Scared to Live

27

Standing in the sitting room at Bain House, Fry thought of the heaps of flowers and cards piling up outside the Mullens’ house in Darwin Street. Last time she’d been there, teddy bears and other children’s toys had been added to the pile. There was talk of opening a memorial book at the community centre. This morning, the local papers had been full of photographs of the Mullens, tributes from people who’d known them, and poems from children at the school Jack had attended.

But there was none of that for Rose Shepherd. No one in Foxlow had left flowers at her gate. No one had talked to the papers about her. Even Eric Grice had decided against that.

‘So who was Rose Shepherd really?’ asked Fry.

‘She was a woman by the name of Rosica Savova,’ said Georgi Kotsev, staring at the grey walls. ‘She had a Bulgarian father, but her mother was an Irish national, from County Galway.’

‘She could put on an Irish accent, if she felt like it?’

‘It might have been natural. We don’t know much about her past history, so which country she spent most of her time in is unclear. But she had been working in Bulgaria for several years before she came here. Our police department has an intelligence file on her, due to her association with Simcho Nikolov and Dimitar Iliev.’

‘What crime was she involved in?’

‘None that we know of,’ said Kotsev. ‘There has never been any evidence against her. However, Savova was connected with the wrong people. That in itself causes us suspicion.’

‘Did she have a job?’

‘She worked as an advisor for an adoption agency.’

‘And you’re quite sure she and Rose Shepherd were the same person?’

‘I noticed the photographs of her in your incident room. I wasn’t entirely sure then — I had to do a little checking.’

‘I see.’

Kotsev admired the TV set and the stereo. ‘What money did she have? You’ve examined her financial affairs?’

‘We’ve been through all her bank statements. Rose Shepherd had one current account and three savings accounts.’

‘But not much cash in them, perhaps?’

‘No, but — ’

‘It’s not surprising. Rosica Savova must have lived in Bulgaria through the time of the 1996 bank collapse. That was when more than a third of our banks closed down, and much of our money simply disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’

Kotsev shrugged. ‘Who knows where it went? Many say it was sent to Switzerland for a holiday and returned after a nice rest. Like a faithful dog, the money came straight back to the pockets of the people who looked after it before, and those people became suddenly wealthy again. Our beloved credit millionaires.’

‘What has that to do with Miss Shepherd?’

‘Everyone who lost their money in 1996 also lost their faith in banks. Have your people searched the house properly?’

‘What do you mean by “properly”?’ said Fry, bridling.

‘Inside the walls, under the floorboards? The chimney?’

‘Why would we do that?’

Kotsev turned slowly. ‘To find her money.’

Fry took a call on her mobile. When she’d finished, she discovered Kotsev upstairs, tapping the walls of the main bedroom.

‘Good news, Georgi. The blue Vauxhall Astra we’re looking for was seen again in Foxlow last night. This time we have a registration number, and the PNC gave us a name and address to go with it. The vehicle is registered to a Mr Darren Turnbull, of South Wingfield.’

‘Is that nearby?’

‘Not too far. But we wouldn’t get there first, Georgi.’

‘We could try.’

‘There’s no point. DI Hitchens is already on his way there.’

‘Pity.’ He tapped the wall again. ‘It sounds hollow here. But it could just be the chimney. You should get your people back to examine the structure of the house.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Georgi. It sounds like a major exercise. I can’t see how we’d justify ripping the house apart.’

‘You need Savova’s personal information? Her private contacts? Where else would she keep them, but in her secret safe, with her money?’

‘She used the internet, Georgi. We think she might have had some free web storage space that she used for information like that. We just haven’t found it yet.’

‘The internet? Gluposti. Find her money, you find her heart and soul.’

‘That’s very cynical.’

‘Take a look at the real world, Diane.’

Fry was thoughtful as they returned to the car and drove out of Foxlow.

‘Georgi, what do you think of our methods so far?’ she said.

‘Very interesting. But your enquiries are in the wrong direction, Diane.’

‘What do you mean?’

He waved a hand out of the window at the cottages they were passing. ‘You are wasting your time with these Albanski reotani.’

‘Who?’

‘These … slow-witted country people.’

‘Hold on, I’ve got another call.’

This time, it was Hitchens himself. ‘Where are you, Diane?’

‘Just approaching Matlock.’

‘Great. We’re at Darren Turnbull’s house in South Wingfield, but his wife says he’s driven down into Matlock to go to the bank. His car should be parked by the railway station.’

‘OK, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

‘It’s a blue Astra. You’ve got the reg?’

‘Yes, leave it to us.’

A few minutes later, Fry coasted her Peugeot into the station car park at the bottom of Dale Road. They found the Astra almost immediately.

‘OK, now we have to wait for him to come back.’

She parked where they had a clear view of the vehicle, looking along a line of parked cars towards the station.

‘Tell me again why we want to talk to this man,’ said Kotsev.

‘Darren Turnbull’s car was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night, at about the time Rose Shepherd was shot. I mean — ’

‘Rosica Savova.’

‘Yes. Well, Turnbull doesn’t live in the village, so we need to know what he was doing there, and what he might have seen. And why he didn’t come forward in response to our appeals.’

Kotsev eased his legs with a sigh. ‘If I had seen Rosica Savova’s assassin, perhaps I would not come forward and tell the police either.’

‘Why, Georgi?’

‘It could be dangerous.’

Fry looked at him, surprised all over again. He was like some oversized alien sitting in her car, a visitor from another world.

‘He can’t possibly have known it might be dangerous,’ she said. ‘Turnbull is just an engineer in an aircraft engine factory.’

‘It depends what he saw,’ said Kotsev. ‘In my experience, many people see things that they keep quiet about, for their own safety.’

‘Maybe.’

Kotsev suddenly sat up straight. ‘Is this the man?’

‘Let’s see which car he goes back to.’

A man was strolling along the line of vehicles. He was in his thirties, sandy-haired, wearing a black parka. The hood was down, which gave them a good look at his face. He stopped, hesitated as if he wasn’t quite sure which was his car, then pulled a key from his pocket and approached the blue Vauxhall.

‘Yes, that’s him. Let’s go.’

Turnbull looked up nervously and saw them coming. He mouthed a curse, then turned and began to run towards the station. God knew where he thought he was going.

Fry broke into a sprint, but Kotsev easily outpaced her, his long legs covering the ground in seconds.

‘Politsia! Police!’

Catching up with him, Kotsev took hold of Turnbull’s arm and twisted it sharply behind his back, pushing his face into a wall.

‘My friend, you shouldn’t try to escape. You have to tell us what we want to know.’

Fry was frozen for a moment, shocked by Kotsev’s action. ‘Georgi!’

He looked at her, his eyes glinting, his jaw set as if he intended to face her down. She was glad Kotsev wasn’t wearing his gun.

‘Sergeant Kotsev, you don’t have any jurisdiction here. This isn’t Bulgaria.’

Slowly, he relaxed his grip on Turnbull’s arm, but didn’t let go completely. Nor did he stand back, so Turnbull’s face remained pressed against the stones.

‘You’re right, of course. You do things a little differently, Sergeant Fry. But I know the methods that work with these people.’

‘Let go of him,’ hissed Fry.

Another moment passed. Finally, Kotsev stood back, and smiled.

‘I apologize. I have no jurisdiction. This is your suspect.’ He turned Turnbull gently away from the wall and pretended to dust down his clothes. ‘I apologize to you, too, my friend. I intended you no harm. I hope you feel comfortable, and that you are well enough to be questioned by my colleague.’

Turnbull didn’t look reassured. In fact, he looked more frightened than ever at the sudden change. Now, he had no idea what was happening.

‘What the hell is this?’

‘You are Mr Darren Turnbull?’ said Fry.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you the owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra hatchback, X registration?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Were you in the village of Foxlow on Saturday night?’

Turnbull’s mouth dropped open. His brain still seemed to be working, but so slowly that no connection was being made with his vocal cords.

‘Sir?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.

Kotsev had been standing by quietly, but now made a sudden gesture. It might only have been impatience he couldn’t restrain, but the suggestion of imminent violence communicated itself to Turnbull.

‘No, I really can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘I’d be in big trouble. Big, big trouble.’

‘Let’s all go back to the station, then,’ said Fry. ‘And we’ll talk about which sort of trouble you’d rather be in, Mr Turnbull.’

In the mortuary, the pathologist turned to Kessen and Cooper. ‘The bruise on his temple was the only physical injury. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but it could have caused mild concussion.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said Kessen.

‘Well, I found exceptionally high levels of alcohol in the bloodstream — and that would have been enough to kill most people. But tolerance varies, you know.’ Mrs van Doon raised an eyebrow. ‘If he was an experienced drinker, he could have survived the alcohol poisoning. Short-term, anyway.’

‘It sounds as though he was very experienced,’ said Cooper.

‘I thought so. Well, here’s an unwise combination for you — the victim was also malnourished. I’d say he hadn’t eaten properly for some time.’

‘So that combination was the cause of death?’

‘Not directly. My conclusion is that he fell on his back, suffering a blow to the head on the way down. It’s a pity he couldn’t have turned on to his side. It might have saved him.’

‘There wasn’t room where he fell in his caravan,’ said Cooper. ‘He was lying wedged between a table and the bed.’

The pathologist nodded. ‘Well, that explains it. While he lay unconscious, or in an alcoholic stupor, he choked on his own vomit.’

Darren Turnbull sat in Interview Room One. ‘I suppose this is about the shooting, isn’t it? The old lady who got shot in Foxlow.’

‘Would you like to tell us something about that, Darren?’ said Hitchens in his friendliest manner.

‘I don’t know anything about the bloody shooting,’ said Turnbull, apparently missing the friendliness.

‘Oh, really? So why did you mention it?’

Turnbull twisted his hands restlessly, but his voice seemed to be failing him again.

‘I mean, you must know something about it. You raised the subject, Darren, not us.’

This time, Hitchens let the silence develop. He was prepared to wait for Turnbull to fill the silence.

‘I saw it on the telly,’ he said. ‘That’s all. I read about it in the papers. That’s how I know about the murder, just like everyone else. So what does that mean, eh?’

‘That you’re admirably conscientious about keeping up with the news, I suppose,’ said Hitchens, opening the file in front of him. He made a show of reading the top page for a few moments, as if he was seeing it for the first time. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at Turnbull again.

‘Your car — this blue X-reg Astra. It was seen in Foxlow on Saturday night. Well, the early hours of Sunday, actually. It was remarkably near the scene of the murder, Darren.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And having diligently watched all those TV reports and read the items in the newspapers, which all mentioned that we were appealing for the owner of a blue X-reg Vauxhall Astra to come forward, you nevertheless stayed away, and failed to contact us. Why was that, Darren?’

‘I’m going to be in big trouble,’ said Turnbull.

‘Darren, this is a police station. You’re being interviewed in connection with a murder enquiry. We have reason to believe that you were in the vicinity around the time the murder occurred, and yet you’ve failed to come forward voluntarily as a potential witness. Believe me, you’re already in big trouble. It would be a lot better if you’re honest with us now. Otherwise, things could get … well, complicated for you.’

Turnbull sighed deeply. ‘I suppose I knew it would come to this in the end. I was visiting a friend. A girlfriend, all right?’

‘In Foxlow?’

‘Yes.’

‘And this was Saturday night, extending into the early hours of Sunday morning?’

‘Yes. So if some old nosy parker saw me or my car, that’s what I was doing. OK?’

‘Name?’ said Hitchens, with his pen poised.

‘What?’

‘Your girlfriend’s name, please.’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘We need to substantiate your story, Darren. What time did you leave Foxlow?’

‘About three a.m.’

‘And your friend would be able to confirm that?’

‘Of course she would.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

Turnbull didn’t answer. He looked at the table between them, torn by some difficulty that he was unable to resolve into words.

Hitchens looked at the file again. ‘You’re married, Darren.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I met your wife. Fiona, is that right? Happy together are you?’

‘Yes, of course we are.’

‘That’s good. We don’t like to see marriages break up.’

‘Now you’re taking the piss.’

Hitchens laid the file down. ‘Let’s get this straight, Darren. You’re having an affair with a woman who lives in Foxlow, and you don’t want your wife to know about it. Is that about right?’

‘Yes,’ said Turnbull grudgingly.

‘OK, I understand that. But look at it this way, Darren. You’re a potential witness in our enquiry. All we want is to ask you a few questions about anything you might have seen or heard that night. And we’ll want to speak to your girlfriend to corroborate your story, as I said. And that will be it. Provided it all checks out, we’ll thank you for helping us with our enquiries, and there won’t be any need for us to speak to Fiona.’

Turnbull nodded cautiously.

‘On the other hand, if you continue to refuse to account fully for your movements that night, we’ll be obliged to ask questions about your background and circumstances, find out who your associates are … Your wife would be the obvious place to start.’

‘I hear what you’re saying.’ Turnbull hung his head. ‘Would I have to go to court to give evidence?’

‘That depends. But I think it’ll be unlikely. All we want to do at the moment is eliminate you from our enquiries, Darren. And it would be nice if you could help us to establish any fresh leads. We’d feel quite appreciative.’

‘All right.’

‘I presume you must have told your wife some story about where you were, by the way?’

‘I told her I was putting in an extra shift at the factory. I work for Rolls Royce in Derby, and she doesn’t really have any idea what we do there, so I can just say we have a rush job on.’

‘Fine.’

Hitchens opened the file again and picked up his pen. ‘Do you want to give me the name of your girlfriend now?’

‘Stella Searle. She lives at Magpie Cottage, right next to the churchyard in Foxlow.’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘Stella’s divorced. She lives in that cottage on her own.’

‘I’m sure that makes it better.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘So what time did the night shift start?’ asked Hitchens.

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, what time did you arrive in Foxlow to visit your divorcee?’

‘Oh, about half past eleven. I don’t go there until it’s dark — people who live in villages are so nosy they want to know everything about you. I park the car on a lane behind the churchyard. There are no lights there, but there’s a back gate into Stell’s garden.’

‘Very handy. This Magpie Cottage — it would be right on the corner of Foxlow High Street and Pinfold Lane, am I right?’

‘That’s it.’

‘So what time did you leave on Sunday morning? Be as accurate as you can, please.’

‘It was close to three o’clock. I always leave at that time. That’s when the late shift ends, so I get home about the right time.’

‘OK, now we get to the bit where you might be able to help us, Darren. Did you see or hear anything as you were leaving the cottage? At three o’clock in the morning, it ought to have been very quiet. I’m hoping you were alert enough to notice any activity, even after your visit.’

Turnbull lowered his voice. ‘Yes, I did see something.’

‘What did you see?’

‘A black car. Big four-by-four, it was. Japanese. Tinted windows. Smart motor.’

‘Japanese? Did you recognize the make?’

‘Mmm, I’m not sure. Some of them are a bit similar, aren’t they? Toyota, Mitsubishi?’

Hitchens sighed. ‘Did you happen to see any part of the registration number?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘But you’re sure of the colour? Even though it was dark?’

‘I saw it pass under a streetlamp — the one by the phone box. It’s the nearest one to Stella’s house.’

‘How many occupants?’

‘One in the front, at least. I couldn’t tell if there was anyone in the back because of the tinted windows. Sorry.’

‘And this vehicle was heading in the direction of Bain House?’

‘If that’s the big house with the gates at the top of Pinfold Lane, it definitely went that way, then came back towards the High Street.’

‘All right, Darren. If you wait here, we’ll get someone to show you some photos, and we’ll see if you can identify the make and model of the car you saw.’

‘What? Can’t I go yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I had no connection with that woman at all, you know,’ said Turnbull. ‘Except that I was in the village when she died.’

Having given this information, Turnbull suddenly regained confidence and turned belligerent.

‘I could put in a complaint about the foreign bloke,’ he said. ‘He hurt my arm in Matlock. And I’ve got a scratch on my face. He’s not supposed to do that, is he? I wasn’t even under arrest — you said so.’

‘We could soon change that, Darren.’

‘It’s not right.’

‘If you want to make a formal complaint about the conduct of any police officers, speak to the custody sergeant and he’ll give you a form to fill in.’

When they were alone in the corridor, Hitchens looked at Fry quizzically. ‘Foreign bloke? Sergeant Kotsev?’

‘He isn’t quite used to our procedures yet,’ said Fry.

‘Kotsev is only here as an observer, Diane. You’re responsible for him. If Turnbull does put in a complaint — ’

‘I don’t think he will,’ said Fry. ‘Do you? Too much chance of publicity.’

‘No, you’re right. But be careful.’

When she was alone, Fry spent some time browsing the Europol website again, checking the location of the organization’s headquarters and how to get there. It was just idle curiosity, of course. No more than that.

But now she had formed a picture in her mind. She could see herself catching the number 9 tram in the direction of Scheveningen, getting off at Riouwstraat and crossing the footbridge over the canal to reach the Europol building. If she worked there, she would find a little apartment somewhere fashionable, but central for the city. Overlooking another canal, probably. Or maybe the same canal.

Actually, she wasn’t sure how many canals there were in The Hague. She might be getting it mixed up with Amsterdam in her mind. That was easy to do, when she’d never visited either city. She didn’t even know the country. Put that way, it sounded a mad thing to do, to contemplate working in a totally foreign country. But then, why would anyone want to live in a place that they knew every little bit of?

Finally, Hitchens appeared and gestured to her, and she followed him into the DCI’s office.

‘We got Darren Turnbull to look at the motors file for us,’ said Hitchens. ‘He’s not a happy man, but looking at pictures of cars seemed to calm him down a bit.’

‘And?’

‘He thinks it was probably a Mitsubishi Shogun that he saw in Foxlow that night.’

‘Excellent,’ said Kessen.

‘We’ve checked the incident logs, and nothing is missing locally. But South Yorkshire have a hit. On Saturday evening, a black Shogun was stolen from the car park of the Church of Free Worship in Totley. That’s on the outskirts of Sheffield.’

‘Even better.’

‘Wait, there’s more. Traffic already have a report of a Shogun abandoned under a disused railway bridge near Wirksworth. Burnt out, of course. And it’s been there since Monday at least.’

‘Our suspects made a switch, then.’

‘It looks like it, sir.’

‘What’s happened to the Shogun?’

‘It’s still there at the moment. DC Cooper’s on his way to take a look.’

Kessen was looking a bit happier. ‘I don’t suppose we have any idea what kind of vehicle they might have transferred to?’

‘No. But we haven’t even started making enquiries in that area yet. We’ll give the car the works in situ, then fetch it in for the vehicle examiners.’

‘Good work, Paul. But make sure any more stolen vehicles that are found get the once-over before they’re returned to their owners. They could have made a second switch at some point. Let’s pass that request to South Yorkshire, too. Chances are they doubled back towards Sheffield from Wirksworth. These weren’t our local joy riders.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Not that we’ll get anything useful, even if we find another vehicle. We’re looking at a professional job.’

‘You know, if they’re professionals, we won’t get DNA profiles from any of these scenes. Pros make sure they keep up to date. Even joy riders don’t go out at night until they’ve watched CSI.’

‘We might get lucky.’

Hitchens shrugged. They all knew that the risk of leaving DNA was becoming familiar to career criminals. With the national database throwing up a thousand matches a week, how could it be otherwise?

‘So much for the famous village surveillance experts,’ said Fry. ‘They spotted Darren Turnbull’s Astra twice, but they never saw the Shogun.’

Hitchens looked at her. ‘What have you done with Sergeant Kotsev, by the way?’

‘I’ve given him to Ben Cooper to look after for a while.’