Five
As Robyn bundled into the station with Mitz in tow, she spotted one of Shearer’s men ahead of them, dragging a chair down the corridor, and sighed. There’d be little peace in her office for the next few days or weeks, or however long it took to find somewhere to house Tom and his team. She hoped her patience would hold out.
The anemones displayed elegantly in a red, plastic-lined box on her desk served to remind her of why she was feeling less than her usual feisty self. She ought to be pleased that someone was showering her with affection and generous gestures but her heart ached and her mind was in turmoil. She hadn’t the foggiest who’d sent them. There was one possibility, but she didn’t dare consider it. In spite of her efforts, she was overwhelmed by a memory that refused to be quashed, of her and Davies’s last Valentine’s Day together…
The house is in darkness when she returns from her shift. She’s had a tough few days and today has been no different. She’s struggling to find sufficient evidence linking a pair of suspects to a burglary. She’s had to admit failure and now the case will go in front of a jury. She slots her key into the lock, heart heavy and with an ache in between her shoulders. As she opens the door, she’s met by silence. She shouts Davies’s name but there’s no reply. She drops her bag, along with her keys, onto the table, slips off her shoes and pads towards the sitting room, wondering if he’s been called away at the last minute.
She pushes open the door and is met with a sight that makes her mouth drop open. Before her, dressed in a toga and sandals, is Davies. He bows to her then lifts a child’s plastic recorder to his lips and plays a terrible rendition of the theme tune to Love Story. She can’t stop the grin spreading across her face.
‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ he says after murdering the tune.
‘What’s all this? Why the sheet and whistle?’
He fakes indignation. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a Greek god – Pan. And this “whistle” is supposed to represent his pipes. After all, Valentine’s Day originated in Greece. I’m staying true to the original idea, and getting into character. Come on, I’ve got a costume for you too.’ He holds out a hand and drags her towards the settee where he’s laid out a simple tunic purchased from a fancy dress shop.
‘You’ll have to disrobe completely, of course,’ he says, giving her a wink. ‘And then I’ll feed you grapes – well, a glass of wine – and we’ll amuse ourselves with romantic Greek games.’
‘What games would they be?’ she asks, slipping out of her shirt and pulling the tunic over her head.
He points towards the large set of wooden blocks stacked in one corner of the room. ‘Love Jenga,’ he says with satisfaction. ‘Each block has a love command on it. If you pull a block out and the others tumble, you have to pay the forfeit written on the block.’
She marvels at how he comes up with such innovative ideas. ‘They’d better be good forfeits or I’m not playing. None of them involve you playing that recorder again, do they? My eardrums can’t take another song.’
He gives her a cheeky grin and suddenly she doesn’t feel so weary.
Robyn gently rubbed the band of the engagement ring that she still wore and thought about what was really troubling her. For three weeks, she’d been trying to get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding her fiancé Davies’ death. She’d always believed he’d been murdered in an ambush, in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. That was until she’d received a photograph that contradicted everything she’d been told, and as she rubbed her ring, she wondered for the umpteenth time if he was still alive, and if it had been him who’d sent the photograph to absolve her of her guilt.
Davies had been an intelligence officer, although to all who knew him he worked for a company specialising in microchip technology. His secret life was very much that, and Robyn had always been kept in the dark about any missions. It was for both their safety. That last fateful trip had broken the rules. She had joined him at his request. He’d insisted it wasn’t a covert or dangerous mission. He’d been sent to Marrakesh purely to meet with an informant, and there was every chance the man wouldn’t show. It had been his suggestion she come along, convinced there was nothing to worry about.
At first, Robyn had refused, but Davies was a persuasive man and wheedled and cajoled until she agreed to accompany him. As he reasoned, he wouldn’t have asked her if there had been any risk at all.
Having recently discovered she was pregnant, Robyn had decided to break the news during this impromptu short break in Marrakesh, a city that had always fascinated her.
On the second day of the trip, Davies had been instructed to meet the informant, and set out on the three-hour drive to the meeting point, except he never made it. His vehicle had been involved in an ambush. From that day, she’d carried a mountain of guilt, convinced she had drawn attention to him through her presence. It was because of her that his vehicle had been targeted and bombed.
The photograph had landed on her desk just over three weeks ago, while she was in the middle of a serious murder case, and she’d therefore been unable to fully consider its implications. Since then, her attempts to check its validity and work out why she’d received it, had been hampered by work. She was hoping to grab a few days’ leave so she could hunt down Davies’ superior at the time of his death, Peter Cross, and tackle him about it. She’d had no luck locating him to date and was keen to talk to him. For the moment, though, she had to concentrate on police work and it was proving difficult.
She squared her shoulders. It was still her office, after all, and she wasn’t going to let Tom Shearer get too comfortable there.
Tom and his men had already made themselves at home, and the office was filled with furniture, computers and boxes, arranged in a higgledy-piggledy fashion. To the far side of the room, four desks had been arranged in offset rows, facing the whiteboard at the front of the room. Matt looked up from his own desk that was wedged in the corner next to the coffee machine and grinned. He pointed to the machine and gave a thumbs up to Mitz. Robyn clambered over PC Gareth Murray, an exuberant youngster who’d joined Tom’s team three months earlier, now on his knees, searching for sockets.
The young man leapt up to attention. ‘Ma’am,’ he said, as Robyn slid into her seat, trying hard to ignore the fact it had been moved extremely close to both Anna’s and Mitz’s desks, to make room for the new arrivals. The bouquet of anemones was still on it. She shifted it aside.
‘PC Murray, if you’re going to be sharing this office with us for a while, please refrain from calling me ma’am.’
‘Understood,’ he replied, almost clicking his heels together and standing straighter.
Tom appeared, a box of files in his arms. He nodded at Robyn. ‘It’s okay if we squash in over there, isn’t it? I know it’s in front of the window, but there wasn’t much choice.’ He dropped the box onto his desk and began sorting through it. ‘Gareth, make sure those tech guys are on their way to set up the computers, will you? I’m getting way behind with investigations thanks to this farce. You’d have thought Flint would have got somebody in to help us move. I don’t recall seeing the words “removal man” on my last CV. You got enough space, DI Carter?’ He spotted the irritated look on Robyn’s face and studied her, head cocked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘I could get Gareth to sit on my knee if you’d like some more.’
She didn’t respond with a smile and instead shrugged. ‘It’s fine. We’ll get by, but I need the whiteboard.’
Tom sniffed. ‘Suits me. I don’t use those old things any more myself. Bit antiquated.’
Robyn bit her tongue. She had her methods and it had no bearing if they were regarded as antiquated or otherwise by the likes of Tom Shearer. They worked for her and for her team. Mitz didn’t need to be asked to collect it. He knew the routine. Robyn would want to thrash out what they’d uncovered before deciding how best to approach the investigation. He dragged the board across to their section of the room and stood it beside Robyn’s desk. It acted as a small screen, shielding her slightly from Tom, who was now grumbling on the phone. She wrote down a few words and then stood, marker pen in hand.
‘This is what we have so far – murder victim is thirty-three-year-old Henry Gregson, currently living in rented accommodation in Alford Lane, Brocton. Married to Lauren Gregson, an estate agent. Mrs Gregson has been informed. Police officers say she reacted very badly to the news and a doctor had to be called out to sedate her. She’s not in a fit state to talk to anyone else tonight. Officers say she had no idea Gregson wasn’t at work. He’d texted her that morning from MiniMarkt Convenience Store in Lichfield, where he works. Matt, what else did you find?’
Matt rummaged through his notes, cleared his throat and spoke. ‘There’s nothing about him on our databases. Ergo, no previous convictions. Born 30 March 1983 in Stoke-on-Trent. His sister, Libby, and their mother still live there. He left school in 1998 with a handful of GCSEs. Not got anything on employment record up until more recently. Worked for a large chain of supermarkets in a variety of roles: shelf-stacker, checkout operative and team leader. Studied and passed his Level 3 NVQ Diploma in Management a couple of years ago. No idea why he might have been targeted as yet, guv. His sister, Libby, cares for their mother, who’s suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s. She can’t travel without making arrangements for her mother, so I told her we’d go over and speak to her tomorrow.’
‘That’s good. I might go myself if there’s time.’
‘She said she’s an early bird, so if you want to go first thing, that’d be fine.’
Robyn checked her watch. It was coming up to quarter to eight. They’d been in since eight that morning. She wanted to send them home, but she had to start on the investigation. Anna arrived, carrying Gregson’s iPhone in a plastic evidence bag. She handed it to Robyn, who examined it for a minute before returning it.
‘Make sure the tech boys get this pronto. I want to know who he was calling or texting at the time he was shot. As soon as we finish here, okay?’
Robyn wrote ‘telephone’ and ‘gun’. She replaced the cap on her pen and tapped it against her chin thoughtfully.
‘The body was discovered by a minor – Aiden Moore. His grandmother, Mrs Hannah Price, and his older brother, Kyle, are our only witnesses and they didn’t hear any gunfire. From that, I could deduce the murderer used a silencer on his weapon, but until we’ve tracked down and spoken to other possible witnesses, we won’t know. Mitz, I’ll leave it to you to trace the family who were there before Mrs Price began walking the trail. Your hashtag GruffaloSpotters idea was a good one. Anna, get anywhere with the other vehicles at the car park?’
‘Got registrations for seven vehicles. CCTV footage wasn’t much use. The family walked across the car park and out the other side. They must have been parked elsewhere – maybe along the road.’
Robyn unscrewed the cap on her pen once more. Tom shuffled towards the door, disappearing into the corridor. ‘Okay, this is how I’d like to play it: Mitz, chase up those car registration numbers. See if any of those owners caught a glimpse of something out of the ordinary. You know the drill. Matt, talk to friends, neighbours, people he knew. Anna, tomorrow morning, I’d like you to accompany me to interview Henry Gregson’s widow, followed by his sister, and then we’ll go to his place of work. Also, we need to find out as much as possible about him, see if he uses social media, and anything that might help. We need to ascertain if this was a random killing or a deliberate murder. If it’s the latter, why? Any first thoughts?’
‘Nothing new from me, guv,’ said Matt. The others shook their heads in unison.
‘We’ve got plenty to get on with,’ said Robyn. She glanced at her watch again. ‘Right, that’s it for tonight. It’s almost eight. Go home, folks.’
They shuffled towards the door, donning their coats and picking up scarves. Anna was first out, hastening down the corridor to find somebody to examine the telephone. Matt was last out. ‘You going home, guv?’ he asked.
She looked up. ‘In a mo. Just going through your notes first. See if I can work out any reason he might have been murdered.’
‘It’s certainly seems to be a premeditated murder,’ Matt replied. ‘You don’t ordinarily wander about Cannock Chase with a gun. Not unless you intend shooting someone or something. It’s full of walkers, cyclists, tourists and day-trippers.’
‘True. Have good evening.’
‘Yeah, you too, boss.’
The ringing footsteps of her officers departed down the corridor and through the fire door. As it swung shut, silence fell. She began reading the file Matt had left her. There was nothing extraordinary about Henry Gregson, a local man who lived in a small village near Stafford. On the surface, he was an upstanding citizen with no convictions, not even a parking ticket. Robyn sighed and shifted to get comfortable on her chair. She eased back her shoulders, which had stiffened up. It’d been a long day and she could do with going home too. She was drawn back to the photograph of the pleasant-faced man. Who would want him dead and why? She scribbled a note on a neon-green Post-it: Is shooting allowed on Cannock Chase? Make list of local farmers.
She stood and stretched. She might have a quick run before she showered and went to bed. The Ironman event was in June, only four months away, and she needed to keep up her training. She shuffled the files to put them away.
She shouldered her bag. As she prepared to turn off the lights, the door swung open and Tom Shearer stumbled through, a box of files in his arms, and collided with her. The box dropped onto the floor with a clatter and the files tumbled out.
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ he began. ‘Sorry, Robyn.’
As she helped him gather up his files, Shearer seemed to recover his composure. ‘Cheers. Er, don’t suppose you fancy a drink, do you? I’m parched after all this lifting and carrying.’
‘Sorry, Tom, I’ve got to get off. Another time.’ She scooped up the anemones, careful not to damage them.
‘Yeah, sure, whatever.’ He marched over to his desk and let the box land with a thump. ‘No probs. Got a load to sort out here, but it can wait. I’m off for a pint.’ He nodded at the flowers. ‘My ex-missus used to get in a right strop if I didn’t buy her a dozen roses on Valentine’s Day. Bloody expensive they were, too. Seems such a waste of money now when I think back. It would have paid for quite a few pints. Night, Robyn.’ He turned his attention back to his box.
Robyn drew up outside her house at the end of Leafy Lane. It was neither a lane nor leafy but it was a relatively quiet street with well-kept semi-detached houses. A soft glow shone from behind her kitchen blinds. The automatic timers she’d fitted had illuminated the lamps in the sitting room so she no longer came into a dark and empty house. With flowers held awkwardly under an arm, she felt in her bag for her house keys and cursed the fact the bulb above her front door had gone out again. It must be faulty. This was the third bulb in as many weeks. She’d have to get it looked at.
She dropped her bag onto the floor in the hallway and tossed the car key onto a console table before heading directly for the sitting room. She placed the flowers on the dining table, pulled out the envelope postmarked London and withdrew the photograph of Davies taken at three thirty on the fifteenth of March 2015, the very same time she was in a room in Marrakesh, being told by his superior Peter Cross that Davies had been murdered on his way to rendezvous with an informant on the other side of the Atlas Mountains.
The flowers had rattled her. Davies had been the only person who’d ever sent her anemones on Valentine’s Day…
The Jenga bricks are in a heap over the carpet. Robyn drops a grape into Davies’ mouth and he chews, eyes closed.
‘I like having a slave,’ he says.
She thumps him on the arm. ‘That’s it. I’m done with this game. Your forfeits stink.’
‘Oh, come on. You liked having your feet bathed.’
‘Yeah, that one was okay.’
She moves across to the bouquet of anemones on the table; rich crimson petals open to reveal dark stamens. She can’t describe the perfume. It’s unusual.’
Davies studies her movements and speaks. ‘It’s part of the Greek theme. They’re more romantic than roses. After jealous gods murdered her lover Adonis, Aphrodite cried tears on his grave. Those tears grew into anemone flowers. The flowers are forever linked to the forsaken, or those left behind.’
Robyn stared at the bouquet. First the photograph and now the flowers. If Davies were alive, he might have sent her both, but the question remained as to why? Why hide from her and send cryptic messages? That led her to consider other, more sinister options. Somebody was aware Davies bought her anemones each Valentine’s Day and – or – knew about the Greek myths that gave the flower the dual meanings of the arrival of spring winds and the loss of a loved one to death. Could they be sending her a veiled threat, or even a warning? Far from wondering if Davies was behind the gesture, she now wondered if she might be in danger, from somebody who either had captured Davies or was following up a vendetta against him.
She searched the anemones again for a card and found none. Sitting down with her mobile, she searched for local florists, writing down their contact details. She’d ring them when she had a chance. The arrangement had come inside a plastic bag filled with water and placed in a lined, red box. Maybe this sort of display was particular to only one or two florists.
She stroked a silken petal gently. It was yet another mystery, one that caused a chill to run through her.