Stephen Booth - The kill call

‘That’s funny, because so am I.’

‘You don’t know where he is?’

‘He should be here. But I guess…’

‘You know who we are,’ said Fry, after identification had been shown. ‘Now explain to us who exactly you are.’

Fry was genuinely curious to know. She didn’t think Pauline Outram looked much like a secret mistress. Not even the right age, really. A fifty-one-year-old man going through a mid-life crisis was likely to go for someone about half his age. Or so she’d heard. But Pauline must be in her late thirties, and there was nothing sexy or glamorous about her. Nothing about Pauline Outram suggested she’d come here to meet a lover.

But the question didn’t seem easy for Pauline to answer. She looked from one detective to the other, struggling for words.

‘We won’t be shocked,’ said Fry. ‘You can tell us the truth. We only want to locate Mr Clay. It doesn’t matter what your relationship was, as long as it helps us to find him.’

And then it dawned on Pauline what Fry was suggesting.

‘Oh no, you’ve got it wrong,’ she said, shaking her head, that nervous half-laugh setting Fry’s nerves on edge.

‘Are you not having an affair with Michael Clay?’

‘No, no. You don’t understand. I’m not his lover. That’s not why he leased this house for me.’

‘Who are you, then?’

Pauline Outram looked her in the eye, her face calm and serious for the first time. And it was only then that Fry saw the faint family resemblance to Michael Clay.

‘I’m Michael’s niece. His brother Stuart’s daughter.’

Back at the office half an hour later, Cooper went to his PC and Googled the motto on the badge he’d found in Eden View. Forewarned is forearmed. It was a common enough phrase, an old adage that he must have heard his parents use time and again.

Google presented several sources for definitions. ‘ Praemonitus, praemunitus. Knowledge of imminent danger can prepare us to overcome it.’ There was even a link to George W. Bush using the phrase in a speech about Iran. Corporate intelligence, cancer research, travel tips on avoiding pickpockets… Not much use.

Cooper clicked through three or four pages of links without success, and was about to give up looking when he saw a different reference. It was a book title, advertised by a seller on ABE, the second-hand book dealers’ site. He clicked on the link and found himself reading a description of the book being offered. A history of the Royal Observer Corps, evidently some branch of the British armed forces. Could that be right?

A fresh search and a few more clicks found a picture of the ROC logo. The figure on the badge was apparently based on an Elizabethan beacon lighter, who used to watch the coast and warn of approaching Spanish ships. And, yes, that was the Corps motto: Forewarned is forearmed.

So there had been a Royal Observer Corps cap badge in Michael Clay’s briefcase, along with the tie and the photograph. Had Clay served in the ROC? And what about the identical badge in Pauline Outram’s jewellery box? Sentimental value, presumably. A former boyfriend? Or had there been women in the ROC? Did it still exist, in fact? Too many questions. But Cooper had an idea there was someone he could ask, who might know those things.

There was obviously more of a local connection to be explored in this case than at first appeared. Patrick Rawson might be Birmingham Irish, but it was only thanks to Pauline Outram that they’d discovered Michael Clay’s origins.

Cooper had almost smiled as Fry had confronted Pauline in that rented house and discovered a fact that might have taken another twenty-four hours for them to turn up.

‘My name is Outram because my mother never got married,’ Pauline had said. ‘Not to Stuart Clay, or anyone else. She died when I was very young.’

‘And you’re from a local family?’ Fry asked, trying to piece together an entirely new angle.

‘Yes.’

‘So how did your mother meet Stuart Clay?’

‘They were neighbours.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ said Pauline. ‘The Clays are from Birchlow originally. But they moved away from the area, and it was only recently I was able to get in touch. Michael didn’t even know of my existence. I was brought up in the name of my adopted parents, and changed it back to Outram when I came of age.’

Remembering it, Cooper really did smile. He felt sure that Fry wasn’t going to like all this.

Fry studied Erin Lacey with a critical eye. They were sitting in the DI’s office, Mrs Lacey being regarded as the distressed relative of a missing person, even if she had been unnecessarily evasive about her father’s movements earlier in the week.

‘Yes, I’m aware of the existence of Pauline Outram,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met her, and I don’t want to. I didn’t realize Dad had gone so far as to provide her with a house.’

‘It’s only leased,’ said Fry.

‘Well, that hardly makes it any better. She has no right to financial support from Dad.’

DI Hitchens straightened his tie, a signal that he wanted to come in on the money issue. That was his thing, financial problems. The word was like a bell to one of Pavlov’s dogs.

‘Is there a problem with money, Mrs Lacey?’ said Hitchens.

‘No. But… well, it’s our inheritance he’s squandering on her. Mine, and my children’s.’

‘I see. You’re worried that your father has been diverting too much money to help Miss Outram.’

‘Far too much. She’s not worth a tenth of it.’

Fry shifted in her chair to get a better view of Erin Lacey’s eyes. She was sitting to one side, so that she could observe her profile and her posture, the little nervous mannerisms that could be such a giveaway. But the eyes were often just as revealing.

‘You say you’ve never met Pauline Outram, yet you seem to have a strong degree of animosity towards her,’ she said.

‘From what I’ve heard, she’s wasted her life. She’s, what… in her late thirties? Dad says she’s never married, never had any children, and never been able to hold down a proper job. I dread to think how she’s been spending her life until now. She was brought up in foster homes, you know.’

Fry instantly felt her attitude to Erin Lacey freezing. In her heart was an iciness deeper than the Arctic Ocean. Professionalism and training barely held her back.

‘That doesn’t’, she said, ‘make her a worthless person.’

In other circumstances, she would have had taken Lacey apart verbally, lain her own history in front of the woman and confronted her with her own prejudices. But that wasn’t what she was here for. Right now, she had to suppress her own feelings, try not to alienate an important witness too much. She felt Hitchens watching her, and tried not to meet his eye.

‘She’s had relationships with all kinds of men,’ said Lacey. ‘And none of them has ever hung around very long. That has to tell you something, doesn’t it?’

Something about the lack of commitment from men, perhaps, thought Fry. But she held her tongue and didn’t say it.

‘Anyway, I don’t think she was a fit person for Dad to be spending money on. She’s not really a member of the family. She was illegitimate.’

‘Do you know what happened to her mother?’ asked Hitchens.

‘I heard that she killed herself.’

‘That’s correct. According to Pauline Outram, she drowned herself in Birch Reservoir. Pauline was only a few months old at the time.’

‘That’s hardly my fault. It doesn’t justify Pauline Outram selling some sob-story to my father when she found out that we had money and she didn’t.’

‘But Miss Outram told us that her father and yours were very close,’ said Fry.