Devils way, p.16
Devil's Way, page 16
‘The neighbour told us they found fingerprints,’ said Kate. ‘He said he voluntarily gave prints to rule himself out of the investigations.’
‘I don’t remember that.’ Bernard sat back and crossed his arms, putting his chin on his chest, thinking about what to say next. ‘This one did stick with me. The brutality. And it was a strange house. I remember the police officers at the scene were searching for children. There was a children’s bedroom filled with toys and nappies and a cot with a mobile above it. They were worried that the woman’s children had also been attacked, but there were none. And then, during the post-mortem, they checked to see if she was pregnant, but she wasn’t.’
‘She was an approved foster carer,’ said Kate. Bernard narrowed his eyes.
‘She wasn’t, though,’ he said. ‘Anna Treadwell had been refused clearance twice to be a foster carer. That’s what stuck in my memory.’
Kate was shocked.
‘Do you know why she was refused?’ she asked. Bernard shook his head.
‘No. And this is more of a personal observation. That house was at the end of the cul-de-sac. It was in such a lonely, strange position. It gave me the shivers.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s just my opinion.’
‘Do you remember much about the neighbour?’ asked Tristan.
‘Not really. A bit of a loner. He was shaken up. He’d found the body, and he was a puker. We had to deal with that at the scene, which adds another layer of unpleasantness.’
Kate saw Tristan wrinkle up his nose and push the rest of his coffee away.
‘Was there anything else you can remember?’ she asked.
He thought for a moment.
‘Well, yes. The police at the scene wondered if Anna knew her attacker, or, I should say, attackers. It appeared like she’d let them in. The house was locked up, and they’d even set the alarm on their way out. The alarm was armed when the neighbour broke in.’
They were silent for a moment, deep in thought. Tristan looked at Kate as the silence stretched out.
‘It would really help our investigation if we could, potentially, access the evidence gathered at the scene,’ she said. Bernard sat up his chair.
‘Okay,’ he said, looking between Kate and Tristan. ‘Has your agency been hired for any private contract work by HM government departments?’
‘Yes!’ said Tristan, enthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ he said again, a little less high-pitched.
‘We’ve done some work with the Devon and Cornwall NHS trust,’ said Kate. ‘Checking out people they suspect of abusing disability benefits. We’ve also done work for Exeter council, checking out an employee they suspected of fraud.’
‘Okay. Good, good. So you and your associate have had all the background checks, CRB, credit, criminal records?’
Kate glanced at Tristan not to say anything. He hadn’t had these checks.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Okay then. This is my colleague in Exeter police,’ Bernard said, grabbing Kate’s notepad and pen. He wrote out a name, email address, and phone number. His writing was fluid and precise. ‘If you can wait until later this afternoon. I want to give her a call first and tell her what you would like. I can’t guarantee anything of course, that would be her decision.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate glancing at the name, grateful to have landed the public authority contracts in the past, which might have felt run-of-the-mill, but the police and authorities had increasingly started to work with private detective agencies and outsource work. He pushed the notebook back across the table.
‘Kate, you are ex-Met police, and what about you, Tristan?’
Tristan hesitated.
‘He’s taken some training courses, and I’ve been training him. He also worked as my research assistant for four years.’
‘Great,’ he said, slapping his legs with an air of finality and getting up.
‘Thanks again,’ said Tristan as they all shook hands.
‘Don’t thank me quite yet. I can’t promise they’ll even let you near the evidence store, but this case is cold, and top brass might see this as an opportunity to take the credit if you find anything.’
‘I just want to look at the victim’s personal effects. Anything I find out will be handed over.’
He put his hands up.
‘You don’t have to convince me. I’m just telling you how it is.’
34
‘Do either of you have allergies to nuts or shellfish?’ asked Maureen Cook, holding out a silver three-tiered tray with small triangular-shaped sandwiches.
‘No,’ said Kate. She took a couple of cucumber sandwiches and placed them on the doily on her porcelain plate. Tristan shook his head and took a smoked salmon sandwich.
‘Don’t be shy, a strapping lad like you,’ said Maureen, holding the tray closer to Tristan. He smiled and took another couple of the neatly cut triangles. ‘Oh. I’ve forgotten the milk jug,’ she added, and she went off to the kitchen.
Kate looked at Tristan, who seemed equally bewildered. Maureen Cook lived in a thatched cottage on the outskirts of Cranborough. It was very warm inside, and the chintzy living room had six glass-fronted cabinets, all filled with china tea sets and porcelain figurines. It was the only private house that Kate had been in, barring an embassy, with a photo of the Queen on the wall.
When Maureen had invited them for a cup of tea, Kate and Tristan had assumed it meant just that. They had rushed over from their meeting with Bernard in Taunton, buying petrol station sandwiches, having no idea that Maureen would prepare a lavish high tea.
‘Here we are,’ said Maureen when she returned with a willow pattern jug.
‘This is very generous of you, Mrs Cook,’ said Kate, sitting up and putting her plate on the table.
‘Please, call me Maureen.’ She was a large lady in her late fifties who seemed to have overdone it with the fake tan. She was almost orange, and her bright blue beady eyes and the blue eye shadow on her hooded lids clashed with her skin. She’d been smiling since they arrived, but her apparent bonhomie didn’t quite reach her eyes. She had a Margaret Thatcher-style bouffant of red hair and wore a blue silk dress covered in a pattern of tiny pink flowers.
‘Thank you, Maureen,’ said Kate. Tristan nodded through a mouthful of smoked salmon sandwich.
‘Not at all,’ she said, waving the thanks away with a sizeable orange hand. She sat down heavily in the easy chair opposite and poured the tea. ‘Your email was very interesting. I haven’t heard or seen Anna’s name mentioned in years. Such a tragedy.’
‘Were you close?’ asked Kate.
Maureen seemed to have to think about that for a moment.
‘Yes. Anna was a member of Cranborough Writers. We met once a fortnight here.’
‘Met? Is the group not still active?’
Maureen’s smile faltered.
‘No. The group disbanded. There was a coup. Six years ago.’
‘A coup, in a writers’ group?’ asked Tristan. Maureen nodded and bit her bottom lip.
‘I was betrayed by the very people I thought were friends. I own a photostat copier.’
‘A photocopier?’ Kate asked, clarifying.
‘Yes. That’s what I said, dear. I’ve always provided photostat copies for the village; the programmes for local school plays, and the church newsletter. I also used to produce the Cranborough Writers annual short story anthology.’
‘On your photocopier?’ asked Kate.
‘Yes, I have a professional office-grade photostat copier,’ said Maureen. She paused for dramatic effect and Kate wondered where she was going with this. ‘I would always provide these services at cost. I never made a profit. Then a couple of ungrateful upstarts with a graphic design studio in the next village took it upon themselves to solicit business from the church and the local fete. They also offered to print our anthology. My position became untenable, so I left the group.’
Kate could see that Maureen liked to organise. She was one of those people who sought power and worth from being in charge.
‘Is the group still running without you?’ asked Tristan.
‘No. That’s the irony. It fell apart within a few months. I was the linchpin.’
‘How did Anna come to join the group?’ asked Kate, steering the conversation back.
‘I first met her at one of our summer fetes. I was working on the organising committee and ran the cake stall. Anna was on her own that day and seemed rather mournful and alone. I told her about our writers group. At the time, we had a few single male members, and I thought another woman might balance things out. She started attending the group a few months later.’
‘Did Anna like creative writing?’ asked Tristan. Maureen waved this away as if liking creative writing wasn’t too important for a creative writing group.
‘Not at first, but everyone has a story in them, I like to think. You know, it’s often the ones with interesting jobs who write interesting stories. That’s what made me extend the invitation to Anna to join when she mentioned she was a social worker.’
Maureen leant forward and pawed at the tray of sandwiches, which were slightly out of reach. Kate pushed the tray closer, and she palmed four of the wholemeal salmon sandwiches and stuffed one in her mouth whole.
‘Yum. I love a good high tea,’ she mumbled, chewing.
‘How long did Anna attend the creative writing group?’ asked Kate.
‘Hmmm,’ said Maureen, chewing. She took a slurp of tea and swallowed. A dribble of tea ran down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. ‘Six months. Maybe longer. She didn’t always show up every fortnight, but she always phoned to apologise for her absence.’
Maureen popped another sandwich in her mouth.
‘Don’t stand on ceremony,’ she said, spraying spittle and crumbs across the table. ‘Have more.’ Kate felt the spray of crumbs land wetly on her face, and she fought the urge to gag. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.
‘What reasons did Anna give for not coming to meetings?’ asked Kate, thrown off her stride.
‘Work, of course!’ said Maureen, swallowing another swig of tea. ‘Anna had a very stressful job in social services. And I took my hat off to her. You see some of the mothers these days. Awful. Smoking. Swearing. Acting like prostitutes. When did it become fashionable to have a bastard baby?’
Kate froze with her cup in mid-air, and Tristan choked on his sandwich. Maureen glanced over at him.
‘I’m sorry, dear, to use that word, but I think the moment we stopped calling them bastards was the moment it became okay to have a child out of wedlock.’ She folded her arms and sat back in the chair. ‘There we go, I’ve said my piece. That’s why I had a lot of respect for Anna, going into those situations where the parents maltreated their children.’
‘Not all single mothers maltreat their children,’ said Tristan. Maureen chuckled and put her hand to her mouth, as an aside to Kate.
‘Listen to the youngster, always so liberal. You’ll change your tune as you get older,’ she said, turning to Tristan. ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’
‘No. I did have a boyfriend.’
Maureen’s face froze in a manic smile, and then she recovered.
‘Lovely. More tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Tristan putting his cup down. ‘Did Anna ever talk about her work?’
‘No, dear, she only ever spoke in vague, nebuloze language.’
‘Nebu-lous?’ repeated Tristan.
‘Yes., that’s what I said, dear… Anna couldn’t talk in detail about taking children away from bad mothers, etcetera. It all had to be kept confidential.’
‘How did you hear about her death?’
Maureen clutched her hand to her chest and shook her head.
‘It was awful. Awful! I was concerned when she didn’t show up to a meeting or call me. And then I read about it in the newspaper, like everyone else. Battered to death with a claw hammer. What a terrible way to go... I hope I die in my sleep, or maybe a brain aneurysm. I’ve read that’s very quick. You can drop dead in two seconds.’
‘How did you come to organise the flowers for her funeral?’ asked Kate.
‘I enquired about who was arranging the funeral, and then the undertaker told me no one was! How awful, I thought. Anna had no family, and she seemed to have no close friends. Her neighbour was apparently friendly with her, but he was a bit wet, to be honest. So I stepped up and organised things and printed the order of service.’
‘Did many people go to her funeral?’ asked Tristan.
‘We all attended from the writers group. That was before they all betrayed me. Her neighbour was there, and I think a couple of her work colleagues. It took them some time to release her body, so the funeral wasn’t until months later.’
‘Did Anna ever confide in you that she felt in danger?’ asked Kate.
‘No. Anna was a very spiky, determined person, but I think I was breaking down her barriers, and sometimes she would stay after the group met, and we’d have a drink together.’
‘What kind of things did she write for the group?’
‘She never wrote anything.’
‘In six months, she never wrote anything?’ repeated Tristan.
‘No, and that was fine. She would often join in with critiquing other people’s work. Sometimes she could be harsh, but she always made interesting points.’ Maureen poured them each a fresh cup of tea. ‘Anyway, what does this have to do with your investigation? You mentioned on the phone that you are looking for a missing child?’
Kate briefly outlined the case and Anna’s link to Charlie.
‘I see. Anna was concerned with the welfare of the young boy?’
‘According to Charlie’s grandmother, there was some confusion over that.’
‘Was there?’ said Maureen, raising an eyebrow. ‘And the family comes from the Coldharbour estate? Not much good comes out of there.’
Kate ignored this comment.
‘Did Anna ever mention anything to do with Charlie Julings?’
‘Of course not! As I said, she didn’t ever talk about her work.’
Kate and Tristan stayed chatting for a while longer, but Kate felt that Maureen didn’t have much to offer in the way of information about Anna. On their way out, Kate noticed a display of framed photos in the hallway. There were nine or ten, and they all showed Maureen in glittering evening dresses, posing with various dashing young men in captain’s uniforms.
‘That’s my cruise collection,’ said Maureen, following Kate’s gaze. ‘That’s my yearly treat. I’m off on a cruise to the Caribbean tomorrow. I’m heading down to Southampton tonight, and I’ve got some super new luggage.’ She opened the door to a small office packed with folders on bookshelves and a vast office photocopier. There were a couple of smart leather suitcases with “M.C.” monogrammed in gold letters on the side.
‘That’s my new luggage. I had it made bespoke from an offer in the back of the Daily Mail,’ she said proudly.
‘Who are you going with?’ asked Tristan.
‘Oh. Just by myself, for a bit of “me” time,’ said Maureen, her smile faltering for a moment. They stared back at the photos. In every one, Maureen was on her own at the various captain’s tables. ‘Yes, and it’s my favourite ship again. The Duchess of the Ocean. Beautiful.’
Kate felt she’d consumed too many calories as they left, but they’d learned very little new information about Anna Treadwell.
35
Tristan shifted awkwardly in the car seat as he tapped the office address into his GPS.
‘I ate too much,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Kate, staring out at Maureen’s thatched cottage.
‘What did you think of her?’ asked Tristan.
‘I think she’s lonely, and loneliness can be a disease that makes you weak and vulnerable.’
Tristan nodded and looked back at the GPS.
‘You know, it wouldn’t be too much of a detour to swing past Danvers Farm,’ he said, pointing to the map. ‘If we just come off the motorway here, it’s a couple of miles in.’
‘Okay, let’s do that,’ said Kate. It wasn’t top of her list to see the farm, but it would save making a deliberate trip on another day.
It ended up being a longer journey than they wanted. They got lost a couple of times, and the GPS didn’t seem prepared for the winding unmarked roads. Finally, Kate saw it when they passed a wooden farm gate on a long stretch of a tree-lined lane.
‘That was it,’ she said. Tristan backed up to the gate where a small sign said ‘DANVERS FARM EGGS 4 SALE’. There was a small concrete yard and a large barn, but the rest of the land was surrounded by trees.
‘Do we ring the bell and tell them we’re private detectives?’ asked Tristan.
‘Yes, but I was thinking I do need to buy some eggs. It would be a good excuse to engage the owners in conversation,’ said Kate.
Tristan nodded. They parked the car by the road and went to the gate. A small doorbell was attached to the wood. Tristan rang it, and a woman rounded the corner a few moments later. She was what Kate would term apple-cheeked, and she had long dark hair in a bun on top of her head. She wore a long woollen high-necked dress, and was probably no older than her late forties.
‘Hello, do you want eggs?’ she asked brusquely.
‘Er. Yes. A dozen, please,’ said Kate.
‘Come in,’ she said, opening the gate. They followed her up the wide driveway. It curved to the left, and a narrow concrete path wove through an arcade of trees. They could see glimpses of the road to the left and to the right, as the pathway fell away on a steep slope leading down to undergrowth.
A group of cats of different colours lay around the path, and then the trees parted, and they were in the courtyard of a small cottage with a blue slate roof. The yard was filled with overgrown plant pots, and on top of a large drain lid were six or seven mismatched bowls with remnants of drying cat food.
