Chris Collett - [Tom Mariner 01] (13 page)

‘I’ve been called back to the shop, boss. They’re short of bodies. And that photographer at the paper has surfaced so I said that you’d be down there,’ he said. ‘I’ve arranged for you to look at the office, too.’

‘Right.’ Mariner turned to Anna. ‘We’ll leave you to it then. SOCO have done a pretty rigorous job, so forensically you can’t do any harm. PC Hunter outside will lock up when you go.’

She nodded assent. ‘Of course. It’s probably a stupid question, but I have to ask. How likely is it that you’ll find out who did this?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mariner. ‘It’s too early to tell. But I suppose this is where I say “If we get any leads, I’ll call you”.’ He drew back his mouth in an awful Humphrey Bogart impression that at least made her smile. ‘And in case you think of anything else that might be important.’ He handed her his card, office and mobile number.

Hearing the front door close behind the two policemen, and leaving her alone in the house, Anna tried hard not to feel spooked. It wasn’t just recent events that haunted her, but over thirty years’ worth of history. She climbed the stairs slowly, unwillingly. After their parents died, Eddie had moved into the master bedroom and both that and Jamie’s room had since been decorated, but her own room was almost exactly as she’d left it, two months before her eighteenth birthday. She fingered the lock that she herself had inexpertly fitted in an attempt to safeguard some privacy from her marauding younger brother. A consequence of too many days of coming home from school to find that he had pulled records off the shelves, destroyed her school project or ripped her precious pop posters from the walls. Mum and Dad had refused to secure Jamie’s room, insisting, reasonably enough it seemed now, that he wasn’t an animal to be caged. So she’d fitted a lock on hers instead, and retreated to her own safe haven at every opportunity.

Dad’s sanctuary had always been his study, the room that now housed Eddie’s computer. It was where their father had laboured night after night, the angle-poise lamp highlighting his thinning hair as he frowned with concentration over his work, barely even noticing when, in rare moments of consideration, Anna had set a mug of tea or coffee down in front of him. ‘Families’, Knox had said.

Anna couldn’t remember them ever having been a real family.

Mariner’s lack of response was significant too, virtual proof that a perfect wife and two beautiful children awaited him at home.

Jamie’s bedroom was largely untouched by the police investigation. Under the bed she found a holdall, and opening drawers, packed into it a selection of underwear, shirts, jeans and sweaters. Not too many. She wasn’t expecting to host Jamie for that long.

The phone rang, splitting the air and making her jump.

For a moment she just stood, frozen to the spot, reluctant to answer it, before chiding herself. It’s just the phone for God’s sake. She picked up the computer room extension.

‘Hello?’

A male voice responded. ‘Eddie, it’s Andrew Todd. We need to talk,’ he sounded tense, urgent.

‘Mr Todd, this is Anna Barham, I’m Eddie’s sister,’ she took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid my brother is dead. He…’

A click and the line went dead too. Anna was left suspended in mid-air. ‘Mr Todd? Hello?’

She tapped down on the cradle, punched in 1471 and was rewarded with the standard recorded message: ‘You were called today at 14.42, the caller withheld their number.’ No surprises there. But Mr Todd, whoever he was, obviously hadn’t seen the local papers.

Downstairs in the lounge, Anna sorted through the extensive video collection. There were eleven tapes labelled Countdown with various dates, others simply marked ‘Jamie’. In the kitchen there was little. She threw away the remains of a carton of milk and half a stale loaf, but took with her the multi-pack of Hula Hoops that was in the pantry. Something she was learning—you could never have enough Hula Hoops.

On her way out, Anna realised she’d forgotten Jamie’s shaver. She retraced her steps to the bathroom, where she found toothbrushes too. The only razors were disposable ones. Had Eddie wet-shaved Jamie every day? Jamie would never have managed it himself without cutting his face to shreds. It was yet another measure of Eddie’s devotion to his younger brother. She picked up a few, along with a can of shaving gel. In the bathroom cabinet, its child safety lock forced open, doubtless by the police, were more deodorants and hair gel, and beside them, a bottle of aftershave.

On impulse, Anna uncapped the lid and briefly held it to her nose. The effect was disturbing in its familiarity, as though Eddie was suddenly standing beside her in the room. Tears welled up in her eyes and she wiped them away irritably.

‘Shit!’ she spoke aloud. ‘Why did this have to happen, Eddie? What had you got into?’ Through tear-blurred vision she gathered up the rest of the things she needed and feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly claustrophobic, headed for the door.

With the revelation of Eddie Barham’s murder came a shift in the dynamics of the enquiry. This was now a criminal investigation, giving Mariner no option but to take over as Senior Investigating Officer. There were plenty of detective constables at his disposal, but he was inclined to reciprocate Knox’s generosity and keep him involved as much as he could. Knox had been in at the very beginning of the case and, other duties permitting, would want to see it through. So far they’d worked well together. Like Mariner, Knox was a pragmatist who had no interest in station politics but simply wanted to get the job done. Right now though he was hostage to the flu virus that was sweeping Granville Lane and had been called back to base. He dropped Mariner off at the Echo offices on the way.

This afternoon Mariner was directed to the basement canteen where he was told photographer Darren Smith was finishing off a late afternoon lunch break. The cafeteria was a subterranean vision in chrome and melamine, loud with clattering cutlery, with a munificently subsidised menu; a brave but unsuccessful endeavour to keep employees out of the surrounding bars.

Illness hadn’t suppressed Darren’s appetite. Mariner, who hadn’t eaten since a snatched slice of toast this morning, had to make an effort not to salivate as Darren, who looked about fifteen by Mariner’s reckoning, tucked into a particularly juicy looking medium-rare steak. The lad looked as if he could do with the nutrients. His close cropped hair and sallow complexion gave him the appearance of an Auschwitz survivor, although the scales would have probably shown a healthy reading, thanks to the extensive metalwork threaded through ears, nose and eyebrows. He made Mariner feel middle-aged and past it.

News that Eddie’s death was not after all self-inflicted had by now permeated and, though less demonstrative, Darren appeared as distressed as his chief had been. ‘I’ve been Eddie’s partner for the last three years on and off,’ he told Mariner, in his laconic Black-Country whine, and dispelling the age myth at once. ‘I can’t believe it. He was a straight-up bloke. Why would anyone want to do that to him? You don’t know—?’

Mariner shook his head in response.

‘God. And I was only with him Friday. I keep going over it, trying to think if there’s anything I should have seen.’

‘He didn’t talk to you about his plans for the weekend?

Whether he was meeting anyone?’ Mariner asked.

‘No, he never talked much about what he did after hours.’

‘It would help now if you could tell me a bit about Eddie,’ said Mariner. ‘What was he like?’

Darren shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell. Eddie was all right.’

This might be an exercise in getting blood from a stone.

‘And the two of you got on okay?’

Darren’s alibi was solid, he’d been drinking in a pub in Cradley Heath with his mates all of Sunday evening, but it was still worth posing the question. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Eddie was really good to me when I first started. We were a good team.’

‘Was there anything about his behaviour during the last few weeks or days that seemed odd or out of character?’

Darren shipped his knife and fork. ‘No. I mean, I keep going over it, trying to think. But Eddie was never a conventional sort of bloke.’

And you would know? Mariner eyed the rows of assorted rings that adorned Darren’s ears, and the studs in his left nostril. Unconsciously his finger and thumb went up to the two puncture holes remaining from his own modest youthful rebellion. The extent of Darren’s pierced bits was extravagant by comparison, but then maybe with a name like Darren Smith you had to find other outlets for self-expression.

‘What did the two of you get up to then?’ Mariner prompted in an effort to get him talking.

‘Oh, we covered local stories, the really exciting stuff,’ Darren said, meaning exactly the opposite. ‘You know, “Edna the dinner lady retires after thirty years”, “Terry the fireman cycles up Everest for charity”.’ He feigned a yawn.

‘Must have been quite a change from what Eddie had been used to,’ observed Mariner.

‘You can say that again.’

‘Did Eddie seem to mind?’

‘I don’t think so, not really. One of the things he taught me was: no matter how small it was, any story had potential.

You never knew when the small tug on the line might turn out to be a big fish. Eddie took all our assignments seriously. And in any case, he usually had his own agenda to keep him going.’

Mariner’s interest stirred. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Eddie always had his own little private investigations on the go. Force of habit I guess, but he was always on the lookout for the big story.’

‘What sort of big story?’ asked Mariner.

Darren smiled, shaking his head. ‘I never knew exactly what. He just liked to chuck out these hints from time to time, that he was working on something much more important than the dross we got landed with.’

‘Like what?’

‘He never told me. Things. Sometimes he used to just disappear without telling me where he was going. He used to say he had leads to follow up.’

‘And you didn’t mind that?’

‘We weren’t joined at the hip. I’m a picture man. If there wasn’t anything to photograph, there wasn’t much point in me going, was there?’

‘And when he did his disappearing act, there were no hints about where he was going?’

‘No, although he did say once that he was on to some drug story. He said it was the drug story to beat all drug stories. Made out like it was something really big.’

‘When was this?’

‘I don’t know, few months ago. It never came to anything,’ Darren added, dismissively.

‘Was that drugs, as in narcotics?’ Mariner persisted.

He’d already noticed the redness around Darren’s nostrils, but maybe it was a cold that had kept the lad away from work.

Darren snorted. ‘I didn’t get the impression it was Sanatogen he was on about.’

‘What else did he say about this “story”?’

‘Nothing that I can remember. That was pretty well it.

Apart from it being personal.’

Again Mariner’s antennae twitched. ‘As in personal services? You know, like the columns of ads in the paper?

Or could he have meant personal as in revenge, some kind of vendetta?’ He caught the whiff of a distant motive, but Darren wasn’t inclined to help him out.

‘I don’t know.’ His brow creased to a frown. ‘It could have been either or none I suppose. To be honest, half the time I used to think he was just winding me up. Letting me know that he hadn’t lost his touch, that he still could be one of the major players if he wanted.’

‘Eddie was involved in a big prostitution case a few years ago. He ever say anything about that to you?’

‘He mentioned it.’

‘Recently?’

‘No. When we first got together I asked him about it, but he didn’t say much.’

‘Did he ever talk to you about a man called Frank Crosby?’

‘No, but I’ve heard of him.’ Darren’s eyes widened. ‘Do you think—?’

Mariner cut that one off at the pass. ‘Eddie ever get involved in any rough stuff?’ he asked. ‘Anything that was likely to get him into trouble physically?’

‘No. He didn’t take chances, if that’s what you mean.

But he did get mugged the other week,’ said Darren, absently, giving Mariner the growing impression that he wasn’t actually all that bright.

‘When?’

Again a pause while Darren thought it over. ‘It must have been about three weeks ago.’

‘What happened?’

‘Eddie turned up for work with a black eye, cut lip, all that.’ Darren glanced up at Mariner’s own battle scars. ‘He said he’d been mugged the night before.’

Mariner sensed Darren’s discomfort. ‘Did you believe him?’

‘When I asked if he’d reported it to you lot, he said he wasn’t going to bother. In fact, he got really annoyed, told me to stop banging on about it because it was his business.’

Mariner’s thoughts came back to the brunette. ‘What about women?’ he asked.

‘Oh, girls liked Eddie. They all fell for his charm. Not that he seemed to notice’

‘So there wasn’t anyone special.’

‘Not that I knew about. He’s got this brother…’

Mariner nodded. ‘I know all about Jamie.’

‘Well, you’ll know that he came first, then.’ Darren picked up his knife and fork in a less than subtle hint.

Mariner was content enough to take it. He’d probably got as much as he was going to squeeze out of Darren. ‘Thanks Darren, you’ve been very helpful. I’m going to have a look round Eddie’s office now. Will you be around if there’s anything I need to check with you?’

‘Sure, I’ll be in the labs, I’ve got some shots to develop.’

‘Great. And if you should think of anything else…’

Mariner finished the sentence by sliding his card across the table. Darren picked it up and studied it for a moment, before tucking it into his shirt pocket and returning his attentions to what was now a considerably less appetising stone-cold steak and chips.

Ken Moloney himself had taken time out to escort Mariner to Eddie Barham’s workspace. Mariner took the opportunity to quiz him again as they travelled up in the lift. ‘Eddie’s piece on Frank Crosby must have been a pretty big story.’ Mariner had been considering those payments. ‘Would anyone else have been interested in it?’