Catalyst (8 page)

He sat down and thought for a few moments.

“Five months,” he said. “We know that Mrs Deverall moved out
at least
five months ago, according to Mrs Johnston. Perhaps we've not gone back far enough, Jo, and been spreading our net too wide. Let's follow this up tomorrow. Go back further and look for any incidents involving her specifically. I assume you're going to speak to the person or people at Number 11 and see if they can shed some light.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jo. “Planned for this evening.”

David looked at his watch, suddenly aware of people milling about outside his office. “Right, let's get out there or I'll never be able to yell at them again for being late.”

He stepped into the operations room and the customary silence descended. “Okay, everybody, how did it go today? Have we now seen everyone we are ever likely to see?”

DC Baxter spoke for whole team. Catherine was the MIT's sweetheart. Five foot two, eyes of blue, she had platinum-blonde hair which she normally wore in bunches – sometimes plaits, which usually devolved to bunches anyway during the course of a day. She was slim and pretty and fragile-looking, which belied an inner toughness and confidence which always saw her at the forefront of any action, and made her a natural spokesperson for the group.

“Yes, sir, and I think we've got as much as we're going to get. At twelve of the addresses people were on holiday when we did the first and second rounds; we spoke to someone at all of them this time. Two of the others are furnished lets, but the signs have only just gone up, which is probably why we thought they were still occupied. And,” she nodded towards Jo, “I know the sarge is picking up the one in St George's Close.”

“Thanks, Catherine. Dare I ask, anything helpful forthcoming?”

“Plenty of theories, sir, and reasons why we should stop trying to catch him, but nothing in the way of information, I'm afraid.”

“Okay.” He turned to Jo. “Detective Sergeant?”

“Well, as Catherine said, I've been looking into Number 12 St George's Close. This is another empty property, but it's as much a case of a missing person as a straightforward vacancy. Until less than a week ago the official tenant was a Mrs Alma Deverall. She terminated the tenancy by letter to the council last week. But, prior to that, she had been away from the house for at least five months, and during that time no-one seems to know where she has been. There was no forwarding address; and her rent was paid monthly in cash at the council rent office by a male carer. Presumably – although we don't know this – he's been picking up her mail from the close during that time. Somebody must have been because I've checked with the post office and they have no forwarding address for the property.

“Two points make this interesting. Firstly, the long gap between her leaving and deciding to end the tenancy – and the timing of the latter, just after the killings; and secondly, the lack of any clue to her whereabouts during that time – almost as if she's been deliberately covering her tracks. There might be a simple explanation, but it's worth checking further. This evening, I'm going to visit… ” – she consulted her notebook – “… a Mr and Mrs Ambrose at Number 11. Apparently, they've been there a long time and might be able to shed some light on Mrs Deverall's disappearance.”

David took up the story.

“We know that Mrs Deverall left her house
at least
five months ago, so there's a very good chance it could have been more than six months. In which case, if there is some connection between her leaving and trouble on the estate, we wouldn't have picked it up from the record search. So, unless DC Cottrell comes up with something sensational at the Ambroses' tonight, we need to look further back – let's say, initially, twelve months – and narrow the search down to any incident involving Mrs Deverall or anything that happened in St George's Close, even if it didn't directly concern her. Remember, ideally, we're looking for a link to the Bradys, but as they orchestrated just about all the trouble on the estate, any incident would probably lead us back to them anyway. Any questions?”

“Is there no record of a next-of-kin?” asked Omar Shakhir. “I would have thought the council would have some details.”

“None held now by the council,” said Jo. “Her son was named until a few years ago. Not checked with the DWP yet.”

“What about the carer?” This time it was DC Emma Banks. “The NHS must have his details. He must know where she is.”

“Not the NHS; they say he definitely wouldn't be one of theirs. So he must be Social Services. I've contacted them and they're going to get me his details. Once we get to speak to him, you're right, Emma, that might well eliminate Mrs D from our enquiries.”

“That's true,” put in David, “this may well turn out to be nothing to do with the killings. But we've got nothing else, so I want this search to go ahead – full steam. Any more questions?”

No-one spoke.

“Okay,” he said. “Let's get all hands to the pumps starting tomorrow as near to dawn as we can – we'll forego the coffee morning for once – and see what we can turn up for… let's say… usual time, 4.00 pm tomorrow. If anyone comes up with something before then, let me know and I'll get us all together right away. As I say, I'm not sure whether there really is something for us here or whether we've reached the straw-clutching stage. Let's find out as soon as possible tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 4

Jo Cottrell went round to Number 11 St George's Close that same evening, after the team briefing, and met with Lucille Ambrose and her husband, Barney. She remembered Lucille from the day she had spent at the scene of the disturbance immediately after the killings – how she had come out to talk to Jo, given her a cup of tea and desperately tried, without success, to appear properly horrified and upset. Like almost all of the rest of the estate, Lucille was delighted by the brothers' departure.

She was a lovely, friendly woman, West Indian, as was her husband. She was large and bubbly, bright-eyed and quick to smile, and wore a colourful floral-patterned dress over yellow trousers. They had known Mrs Deverall for over ten years, she said, and although she had generally kept herself to herself, they had had a good relationship with her. It was strange, looking back, said Lucille, that they had not once stepped into each other's houses in all that time, but they had often chatted over the back garden fence, sometimes for hours. And on occasions, when they were both leaving their houses at the same time, they would walk down to the shops together and have a drink in one of the cafés.

“There's no Mr Deverall,” said Lucille, “but Alma used to have a son – John, I think his name was – yes, John. I never actually met him come to think of it, but Barney chatted to him a few times when they met out the back. They both served in the army in Northern Ireland, you know, but not at the same time, of course.”

“What happened to him?” asked Jo. “You said she
used
to have a son.”

“Yes, he got killed in action. Where was it, Barney?”

“Afghanistan,” said Barney. Mr Ambrose was a large, well-built man with short-cropped grey hair, dressed smartly in shirt and tie and a dark blue sweater. He was sitting stiffly to attention in an easy chair with his back to them, but clearly listening to their conversation.

“But before that,” went on Lucille, “I think they had some sort of falling out. We hadn't seen him visit her for it must have been well over a year, and I asked her one day how her son was doing. She just said ‘What son?' and that was that. I didn't press her any more, of course. Then a few months after that, two men in uniform – soldiers – came to her house; they went in and a few minutes later I heard her through the wall crying bucket-fulls. I suppose we knew what must have happened; I used to worry so much about Barney when he was away.” She looked wistfully at her husband.

“After that we didn't see her for weeks, then one day she was out in the garden. I asked her if she was okay and she told me about her son.”

“Can you remember when she moved out, and why?” asked Jo.

“Well, a couple of years ago – not long after her son was killed, actually – we had a lot of trouble in the close – we have since, but this was really bad. I think it started after Alma reported some lads she'd seen wrecking a car on the square. Anyway, some of the lads must have seen her watching them and recognised her. They must have known or found out where she lived. They gave her a really bad time – put graffiti all over the house – really bad words – and stuffed dog… well, you-know-what, through the letter box… ”

“Dog shit,” put in Barney.

“Yes, thank you, love,” said Lucille, rolling her eyes at Jo. “Oh, yes, and a few times while she was out, they smashed in the front door. It was awful.”

“Do you know who it was who did this?”

“No, but those brothers would have been behind it. The kids just do whatever they tell them to do. I should say ‘told' not ‘tell', shouldn't I?” and she allowed herself a little smile.

“So what did she do; did she tell the police?”

“She was too frightened. It was going to the police in the first place that started all the problems. She got very down, as you can imagine, really depressed, and frightened, of course. Then she took some tablets – you know – to put herself to sleep. Anyway, the window cleaner saw her lying on the floor of the kitchen and banged on the window. When she didn't move he broke in and phoned for an ambulance.”

She shook her head thoughtfully.

“It wasn't her time to go, was it? The window cleaner only comes round once a fortnight. How lucky was that?”

“Is that when she left the house?”

“Oh, no. She tried again – you know, with the tablets – a few weeks after that. This time she seemed to change her mind and rang the ambulance herself. They were there in no time and took her away. But she was back the next week. And she still got pestered by those hooligans. You'd think even they would have left her alone after all she'd been through, but they didn't.”

“So when did she leave?”

“It would have been, let me see, seven or eight months ago – October, I think. She'd stopped eating and drinking properly, you know – all the stress I suppose – and got this infection –
in her water
.” Lucille respectfully whispered the last three words. “Then this chap started coming round to see her. About once a week he came; a male nurse, she said, just to keep a check on her. And after a few weeks of this, one evening a taxi turned up outside. Alma came out with a couple of suitcases and knocked on our door – the first time she'd ever done that, come to think of it – and told us she was going to stay with friends until she got better. And we haven't seen her since.”

“This nurse,” said Jo, “did you ever get to speak to him; could you describe him?”

“No, he only came in the evening, and only about half-a-dozen times; we were always inside the house when he came. But whoever he was he seemed to cheer her up quite a lot. She was a different person during those last few weeks. We could hear her laughing away, really loud.”

“Can you remember if he was young or old, short or tall?” pressed Jo. “Anything might be helpful.”

“We didn't see his face at all,” said Lucille, “so I've no idea how old he was. But he was quite tall, I think, and he walked kind of straight up, I seem to remember. That's right, because Barney said he looked like he might have been in the army.”

She smiled at her husband.

“Barney always reckons he can tell if someone has been in the forces by the way they walk,” she added.

“Has anyone been back to the house since she left, as far as you know?” asked Jo.

“The same nurse has been a good few times; I think to pick up Alma's mail. In fact he came last week – Friday, I think it was. We've been trying to catch him to ask how she was, but each time he seems to be in such a hurry; he was in his car and away before we got chance. Then on Saturday two men came with a van and took a lot of the furniture, and the ‘For Sale' sign went up the same day.”

She shook her head, sadly.

“I suppose we guessed she wouldn't be coming back, but it's a shame we won't see her again. She was a nice lady. I hope she's alright.”

“I hope so, too,” said Jo.

Squadron Leader Arnold Danby (retired) beamed at the ninety-seven members of the local branch of the Third Age Forum who virtually filled the Meadow Village Community Hall. They were staring wide-eyed at the projection screen behind him, as they had been for nearly forty minutes.

“And now for my big finish,” he said. “This is a training film taken by a camera in the nose of one of the same type of combat aircraft used during the Falklands conflict.”

The static image on the screen changed to one showing a section of an aircraft carrier deck which began to move downwards as the Harrier rose vertically. The ocean horizon came into view and quickly into focus then swung rapidly round and tilted as the jet turned towards land. For five minutes the audience were treated to a breathtaking sequence showing a simulated attack on a munitions storage centre on a remote island. As the carrier deck came into view again, rising as the plane landed, Arnold steeped in front of the screen and bowed theatrically to his audience.