The Evil Beneath (11 page)

‘Yes - I’ll get back to you if I find anything else. How about you - any progress?’

He huffed into the mouthpiece. ‘We’re working flat out over here. I’ve got three DI’s working alongside me now and we’ve rounded up officers from all over London. Place looks like rush-hour at Oxford Circus. Problem is a complete lack of witnesses and CCTV has given us very little to go on, so far.’

‘I wondered about that.’

‘There are a few PTZ cameras in the centre of Richmond, but none on the bridge. The nearest one is outside the wine bar on the run up to the bridge, on the town side.’

‘What’s a PTZ camera?’

‘One that pans, tilts and zooms, hence the acronym. Crafty little things - but there are none near enough the water.’

‘And Hammersmith?’

‘Similar story. There are various private cameras outside the pubs on the Hammersmith side of the river, but none on the other side where the body was found. None on the bridge itself.’

I sighed. ‘I’d thought CCTV would have been really helpful.’

‘People have an exaggerated view about how useful they are in solving crime. Less than five per cent of crimes in the UK were solved by CCTV last year, according to our national reports.’

‘Crikey - I didn’t realise.’

‘So we’re back to any other leads we can get.’

‘There is something else,’ I said. ‘The killer is obviously highly intelligent and well-organised. He wanted the bodies to be found. Do you think he might even contact the police claiming to want to help with the investigation? I’ve heard of that happening before, when killers want some sort of credit for what they’ve done.’

‘Yeah – we’ve got everyone on the lookout for that.’

I heard voices in the background and chairs being dragged across a floor. It sounded like they were preparing for yet another meeting.

‘Just one more thing,’ I added.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Actually, no, it’s nothing.’ There was something I wanted to check first.

‘Sure?’

‘No. It’s fine.’

‘Let me know if there is
anything
you think of that might be useful, no matter how insignificant it might be.’

‘Absolutely.’

I didn’t tell him I had a bit of breaking and entering to do, in order to tie up my own line of enquiries.

Chapter Twelve

I had to wait until Sunday evening before I could be sure he wouldn’t be there. The flyer on Andrew’s back door had said the exhibition in Nottingham started on October 19
^th
and knowing him, he would have gone up the night before to ‘sink a few bevvies’, as he would have innocently put it.

With any luck the spare key would be in the same place. Before I went up the fire-escape, I checked for any lights at the front and squinted through the letter box. There was post on the mat on the inside, left uncollected from yesterday. Good sign. The back gate was unlocked as usual, so I slipped through and climbed the iron staircase. I’d remembered to wear trainers to avoid making any noise, but it wasn’t necessary. People in the area knew me. They’d seen me come and go from Andrew’s flat often enough. I just needed to act normally.
Don’t look round, don’t look furtive
.

The stone hedgehog sat amongst a hotchpotch of plant pots on the top of the steps. I lifted it up and pulled out the key. It was a simple Yale. Andrew didn’t have any sophisticated security measures. He always said a burglar would never steal his paintings, anyway, and that was all he cared about.

I wanted to set my mind at rest and if Andrew wasn’t going to give me permission to see his new pictures, I was going to have to get a sneak preview myself. If Andrew was telling the truth and the latest ones weren’t for sale, then it was unlikely he’d have taken them to Nottingham.

I’d brought a torch, but realised a flickering beam of light was going to look more suspicious than simply putting the light on. I needed to make sure I didn’t move anything. I didn’t want Andrew knowing someone had been in.

The pile of new canvases behind the sofa had been covered with an old sheet. I’d need to put things back exactly how they were. I’d brought my camera, so I took a picture, so I could exactly replicate the way he’d draped the cloth once I’d finished. Paranoid, I know, but I wanted to be careful. Events had taken such a sickening turn in the last few weeks that I didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to myself.

I took a look at the first painting in the pile; the one I’d seen a couple of days before,
Shadow in the water.
I wanted to look at it again. I wanted to know what this latest batch of paintings was about. I knew Andrew put a lot of thought into his titles and they often revealed some deeper element to the picture.

Mostly black and purple, it didn’t look like any recognisable shape. Purely abstract, which was new for Andrew. I pulled the second one out. Again, it was largely murky. Oil pigment in dark greens and black had been liberally spread over the canvas. These weren’t the colourful, exuberant pictures I’d come to associate with Andrew’s work. Perhaps, he was going through a morose phase. Perhaps, it was his way of dealing with our break-up. I checked the title:

Something ice-cold crawled down my spine. River, water, darkness. This didn’t feel good at all.

I looked at several more pictures and then thought I heard a noise coming from outside.

Someone slammed the gate.

‘You can come up if you like, I won’t be a minute.’

It was Andrew.

I’d shut the front door and had the spare key in my pocket, but it was too late to switch off the light. I stuffed the sheet over the pile of paintings and crouched down behind the sofa.

A key rattled in the lock and someone came in.

‘Left the bloody light on,’ said Andrew. ‘Just wait here.’

Footsteps went up the spiral staircase. I could see another pair of feet waiting in the hall.

‘Got any beer?’ A male voice, unfamiliar.

‘In the fridge,’ shouted Andrew.

The feet backed away into the kitchen and I remembered to breathe.

Andrew came hurtling down the stairs and went into the kitchen. I heard more footsteps outside; it sounded like there were three of them now. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Andrew seemed to have found what he had come back for. I heard the sound of a can fizzing open, then another and I wondered who was driving. I was starting to get pins and needles in my legs, squatting on the floor.

Andrew laughed and then footsteps came my way again.
Just switch the light off and leave
, I silently begged. A figure crossed the room.

‘Not bringing all these then, Andy?’ A different unfamiliar voice.

‘No. I’ve got enough in the van. These aren’t ready yet.’ Footsteps came closer to the stacked paintings and therefore also to the sofa. I froze.

‘What time are we meeting Mel?’

‘Ten o’clock,’ said Andrew.

‘Better get cracking then. It’s a good two and a half hours.’

‘Yeah. Okay.’

The footsteps left the room and the light went off. Then I heard the front door close and the sound of footsteps on the back fire-escape. Then the back gate. I let out a long breath and propped myself up on the back of the sofa. Close shave.

It was only once I was half-way down the street that I realised I’d forgotten to take any more photographs. Some shots of the pictures and especially their macabre titles could have been useful, but I’d missed my chance. There was no way I was risking going back now. As soon as I was within sight of the Tube, I took out my phone.

‘Did you get my list of names?’ I said. It wasn’t what I’d rung to say.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Everyone you’ve ever spoken to in your entire life, I hope.’

I didn’t laugh. A silence hung awkwardly between us.

‘This is…a bit difficult,’ I stuttered.

I told DCI Madison about the pictures.

‘Right. We’ll run a more detailed background check on him.’

‘He knew about
The Secret Garden
… he knows a lot about me. And he’s been…how can I put it?’ I rubbed my left wrist, glad Brad wasn’t there to inspect it. ‘We split up because his drinking brought out an aggressive side in him.’

‘He hurt you?’

‘More emotionally than physically, but yes, you could say he laid more than a finger on me.’

I heard the beginning of an expletive followed by a muffled grunt, then silence. When he spoke again, he spoke slowly and deliberately, doing his utmost to stop himself erupting.

‘Why the hell didn’t you say something before? You keep doing this.’

‘I can’t believe it’s him, Brad - really - he doesn’t fit the profile at all.’

‘Who else should we know about? Who else have you forgotten to mention?’

‘No one. I’m sure that Andrew —’

‘Stay away from him.’

I told him I’d decided to take a trip over to Cambridge to see my aunt, to get out of London, so that wouldn’t be difficult.

My Aunt Joan was always known as Libby. It was some family in-joke about the way she’d always wanted to be a librarian, although with her cropped red hair and penchant for tartan miniskirts, she never came across as a typical librarian type - if there was such a thing. Like my mother, she’d been born in Cambridge, but unlike her, she’d never left. Never married either. She wasn’t the sort to sit about in the Mediterranean sun, so hadn’t shown the slightest hint of envy when my parents left for Spain.

I found her swinging in a hammock in the garden, the following afternoon. So much for my idea that she didn’t bother with the sun. Maybe she was starting to change her mind.

‘I’ve got the barbeque out specially,’ she said. It was the middle of October and the sky already had hefty clouds brewing in the distance.

‘Good idea,’ I said, trying to hide my reservations.

‘Come here and talk to me,’ she said.

I put my bottle of wine on the patio table and sat on one of the chairs next to the hammock.

‘Drive over, okay?’

‘Light traffic. No trouble, really.’

‘Should come over more often.’

Libby had started early with her hints about how little I saw of her. It was unfair, because she never came to London. I’d invited her several times to the theatre and for concerts, but she always turned me down.

I didn’t bother to respond.

‘Garden’s still looking good,’ I said.

It wasn’t, but I knew it was her pride and joy. With no husband, children or pets, plants had become the little darlings in her life.

‘How’s life in the big smoke?’

‘Hectic,’ I said.

‘Counselling going well? Lots of customers?’

‘Yes. Always plenty of unhappy people in the world, Lib.’

‘This a social call or do you want something?’ She’d never bothered too much with common courtesies. ‘It’s always good to see you, but I did also think I might draw on your great wealth of knowledge.’

Turn up the flattery, it usually did the trick.

‘Pour me a glass of wine and sweeten me up,’ she said. ‘You can light the barbie while you’re at it.’

I could see my visit was going to come at a price. Libby had never been one to turn down the chance to let someone else do the work. In that respect, she was the total opposite of my mother. Mum wasn’t happy unless she was expending her last ounce of energy helping someone. Libby’s virtue was that she didn’t beat about the bush. If I was going to get straight answers from anyone, it would be from her.

Once we’d shared half a bottle of wine and tried a few burnt chicken wings, Libby asked me what I wanted to pick her brains about.

‘It’s about the fire.’

‘What,
the
fire?’

‘Yeah, Luke’s fire.’

Libby swung down from the hammock and joined me at the table. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Just what you remember. What happened.’

‘You know what happened. The fire started in the kitchen. It was an electrical fault with the toaster. Place went up about two in the morning and poor Luke dodged the firemen and went back in to find Pippin.’

It sounded so straightforward.

‘Were there ever any doubts about how it started?’

‘No.’

Something about the speed of her answer didn’t ring true.

‘Were there newspaper reports at the time?’

‘I’m sure there would have been something in the local rag.’

‘Can you give me access to the news archives in the library, so I can check?’

Libby hesitated. ‘It won’t do any good. Why are you raking all this up again, now?’

‘Just want to know for sure.’ I wasn’t going to tell her that someone who claimed to be psychic had said the fire wasn’t an accident. Anything to do with the supernatural had Libby turning her nose up in disgust. ‘Can I take a look tomorrow?’

‘I can’t get you access tomorrow.’ She brushed some crumbs off her skirt and I realised she was avoiding my eyes. ‘We’ve got meetings all morning…and then an inspection.’

‘But, the library can’t be closed, surely.’

‘Well, no…not closed…but it will be difficult for me to get you into the archives.’

This wasn’t like Libby at all. It was starting to sound like a large dose of fobbing-off and she had me completely thrown. I didn’t know whether to come straight out with what I thought or play along.

I chose diplomacy. ‘Never mind,’ I said.

I had another avenue to explore.

When I went to bed, I caught my image in the free-standing mirror in Libby’s spare room wearing the long washed-out t-shirt I used as a nightdress. I stroked the hem and pressed it into my body. Luke’s t-shirt. The only one of his to survive the fire. I often wore it when I was away from home. It was one of few remaining means I had left of holding him close.

Even though it was nearly twenty years since Luke died, there were times when I saw glimpses of him in my mind’s eye as if he had only just walked out of the room. Vivid, bright scenes that filled up the white screen inside my head, flickering like home-movies. The unruly dark hair he refused to keep short, the dimples he loathed that gave him a touch of impudence, the recent walnut swelling in his throat that he was coy about. A grumpy, witty, intelligent, lazy sixteen-year-old - all manner of contradictions bundled up inside him. For years, he’d been the big brother I doted on.

I turned away from the mirror. At times like this the enormity of the loss hit me hard and afresh - not just losing Luke, but losing the family we were then. From the day of his death we each pulled away in different directions in order to cope. Instead of rallying as a family, it was as if we stood in separate corners of a room facing away from each other, not daring to look round in case we came face to face with more grief than we could bear.

Libby had left for work before I was up in the morning. She’d left a note:

I went downstairs in my dressing gown and pulled out my laptop. I searched for ‘Norwich local newspaper’ and came up with two. I copied down the addresses. If I was quick, I should be back for our 1pm lunch date.

The roads were fairly clear and I arrived at my first stop, the
Norwich and Norfolk Gazette
at just gone 9.30am. The offices were small, with a reception desk just inside the front door. It smelt like a hairdressers. I tried to locate the source of the peroxide aroma, but it must have originated behind the scenes, from part of the printing process.

Posters of the paper’s high-points were laminated and stuck on the walls. The hot-air balloon disaster of 2004. The Duchess of York’s visit in 2007. Delia Smith saves Norwich City F.C. in 2005. Top stories.

A man appeared behind the desk, his sleeves rolled up.

‘Can I help?’

‘I’m a journalist in London,’ I said. ‘I’m looking into a story from 1990. Do your archives go back that far?’

‘1990 is before our time, I’m afraid. We set up in 2001. Nothing further back than that.’ He can’t have missed the crestfallen look on my face. ‘You could try
The Norwich Echo.
They’ve been around since the fifties. Their archives are at the Local Studies Centre. They might be able to help.’

I thanked him, my shoes squealing on the linoleum floor, as I spun round.

The Local Studies Centre was located in a much older building, which also housed an overflow of old books and periodicals from the public library. I climbed the steps and waited inside a dark foyer. A porter appeared with a parcel. He ignored me. Then a woman with glasses propped on her head came out of a rear door.