‘We were going to see in the New Year together.’
‘There’ll be other New Years. Go!’
Murray went.
In Cleveland Avenue, police tape surrounded Oak View. Music was playing from a neighbour’s house, and party-goers – already half-cut – stood with their drinks by the gated park, and gawped at the comings and goings. Murray ducked under the blue and white tape.
‘Excuse me, can you tell me what’s going on?’ the man called out to Murray from behind the railings that separated Oak View’s driveway from the one next door. He wore faded red chinos and a cream blazer with an open-neck shirt. He was holding a glass of champagne.
‘And you are?’
‘Robert Drake. I live next door. Well, here, actually.’
‘Ready to ring in the New Year, I see.’ Murray motioned to the champagne.
‘It’s supposed to be Mark and Anna’s party. But I just sort of …’ he searched for the term, ‘inherited it!’ He laughed, pleased with himself, then stopped, suddenly serious. ‘Where are they? Mark texted everyone. Said he and Anna had to go to London, and the party was off. Next thing the whole street’s cordoned off.’ His eyes filled with alarm. ‘Good God. He hasn’t murdered her, has he?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ Murray walked away. So that was Robert Drake. Murray should have thanked him, really. If it hadn’t been for his more-money-than-sense extension plans, Tom Johnson’s body might never have been discovered.
How must Caroline have felt, when she realised the building works would mean digging up the septic tank? Assuming she killed Tom the day of his supposed suicide, and disposed of him straight away, Tom would have been in the tank for a month before Drake announced his plans. Her own written objection had been lengthy, and judging by the number of identical complaints from elsewhere in the town – although not from Cleveland Avenue residents themselves, Murray had noted – Caroline had provided cut-and-paste letters for serial planning objectors who could always be relied on to stick in an oar or two.
By the time Drake had finessed his application and re-applied, Caroline had already disappeared, fooling her family, the police and the coroner into believing she had committed suicide. Had she kept tabs on the planning site, just in case? Her objection – made in the name of Angela Grange – had been logged with an address of Sycamore, Cleveland Avenue. No one had noticed. No one had checked. Why would they?
So, according to Robert Drake, both Mark and Anna were in London. Neither car was on the driveway, so the couple must have travelled separately. Murray tried to remember whether Anna had told him her plans. No – only that her friend had been driving. It was good that she had people with her, Murray thought. Nothing like the discovery of a body to put a dampener on your New Year’s Eve plans.
In the centre of the garden, where the patio met the grass, was a white tent. DS James Kennedy stood by the entrance, through which the ghostly figures of two Crime Scene Investigators could be seen.
‘It’s him,’ James said, as Murray joined him. ‘Signet ring matches the description on the original missing person report.’
‘Rookie error,’ Murray said wryly.
‘The body’s well preserved – the tank’s dry and underground, and with the entrance sealed, it was a pretty good makeshift morgue – and he’s got a hefty head wound. Hit over the head, perhaps? A domestic gone wrong?’
‘There are several jobs logged against the address over the years,’ Murray said. ‘Dropped calls on the nines, and a fear for welfare from the neighbour, Robert Drake, after he heard shouting coming from the address.’
‘Did we attend?’
Murray nodded. ‘Both Johnsons denied any domestic had taken place, but Caroline Johnson was described as being “emotional” by the attending officer.’
‘You think this could have been self-defence?’ James said. Inside the crime scene tent, the manhole cover had been bagged and tagged, and the narrow neck of the tank could just be seen. Tom Johnson’s body had already been removed from the tank by the Specialist Search Unit and transported to the mortuary, ready for the post-mortem that would hopefully tell them exactly how he died.
‘Could be. Or could be she’s the violent one,’ Murray said. It never paid to assume. Taking things at face value was precisely how Caroline Johnson had got away with her crimes in the first place. ‘Who’s looking for her?’ He wondered if she’d head back towards Derbyshire, not knowing that Shifty had already sold her out.
‘Who isn’t? Her photo’s been circulated, and there’s an all ports warning out for both Caroline Johnson and Angela Grange, although for all we know she’s been using other names, too. We’ve got CCTV of a woman matching her description arriving at Eastbourne train station late on the twenty-first, and a taxi driver who thinks he might have dropped her off at the Hope hostel that night, but can’t be certain.’
‘What have they said at the Hope?’
‘What do you think they said?’
‘Get to fuck?’ Staff at the Hope were fiercely protective of their residents. Great when a victim was housed there; less helpful when there was a suspect in their midst.
‘Pretty much.’ James rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Derbyshire have lifted your man Shifty, but last I heard he’d gone no comment throughout.’
No surprise there, thought Murray, particularly given the snippet of intelligence with which landlady Caz had provided him, when he and Sarah had checked out of the Wagon and Horses.
‘It’s not only flats he hooks people up with, you know.’
Murray had waited.
‘Weed. Coke. Crack.’ She’d ticked off the items on her fingers as though she were checking off groceries. ‘Guns, too. Just be careful, duck, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘The super’s authorised a road check on all routes out of Eastbourne,’ James said, ‘but no joy so far. Mark Hemmings has followed his partner to London – he’s not answering his phone, so presumably he’s still driving. As soon as I have an address, I’ll get a Met unit around there to debrief them. Find out if Caroline’s been in touch, get hold of a list of people she might have made contact with.’
Murray wasn’t listening. Not to James, at any rate. He was listening instead to the replays in his head of the conversations he’d had with Anna Johnson, Mark Hemmings, Diane Brent-Taylor … He was responding to the misgivings in the pit of his stomach, to the prickle on the back of his neck.
As far as they knew, Caroline Johnson had arrived in Eastbourne on 21 December, the anniversary of her supposed death, and the day Anna Johnson had gone to the police with claims that her mother had been murdered. She’d been adamant that Murray re-open the case, yet less than a week later she had screamed at him to drop it. Murray had attributed the change of heart to the swinging emotions of a grieving daughter, but it now felt horribly, dangerously clear that he’d been wrong. Finally, he pinpointed what had struck him as odd when he had visited Anna at home to ask about her mobile phone. She had been home alone, she’d told him. Yet there had been two mugs of tea on the kitchen table.
‘I’m in the car. My … a friend’s driving,’ Anna had said earlier.
That hesitation – why hadn’t he picked up on it earlier? He had been so intent on being the one to tell Anna her father’s body had been found, so keen to prove that he was still a detective at heart.
‘We need that Putney address,’ Murray said. ‘And fast.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
ANNA
I think back to all the action films I’ve seen, in which someone is in a car against their will.
I am not bound and gagged. I’m not bleeding or semi-conscious. In films, they crawl through the back seat and open the boot; kick through the back lights and wave for help. They signal for attention; send Morse code messages with mobile phone flashes.