Luck and Judgement Page 10

  Smith said, ‘OK, Lucy. Does anyone else know that Jimmy has gone? Your brother, David, I suppose – you’ve told him?’

  Yes, she had rung him this weekend and told him.

  ‘I’ll need David’s details, Lucy. As a family member, I need to speak to him. So it’s David…?’

  ‘Carter.’

  ‘And that was your maiden name?’

  Yes, and everything was being written down in the same small, unhurried handwriting into the same little black book, as she watched and wondered what it all meant, just as Smith intended. David’s address and telephone number went the same way.

  ‘So you spent the weekend with David?’

  ‘At David’s. He wasn’t there on Saturday evening.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Smith didn’t have to say more than that – she understood what was expected now.

  ‘He was at one of his competitions, in Market Deeping.’

  ‘What does David compete in?’

  ‘No, it would have been some of his pupils. He’s a martial arts instructor.’

  Smith smiled at Waters.

  ‘We’ll have to watch our step when we speak to David, DC Waters.’

  Then she said, ‘And I phoned Jimmy’s father, up in Newcastle. Just to see if he had heard anything.’

  Name, telephone number, and was Jimmy regularly in touch with his father? No, was the unsurprising answer.

  ‘And is there anything else you want to tell us, Lucy, before we take a look at Jimmy’s things?’

  Again, the intent look, unexpected after he had seemed so friendly for the past few minutes, and the long, uncomfortable wait until she finally had to say ‘No’ before she took them into the room that the two of them shared, and then to the end of that room, to Jimmy’s wardrobe, Jimmy’s chest of drawers, Jimmy’s desk.

  She had watched them from the doorway for a moment and then she had gone back into the lounge or the kitchen. Smith pointed to the laptop on the table – Waters turned it on and waited. There was a password request, and Waters tried ‘password’; now a line of red writing appeared under the box, writing that Smith did not need to read.

  He said, ‘Leave it for now. She might know it, it’s time we got lucky on this one. Could we break into it, if we had to – just as a matter of interest?’

  Waters nodded and said, ‘It’s a few years old. If the software is no more sophisticated than this, someone at Norwich could.’

  The chest of drawers had the top set divided into two – the little drawers in which the detritus of our lives accumulates. Jimmy Bell, however, seemed less prone to this than most; Smith found some old pay slips, and bills from a previous address which he noted down, just in case. A set of keys that looked old and little used, and then it struck him that no car had been mentioned – perhaps times for them had been so hard these last two years that they didn’t own one. Not many of the residents of The Towers did, come to think of it. Some betting slips with recent dates. He knew the place in the town centre, knew one of the assistant managers, so that might come in useful. An income tax return meant that he could use that to trace and double-check past addresses, assuming that Jimmy kept the Revenue up-to-date with his affairs – only fifty fifty on that one, he thought. A birthday card from his daughter, a squiggle and a cross that her mother must have helped to make. A chequebook, the last completed stub being for a gas bill some months ago, a couple torn out since but nothing on the stubs – make a note of the sort code and account number, even though the bank’s address was the one that Serena Butler had found. Smith stopped his fingers working through the drawers for a moment and thought; at home he had files and folders labelled, their contents arranged in date order front to back. If he wanted to know what his council tax had been three years ago – and he often did, of course – finding out was a matter of seconds. The same was true for every utility bill. But Jimmy Bell, and other people like him, did not live in that way. Jimmy Bell lives in the moment – he does not need to record his past or to plan for his future, which is fine when you are young and single but not so much when you are well into your thirties with dependants.

  Smith stared down into the drawer again. It’s more than that, though. Two years he has lived here, yet there is virtually nothing for us to work with. This man does not put down roots, he barely leaves footprints… His hands began their work again, in the next drawer down. Beneath some underwear he found the iPhone box and wrote down the number and various other sequences of letters and numbers; he had no idea what they all meant but you never can tell what will be important until it is. Then he studied the underwear itself. Some of it was new, unused, and he didn’t recognize the labels – he guessed that it didn’t come mostly from supermarkets like his own. A trendy young man about town might know.

  ‘What do you make of these?’, holding them up.

  ‘Not your colour, if I may say so, sir.’

  ‘Idiot. Expensive? Fashionable?’

  Waters came over and looked at the label inside.

  ‘Both, and very.’

  ‘Not been worn yet, I’d say, not that I want to examine them microscopically to establish that fact…’

  ‘There are some good clothes here as well.’

  Waters was systematically going through the pockets of the jackets, coats and trousers in the wardrobe; everything in here seemed to belong to Mr Bell, and if Mrs Bell had any nice things of her own, they must be stored elsewhere.

  ‘And have you found anything in these good clothes?’

  ‘Just this, so far.’

  Waters reached a plastic-gloved hand into his own pocket and took out two condom packets, still sealed. Smith made his well-I’m-slightly-surprised face – or perhaps it was his I’m-glad-it-was-you-not-me face.

  ‘I wonder what happened to number three, and when.’

  ‘Perhaps Mrs Bell might know.’

  ‘Tucked away in the pocket of one of those rather smart jackets, even though they’re not my colours either? Funny place to keep them if they were for marital purposes. Still, if you fancy asking her the question…’

  Waters was convinced enough by Smith’s speculation to shake his head at the invitation.

  Smith said, ‘Which jacket were they in?’

  He felt through the pockets himself and then withdrew his hands.

  ‘Check it again.’

  Waters did and found nothing more.

  ‘Inside the right breast pocket – there’s another little slit pocket inside it.’

  Waters tried again and withdrew whatever it was that Smith had felt. It lay on his palm – a rectangular card, business-sized, all black, coated in a soft matt material that gave it the texture of velour. One side was completely blank; the other had one word in an elaborate, satin-pink script, ‘Velvet’, followed by the letters ‘MSC’.

  ‘Any ideas?’

  Waters examined it minutely but could make nothing more of it.

  He said, ‘It’s a very fancy card. Want me to Google it?’

  ‘Go ahead – not that I’ve been able to stop you doing it anyway, so far.’

  Waters worked on his phone while Smith held the card up to the light at different angles.

  ‘Tell you what, though – if she’s an escort, she’s very well qualified.’

  Waters ran a fingertip across the screen, first vertically and then horizontally.

  ‘Nothing here that would connect to Jimmy Bell that I can see. I could do a more thorough search in the office.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll hang onto it. Put the two rubbery things back for now. I’m going to ask her if she’ll let us take the laptop. There’s sod all else unless we count expensive undies. Rather disappointing.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll mind if I use the bathroom?’

  ‘No idea. But always check the bathroom cabinet, if you get the chance.’

  ‘Yes, it’s ‘Lucy, the funny sign that means ‘and’, followed by ‘Leah’ with capitals on the names.’

  Smith wrote it down w
ith a sinking feeling that another possible source of information had just shrivelled up. She had told him that they both used the laptop at different times, and that they hadn’t had the internet for some months, since the dial-up costs had increased their phone bill so much.

  Then she said, ‘You can tell your friend not to worry about leaving things tidy – I can do that in five minutes.’

  ‘No, I think he’s-’

  Waters entered the room. She must have realized then where he had been – a shadow passed over her face. She didn’t know whether to say something or not, Smith could see that, and so he waited; three, four, five seconds and nothing came.

  Smith said, ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs Bell. We’ve got four people looking for Jimmy. If we hear of anything at all, we’ll let you know, and if you could do the same…’

  Yes, she would of course, still glancing uncertainly at Waters. Smith too looked at the young man, a look that said, do you want to mention it now, whatever it is? The reply seemed to be, I don’t think so, and Smith headed for the front door.

  They stood just past the first corner, out of the wind that was driving down the walkway in front of the Bells’ flat – at this rate, Mr Fleming wouldn’t be outside for another week at least. The first picture showed a large, boot-shaped hole in the side panel of a bath, the second, a bathroom cabinet slightly awry, its mirror doors both shattered, and the third, two tiles low down that had been cracked by the pipe in front of them being driven forcefully back into the wall. The grout between them was stained brown.

  Smith looked up at Waters and said, ‘Did you have some sort of accident? I don’t think your federation insurance will cover this.’

  ‘I’d say it’s recent. The rest of the flat is tidy – Mrs Bell is house-proud, isn’t she?’

  Smith was able to enlarge the picture of the tiles, thanks to Mr Rampton. He studied it closely.

  Waters said, ‘Should I have said something there and then? I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘No, this is good, gives us time to think. I’ve had my think. What about you? What should our next move be?’

  Waters thought, and the wind somehow curled around the corner and into their faces.

  ‘As we’re here, we might as well go back in and ask her about it.’

  ‘Agreed. It also helps my petrol bill. I should claim a lot more than I do, you know,’ and he was already halfway back towards number 518. Before he knocked, Smith said, ‘You found it, you take the lead, alright?’

  Chapter Eight

  He did well – polite, calm and firm – but Smith knew that the woman was half-expecting them to come back; he doubted whether she had even sat down since they left a few minutes ago. The story that she told Waters seemed to ring true. When she arrived back on Monday morning, the damage to the bathroom had been done at some time over the weekend. It was Jimmy, of course, and not for the first time, though it hadn’t happened for a while. When he drank too much, the old anger appeared but now he took it out on things, which was better.

  Waters said, ‘Mrs Bell – what does he get angry about?’

  The naivete of the question surprised her and brought her closer to tears than anything Smith had said earlier.

  ‘It’s not us. I don’t really know, and I should but… He’s always had a temper, since he was young. His dad told me. And he has mood swings. Drinking is the worst thing he can do but whenever things get difficult, that’s what he does.’

  ‘How have things got difficult lately?’

  Another good question, letting what she was telling him guide the interview. She wasn’t really sure again, and Smith thought, you’re lost, aren’t you? I’m willing to bet that Jimmy Bell has a life outside this flat that you know nothing about. It wasn’t money, she continued, that had begun to improve already, since he went onto the platform. But he had been on edge a few times.

  ‘And he didn’t tell you why?’

  ‘No.’

  Smith said, ‘Mrs Bell, Lucy, while you are chatting to DC Waters, I’m going to take a look at the bathroom for myself, if that’s OK?’

  The question was asked only out of politeness – he was already leaving the room.

  Like the rest of the flat, the bathroom was somehow both larger than one had expected but still on the small side; also, like the rest of the flat, it was clean and had been recently decorated. Smith looked closely at the damage Waters had photographed, and then he began a minute examination of the rest of the room. Low down, close to the cracked tiles, he could smell disinfectant or bleach – there was a bathmat that was still damp. He ran a finger along the floor covering and came away with very little, so the room had been recently cleaned. But those brownish stains behind the slightly kinked pipe looked familiar to him, and when he got onto all fours and peered up behind the sink, he could see two or three similarly coloured spots where no casual wipe-over would have reached them.

  The other three walls of the bathroom were plaster finished. In the wall closest to the tiled area, looking from an acute sideways angle, he could see three indentations between shoulder and head height; this area had probably not been cleaned as thoroughly because adhering to one of them were at least two short, light-brown hairs. With his face inches from one of the dents – taking care not to disturb the hairs on the other – he felt the edge of it with a fingertip. A tiny flake of emulsion fell away – this was recent damage.

  Finally, he went back to the door and looked at the frame, the catch, the bolt retainer and the handle. The door itself was of the cheapest type, mass-produced and foam-filled but it bore no marks at all. With his back to the door, he scanned the room again, leaving his mind open to anything that he might have missed – and then he had a decision to make. Leave what he had found in place, where it would be of the greatest value if he could organize a proper examination of the room, or remove something now in case someone decided to clean it more thoroughly once they understood what he intended to do.

  He returned to the lounge.

  ‘Lucy, can you describe what the bathroom looked like when you first saw it on Monday morning – just an hour or two over a week ago now, isn’t it?’

  There was a point to that – if a week is a long time in politics, it’s an eternity when someone has gone missing from your life.

  She said, ‘I could see that he had cleaned it up but only as well as men do. I think he must have got up on Sunday, realized what he’d done and tried to fix it. He’s always sorry.’

  ‘You said “only as well as men do”. So you cleaned it up yourself, did a better job?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Was there very much blood?’

  He felt Waters glance at him.

  She said, ‘A few spots on the floor and the tiles. He must have cut himself on the mirror when it broke…’

  ‘You said he’s always sorry. Did he leave a note saying that, apologizing for what he’d done?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And would you have expected him to do that, normally?’

  She didn’t answer immediately, and Smith fought down a flutter of impatience – suddenly he had a lot to do today.

  ‘I did look. He did sometimes leave a note or something if he’d been stupid or careless.’

  Her look told him that she had some understanding of what his questions might mean.

  ‘What do you th-’

  ‘Lucy, I want some other officers to look at the bathroom. It’s your only loo, so you and Leah will need to go in there but don’t touch anything else, not a thing, don’t use the sink and don’t for goodness’ sake clean it up because you’re expecting visitors. I’ll get it done as quickly as I can but I can’t say when it will be. OK?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Also, I’d like you to find for us a recent picture of Jimmy, one that we can show people. Do you have anything like that?’

  She went to the coffee table by the television and brought back a head and shoulders picture of Jimmy Bell and Leah, the little girl smiling i
nto the camera and the man smiling at his daughter. He could sense her doubts about the photograph.

  ‘Good, that’s fine. DC Waters will borrow this and we can use just Jimmy’s face from it, we won’t need to show the whole thing. Finally, and I’m sorry if this seems intrusive, Lucy, but I’d like you to open the door to Leah’s room so that I can just have a quick look inside.’

  When that was done, and they were about to leave the flat again, Lucy Bell spoke what must have been on her mind since Smith had questioned her closely about the bathroom.

  She said, ‘You think something’s happened to him, don’t you?’

  Smith looked at Waters, and the latter was grateful that the look did not mean would you like to take this one?

  ‘Yes, I do. But I don’t know what and I don’t know where, yet. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry as well because there’s something else that I should have told you.’

  She crossed to the sofa and picked up a handbag. From it she took out an envelope and handed it to Smith.

  ‘He gave this to me on Friday. I bought Leah some clothes in Wetton on Saturday afternoon but the rest of it is all there. If you think it’s important…’

  Smith ran a thumb over the edges of the notes, most of which were crisp, white, brand new twenties. The best part of a thousand pounds.

  Late that afternoon, Smith sat at his desk. This investigation resembled a plate of spaghetti – here and there he could see an end but it was impossible to say whether this end here might be connected to that end there. He picked up the first of the squares of scrap paper that he had prepared a few minutes ago and wrote on it the name of a single piece of the spaghetti – ‘Samsung phone’. The next was ‘missing iPhone’, then ‘CCTV footage’ and so on more or less at random until he had more than twenty pieces of paper in front of him. On the last one, he wrote ‘SOCO Tuesday am’. He spent some time after that grouping them in different ways – spatially, everything to do with platform Elizabeth, for example, everything to do with the flat, and then chronologically, beginning with ‘At home Saturday 10.30’ and ending with ’01.17 Wednesday morning’, the time-stamp on the CCTV footage. Sometimes he would stare at the results for a minute or two, and then he would move things around again; when he did this, it was never like in the films or on the television, there was never the Eureka moment. What he was looking for was the thing that would make him think, that’s odd, or, why would somebody…? From that, sometimes, a thought would grow into an idea.