Tania Carver - Choked

‘Run me through it again. What happened.’

He sighed in exasperation. ‘Do I need to do this? I just wanted to see how the woman was.’

‘She’s fine. Thanks to you. So. You were walking down the gravel path at the side of the cottage … ’

‘Yes. And then the explosion happened.’ He stopped talking, put his head back.

She looked at his eyes, tried to see what he was seeing. Tried to ensure that what he was seeing was what had actually happened. Not that she didn’t trust him personally; it was just a habit she had developed. She didn’t trust any witness until their testimony had been independently corroborated.

‘Which direction were you walking in?’

‘The … seafront.’

‘And where had you been?’

‘I’d been towards the Maltings. For a walk. Stretching my legs.’

‘Are you local?’

‘I live … ’ He stopped, looked at her. Face reddening around his grazes. ‘Am I a suspect here? What’s going on?’

‘Just standard questions, Mr Milton. Wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t ask them. Are you local?’

‘Sort of. I have a weekend home here. I live in London the rest of the time.’

‘And are you married?’

‘Are you asking me out on a date, Detective Sergeant?’

It was Jessie’s turn to redden. She felt his eyes on her. Dark, penetrating. ‘Just wondering if you were here alone.’ Her throat suddenly dry. ‘That’s all.’

‘Right.’ He nodded. ‘No. I’m here with … friends. Work colleagues, mainly. For the music. But it can get a little too much. I needed some time on my own, so I went for a walk.’

‘Right.’ Her turn to nod. In those few words, she saw his life. Weekends in Suffolk, summers in France or Italy, probably. Nights out at the theatre. Not the kind of man she would usually meet. Not many of them in Tiger Tiger in Ipswich.

‘And as you walked past the cottage, the explosion went off.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And then what?’

‘Well … I was thrown to the ground. There was a … mighty wind, a huge noise, and the heat … ’ He trailed off. Jessie waited. ‘Then I … pulled myself up, opened my eyes. I thought I was dead. That was my first thought. I thought I was dead.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘No. I got to my feet, checking to see if I was OK. And then this woman came running towards me.’

‘Towards you?’

‘Well, towards the cottage. There were flames coming out of the window by now. Black smoke. And it looked like she was trying to get in there.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I … stopped her.’

‘By pushing her to the ground?’

‘Pulling her, really. She fought.’ He mimed the action with his hands. ‘Wanted to get in there. Badly. But I couldn’t let her, obviously. So I … I held her. Until she … until she stopped screaming.’

Jessie nodded. Looked at Milton again. His head was lowered, eyes hooded. Reliving the moment, she presumed.

‘Did you see anyone else in the area?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Anyone near the cottage at the time of the explosion? Apart from the woman you mentioned.’

Stuart Milton frowned, thinking. Eventually he shook his head. ‘No … can’t recall … ’

‘A young girl? About three years old?’

‘No. Is there a girl missing?’

‘We don’t know.’ Jessica thought she’d got everything she would be able to get from him. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Milton, I—’

‘There was something else.’ Stuart Milton was chewing his thumb, worrying away at a tiny nub of skin. His face contorted, as if fighting against the words that wanted to come out.

Jessie waited.

‘She … ’ He sighed. Pulled the skin away from his thumb. Looked at Jessie. ‘When I caught hold of her, she said something.’

‘What?’

He looked down at his thumb once more. A pinprick of blood had appeared where he had bitten it. He sucked on it, hard. ‘Something like … ’ He looked up. ‘“I’ve got to get back in there. What have I done?” … ’ He nodded. ‘Yes. “What have I done?” Something like that.’

Jessie’s mouth was open, ready to make him elaborate, when there was a sharp rap on the window. She looked up. Mickey Philips was standing there, gesturing to her. Urgently.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, and got out of the car, closing the door behind her. Milton’s eyes followed her.

She stood opposite Mickey, waited for him to speak. His face looked drawn, his features tense.

‘I’ve just had a call,’ he said. ‘From a colleague at Ipswich General.’

‘What’s happened?’ The look on his face told her it wasn’t good news. His boss had died? His boss’s mother? Both of them? What a day this was turning out to be.

‘It’s Marina,’ he said. ‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone? What d’you mean?’

‘Taken off. Run away.’

Jessie let out a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. ‘Thank God. I thought you meant she’d died.’ She frowned. ‘What happened?’

‘She told my colleague she was off to the loo, nipped outside and was away. With my colleague’s car.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘Nope.’

Jessie walked away from the car, arms folded round herself. She looked out to sea. The sun made the day feel like summer. The kind of day where you just wanted to relax and have fun. Pretend there was nothing wrong in the world.

She turned back to Mickey.

‘The witness in the car says she was trying to get back into the cottage. And she said something. “What have I done?”’

Mickey frowned. ‘What?’

‘Sounds like she was blaming herself. D’you think she might be on her way back here? Trying to look for her daughter?’

He shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible. I’ll look into it.’

‘OK. I’ll get the team to keep checking for the daughter. Get the uniforms combing the area. See if anyone’s seen anything. We’ll keep an eye out for the mother, too. Get the reg of the car she’s taken sent to me.’

‘Will do.’

‘Keep in touch.’

Their eyes locked. For longer than she had intended. Then she broke contact, and he nodded, turned, walked away.

Jessie watched him go. She knew a good bloke when she saw one. She turned back to her car to tell Stuart Milton he was free to leave. But the back door was open and he was already gone.

Southend-on-Sea hadn’t just seen better days. It had stood at the platform and waved them off, knowing they would never return.

At one time it had been a respectable enough holiday destination for London’s post-war East End families enjoying the novelty of a train ride out to the end of the Thames estuary. The longest pier in the world, fishing for Dad, shopping for Mum, cafés to park the grandparents and a fairground and penny arcades for the kiddies. All knotted handkerchiefs and rolled-up trouser legs, deckchairs and donkeys, sand in the ice cream and stones on the beach.

But nobody came to Southend for a holiday any more. People only went there when they had nowhere else to go.

The pier was still there, stretching out towards a handful of dying souvenir shops at the far end, and beyond that a vista of Canvey Island and beyond that the oil refinery at Shellhaven. The shops were slightly shabbier versions of those found in any generic British high street. The seafront amusements were lit in a way that seemed simultaneously overly bright and depressing. The electronic bleeps and repetitive jingles bleated out like some demented, amphetamine-fuelled Stockhausen symphony. Inside, dead-eyed, white-skinned arcade zombies gave their days and nights over to target practice, racking up high scores as video killers, while in the neon-thrown shadows, feral-featured predators lurked to trap the unwary and the curious.