inside the crypt without causing damage. Matthew’s body could have been left in other places arguably easier than this to access. They now knew that Matthew and Callum Foley were friends. They had no idea where Foley was. None of it made any sense but experience was telling Hanson that there was meaning and relevance somewhere in what they had. She shivered as sudden cloud blocked the weak November sun, darkening the immediate area. No. It didn’t look good for Callum.

  With a last glance at Church House as the sun reappeared, she stopped, shielding her eyes from thin rays which disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived but enough to show something moving at one of the upstairs windows. She was sure of it. She started walking, eyes fixed on it, brows drawn together. Surely …? Cloud moved, the sun came again, turning the glass into an impenetrable, reflective square. She stopped, letting her arm drop. Whatever she thought she’d seen was gone. A trick of the light. Turning, she headed for her car, wanting to share what she’d found at the Foley house with her colleagues. She had the door open when she heard a low, familiar voice.

  ‘Hello again.’

  Looking up she saw a lone figure sitting on a bench nearby. It was the elderly gardener who had washed her car under Father Delaney’s direction. She went to him. ‘Hello, Alfred.’ He waved his hand to her, dabbing at his eyes. She sat beside him. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘This cold weather makes my eyes water.’ He smiled at her. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  He pointed at the uncultivated land stretching ahead in gentle undulations towards the distant road below them. ‘I was thinking how lucky we are to have space like this in a Birmingham suburb. I often come here, you know. It helps me get things into proportion. Worries and so forth. They pile up, don’t they?’ She nodded. ‘But just a few minutes sitting here, thinking and I usually sort them out.’ He looked at her. ‘I have sorted them and I know what I have to do.’

  Hanson wondered what worries he had. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. There was a short, companionable silence as they both gazed out on space and trees, a few still giving up their remaining leaves to sudden gusts. Hanson stood. ‘I’d better get back to work.’

  Alfred nodded. ‘I have to leave, too. I was just wondering what I could take to my wife.’ Seeing Hanson’s uncertainty he said, ‘She’s in a care home just over there.’ He pointed in the general direction of the university. ‘I thought of flowers because she still loves them but they’re so expensive at this time of the year.’

  ‘What about a chocolate treat?’ suggested Hanson.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve been told not to by staff. If she gets a chance she eats it all and then she’s ill. If they take it away and give her a little bit every day she gets upset. Cries like a child.’ He shook his head and got slowly to his feet.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ said Hanson, unable to think of anything else to say. There wasn’t anything.

  ‘No need,’ he said. ‘She’s safe there. I see her every day. The staff say she doesn’t know me but I know there’s still something there.’ He nodded. ‘And if there isn’t, I still get to see her. Be with her. Remember what it was like once.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Better make tracks or I’ll miss my bus.’

  Hanson also checked the time, glanced up at the darkening sky. ‘I’ll take you, Alfred. It’s probably on my way.’

  ‘You’re very kind, but no. I use the time on the bus to think of things to tell Evelyn. Things I know she would be interested in. Just in case it means something. Today I’m taking some photographs from home to show her. She might remember who the people are. If she doesn’t, I’ll tell her about them. I know she likes me to do that, although of course she forgets what I say almost straight away.’ He began walking
away from her, then turned. ‘Will I see you again?

  Hanson nodded. ‘My colleagues and I still have a lot to do here.’

  Alfred gave her a faint smile and a nod as he turned away. ‘Good luck. Don’t give up.’

  She watched him go, knowing that in the space of a couple of hours she had seen the worst in maternal bitterness and the best in enduring devotion. She returned to her car with one last glance at Church House. What’s happened to Callum Foley? Where is he? She thought it all too likely that he was dead. If he was alive, the places he might be were endless. Truth was, he could be just about anywhere. She felt a sudden wave of helplessness. They couldn’t search everywhere. It cost too much. The chief was already reining them in.

  Starting the engine, Alfred’s last words still inside her head, she scrabbled inside her bag for her phone, searched her contact list, pressed and waited. If she was right about Foley, they needed help to focus a search. And she knew just the person who might help them.

  ‘Hi, Jake. I’ll be at the university in ten minutes. Silly question, but have you got some time to spare?’

  Having phoned ahead to check that her colleagues would be there, Hanson walked into UCU, followed by a tall, rangy man in his early thirties, a bulging leather satchel hanging from one shoulder. As he entered he scanned the room, his eyes finally settling on the Smartboard.

  ‘Have a seat, Jake. This is Detective Sergeant Bernard Watts who is the officer in charge of the investigation and this is Lieutenant Joseph Corrigan who is headquarters’ firearms trainer and also part of the Unsolved Crime Unit.’ She looked at her colleagues. ‘This is Dr Jake Petrie. He’s a geoscientist from the university. He’ll explain shortly why I’ve asked him to come here, but first …’ She reached into her bag and took out the envelope. ‘I’ve seen Callum Foley’s mother. She couldn’t recall when she last saw him but he left an envelope at her house.’ She pointed to the postmark. ‘It isn’t proof but it suggests that Callum made that visit to his mother’s home at around the time Matthew Flynn was last seen alive at the tattoo parlour.’ She opened the envelope and took out the fifty-pound note by its corner. ‘This serial number fits the sequence of those found in Matthew Flynn’s boot.’