Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

He took an age to open the door, making me think that rather than bother a sick man, the sooner I could talk to someone else involved with the police case the better. At least I hoped so. Police officers come in all shapes and sizes, from the nit-picking and officious to the generous and cooperative. Some resent private investigators; others hope to make a second career in that line. Luck of the draw.

Sinclair didn’t offer me tea this time, just a seat. I looked out to where the sun was blazing over the moorland, washing the shreds of cloud with vermillion and cherry and for a split second wondered about somewhere like this for Maddie and me if we had to move, then dismissed it instantly as a passing folly. Neither of us would cope with the isolation, the distance from facilities, the need to make an effort with all the locals. Maddie would miss school and all her friends. And I’d miss mine. Working would be harder as most of my jobs are in the city; I’d spend half my life in the car.

I laid out my thoughts to Geoff Sinclair: ‘If we accept that Damien told me the truth, as far as he could remember, then it suggests that Charlie was attacked soon after he reached the cottage, and shortly before Damien found him. The lights were off and the door unlocked. And Charlie’s car was still warm when Damien came out of the cottage.’

Sinclair frowned at that.

‘Damien felt ill,’ I elaborated. ‘He went to steady himself on the car. The metal was hot.’

Sinclair shrugged. ‘A shock like that, the nausea, makes you sweat, that’s all.’

‘But he didn’t just feel it, he heard it, too: the clicking of the bodywork cooling. It only came back to him when we talked. And it is such a specific, bizarre detail I’m certain it’s a genuine memory. That time of year, it would take, what, ten minutes to cool off? Did you have an estimate for the time of death?’

He made a sound, an exasperated snort. ‘I really don’t think it’s my place-’

‘Please, if you can still remember?’ It was a challenge of sorts as well as a plea. I reckoned he would pride himself on knowing the details of his last case. Probably older ones, too. He struck me as a conscientious man.

He was quiet for a moment, then: ‘The pathologist estimated that Charlie died sometime in the four hours preceding discovery by Libby Hill at six, though time of death is only ever an approximation. We had the last sighting from Heather Carter and Valerie Mayhew at four fifteen. It would take a further fifteen to twenty minutes to reach the cottage depending on the traffic. So that gave us a time frame of an hour and a half, between four thirty and six.’

‘Damien got there at four forty. He just missed the killer.’

‘Or he was the killer,’ Sinclair said. Wasn’t he convinced by Damien’s last words?

‘You don’t believe the suicide note?’

He shrugged and gave me a baleful look.

‘Damien passed two parked cars going up the hill to the cottage,’ I persisted. ‘He passed a man who was coming down, then he heard an engine start soon after. One of the cars, a Volvo, belongs to a resident. The other was a Mondeo; no one in the street owns one.’

There was a subtle shift in Sinclair’s expression, a flare of interest in his bright blue eyes. Hard to read. Did he think I was on to something? ‘I think the man Damien passed got in that car and drove away,’ I said. ‘There aren’t any houses further up; there are no paths or tourist attractions. Where had he been? I think that was the killer and it could have been Nick Dryden. What about CCTV?’ I said. ‘The cameras at the service station on the main road, those might show Charlie’s car, if anyone was following him, or anyone driving away from the village around then.’

‘Wasn’t working,’ he said flatly.

‘What?!’

‘Broken. The one that covers the shop was the only one working. We didn’t get anything from it.’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ The one thing that might have given credence to my theories and it didn’t exist.

‘Did you speak to Nick Dryden?’ Sinclair asked me.

‘Not yet.’ I recalled the silent call, the threat of it. ‘Last summer he was wanted for fraud by the Spanish authorities. He disappeared. He’s still on the run. He could be back here. Heather says he continued to make abusive calls. But there haven’t been any since Charlie’s death.’

‘Maybe the man has a shred of decency. Look, you’re pointing the finger at Nick Dryden. Last time you thought it could have been road rage,’ Sinclair pointed out. Another of my wild speculations that had gone belly up. ‘But Damien Beswick is still the best fit for the evidence.’

Resentment burst inside me: I was tired and getting hungry and I still had to drive home and sit up half the night with an abandoned baby and find out if I still had a lover. And Sinclair thought I was useless.

‘You don’t seem very interested in finding out who did kill Charlie Carter,’ I said sharply, ‘or are you clinging to the original conviction?’

His round eyes glittered with anger and when he spoke his words were tight. ‘You know nothing about me but I’ll tell you this: Damien Beswick was dealt with above board and by the book. He confessed to a crime and all the evidence we recovered supported that confession. If justice has not been done, he bears the responsibility. No one else.’ His gaunt face trembled as he finished.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t intend to offend you but that lad deserves to have his name cleared and the real killer should be found and tried. I’m not making things up, I’m just trying to find an explanation for new evidence. I need to pass this information on to the police; someone has to take it seriously.’

There was a pause. ‘I’ll make a couple of calls,’ he said. ‘Get you a name.’

‘Thanks.’

Our parting was stiff, still taut with anger on both sides. I understood it must have been hard for him, seeing the case he’d worked so hard on crumble, have me spouting my pet theories. It would be hard for the other officers and those who would review their work. A job well done gone rancid.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ray said. ‘I couldn’t talk; I was still trying to take it in. Still am.’

‘Did you tell your mother?’

‘God, no!’

Small mercy. We were in the kitchen, the favoured venue for most of our family crises. The table was between us. It was getting late.

‘So what did Laura say?’ I felt shivery, raw, drained.

‘She doesn’t want me involved.’ He was stung, his face drawn. ‘She doesn’t want my help or any maintenance, nothing.’

Some men might be relieved. But Ray? ‘What do you want?’ I asked quietly.

He clenched his jaw, swallowed. I looked down and saw him press his fingertips hard against the surface of the table, his nails whitening. ‘I want to know him,’ he said. ‘I want Tom to know him.’

‘Did you tell her that?’

Outside a fierce wind had blown in from the west, buffeting the trees and roaring down our chimneys.

‘She’s not interested.’

‘Maybe in time-’

‘I’m not even on the birth certificate.’ He spoke quickly.

I tried to imagine their discussion. Recalled Laura as self-contained, quiet; biding her time. Amenable but no pushover. ‘Was she angry, or upset?’

‘Not particularly,’ he said dismissively.

‘Or not showing it? She might be doing this to punish you. You dropped out of her life just as she finds she’s having your baby. You dropped her like a stone, Ray.’

He glowered at me, his lips pressed tight together.

‘All I’m saying,’ I went on, ‘is that she must be hurt. It’s natural she never wants to see you again. You had been happy together,’ I reminded him, though it made my throat ache.