Detective Mike Croft Series Box Set Page 6

  ‘Seems to me you might be hedging, Inspector.’

  ‘In what way, Mr Andrews?’ Mike’s voice was polite, cautiously enquiring. A sudden wariness crept into his thoughts.

  ‘About the connection, Inspector. Didn’t I recognize DI Tynan earlier? When Mrs Cassidy and the . . . other woman left the hall?’

  His voice held an innocence that reinforced Mike’s anxiety. There was little sense in denying Tynan’s presence.

  He said heavily, ‘Ex-DI Tynan has been in touch, yes.’

  ‘And the woman, Inspector. The woman with Mrs Cassidy?’

  Mike looked sharply at him, but responded calmly. ‘What about her, Mr Andrews?’ He was painfully aware that they had the undivided attention of the assembly because Philip Andrews, with his local knowledge, was not about to lose the chance to get one over on the big boys.

  ‘Cassandra Junor, as she was back then. Her married name’s Maltham, I believe . . . strange that she should come back here now, Inspector.’

  Mike decided that he’d had enough. Rumours had been flying all day and he’d been a fool not to think that Tynan, a local after all, should not be recognized, especially by the likes of Philip Andrews.

  Mike was painfully aware that dealing with the press had never been one of his talents.

  ‘Inspector?’ The innocent tone of the next enquiry echoed Andrews’ earlier approach. ‘Inspector, wasn’t Junor the name of the cousin in the Ashmore case?’

  There seemed no real point in denying it, making himself look more of a fool.

  ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. ‘I believe it was.’

  He excused himself then, and began to move towards his car making the usual proclamations about there being nothing further he could say and they would be kept informed. He left Bill, the image of the old-fashioned ‘traditional’ policeman, to calmly talk down the rest of the questions and to follow after him.

  He had his hand on the car door when a voice behind him made him look back. Philip Andrews.

  He must, Mike thought, have been Tynan’s contemporary. A grey-haired man, thinning a little on top, with more lines around his eyes than anyone had a right to and a slightly crooked nose, as though it had once been broken and healed badly.

  ‘I’ve nothing further to say.’ Mike felt annoyed at the irritation that showed in his voice. Why should he have let this man’s questions rattle him so much?

  ‘But that was Cassie Junor,’ Andrews pressed, his tone making it half-statement, half-question.

  Mike didn’t bother to reply. He got into his car and wrenched the ignition far more abruptly than he needed to, slamming the gears into first. His rear-view mirror showed Andrews and his photographer watching as he drove away. Mike paused along the road, just long enough to allow Bill to climb inside and settle himself in the other seat.

  ‘Well, that didn’t go too badly,’ Bill commented, his voice and eyes reflecting the amusement he felt at Mike’s fit of pique.

  ‘Didn’t it?’

  Bill looked sideways at him. At moments like this rank took second place to experience. He spoke quietly, ‘They were bound to get wind of it, Mike. It’s not the kind of thing you can keep quiet for long.’

  Mike shrugged irritably and Bill settled back and allowed the silence to grow, letting his boss choose his own pace.

  ‘This Andrews. You know him?’

  Bill nodded. ‘He’s been useful in the past.’

  Mike snorted. ‘Is that what you call it?’ He paused, then let out what was really on his mind. ‘Flint’s just going to love this. Right prat I’m going to look going in there and telling him, sorry, sir, but one kid isn’t enough for them. We’d better start looking for the other one all over again.’

  Bill glanced sideways at him, keeping his mouth tight and still but unable to keep the humour from showing in his faded blue eyes.

  For a moment, Mike Croft glared at him, then he relaxed. ‘OK, OK, so Flint’s not the kind that’s pleased at anything.’ He paused, sobered again, remembered just what was at stake here. ‘Can you imagine what her parents must be feeling? The Ashmore girl’s, I mean. It will be like reliving the whole thing over again.’

  He frowned at the curving road ahead of them, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He knew what happened to him every time he heard of a child killed in an RTA. Worst of all, if, as had happened with Stevie, the driver had failed to stop. However many times the doctors had told him that Stevie must have died practically the moment he was hit, he still kept asking himself, what if the driver had stopped? What if he’d stopped and been able to help; got help to Stevie just that minute or two sooner. Would it have made a difference? Logic had no place in that kind of thinking.

  Would the Ashmores be making the connection? When they found out that Cassie Maltham had been there a second time, would they find her guilty, just to give themselves a reason to cling to? Didn’t Mike, every time he saw the report of a hit and run, wonder if that driver was the one that had killed his son?

  He made the turn onto the broader, slightly straighter Norwich road and increased his speed a little. Then he turned his attention back to the journalist, Andrews.

  ‘So,’ he asked again, ‘what about this Andrews?’

  Bill smiled slightly. ‘Not much to tell, really. He’s worked for the Chronicle so long they’re likely to put him in the archives when he finally pops it. He’s essentially honest and very forthright, but he’s never seemed to have any hankering for the big time.’ He shrugged lightly and slightly lop-sidedly. ‘A man that’s found his niche, I suppose. Maybe that’s worth more than most things.’

  Mike smiled slyly. If ever there was a man who’d done just that, then it was Bill Enfield. He’d reached sergeant and resisted all attempts to shift him. Liked the personal touch, did Bill, and had a memory that would probably rival the Chronicle's archive.

  ‘And his interest in the Ashmore case? At the time, I mean.’

  ‘Hmm. Same as the rest of us, I suppose. No, it was probably more than most; became as personally involved as Tynan. I remember for years after the case was dropped, the Chronicle ran updates and reminders on the anniversary. I know he was in contact with the Ashmores on several occasions, and I seem to remember that it was Andrews that persuaded Mrs Ashmore to make a public appeal about her daughter, both at the time and on the first anniversary.’ He paused. ‘Poor woman. She looked as though she’d had the life drained out of her. And the father, God, he just stood there, you could hardly get a word out of him. He just held it all in, trying to be strong for his wife I suppose.’

  ‘So, you think Andrews may have kept in touch with the Ashmores for quite some time after?’

  Bill nodded. ‘Something Tynan never felt he could do. When he knew the case was being officially put on hold — no more evidence you see — he was devastated. Felt he owed it to the Ashmores to tell them himself. I don’t imagine it went well. He never talked about it, but he didn’t, so far as I know, ever contact them again.’

  ‘How long after was that?’ Mike asked.

  Bill frowned for a moment, then speculated. ‘It must have been a good three years. John Tynan struggled to keep it active for as long as he could, but we were as under-resourced then as we are now. We simply didn’t have the manpower available.’

  They both fell silent after that, Bill remembering that other time, the other child; Mike letting his thoughts roam the breadth of information covered that day. So, if Andrews had kept in touch with the Ashmores, it might have been only a phone call’s worth of time to find out about Cassie Junor, now Cassie Maltham. But why would he have contacted the Ashmores about this? Some strange kind of honour, perhaps, that made him want to be the one to tell them, rather than let them hear it on the news or read the bald headlines in one of the national papers?

  Or had he known before of Cassie’s marriage and, today, simply heard her name and made the connection?

  Cassandra — Cassie — was not so common a name after all.

>   Perhaps, Mike thought irritably, he had known nothing for certain until Mike had, through his manner and the wayward answers to his questions, given him what he needed.

  He frowned angrily, then sighed, allowing some of the tension to ease from where it was lodged around his spine. They were entering the outskirts of Norwich now, the road widening and the suburban landscape taking over. He pulled into the outer yard of divisional HQ, called on the radio for the inner gates to be opened, and braced himself for the coming interview with Flint.

  Well, whatever the answers, the thing was done now and that additional factor had to be taken into account.

  Was Cassie Maltham guilty? If so, guilty of what?

  Chapter 8

  Croft made his way through the front office of divisional headquarters.

  ‘Evening, sir.’

  He acknowledged the duty sergeant, led Bill Enfield through the barrier and into the station office. Tynan had left them to return home. Croft was about to send Bill the same way, a break before the informal meeting the three had agreed on later to review, among other things, the circumstances of the Ashmore case. They had formed a tacit agreement that their private review should not yet, at least, become part of their official investigation and that Tynan’s involvement should be officially ignored as far as possible. Flint, Croft’s superior, was going to be far from pleased.

  He liked things neat and tidy, did Flint.

  Croft deposited Bill in the station office. Bill rarely came to divisional HQ, but he was well known to many of the officers there. He had cleared a desk of its scatter of papers and tea mugs, seated himself and was deep in conversation with the communications officer before Croft had even left the room.

  Mike smiled wryly, and steeled himself for his first encounter of the day with Superintendent Flint.

  Flint was, it appeared, more irascible than usual. He barely seemed to listen to Croft’s account of the day’s activities, barely give his subordinate time to finish before pushing a sheaf of papers across the desk to him.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Usual lists of crank callers, “witnesses” who were nowhere near at the time and, of course, enquiries from our local determined-to-report-the-truth hacks, who inform me that you’ve re-opened the Ashmore case.’

  ‘It was never actually closed, sir,’ Mike pointed out, as Flint paused for breath.

  ‘It was twenty years ago.’

  ‘And we can’t discount the possibility that the two might be connected. If I don’t consider that angle then you can bet your life someone else will.’

  ‘The press will have a field day.’

  ‘The press already are. Excuse me, sir, but the press have already picked up on it, and on the fact that Cassie Junor, as she was then, has been staying in the village.’ He paused, took a deep breath. ‘You’ll see tomorrow’s editions soon enough, no doubt, plastered with pictures of Mrs Maltham and the grieving mother, arm in arm.’ He broke off annoyed at the bitterness in his voice, aware that Flint had noted it.

  Flint was frowning. ‘The Maltham woman. Do you plan to charge her?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Mike, I’m not entirely insensitive. I do know what kind of emotions, understandable emotions, a case like this generates, but we have to tread carefully. The public wants quick results on something like this. Come to that, we all do.’ He paused again. ‘You really have grounds for seeing a connection?’

  Mike relaxed a little. ‘To be frank, I don’t know. Cassie Maltham has witnesses to the fact that she was elsewhere when the child disappeared. She could have an accomplice, of course, could have planned it . . .’

  ‘But you don’t believe that?’

  ‘If she did, she’s the coolest most callous bastard I’ve ever come across.’ He spoke quietly, remembering the events in the village hall.

  Flint nodded thoughtfully. Then sighed. ‘I don’t like the way you’re handling this, Mike. I want the connection played down.’ He looked meaningfully at Mike. ‘Talk to Tynan if you feel you have to, we don’t want him alienated.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Mike didn’t try to keep the cynicism out of his voice. ‘He might decide he was better served by speaking to someone else. The press, perhaps.’

  Flint looked sharply at him. ‘Quite,’ he said coldly.

  He nodded dismissal, made a show of studying the papers on his desk. Mike rose to go. Flint’s voice reached him as he put a hand on the door. ‘Play it by the book, Mike. We don’t try to be over clever in a case like this, do we?’

  Bill was waiting for him in the station office. Tea, too hot and too sweet, just the way Mike liked it, arrived on cue. He found a chair under the scatter of the day’s debris, sank down and closed his eyes. If you were going to be official about it, he had his own office, should be there drinking his tea, not here, showing his annoyance and exhaustion to the ‘lower ranks’. Flint would not approve, he smiled wryly, knowing that was why he did it.

  ‘Any news, sir?’

  He glanced around, and saw one of the new relief just coming on.

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’ He sighed. ‘Early days,’ he said with a weary half smile. Stock answer.

  The young PC smiled, recognizing it as such. Then said, ‘I’ve never been around something like this before, sir, it makes you feel kind of . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Got a sister lives out that way, she’s got kids.’ He looked anxiously at Mike. He nodded sympathetically, not certain what to say. Heard Bill Enfield’s voice rumble beside him.

  ‘Tell her what we’ve told all the parents. Keep a close eye on her kids until this is sorted.’

  Simple enough words, but the young man smiled as though they were divine in origin. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Croft waited for him to go, then laughed briefly, felt Bill’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Home,’ Bill said. ‘Grab something to eat, then I’ll meet you across at Tynan’s. You know the way?’

  ‘More or less.’ Croft swallowed the rest of his rapidly cooling tea, pushed himself to his feet and walked with Bill out to their waiting cars. It had seemed to him like a long day. How must it have felt to Sara Jane’s parents?

  Mike was the last to arrive at Tynan’s. He had not bothered to go ‘home’ — it seemed hardly worth the trip back to the empty flat. Instead, he’d driven out to the coast, to one of the tourist pubs selling food and basked in the anonymity of the place for a short time. The food had been reasonable, the bar had double doors that opened onto a seafront terrace, close enough to the water for him to be splashed with spray from an incoming tide.

  Carefully and deliberately, he had tried to put work out of his mind, succeeded for all of ten minutes, then given in and allowed his mind to wander from random detail to random detail, trying to see something he’d been too involved to perceive before.

  There was a television above the bar. Mike was relieved that he’d arrived in the evening gap between news programmes. He was too far away to hear the sound and left for Tynan’s long before the news could begin.

  Tynan’s cottage suited him, Mike decided. The door seemed to have sunk as though settling itself more firmly into the earth and the new distance had been made up by two steps, somewhat lopsided and cracked. Mike ducked instinctively as he was welcomed inside, was absurdly relieved to find himself in a hallway of more normal proportions.

  It had been Bill who had let him in. Through the open door at the end of the hall he could see Tynan, busy with teapot and mugs. He called out to Mike to make himself at home, Bill led him through a door to the left of the hallway and into the sitting room.

  Mike had the sudden impression of a room frozen in time, furnished with chairs, rugs, ornaments that had the look of long residence and were kept as much for sentiment as utility.

  He sat down, discovered belatedly that the chair was equipped with rockers and settled more uncertainly into its depths. Tynan appeared with the tea.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘to business.’

&nb
sp; Mike watched while he rummaged in the rather cavernous interior of a tall cupboard set against the fireplace wall. It loomed far too big for the small room and it crossed Mike’s mind to wonder how on earth they had got it inside.

  Then he looked with more interest as Tynan emerged laden down with what appeared to be files and cuttings’ books.

  ‘What on earth!’

  Tynan grinned at him. ‘Everything I’ve got on the Ashmore case. Others too with a similar M.O. All unsolved.’

  Mike looked dubious. ‘John, I don’t mean to put you off but we’ve enough with the cases we’re working on.’

  Tynan deposited the load on the floor, waved Mike’s objections aside. ‘I know that. No, I’ll sort out the stuff that might be relevant.’ He shook his head. ‘But truly, Mike. You’ve no idea just how many kids have gone missing, just from this area alone. It makes you think.’

  Mike said nothing. He’d served his probationary year and the two following in London. His ground had covered the King’s Cross area. You learnt to pick them out a mile off, the newcomers, there on the off-chance that there was something better. No. He wasn’t surprised. He doubted really that Tynan was either.

  ‘But this is different,’ he said. ‘So far as we know, neither Suzie Ashmore nor Sara Jane Cassidy had either reason or opportunity to up and leave.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Tynan shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘You know how it is, though. You hear of one case. It leads on to others—’

  ‘And before you know it you’re convinced of a conspiracy to steal the world’s children,’ Bill put in, his tone more caustic than was usual for him. He apologized at once. ‘I’m sorry, John. I guess it’s just getting to me.’

  Tynan nodded, began to sort through his files. ‘Pour the tea will you. Now, let’s see.’

  Mike watched as he rummaged, casting this file aside, keeping that. Finally he shifted the tea tray over, then deposited a somewhat shrunken but still substantial pile of documents on the table.