Fearful Symmetry Page 2

  Blake glanced at the bloated misshapen body, trying to keep some level of professional distance. The victim had been a living human being, with loves and hatreds, dramas in their life; people who might be missing them. But right now, he had to be dispassionate; to think clearly. “Might it be Ellen Kevney?”

  Jack shrugged. “Hard to tell. Certainly female. I’d say the victim has been here at least two weeks. The Taylors were away for three, so it’s possible she’s lain here longer. Whoever did this put the heating up and it’s advanced the decomposition…”

  “Jeez,” Blake muttered. “They did it deliberately?”

  “Now who’s making guesses?” Jack Kenning said with a tight smile. “The Taylors could have left it on but, first responders remarked on the house being stifling, so I suspect it was turned up after the victim died. This level of decay is going to make any post-mortem testing tricky.”

  Blake scanned the room; a picture of bland normality apart from the scene of horror in one corner. A bookshelf full of Readers Digest condensed books lined one wall, a garish oil painting of a mountain stream hung on another, and the TV sat in one corner. Another picture hung crookedly over a chest of drawers. It showed a child sitting under a tree with his mother and a poem was printed beneath it. “What do you think of that?” he said to Mallachy, nodding at the picture.

  Mallachy tilted his head and read the title. “The Little Black Boy,” he said and shrugged. Blake always winced at Mallachy’s frustrating, non-committal shrugs. “Dunno,” the dour looking Irishman said. “Don’t ask me. I’m a Philistine.”

  “So are the Taylors, if that oil painting is anything to go by,” Kenning muttered. “That’s a crime that should be reported immediately.” Blake almost managed a smile. “You should recognise that Will,” Kenning added. “It was written by your namesake.”

  Blake frowned. “What?”

  “That’s a William Blake poem,” Kenning said. “You must have heard of him: Jerusalem? Tyger, Tyger burning bright…”

  “Yeah, right,” Blake said, holding up a hand. “I used to get a lot of that at school. Mainly from English teachers.” He read the title again. “Not one of his better-known poems. Funny thing to have on your wall, don’t you think?”

  Jack put a hand on Blake’s shoulder. “We’re here to investigate a suspicious death, Will, not criticise the décor.”

  The room closed in on Blake and he shook himself. He’d be more use outside interviewing neighbours or reading through witness statements, not staring at a picture. “You’re right,” he said. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

  Back in the street, Blake welcomed the fresh air in his lungs. Some colour had returned to DC Kinnear’s cheeks and he headed for Blake as soon as he emerged from the house.

  “Sir, there’s…”

  Blake held up a hand to silence him. “Give me a moment, Kinnear. You know what it’s like in there. Just let me catch my breath.” He scrubbed at his face with his palms as if washing away the images from inside the house, but he knew he never could. “Now, what were you saying?”

  “Sorry, sir, there’s a Donald Pleavin who’s eager to see you. He’s the Neighbourhood Watch coordinator. Lives opposite the Taylors…”

  “Couldn’t you speak to him? Uniform? They’re doing door-to-door anyway,” Blake snapped. “I can’t be doing with some self-important busy-body, right now.”

  “He’s quite insistent, sir. Asked for you by name.”

  Blake let out a huge sigh. “Sorry, Andrew,” he said. “It’s just… I mean, who does that to another human being?”

  Kinnear knew better than to shrug. “I don’t know, sir. Let’s catch the bastard and ask him, eh?”

  “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all morning,” Blake said, rubbing his cold hands and surveying the Grove with its low walls and neatly clipped hedges and lawns. “Why here, Andrew?”

  “Sir?”

  “Why did that poor soul end up here?”

  “I don’t quite follow, sir.”

  “Whoever killed her could have dumped her in a ditch on the side of a road or a copse somewhere. There’s plenty of woodland on the Wirral. Why kill someone in someone else’s home?”

  “Privacy, perhaps, sir? Less chance of detection?”

  “Possibly, but you’d have to know that the house was empty for some time and you were going to be undisturbed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kinnear said.

  “If I was a gambling man, I’d say this was a local crime committed by someone with very local knowledge. Come on, lead the way. Let’s see what Mr Pleavin has to offer us.”

  Chapter 4

  Donald Pleavin stood in front of his bungalow, hands in his beige, M&S slacks; a walking stereotype of a Homewatch Coordinator. He was a tall man, as tall as Blake. Short, cropped hair silvered the sides of a shining bald patch. A neatly-clipped moustache sat in the middle of his craggy face. He looked like he kept active despite his advancing years and Blake found it hard to pin an age on him; early seventies, maybe?

  “Mr Pleavin, I’m DCI Blake and this is DC Kinnear, I believe you wanted to talk to me?”

  Pleavin shook Will’s hand vigorously. “Yes, I know who you are, Detective,” he said. “I remember you from that TV Crime programme, Searchlight. I never missed it…”

  Blake felt a flash of annoyance and his cheeks reddened. “Well, that was a while back, now, sir. Do you have any information pertinent to this incident?” Blake glanced at Kinnear but the young DC kept his eyes fixed on Pleavin. His team loved it when the topic of Searchlight came up, Blake knew that; a great opportunity to watch their boss squirm.

  It had been a fixture on early evening TV between 2004 and 2007; various crimes were reported, and a mixture of celebrities and real police officers had presented it. Blake, a young police constable back in 2004 had been encouraged to apply for it as he was ‘easy on the eye’ and a good communicator. The role, although part time, had made him a prime target for ribbing and banter from his colleagues. Some senior officers didn’t approve. It shouldn’t have surprised him how often Searchlight cropped up or that it was still used as a stick to beat him with. Even now, so many years later, those three brief years and their aftermath, haunted him.

  Pleavin frowned. “As soon as I saw you striding across the Grove, I knew we were in good hands. I never know why they axed Searchlight. It was providing a very useful service. You were great on it. You did all the CCTV footage; shop hold-ups and street violence, that was it wasn’t it?”

  “I did, sir, but right now, I’m trying to investigate what happened over the road and you said you had information,” Blake said, through gritted teeth.

  Pleavin’s face fell. “Forgive me, Detective Blake,” he said. “I was quite a fan. Come this way.” He led them up the path to the front door and into a bland, oatmeal hallway, so spotless it reminded Blake of a show home he’d visited recently; the kind of place that is so tidy, it has lost any sense of character. He half expected Pleavin to ask them to take their shoes off. The lounge was almost identical in layout to the one across the road, but without the body, bloated by weeks of decay. Pleavin sat on an armchair and flicked through a pile of notebooks on a small table beside him. “Here we are.” He pulled one of the books out of the pile with a flourish.

  Blake could feel his nerves snapping; he was up to his eyeballs with the Kevney case and the need to know if the body in the house was Ellen or not gnawed away at him. He really didn’t have time for this. “And what’s this, sir?”

  “Comings and goings,” Pleavin said, waggling his bushy, grey eyebrows. “For the last three weeks. I keep a careful note of anyone who calls at the Grove, Detective Blake, or the wife does if I’m not in.” He handed the notebook over. “If our killer arrived in a van or a car, then either I or Helen will have jotted it down. I know it’s all big data with you policemen nowadays; perhaps this can add to the picture.”

  Blake took the notebook, his mood lifting a little. “This co
uld be very useful, Mr Pleavin, thank you,” he said, scanning through the last three weeks and a seemingly endless column of the words ‘white’ and ‘van.’ People must have stuff delivered all the time. But it could be handy; there were dates, times, and registration numbers. “This will give a good picture of the movements around the Grove.”

  Pleavin gave a conspiratorial wink. “Always glad to help, sir,” he said. “I keep in close touch with our Police Community Support Officer, too. If you want the low down on any of the Grove’s residents, just ask. You’d be surprised. We’ve got all sorts living here.”

  “All sorts?”

  Pleavin leaned in close and Blake caught a whiff of soap and mouthwash. “Well, the Whites at number four for a start. Young couple. Never seem to go anywhere. Curtains drawn all day,” he murmured, twisting his mouth in disgust. “I mean, haven’t they got jobs to go to? The Jones at number five are always arguing.”

  “Thank you, Mr Pleavin,” Blake said, straightening up. “I’ll be sure to bear all that in mind.”

  Blake shivered in the cold February breeze and surveyed the organised chaos that filled Hilbre Grove. He handed Pleavin’s dossier to Kinnear. “Get someone to go through these registration numbers, track down the drivers. It’s worth checking.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want to check any of the other people Mr Pleavin mentioned?”

  Blake sighed. “We’ll need to interview everyone in the Grove eventually …” he stopped. A slight, hunched young man hurried past the Taylor house, pulling a hood over his face as he ran. “Where did he come from, Kinnear?” Blake started towards the young man. “Excuse me, sir!”

  Blake saw the youth’s eyes widen and his pale face framed in the hood, then the youngster broke into a sprint. “Stop!” Blake bellowed.

  The community support officer at the end of the Grove saw the young man running towards him and opened his arms like a goalie awaiting the shot. The group of kids he was containing jeered and one of them must have given him a shove just as the young man ducked under his elbow. The PCSO crumpled to the floor and the kids took to their bikes, scattering in all directions.

  “Don’t just lie there, man, get after them!” Blake yelled as he ran to the end of the cul-de-sac but it was clear that the youth in the hoodie had vanished. Blake hissed through his teeth in frustration. “Did you get a good look at him, Andrew?”

  “Red hair, young, maybe late teens. Freckles,” Kinnear said. “He certainly legged it in a hurry.”

  “Might be something or nothing,” Blake said. “He looked shifty as he passed the Taylors’ house. Where did he come from?”

  “I think there’s an alley that leads between the houses at the end of Hilbre Grove, sir. There was meant to be a constable covering it.”

  Blake shook his head. “Get that plant-pot who was having a lie down to find those kids. They obviously knew the runner, so he must be local. Then meet me at the car. We’ll go and see the Taylors.”

  Chapter 5

  Tina White fidgeted with the curtain as she watched the police officers and people in white suits bustling in and out of the house, loading bags and boxes into cars and vans. It was like being on the set of a crime thriller. And she’d seen enough of those to know what came next; the knock on the door, the questions.

  “Come away from the window, for God’s sake,” Paul White snapped. “You’ll attract attention.”

  Tina let go of the curtain and slumped onto the sofa. The TV was on, showing some politicians shaking hands, but Paul had turned the sound down ages ago. “But it’s horrible, Paul. To think someone’s been lying there all this time and we…”

  “We had nothing to do with it, okay?” Paul’s voice rose as he cut her off. She could see red spots on his cheeks under his neatly trimmed beard. That was all that was neat about him at the moment. He still had his striped dressing gown on.

  “Don’t shout at me. Maybe we should tell them. Fess up. It wasn’t our fault, was it?”

  Paul squatted down in front of her. She could smell garlic from the kebab he’d had last night. “Listen to me. We can’t say a word.”

  “But what if it’s Ellen? What if it’s her?”

  “What if it is?” Paul snapped, then threw his hands up in the air. “No, that’d be horrible, of course but it’s not our fault.”

  Tina’s head throbbed and her face ached from sniffing and crying. “I don’t know. We should say something…”

  “We should say nothing.”

  The doorbell rang and Tina flinched. Paul jumped up and peered out of the front window. “It’s a policeman. Probably just doing door-to-door enquiries. You stay here, I’ll deal with it.”

  Tina nodded and sat, tangling her fingers nervously, and listening to Paul at the front door. “Yeah, we’re all in a state of shock really. No, no, haven’t seen anything unusual. It’s a pretty quiet place. Mainly old people. Don Pleavin at number six, he runs the show around here. At least he thinks he does. He’s our neighbourhood watch fella. Keeps a log of all vehicles that come and go.”

  Paul continued batting away any questions with a baffled kind of regret that he couldn’t be more help. No, they hadn’t seen anything unusual. No, they were working most days. No, nobody had come to their door recently. All quiet, all boring, nothing to see here. Move along please.

  She straightened up on the sofa. How could he stay so calm in front of a policeman? That took some balls. It was a side of Paul that Tina had seen before; a cold and calculating steadiness. He was great at haggling with car dealers and once he’d actually talked a traffic warden out of giving him a ticket. She’d been with him for seven years, married for four of those. He’d always been adventurous and a bit of a risk-taker, yes. But this was different. How could he talk so calmly to the officer knowing what he knew? She wondered if he’d had dealings with the police before.

  The door closed and Paul came back into the living room. He looked down at Tina. “There you go. Gone.”

  “For now,” Tina said. “They’ll be back, though. I don’t think I can face them, Paul. I’m not as hard-faced as you.”

  Paul sat next to her and put his arm round her shoulder. “Hey. Don’t worry, love. Look we’ve done nothing wrong…” Tina looked up at him and sniffed. He coughed. “Well, nothing to be ashamed of. Just keep your head down and leave it all to me.” Tina nodded and buried her head in his shoulder. Paul gave her a squeeze. “There,” he said. “What say we give work a miss today and go over to Liverpool. Do some shopping, grab a bite to eat? By the time we come back, this whole circus will have moved on and things will have calmed down again. Remember, it’s nothing to do with us.”

  Tina nodded and dabbed mascara from her cheeks with a crumpled, soggy tissue. For now, she’d go shopping and bury her head in the sand; pretend nothing had happened. The truth would come out eventually, though.

  *****

  Dave Taylor filled his hospital bed so completely, that Blake found himself wondering if they’d used a crane to transport the man here and get him in bed. A pile of pillows propped him up and he looked stranded under the mound of covers that only just reached the sides. He had a cannula fitted on the back of his hand and a monitor clipped to his finger. A machine flashed numbers at Blake. He had introduced himself and Kinnear, and Taylor had nodded but it was clear the man was still processing what he had seen in his living room.

  “I knew what it was,” Dave Taylor whispered, staring at the foot of the bed. “I knew from the smell. It took me back to my army days. Aden, 1967. You never forget that stink. Death. It’s horrible.” He looked up at Blake like a hurt child. “Who’d do something like that, though? In my house?”

  Blake shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I intend to find out, though.”

  “It was meant to be the holiday of a lifetime,” Taylor continued. “We don’t have a lot of cash. I mean, I’ve got my army pension but after I injured my back, I couldn’t find any steady work. When we won the holiday competition, we were over the moo
n. Wish we hadn’t gone now.”

  “You don’t normally have a cleaner, then? Or anyone who comes into the house for any reason?”

  Dave Taylor shook his head. “Couldn’t afford a cleaner and Dot wouldn’t have it anyway. Too house-proud. She’d be tidying up before the cleaner came. How is she? Is she okay? I should have stopped her following me. She shouldn’t have seen that…”

  “No, sir, none of us should. She’s in shock, Mr Taylor but she’s being well looked after. Do you know of anybody who might have known about you going away?”

  “Most of the Grove, would’ve known. But Pleavin keeps that place under close watch,” Taylor said. “Nobody would’ve got past him. He keeps notes…”

  “Yes, we’ve been given access to Mr Pleavin’s observations, sir. We’ll check those out urgently.”

  “There was the young man, sir,” Kinnear cut in.

  Blake glared at him. “Thank you,” he said. “We noticed a young man hurrying away from the Grove just before we came here, Mr Taylor. Late teens, maybe early twenties. Red hair, freckles. He wore a dark hoodie, but he ran away when we tried to ask him some questions. Does that ring any bells?”

  Taylor blinked and licked his lips. “Could’ve been one of the local lads, I suppose,” he muttered. “They’re always causing trouble around the estate. Used to be a nice place. Still is when they’re all at school.”

  “He seemed a bit old for school, sir,” Kinnear said, earning another cold look from Blake.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” Taylor said, his eyes fluttering. “I’m very tired. It’s been a terrible day…”

  Blake nodded. “You’ve had quite an ordeal, Mr Taylor. We’ll leave you in peace for now. We will need to ask you some more questions soon, though.”

  The hospital corridors thronged with visitors carrying magazines, newspapers and bags of fruit. Kinnear hurried after Blake as he strode away from Taylor’s ward. “D’you think he’s hiding something, sir?”