Demolition, page 19
Veronica was asleep when Henry arrived at the infirmary. Worryingly, he learned from a nurse that she’d had a ‘little scare with her heart’ earlier but was now once more stabilized. It had put her discharge back a day.
She opened her eyes as he drew a chair up to the bedside.
‘I hear you had a bit of a do?’ Henry said.
‘I’m OK, just a twinge; I’ll be out tomorrow.’
‘That’s good … and I have a bit of news for you.’
He told her about Callum Renshaw’s arrest, which he put down to good police work rather than a stroke of luck. She seemed impressed but weary and a little distracted.
‘What is it?’ Henry asked.
Her face twitched with her thoughts. ‘I just feel vulnerable and a bit scared, although what you said is good news.’
‘You’ve been through a lot these last few days,’ Henry said. ‘Only to be expected you’re not one hundred per cent.’
‘I’m thinking my days of charging around in my wheelchair like Boadicea are over, though.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Henry began to say, but Veronica raised a weak hand to stop him.
‘And my days at that house are numbered, too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m all alone there, which I know is obvious, but I’ve never felt so frightened and incapable of dealing with stuff. I was terrified, Henry, and the worry for me is that if I’d called the police instead of you, I’d still be waiting for them or dead. I mean, the house is all kitted out for me – stairlift, shower and all mod cons for a wheelchair user – but I think the time has come for me to leave, put myself in a care home or sheltered accommodation or something. There’s a nice little complex in Caton,’ she said, referring to a village near Lancaster. ‘I’ve enough income to move straight away and then sell the house. I’ll be OK, money-wise.’
‘But you won’t be living somewhere you’ve been all your life. Everything you know is in Kendleton and Thornwell.’
‘I know all that, but I’m tired of being alone, almost forcing myself on the community. The place in Caton, I hear, has a good social side and singalongs,’ she said, sounding utterly miserable. ‘Sadly, I have to wait for someone to die first. Dead man’s wheelchair, apparently,’ she chuckled mirthlessly.
Henry said nothing. He found the idea sensible, yet bonkers at the same time, and understood both sides of the coin.
‘My mum ended up in sheltered accommodation,’ he stated.
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
‘It was OK. Decent flat, decent enough friends, but it wasn’t home, though there was enough freedom to suit her, I suppose.’
‘But you went visiting her?’
‘As often as possible.’
‘That’s a good thing, then. I haven’t got anyone to visit me,’ Veronica said, but not in a whiney way. ‘I don’t mind being alone. Being solitary suits me; it’s just when things go wrong.’
‘You can install panic buttons.’
‘I know, I’ve done the research … not filled with confidence on that one.’
‘I get your point.’ Henry wanted to say more, wanted to do more, but knew he couldn’t get himself embroiled in any responsibility for her because she wasn’t his problem.
Yet something gnawing in him told him that she was his business, his responsibility, and maybe it was also the village’s responsibility to do something for her. Even as he thought this, he wasn’t sure how it could work.
‘You look puzzled, Henry.’
‘Nah, I’m fine.’
‘So what’s going to happen to this young lad, Callum?’
Glad of the swift change of subject to something on which he was more sure-footed, he said, ‘We’ll see what he has to say for himself, then hopefully round up some more of his gang, but his offences are so serious that I think we’ll keep him in custody and put him before the court. He’s got a past history of assaulting older people, so he really needs sorting now before he does something very, very bad.’
‘Well, I’m glad you caught him, but I almost feel sorry for him.’
Henry screwed up his nose. ‘Don’t.’
Callum remained as obnoxious and uncooperative as he had been from the moment of his arrest. Henry guessed he’d brought the gang culture of the big city into a small village and thought he could impose it; the problem was there was nowhere to hide and being a big fish in a small pond, as it were, meant everyone’s eyes were on him. Even though Henry conceded it was a stroke of luck finding him, he was sure that the arrest would have come very soon anyway.
Henry arrived at Blackpool nick forty minutes after leaving Veronica and in time to watch the beginning of Blackstone and Jake’s interview. The lad said nothing, not even a ‘no comment’. He looked hardened to this process and conceded nothing, gave nothing. He’d been allocated a duty solicitor who rolled his eyes throughout the one-sided interview, frustrated by his client’s intransigence.
After about half an hour of getting nowhere, the two cops called it quits and ended the interview, returning Callum to his cell and informing the solicitor they would re-contact him when the interview resumed.
Blackstone and Jake wandered back into the CID office where Henry had been watching the audio-visual feed on a computer at one of the desks.
‘He’s not a helpful young lad,’ Blackstone said. Huge understatement. ‘What do you think, Henry?’
‘Let him fester for a few hours, then let’s come back at him, guns blazing, put everything to him, and if he doesn’t respond, throw the book at him and chuck him down the hole.’
Jake’s sergeant in Lancaster asked if he could be released because there were literally no cops on the streets of the city. Henry reluctantly agreed, deciding he and Blackstone would continue with the interview of Callum. When they got the duty solicitor back, Callum was wheeled into the interview suite, sat down, given a couple of (wasted) minutes with his brief, then Blackstone went in and set up the room.
She started the tape and turned on the video recording system, went through the introductions and cautions again, then paused to look eye to eye with Callum.
‘Apologies,’ she said, ‘there is one more person to join us.’
On cue, the door opened and Henry stepped in. ‘So sorry I’m late.’
He sat down next to Blackstone, diagonally opposite the solicitor, but directly opposite Callum, fully aware the lad’s eyes were pinned on him, although Henry wasn’t looking at him.
Blackstone said, ‘For the purposes of the tape, could you please introduce yourself.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Henry said clearly, still not looking at Callum. ‘My name is Henry Christie and I am currently a civilian investigator employed by Lancashire Constabulary. Previously, I was a detective superintendent in the force. I am now retired but continue to investigate serious crimes.’
It was only at that point that Henry slowly raised his eyes and looked directly at Callum, who, wide-eyed, now appeared as if his whole world had crumbled in on itself. Henry gave him a cheeky half-grin.
Callum said, ‘I wondered what the fuck you were doing at my house.’
Henry said, ‘Coming after you, Callum lad.’
‘Do you want to take the lead in this interview?’ Blackstone asked Henry.
‘Yes, I do, very much, thank you.’
Callum looked at the ceiling and said, ‘Shit.’
Henry said, ‘I think we’ve met on a couple of occasions, Callum … and now we need you to start telling the truth – OK?’
Callum stared at him, nodded, beaten; Henry cautioned him and asked the first question.
Within half an hour, Callum had admitted everything.
After reviewing the evidence and making a call to the Crown Prosecution Service, they charged Callum with the assault on Veronica by the stream and with burglary with intent to cause grievous bodily harm at her house.
During the interview, Henry had also questioned the lad about the various reports of damage and anti-social behaviour around the villages, including the rotten egg attack on the war memorial, all of which he sullenly admitted. Henry and Blackstone considered charging him with those offences but decided not to because Callum had named the other members of his gang. Henry passed on these names to Jake to arrest at his leisure; the whole lot could be decided on later.
After charge, bail was refused, and Callum was kept in police custody to appear at court in the morning.
Henry left Blackstone to complete the court file, which she was happy to do, not least because she wanted to get to her flat on Preston Docks later and chill at home, alone.
On his way out of the station, Henry passed through the public foyer where he saw Callum’s parents sitting in the waiting area, blank-faced. They looked up when they saw him.
Henry went across. ‘He’s been charged,’ he informed them, ‘and he’s staying in for court tomorrow.’
Dale said nothing, just looked glum and accepting.
But Andrea retorted, ‘That’s just preposterous. He’s done nothing – at least nothing to justify this.’
Henry sat down next to them. ‘Let me tell you exactly what he’s been up to,’ he began, like a storyteller around a campfire.
By the end, they had gone pale and silent.
‘He needs help, not a bloody borstal,’ Dale said.
Henry didn’t bother explaining that borstals no longer existed. Instead, he said, ‘Yes, he needs help, but he also needs locking up. He’s dangerous, and you probably need to get your heads around that fact. And,’ he added, ‘he’ll need you more than ever, so it’s down to you to be there for him, which I agree sounds simple, but it might be complicated for you to achieve.’
‘We’re not even here for each other,’ Andrea moaned. She looked hard at Dale, and he looked down at the floor.
‘Up to you,’ Henry said. ‘I’m not a marriage counsellor, but it seems that while Callum’s locked up, you might just have a window of opportunity to … I don’t know, but you see what I’m getting at?’
‘Can we see him?’ Andrea asked.
Henry made a call to Blackstone on the mobile, and she spoke to the custody officer.
On his way back north, Henry called a series of people: Rik Dean and Jake Niven to update them; Ginny to say he would be home soon; finally, Veronica, who sounded breathless but pleased by the news that Callum would be unlikely to be out in the near future.
Henry considered going to the infirmary to see her again, but he was getting increasingly weary. Getting there would have meant a journey through the gridlock of Lancaster city centre, which he could do without. He promised to see her the next day.
He was back at The Tawny Owl forty minutes later, planning to do not very much other than bring the murder book up to date, go through the intelligence and information coming in, and help Ginny out, something he knew he’d been a bit lax at over the last few days and felt guilty about. So after freshening up, he put off his murder update part of the evening and wandered back into the pub to find Ginny who, as usual, was busy but easily managing everything. So busy, in fact, she didn’t have any time for him other than to give him a peck on the cheek and say, ‘Get behind the bar.’
Moments later, he was pulling pints and loving it. He was pleased to see that the amateur murder squad had reconvened and taken over a table in the bar.
Trade tapered off later in the evening, and, with Ginny’s permission, Henry sneaked away from the bar and dragged up a chair with the amateur sleuths, who were only too pleased to have him along.
‘Solved it yet?’ he asked, glancing around the expectant faces and gesturing at the papers strewn around the table.
Dr Lott admitted sadly, ‘Regrettably, I think we’ve gone as far as we can, but it was fun while it lasted. A toast.’ The doctor raised what remained of his pint of Guinness and the others also raised their glasses. ‘To abject failure.’
They drank, and Henry watched with a smile as he didn’t have a glass with which to join them.
‘You can only go off the evidence you have,’ Henry said.
‘Which was very little in this case,’ Leonard Barr said. He was the guy who’d once been a saxophonist.
‘Why do you think there was a wall of silence?’ Henry asked.
None of them had an answer.
‘Fear, intimidation?’ Henry suggested. ‘Usually is.’
‘It’s possible,’ Roger ‘The Rabbit’ Tyson agreed.
‘So, during the course of your enquiries, have you come across anyone who might have held that sort of influence over others?’ Henry asked.
‘It’s hard to say right now, so many years later,’ Dave Darbley, the butcher, said.
Henry looked at them all. ‘What was the timeline again?’ he asked.
They looked a tad confused by that question.
‘OK, what was the date of the murder, what time did it happen, what happened before, leading up to it, and what happened after?’ Henry clarified the question.
‘Oh, I get it,’ Leonard said, scrabbling for a bit of paper and finding it. ‘The thing is the body wasn’t found until the morning of the nineteenth of December, so it looks like it was there all night.’
‘Based on what?’ Henry asked.
‘Based on the fact that the last sighting of him alive was at nine thirty p.m. on the previous evening, the eighteenth, when he left The Swan’s Neck to walk home. He never got home, obviously. A search party went out in the morning and found him, dead as a doornail.’
‘So, refresh my mind,’ Henry said innocently, as if he knew nothing. ‘Who was the victim?’
‘Lucas Grundy,’ they all said in perfect unison.
‘And he’d been in The Swan’s Neck the night before?’
‘Yes.’ Again in unison.
‘Who with?’
‘Eric Grundy,’ they said.
‘The older brother?’
All nodded together.
‘Do we know if anything happened in the pub, a falling out or anything?’ Henry asked.
‘No reports of anything happening,’ Leonard said. ‘Two brothers having a drink, one leaves earlier than the other and the next day he’s found murdered, two bullets in his brain, which match his own rifle.’
‘Did he have his rifle with him in the pub?’
‘Would seem so, but these guys were gamekeepers,’ Dr Lott said. ‘They always had their guns with them, so it wasn’t unusual – back then, anyway.’
‘Was Eric questioned about the murder?’ Henry asked.
‘He was … but witnesses say he was in the pub for two hours after Lucas left, having a lock-in, and that he set off home by himself,’ Tyson interjected helpfully.
‘So people witnessed Eric in the pub, which was handy,’ Henry thought out loud. ‘But they saw nothing later. What time did the pub close?’
‘Eleven,’ Leonard said. ‘But there was that lock-in until midnight.’
‘Were witness statements taken from anyone in the pub?’ Henry asked.
‘Supposedly, but we haven’t actually seen them. DS Blackstone said she’d see if she could unearth them.’
They all took another drink in unison.
Henry asked, ‘Who here knows Eric Grundy?’ He knew the answer. They all did, and all held up their hands. ‘Who’s known him longest?’
‘We all know him, but I’m the one who has probably known him the longest,’ Dr Lott said. ‘He’s one of my patients, has been for probably forty years now.’
‘Has he ever revealed anything to you about that fateful night in 1941?’ Henry probed.
‘No … not that I’m allowed to say,’ Lott said. ‘Patient confidentiality and all that.’
In unison, again, the others uttered derisive snorts. Dr Lott rolled his eyes at them and said, ‘But trust me, he hasn’t said anything and I haven’t ever had occasion to ask him.’
‘Has anyone spoken to Eric since you began this … this exercise?’ Henry asked.
Their eyes all fell and there was a muttered, ‘No.’
Leonard admitted, ‘This is more a paper exercise than anything. Something to do.’
Like SONAG, Henry thought, but didn’t say anything because what they were up to was legitimate and kept their minds occupied. He had no problem with that at all.
‘So,’ Henry began again, ‘two brothers in a pub. One leaves, gets murdered. Witnesses say the older brother stayed in the pub for a couple of hours or so after the first one left,’ he recapped. ‘But no mention of an argument between them or anyone else in the pub?’
‘Nothing,’ Roger said.
‘So, no falling out?’
‘Nope.’
‘Eric has to be the main suspect, though,’ Henry stated.
‘Being a suspect doesn’t make you the actual killer,’ Leonard said.
‘True,’ Henry acknowledged. Then, ‘Remind me of the date again.’
‘Body found on the morning of the nineteenth of December 1941,’ Dr Lott said.
‘Meaning he was in the pub on the night of the eighteenth of December?’ Henry asked.
‘Is that significant?’ Leonard asked.
‘Are you working on a hypothesis?’ Roger asked excitedly.
‘I’m working on going to bed,’ Henry said, then looked round as the pub door opened and Debbie Blackstone trundled in, clad in a dressed-down tracksuit and dragging a small, wheeled suitcase with one hand and a briefcase in the other. She veered towards the sleuths, beaming. Henry couldn’t help but grin at her. Her hair was flattened down to her head, not in the usual spikes, and most of her facial jewellery had been removed. Henry had grown to respect her choice of appearance – wild, whacky, ‘fuck you’ – but seeing her like this made him realize just how attractive she was under the tough veneer. ‘I thought you were staying home tonight,’ Henry said, ‘chilling.’
‘I was, but I got bored. I’m showered, clean, got all my damp washing in here’ – she lifted the suitcase off the floor – ‘which I’ll drape over your radiators if that’s all right? I’ve brought my paperwork with me’ – she raised the briefcase aloft – ‘so if it’s OK with you, I’ll have a jar and a chinwag with these guys, then “go do” in the guest bedroom?’
