Between Two Evils Page 7

  ‘Not much to report, boss,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a couple of calls from people in the village who were out during the initial canvassing, but mostly they were fishing for gossip. All of them mentioned the protest at Long Fleet and the leaflet campaign. One of them got pretty arsey about it, said we should be doing more to protect the village from them.’

  ‘The protest has been peaceful, as far as we know,’ Ferreira said. ‘Unless you’ve been told otherwise?’

  ‘No, it’s just the leaflets. He seemed to think they constituted harassment.’

  ‘Does he work at Long Fleet?’

  ‘I asked, he said not.’ Weller was swivelling back and forth in his chair slightly, knees spread. ‘Thought it might be significant though, if there’s a feeling in the village that Long Fleet is bringing hassle to their doors.’

  Ferreira heard what he was saying but read another story in his body language. He’d been slacking today and had nothing to justify his time. She fought down the urge to tell him as much, knew she should have stayed on him and made sure he had tasks in front of him. Some officers you could trust to work off their own common sense, but DC Weller was not one of them.

  ‘Right then, you need to call in Ainsworth’s financials and phone records,’ she said, giving him the job he should have done off his own bat.

  He glanced at Parr. ‘It’s nearly six.’

  ‘Just get them,’ she said, going to answer the phone, which was ringing on her desk. Reception calling. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Gentleman down here to see you, a Mr Ainsworth.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Sir, this is Greg Ainsworth, Josh’s brother,’ Ferreira said as Zigic walked back into the reception area, with his thumb stuck in the knot of his tie, trying to wrench it off.

  Greg and Josh Ainsworth looked alike, same pale skin and brown hair and small eyes, his framed in heavy black glasses and the purplish smudges of early fatherhood. Greg kept one hand on a double buggy, two small boys strapped into it, wearing matching dungarees and striped T-shirts. One was soundly asleep, the other talking quietly to the stuffed blue elephant he was dancing on his lap.

  ‘Mr Ainsworth.’ Zigic held out his hand. ‘We’re very sorry for your loss. It must have been a terrible shock.’

  Greg nodded. ‘Thank you. Yes, yes it is. He’s always been such a sensible person.’

  Zigic wondered at the train of thought between the two statements. As if only wild living and bad decisions could get a person murdered.

  ‘We should go upstairs and talk,’ Ferreira said.

  Zigic helped Greg to manoeuvre the buggy through the door and into the lift, asking about the boys, how old they were and what were their names, smiling at them when they looked at him. Greg returned the questions, a reflex politeness, but it was good to get him talking. His voice was flat and he seemed overwhelmed by the strangeness of the surroundings, eyes on everything until they were settled in the muted colours and soft upholstery of the family room.

  Shock, Zigic thought. The grief would be in there, gathering, waiting for the numb, stunned feeling to wear off before it hit him full force.

  The moment that the door closed one of the boys began to grizzle and Greg lifted him into his lap, where the boy started playing with the flap of his shirt pocket.

  ‘Mum and Dad have just got back from identifying Josh’s body,’ he said.

  ‘How are they doing?’ Ferreira asked.

  ‘Not good. I’d have done it if they’d told me. I just wish I could have spared them it.’ He grimaced. ‘Dad said it was bad. I don’t know what I thought had happened to Josh, but I didn’t think it was going to be so violent.’

  Zigic was surprised his parents went into detail, wondered why they hadn’t protected him from the truth after they protected him from the ordeal of actually seeing his brother’s body.

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it?’

  ‘I want to help,’ Greg told them, visibly steeling himself to the task.

  ‘How much did Josh tell you about his job?’ Ferreira asked.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Did he have more than one?’

  ‘He was working pretty much full-time at this detention centre near his house,’ Greg said, a vague disgust wrinkling the skin around his nose. ‘But he was doing shifts at a private hospital in town as well, the GP surgery there. Only three or four times a month, but I think he needed a break from the other place, to be honest.’

  ‘Greg left Long Fleet about two months ago,’ Zigic said. ‘Did he tell you about that?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, of course. He resigned. He didn’t want Mum and Dad to know, so I’ve got a bit too used to lying about it, I suppose.’ Greg rubbed his eye behind his glasses, almost knocking them off his nose. ‘I’m not thinking straight right now.’

  ‘That’s completely understandable,’ Ferreira said gently, but Zigic could see a hint of mistrust in how she shifted in the armchair. ‘What did Josh tell you about the circumstances around his resignation?’

  The little boy on Ainsworth’s lap started to squirm and he lifted him up and sat him down again on the other thigh, told him to be good and they could go for ice cream later.

  Greg sighed. ‘I know he hadn’t been happy there for a while. He didn’t agree with the place in the larger sense, its existence, you know? Our grandmother was from Ukraine and Josh was always very aware that she might have ended up in there if she was seeking asylum now. But he also knew someone needed to be in there looking after those poor women.’ He frowned, watching his son walk the stuffed blue elephant along the arm of the sofa. ‘Josh was trying to do good in a bad place. But I suppose it just got too much for him in the end. Five years is a long time to fight your conscience.’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’

  ‘Not in so many words, no. He didn’t have to say it.’

  ‘Why exactly did he think Long Fleet was a bad place?’ Zigic asked, wanting to see how much Josh had confided in his brother.

  Greg pushed his hand back through his hair. ‘Josh saw the problems at Long Fleet right from day one. Bullying, harassment, abuse. Most of it low level but some of it not. He spent the first two years he was there taking complaints to his boss and he kept getting them thrown back at him. Insufficient evidence, the women are liars, they’re trying to entrap staff members. He was banging his head against a brick wall.’ Greg looked at his sons, as if wondering how much of this they might be taking in. ‘He was about ready to quit, but a new governor came in and then the abuse accusations were being taken seriously. People being sacked left, right and centre. People he’d seen acting like animals for years finally getting their marching orders. It was like a weight lifting off his shoulders.’

  Zigic thought of Josh Ainsworth’s cosy chats with Ruby Garrick and all the information she’d disseminated through her leaflet campaign. Information which had come from somewhere. Maybe from Josh himself, using her to get the word out when his previous boss has been brushing it all under the carpet. But the timings didn’t work out, he realised.

  Unless their relationship went back further than she’d claimed.

  Josh Ainsworth had obviously been fighting the system there almost from the moment he took the job.

  ‘His former colleagues can’t have been happy about Josh’s involvement in their sackings,’ Zigic said.

  ‘No,’ Greg rubbed his jawline. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘Did Josh mention anyone in particular?’

  ‘Probably, but this was two years ago and I’ve not got the best of memories.’

  ‘It would be a great help if you could try and remember,’ Zigic told him.

  A terrible light came into Greg’s eyes. ‘Do you think one of them killed Josh?’

  They hadn’t, Zigic thought. Not until right then but he could see the potential line of enquiry emerging in front of them. The logic of it. An explanation for the brutality of Josh’s murder. It was a raging
, wild attack. The action of someone accustomed to violence and practised in its uses.

  ‘Josh had been off work for a while,’ Zigic said. ‘Do you know what he was doing with his time?’

  ‘He went away for a bit.’ Greg stooped to retrieve the toy his son dropped. ‘Cycling holiday.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Uganda,’ Greg said. ‘I went last year and I think he was a bit jealous that I got there first. Great rides. The scenery’s spectacular.’

  ‘Did you speak to him while he was away?’

  ‘A few times, yes. He wanted to see the boys, so we FaceTimed.’ Greg looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I think he just needed to get right away from Long Fleet for a while. Get outside and clear his head, you know. He always said he felt best when he was on his bike.’

  ‘When did he get back?’

  ‘Last week,’ Greg said. ‘Wednesday. I picked him up from the airport.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Like a new man,’ he said brightly. ‘The break obviously did him good. We talked on the way home about what he was going to do, jobwise. He said he was going to start looking for a locum role, just while he worked out what he wanted to do next.’

  The sadness rose up and broke over Greg like a wave and Zigic could see the reality of it hitting him full on.

  He thought about the short space between Josh Ainsworth’s homecoming and his murder. If that was significant or not. Was someone waiting for him to return? Their plan already made. Or was it less premeditated than that?

  Ferreira was asking Greg Ainsworth about the leaflet campaign now, showing him the flier, getting nothing new. She asked about the protestors and Greg only knew the minimum about that too, didn’t recognise Ruby Garrick’s name or have any idea about the extent of his brother’s relationship to her.

  ‘Josh had company the evening he died,’ Zigic said. ‘A woman. Do you have any idea who that might have been?’

  ‘Josh wasn’t seeing anyone to the best of my knowledge,’ Greg told them. ‘Not properly anyway. I mean, he was seeing women, but not really dating them.’

  ‘Any exes we should talk to?’ Ferreira asked.

  Greg blew out a thoughtful breath. ‘There’s not been anyone he was serious about for – Christ – a few years, I think.’ His face darkened. ‘Portia.’

  They waited for more but nothing came.

  ‘Does she have a surname?’

  ‘Josh never introduced her to any of us. Mum always made such a big fuss about whether he was dating and when he was going to find a wife and settle down and have kids. He got sick of the conversation and just stopped taking anyone home. I don’t really know much about her, except that he said she was a wild woman.’

  ‘Was he suggesting she’d been aggressive towards him?’ Zigic asked.

  Greg frowned. ‘Not that kind of wild.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Ferreira shot Zigic a pitying look. ‘How long ago did they split up?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure they did entirely split up,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘She got married a few years ago. Not long after they called it off. But Josh was still seeing her.’ Greg turned to Ferreira. ‘Josh wasn’t that sort of bloke – you need to understand that – he wouldn’t mess around with a married woman. It was just her. She came after him, he said. I told him not to get involved and he promised he wouldn’t, but then he started dropping little hints, and I realised they were still seeing each other on the side.’

  Zigic tried not to be judgemental about it, told himself it was immaterial what he felt about the couple’s behaviour.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us about her?’ Ferreira asked.

  ‘He met her at work.’

  ‘Long Fleet?’

  ‘No, at the hospital,’ he said. ‘She’s a surgeon of something or other.’

  The kids were getting restless and there was no more to say, so they finished up, Zigic assuring him they’d keep him updated, even though they both knew a murder investigation moved too quickly and too erratically for them to do it.

  Back in the main office Ferreira added the name Portia to the persons-of-interest column on the board.

  Zigic looked at the clock, pushing around towards seven. ‘We’ll talk to her tomorrow.’

  ‘You sure?’ Ferreira asked. ‘We get her at home, she’s on the back foot right away.’

  ‘If we get her at work, she has less reason to lie,’ he countered.

  He drove home through the tail end of the rush hour traffic, unbothered by the slowness of the journey and the long line of cars, which held him up at the edge of the Bretton suburb, knowing what was waiting for him when he got in.

  Not quite the silent treatment but very nearly.

  Days of it now but it felt like weeks because they never argued. Not seriously or at any length. They’d always been the kind of couple to air their grievances early and fast, to try to stay honest with one another because they’d both grown up with parents who nursed their grudges and petty jealousies, portioning them out and playing the kind of vicious mind games that could tear the security blanket from even the most well-adjusted children. They’d seen and suffered enough of that not to want to inflict it on their own kids.

  Zigic slowed as he entered the village, coming up behind two women on horses who ambled along past the row of stone-built cottages and the primary school before they reached a paddock where a couple more animals stood with their heads poking over the fence, watching the traffic going by. The dog walkers were out in force enjoying the evening sun and the beer garden at the Prince of Wales was already full. The temptation to stop in for a cold beer tugged at him, but he resisted. Turning into the lane he saw people dotting the allotments opposite his house and that exerted a pull on him too. He’d wanted an allotment ever since they moved in eight years ago, but knew it was a pleasure that would have to wait until he retired, no chance of his having the energy for it while he was still working.

  He pulled onto the gravel driveway, catching a glimpse of the back garden through the side gate as he locked the car. Anna was out there on a wooden lounger, Emily playing in the shade of a large parasol. The blinds were all drawn in the front windows, an attempt to keep the house cool, but it felt painfully symbolic as he let himself in. The rooms were close and quiet, the boys moving around upstairs. He went out to the garden.

  ‘You’ve had a long day,’ Anna said, eyes unreadable behind her sunglasses as he bent to kiss Emily. ‘I’ve already fed the boys.’

  ‘Did you eat?’ he asked.

  She nodded slightly. ‘There’s salad in the fridge for you.’

  He hadn’t expected a rapprochement when he got home but he’d been tentatively hopeful of a thaw. He’d read too much into her initiating sex this morning, he realised now. It was satisfaction, not intimacy, she’d wanted. The chill between them remained in place and would do until he gave ground.

  Something he couldn’t imagine doing.

  Not on this.

  He went back into the house, headed upstairs to shower off the long day in the field and the stuffy hours he’d spent in the office trying to find some shape in the case developing in front of him. A task made all the harder because at any given moment, a quarter of his brain was working out how to contain and absorb the fallout from an ostensibly minor act of violence against his family.

  Minor on paper. Dealt with in an instant. Apologies and embarrassment; genuine, heartfelt regret.

  It wasn’t enough though.

  Because ‘sorries’ didn’t free anyone except the person giving them out.

  Zigic ran the shower cold over his body, gritting his teeth against the shock of it, stood there until it drained all the heat from his skin. The rest of it, deep in his muscles and bones, was going to take more cooling though. Wouldn’t go anywhere until this was settled one way or another.

  Dressed, he lingered in the doorway to the boys’ room for a moment, watching them playing with their Lego. A new pi
rate ship kit that Milan was acting the foreman with, trying to sort the pieces into some order before they started building it, while Stefan held a dinky pirate figure in each hand, making them argue over who ate the last yoghurt in his gruffest pirate voice.

  Zigic went and sat on the floor with them, letting Stefan’s pirates fight it out across his shoulders while he helped Milan separate the light-brown pieces from the beige ones. Every now and again Milan would bend lower over his work and his dark curled hair would part, revealing a small bald patch on his crown.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The flat smelled close and stuffy, old cigarette smoke heavy on the air, a vague hint of dirty washing from the pile in the bathroom. They’d flown home from St Kitts on Friday and spent the weekend crashed out at Billy’s place, recovering from the flight and the epic session that had taken them from Thursday night in the bar on the beach to Friday morning breakfasting on Bloody Marys at the airport. Somehow it seemed logical to deal with the punishingly early start by pulling an all-nighter. She couldn’t remember whose idea that was but neither of them had the common sense to disagree.

  Then staying at his seemed preferable to coming home and dealing with the mess she knew she’d left here.

  She opened the windows throughout the flat, letting in what scant breeze trickled up Priestgate, carrying traffic fumes and engine sounds, an occasional warning call from the station as a high-speed train passed through without stopping. The washing went in the machine, the sweetly rotting contents of the fruit bowl went into the bin and she showered thinking about what to make for dinner.

  Looking at the near bare shelves in the fridge, she decided Billy was right about going out to eat. Or ordering in.

  This place was starting to feel less like home, she realised, as she stared out of the kitchen window at the workers trudging towards their cars and the bus stops on Bourges Boulevard. When she’d signed the rental agreement three years ago, she’d wanted to be in the city centre, with the constant thrum of activity around her. But somehow, gradually, the traffic noise had started to grate on her, and the grim utilitarianism that filled her view only increased the sense of isolation she was feeling here. It was an ugly building to draw up to every night after work, still looked like the office block it had been, cold and impersonal. She’d ignored it – or maybe just hadn’t noticed – when she’d been single, out drinking, coming back in the early hours with nothing in mind but a shower and her bed.