DI Giles BoxSet Page 15

  “Does coming back to Oxford bring back memories?” She asked lightly.

  “It takes me right back. It could have been yesterday.” His speech was now slow and wistful as his gaze wandered to the window. “We used to come down here nearly every Saturday. Go to the ‘Greasy spoon’ for something to eat before going in to town.”

  “Greasy spoon?” Yvonne had never heard of it.

  Gerald laughed. “It’s what we used to call the café along here. Lots of good food at an incredibly low price – important when you’re a student.”

  “When you say the bunch of you, who would be there exactly?” Yvonne moved her bag to make way for the drinks.

  “Well, let’s see now. There was myself, Catherine, Graham, Michael and Emma.”

  “Three guys and two girls.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Catherine was with Graham.”

  He took a large gulp of San Miguel. “Yes.”

  “What about Michael?”

  “Michael?”

  They were interrupted by the waitress, returning for their food orders and thoughts turned briefly to deciding between chicken-with-tarragon, seafood pasta, hot chilli prawns and cannelloni. As soon as she could, Yvonne returned the conversation to where they left off.

  “How was Michael's relationship with Emma?”

  “You mean were they close?”

  “Yes.”

  Tasha watched the cogs turning as Gerald paused before answering.

  “I wouldn’t have said that he was any closer to Emma than he was to Catherine. Or to any of us, for that matter.”

  “Gerald,” it was Yvonne’s turn to take a large sip of her Orange and soda, “we think Michael may have been the father of Emma’s baby.”

  He looked genuinely taken aback, as though that was the last thing he was expecting her to say. “Michael?”

  “Yes.” Yvonne felt a little guilty for telling him only half the truth, but she was reluctant to give too much away.

  He shifted his position in his chair, leaning forward. There was an extra keenness in his voice when he replied. “Well, that would make sense in some ways.”

  “In what ways?”

  “Michael’s moods were always changeable. He would be crazy about something one day and completely disinterested the next. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have started something with Emma and then changed his mind.”

  Yvonne glanced at Tasha and caught the glint of excitement in her eyes. Had Gerald suspected Michael before? If he had, he wasn’t saying. Yvonne nodded discretely to Tasha, who took over the probing.

  “Going back to the night of Emma’s disappearance at the College ball. You were all drinking. Was Michael drinking a lot?”

  “I don’t remember thinking that he was drinking especially much, but we were only with each other part of the time. There was a lot of mingling going on.”

  “Did you see him talking to Emma?”

  “Yes and they danced. They definitely danced.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And how did they seem? How did Emma appear when she was dancing with him? Did she look in any way uncomfortable?”

  Again, Gerald gazed distantly through the window. “She was quite flushed. Breathless.” He paused, “I put it down to excitement. Plus it was a very warm evening.”

  “Can you remember the last time you saw Emma that night?”

  “Err, I think the last time I saw her was shortly after that dance, but it is difficult to be sure.”

  “When was the last time you saw Michael?”

  “I last saw him during that dance. It was about eleven O’clock.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this during the initial investigation?”

  “It didn’t come back to me immediately. I think that was due to the shock. Then when I did remember it, it didn’t seem relevant. Michael was a good friend. What significance could one dance between him and Emma have?”

  They had what they wanted from the conversation. More pieces of the picture had come together and for the first time, Yvonne was feeling vaguely optimistic.

  76

  From his vantage point, he could see over the whole of the centre of the City. Right to the opposite side of the valley. The curves and wends of the streets and terraces and the up lighters illuminating the Abbey, which took more prominence as the natural light faded fast.

  The 450mm Pentax lens whirred softly as it zoomed in on her window. The view quivered. He breathed deeply to steady himself.

  He saw her then, moving with that undeniable, unforgettable grace in her long body and limbs. She crossed to the window to look out over the City. The room behind her glowed orange, in the light from the tungsten bulbs which poured from two standard lamps.

  At that precise moment they were united. United in their desire to see beyond their confines. He, surrounded by the evening song of birds and she, with the distant sounds of city traffic. She pulled up the large sash window and took in a deep lungful of the cool evening air.

  ‘Click’. Perfect.

  ‘Click’. Oh, yes.

  Unaware of the intrusion of the camera, she ran her hand through that beautiful hair. The wisps of soft grey made her appear so vulnerable. He held his breath for a moment. She looked tired. Very tired. The eyes were sunken and the cheekbones more prominent. He wondered how much of that was down to him and his little ‘presents’. He was feeling powerful. In control.

  He watched, as her hand moved slowly down from her hair and lingered on her neck. He imagined that it was his hand which kneaded those tired muscles. She was swaying now, as though to some soft music. The faraway look in her eyes filled him with a reinforced longing for what he would never have.

  The voices shook him, but only for a moment. Passers-by. They wouldn’t mind him. He was just a camera-toting tourist out after the perfect shots of the Abbey at dusk. He was nothing to the young couple out walking their mongrel dog. Arms around each other, their closeness tangible. He envied them. He was angry at them. He made himself feel better by imagining how the girl would look if she was on her knees, naked and dirty, pleading with him – tears streaming down that smug young face which was now so filled with the glow of togetherness. It was the boy he felt sorry for, so sure of himself and the love born for him by the girl.

  77

  Catherine crossed the hall to pick up the tiny bundle of mail, freshly pushed through the letterbox by a whistling postman. She carried it through to the kitchen where her cafetière stood brewing.

  She was looking forward to the day’s first shot of caffeine and revelled in the rich aroma permeating her kitchen. She took a knife from the drawer, to slit open one of the envelopes. She hummed softly to the gentle strains of Eva Cassidy, which poured from the tiny radio on the window sill. She was feeling better than she had in a long time.

  Graham had left early to arrange new stock in the shop and Catherine still glowed from his love-making. She still smelled of him. At least they still had that: the ability to make up in the most meaningful way two people can she thought, running her hand down the back of her hair and remembering. As soon as she had finished here, she would go down to the shop and help him set up.

  The note was crudely written, both in language and in appearance and consisted of roughly-drawn small and capital letters which might have been penned by a small child. A strange, metallic smell emanated from a page covered in reddish-brown stains but it was the words which appalled her. She stared and stared at them, barely focusing as her eyes glazed over. The song she was singing died on her lips as she sank back into a chair at the breakfast table.

  dear CATHERINE

  There are SO many things you do not know. Like the man you married. Do you really know him? Can you believe what he tells you? Ask him where he goes Catherine. Ask him about the London whores.

  ASK HIM ABOUT EMMA.

  78

  Catherine’s head swam. Nagging doubts, swirling in t
heir insidious way, to form an ever-tightening band around her head. They threatened to take away her invigorated sense of surety about her life and her husband. But who were the London whores and why would Graham know them? What had this to do with Emma? Who had written such a cruel letter?

  Tasha slammed the lounge door and half a chocolate biscuit fell into Yvonne’s tea. An immediate look of disappointment clouded her face since she had been enjoying dunking that biscuit and finding a soft, flowery sludge at the bottom of her cup and - even worse - drinking it, was not exactly her favourite thing to do.

  “Now look what you’ve made me do. This had better be good.” She glared at Tasha and then got up to get a teaspoon from the kitchen. She was puzzled by the irritation in the psychologist’s eyes.

  “You know you can’t be too friendly with a suspect in an investigation.” Tasha erupted eventually as she followed the DI into the kitchen.

  “What do you mean too friendly?” Yvonne was opening a drawer and taking out a spoon. “You agreed that a good way to lure the killer into a trap would be to develop an online friendship.” She snapped the drawer shut with her hip.

  “I wasn’t referring to being friendly online.”

  “What then?”

  “I was talking about Gerald Adams.”

  Yvonne concentrated hard, as she attempted to fish out the bit of biscuit, almost breaking into a sweat as all she succeeded in doing was breaking it up into smaller and smaller pieces.

  “Tasha, I am not getting too friendly with Gerald,” she said distractedly, “and besides, I don’t see that it’s any of your business.” She sighed with disappointment - the biscuit was now fully dispersed.

  “Will you stop that and listen to me?” In frustration, Tasha took the mug and plopped it down onto the granite work top. She had an urge to grab Yvonne and push her up against the cupboards. Run her hands under that soft, yellow cotton blouse and bruise those full lips which were now rounded in surprise.

  “I can listen and drink at the same time,” Yvonne complained, reaching to reclaim her tea before it went cold. Tasha grabbed the outstretched hand and pulled it back around towards her. She was trembling.

  “Tasha, what’s gotten into you?” Yvonne was truly surprised, her breathing irregular.

  A hot flush developed on Tasha’s face where the searching, vivid blue eyes rested and she let go of the DI’s hand, turning away towards the window.

  “I’m sorry.” was all she said, running her palms down the sides of her hips. When she eventually looked back towards the DI she appeared calm and unflustered.

  Yvonne relented. “Look…Tasha, I’m not getting friendly with suspects. I like Gerald but not in a romantic sense and I have to say that I think you’re overreacting.” The DI wanted to say more: wanted to find the right words to dissuade Tasha from becoming too attached to her. “I’m straight,” was how it came out. Blunt. To the point.

  “So you keep telling me…” Tasha's eyes sparked with fire and, in that moment, she reminded Yvonne of David and of the lopsided expression he always had when he was irritated. When she swallowed it felt like she was swallowing an acorn.

  “I didn’t say that as a spur.” She said hoarsely.

  “I only want you to be careful.” Tasha’s voice was soft, husky, less challenging. She sighed and turned away towards the window.

  “I know what I’m doing, Tasha.” Yvonne poured the remains of the now tepid tea into the sink.

  79

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her roughly to her feet. The pale, thin limb could be held quite easily between his first finger and thumb, a small twist of which would have her stumbling or crying out – there being little strength left for resistance. He was finding her smell increasingly offensive. They were usually dead by now. She lived because she had somehow managed to avoid upsetting him, being quiescent and resigned to his treatment.

  Moving his large frame with deft efficiency, he pulled her up the ladder steps, tugging her arm so hard she felt the pain everywhere. When she slipped, which she did several times, the rungs felt like hammers hitting her legs. She was blindfolded.

  The shower room was a clinical white: the only highlights being the jade-green soap and the emerald towel hanging neatly from the towel rail. There was no dirt anywhere but she was unaware of any of these details.

  He pushed her ahead of him to the toilet and ordered her to relieve herself while he watched - as was his habit. Then he dragged her under the shower where she sucked in her breath at the coldness of it, each droplet stinging her raw skin like a hailstone travelling at terminal velocity. He raised her arms above her head and as the water warmed he soaped her down.

  In the haze of dizziness and nausea, Caroline was five years old and it was Sunday and bath time. She and her sister Margaret in the warm suds of pine scented water being scrubbed by their mother behind their ears and in between their toes – all the places which they themselves had neglected to clean. The fluffy softness of the large pink bath towels wrapped around them as they were hoisted from the bath and plumped dripping and giggling on to the bath mat. The tantalising smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafting up the stairs from the kitchen as their father kept an eye on the dinner cooking. She let out a sob then. What she wouldn’t give to see her mother, sister and father right now. She wondered if they had reported her missing yet and knew that this was unlikely since she had only been gone a few days, though it seemed like weeks.

  He took her from the shower and marched her to the lounge, draping her face down over the arm of the leather couch. The hair on his hard thighs against her soft ones and the piercing pain inside of her was the last thing she felt before passing out.

  80

  Yvonne, Tasha and Brian slipped quietly in through the back of the lecture theatre in Pathology as Professor Samuel’s summed up his message to the second year forensic science students. How quickly time had moved on since the DI’s student days. There they were, busy typing manically into laptops. It had been strictly note paper and pens in her day. God that made her feel old.

  They were joined a few minutes later by John Walker, keen not to miss anything which would shed light on his old case. He had to admit to feeling very excited about the recent turn of events.

  “Now remember,” the Professor pointed the red laser light at the thin shaft of grey in the slide. “Firstly, in the high temperatures of severe fires or explosions, some plastics and materials used in the construction industry can congeal to become a substance that can so easily be mistaken for bone. In such cases, a forensic anthropologist would be invaluable, when sifting through rubble during search and recovery, as they can quickly and positively identify human remains.” Samuels pressed the forward button on the remote to show charred fragments of bone. “Secondly, when bone material is found following a fire it is sometimes extremely difficult to be certain that the remains are human. A forensic anthropologist can give this information straight away and so, perhaps, speed up closure of a case and save valuable time and money. Thanks for listening everyone and good luck with the exams.”

  As the Professor gathered together his papers and fielded final questions from the students, Yvonne glanced through her notes and the questions regarding the bones of Emma’s baby. Questions which had been keeping her awake at night.

  She stood up in greeting as he approached them along the aisle and formally introduced her colleagues. He gripped each of their hands in a very firm shake and they left the lecture hall for the relative comfort of the Professor’s College room where they seated themselves around his impressive, thick mahogany desk.

  “Right, the Emma Shilton remains.” He peered over the top of his glasses at them, and then at the notes in front of him and they waited as he read, his focus wholly on the task. Yvonne mused at how he reminded her a little of her father: wispy, white hair which stayed only just the right side of tame; his mouth open as he concentrated, the end of his tongue protruding as it was gently squeezed between his te
eth.

  “Yes that’s right, Professor.” Yvonne rifled through the notes and photographs of her own, pulling out the pictures and schematics of the various stages of the initial and the recent excavations. “You see, as you know, bones were missing from the foetus and you said that it was possible these had simply been missed during the initial excavation when the remains were found.”

  “Yes that right.”

  “But they weren’t missing.” Brian pointed at the older photographs. “Forensics went through that pit with a fine tooth comb during the original investigation. Not even a foetal hair would have been missed!”

  The professor took the photos from the DI and scrutinized them, comparing one with another and with the accompanying notes. Everyone else waited. They held their breath when the professor opened his mouth wider and they thought an opinion was about to appear. They exhaled again when he clasped his tongue back between his teeth.

  “Well, yes, you’re right. It certainly does appear that a very thorough search was conducted.” He said finally, “Can you rule out their having been taken by the dog which found them?”

  “They weren’t taken by the dog. We’re sure of that.” This time it was John Walker doing the talking. ”Only Emma’s thigh bone was protruding - found by the dog. As I understood it, at the time, she had been left in such a position that the part of the bone protruding was the ball from the socket joint with the pelvis.” The older detective looked uncomfortable at this point, aware that his anatomical knowledge wasn’t great. He looked relieved when the anthropologist nodded.

  “Yes, well that would make sense since she appeared to have been left with her buttocks in the air.”

  “The dog took the thigh bone and nothing else.”

  “And you’re sure of that?”