On Eden Street

Book 10: A DC Smith/Kings Lake Investigation

by Peter Grainger

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

The new Kings Lake Central murder squad is about to spend its first morning on team-building exercises and reviewing cold cases when the call comes in that the body of one of the city’s rough sleepers has been found in a shop doorway. It happens, someone says, he isn’t the first to die on the streets and he won’t be the last, but the story the new team begins to uncover is far from routine.
     New characters appear and new relationships form as the pressure grows on Detective Chief Inspector Cara Freeman to deliver a result and show that Kings Lake’s first specialist team is worth the money. Detective Sergeant Christopher Waters discovers links to a previous investigation, learns that there is more than one way to run a successful squad and finds flower-arranging more interesting than he would ever have imagined. 

Publisher: Union Square & Co.

Print pages: 368

Sample

Osman Demir opened the barber’s shop at three minutes to eight o’clock on the morning of Monday the 10th of September. His two younger cousins, Yusuf and Hasan, would be here for nine, or at least they had better be – they were lazy, and when he’d offered his uncle, out of the goodness of his Turkish heart, to give them jobs, he hadn’t bargained for the trouble they had been.

He went back to the door and wedged it open so that no one who might need a haircut could pass by and not realise he was ready for business. It was a good business. Turkish barbers were in fashion, and at least two others had opened in Kings Lake in the past six months. Eden Street wasn’t the best of locations, he knew that, but if either Yusuf or Hasan showed enough promise, Osman had plans to open another shop in a better part of the town – he would move to it and leave one of the cousins to run this place.

Sometimes a man needs a haircut or a shave before work on a Monday morning. Osman stood in the doorway and looked along the street to see if he could spot one, maybe say good morning and tempt him inside with an offer of half price for the first customer of the week – he had his regulars but you must grow a business to survive. He was worried about those two new shops. How many more would come, taking all the best locations before he was ready to make his move?

Eden Street. It was paved and pedestrianised, a little artery connecting the Kingsgate shopping mall with the maze of backstreets east of the town centre, the area known as Fairhills. There were no hills and no signs that it was any fairer than any other place Osman Demir had called home in his thirty-eight years. Some streets in Fairhills were better than others, his own being one of the best, where most people kept the little front gardens tidy behind the railings and grew geraniums in the window boxes, but some streets nearby were run-down terraces occupied by Asian families, students and other assorted layabouts. None of these people ever needed his services, and he relied on the more business-minded citizens who worked in Kingsgate and passed on foot through Eden Street on their way to the train and bus stations. It was a tenuous sort of customer base, though.

He went to spit in disgust at the thought but didn’t do so. The English disapprove of spitting. Instead he swallowed and then glared across the street into the doorway of the Chinese Chow noodles bar. The soldier was there again, sleeping it off, covered by a filthy quilt. The dog was there too, curled up but with its eyes open, watching the passers-by. This is part of the problem, his problem. How can you attract the better clients when they see the homeless a few yards away? Who is going to ask for the full shave, scalp massage and wax when from the chair they have a view of a dirty man begging for change? Only on Saturday Osman had confronted him again, telling him to go elsewhere, and his cousins had joined in, laughing, telling the soldier they’d move him soon if he didn’t move himself. Osman had called them off and the man had sworn and wandered away – but now he was back, in one of his regular doorways.

Demir nodded to a man in a suit whom he had shaved before, but the man went by. The homelessness is getting worse. He stared across at the pathetic little heap of humanity in the doorway and thought, soon this place will be no better than the backstreets of Ankara.

Through the gaps in the blinds, Wei Zhang could see that the beggar had returned. He would open the noodles bar at half past ten, and hoped the man would wake up and move away in the next two and a half hours. Their doorway was longer and offered more shelter than most others – that’s why it was an attraction to the homeless people. Rough sleepers, the council called them when the questionnaire came earlier in the year. Wei Zhang had not filled it in because he was wary of official documents, and, as a consequence, two young women had arrived. They said they were interested in the responses of all the local businesses; the council was writing a new development plan and he could be a part of it, shaping the future of Eden Street and Kingsgate. He would want to be a part of that, wouldn’t he?

So Zhang had answered their questions like a man who understands the value of silence. They had asked if he would like them to come back with a translator, the council had someone who could speak Mandarin, but he understood English well enough when it was required, and he understood the English, too. A bribe would not be necessary on this occasion.

He stepped closer to the window-blind. There was a dog as well, and the dog had heard him or seen the movement – it was watching him back through the slits. This was bad, a dog in the doorway of a food establishment. Health and Safety inspectors were a constant worry now. They open cupboards and search beneath ovens and fridges. Zhang held the dog’s gaze and wondered which posed the greater risk: the inspectors or the police. He could call the police and complain about the man in the doorway, but if one came, he might enter the bar and ask the names of those who worked here. That could lead to a visit by immigration officials.

The dog looked away. Someone had stopped in the street, a few feet from the sleeping man. Zhang heard a woman’s voice and the dog began to wag its tail. This seemed hopeful but then, crouching a little, Zhang saw that it was only one of the women who wandered the pavements day and night, one whom he recognised as regular in Eden Street. Another undesirable – the situation was getting worse. He knew his doorway had been used by women like this when it wasn’t home to a beggar, he had found the disgusting evidence some mornings and had to clear it away.

The woman was saying something to the man, asking questions, but the man didn’t stir. Zhang could see the top of the head, the greasy, long hair. Then the woman crouched and held out her hand towards the dog as if she wanted to stroke its head. The dog flattened its ears, wagging its tail but growling at the same time and the woman straightened up, said something more to the man that ended in a short laugh, and then she turned her back and walked away.

Homeless or not, a man is still a man, with a man’s needs. Sometimes you can get a fiver or a tenner out of them, and sometimes you can get it without having to work for it – just a bit of the old chatting and flirting and they’ll hand over some of the cash they’ve always got in their pocket. If it’s only done out of pity, so what? A burger or a coffee or a gin tastes just the same whether it’s paid for by a beggar or a billionaire. Not that she’d ever had a billionaire.

April knew his name – Michael – but she didn’t think she’d seen him sleeping out before. She was sure he had a room in Dilmun Lane, in one of the terraces that had been condemned years ago but never pulled down. Lots of street people aren’t actually homeless, if you count a room paid for by the night as a home. Maybe he’d fallen on hard times… She smiled at her own irony, stopped by the window of the key-cutting booth and studied her appearance with a critical eye. Not her best but she’d seen worse – ought to face facts and lengthen this skirt just a little, though. Lorraine had kicked her out early because there was a landlord’s inspection, otherwise she would still have been in bed at this God-forsaken hour.

She had a brush in her bag, and she stood unselfconsciously in the street as she sorted out her hair, estimating that it would go another couple of days before she had to wash it. With any luck, she would be back in Lorraine’s flat tonight, and if she’d managed to earn she could pay some of it over and get to spend time in the bathroom. Shampoo, conditioner, one of those face-packs, maybe. Have a girls’ night in if she could make twenty quid today.

The dog whined and April looked back along Eden Street. It had come out of the doorway and stood with its head and tail down, not happy. Hungry, probably. Michael needed to wake up and get his act together – he had another mouth to feed. Everyone who begs knows a dog can up the takings but it’s also a responsibility. He should be doing alright, what with him being ex-Army as well as having the dog. It’s the Help For Heroes thing, people are more aware now… All blokes, of course. She’d never seen a woman begging, claiming to be ex-forces, and April made a mental note; if and when her looks gave out, that might be worth a go. It’s a bit humiliating but a good beggar can make fifty, even a hundred quid a day on the right pitch. That’s between eighteen and thirty-six grand a year if you apply yourself. She’d always had a head for figures. You could even afford a holiday, somewhere hot, as long as you had a permanent address. To get the passport, see…

The dog was watching her, and she almost gave in and returned to give Michael a shove. She would’ve done if she didn’t have somewhere to be. Rez was holding some gear for her, and she needed something to get the day going. She owed him already, so she’d need to pay in kind. But he was alright for an eastern, clean and not unkind. Get that sorted and then across the town to The Mason’s Arms, that’s where the workmen from the new multi-storey carpark site are drinking at lunchtimes. Gloria had told her, said for God’s sake help me out April, I can’t manage the lot of them on my own, but don’t tell anyone else. And she hadn’t, only Lorraine.

The dog went back inside the doorway, and she thought, I can’t be dealing with all this. She put the brush back into her bag, straightened up and set off towards Kingsgate. The manager from the betting shop was in his own doorway, smoking and watching her. As she passed, she gave him a prospective, sidelong look but there was nothing doing. It was odds-on that she owed him money but she couldn’t be certain, and she wasn’t going to hang around to find out.

Sullivan watched the old tart go and thought to himself, just how desperate would you have to be? Not so old really, but a tart alright – one of the regulars in Eden Street. They add a bit of local colour. He drew on the cigarette and enjoyed a short bout of early morning coughing. There was a wheeze in his chest these days which probably meant something – probably meant it was already too late, so no point in worrying about it. He wouldn’t be getting one of these vapourisers where you disappear in a cloud of strawberry-scented fog every time you exhale. Smoking for pussies, they were.

He’d managed a betting shop here for more than twenty-five years. This was a proper old backstreet when he first came, with two-way traffic; there used to be a zebra crossing right in front of the doorway. He’d been here when they built the shopping centre and pedestrianised all this. Old Mr Gains had said that would be the end of the business and sold out to a local chain but he’d been wrong. Sullivan had stayed on – you’re an asset, the new owners said – and sure enough the punters kept coming. A few years back it had been sold again, to a bigger national chain, only a few players in the business now, but Sullivan survived. A new whizz-kid had been put in as under-manager, meant to be his replacement obviously, but it wasn’t long before Sullivan caught him doing mates’ rates for his cronies and that was the end of him. Last year’s takings had been up again, and they were leaving him alone now. He’d see these bastards out as well, and if it came to it he could probably buy the business, he had enough stashed away.

He threw down the stub and ground it under his shoe. Then, hands in pockets, he took a proprietorial look up and down the street. You wouldn’t think there was a living to be made here, not in an area like this, but that’s where you’d be wrong. People around here, from the backs of Eden Street and Fairhills, don’t have much, and that’s why they gamble; if you’ve only got a tenner to your name until the end of the week, it makes a mad sort of sense to put a fiver on something. They literally don’t have a lot to lose!

Sullivan’s eye fell on the man sleeping in the doorway opposite. Even he’d been in, likes the horses. He sits over there or somewhere along the street, holds up his bit of cardboard with his life story on it, lets people pet his dog as he tells them some tale about how he single-handedly took back the Falklands or something. They drop him a few quid, he gets to eat, goes down to the off-licence, couple of cans and he’s away. Anything left over, he sometimes wanders into the shop. You have to watch them in the winter, that’s all, because they’ll come and sit for hours just to get out of the cold and the rain.

He took a longer look down towards the Fairhills end and could see her at last. She was a few minutes late today, which was unusual. Her Labrador was pacing along at her left-hand side and you’d never guess if it wasn’t for the special harness thing they wear. When she was level with the noodles bar, the rough sleeper’s dog got up and watched the other one go by, wagging its tail but her dog never even seemed to notice it – too much class.

Then the Labrador started heading across the pavement towards the doorway of the shop next to his own, and when she was almost there, Sullivan said, ‘Mornin’, sweetheart.’

She smiled and seemed to look in his general direction, and the same two thoughts that he had every day when he saw her followed in quick succession – God, what a little beauty… God, what a tragedy she can’t see that for herself.

‘Good morning, Mr Sullivan.’

Posh voice as well – she wouldn’t call him Bob like everyone else, and he’d given up suggesting it. He watched as she took out her keys and began running her thumb over their edges. Then he said, ‘No need for that, your girl’s beaten you to it today.’

She thanked him and pushed at the door, allowing the dog to go in a little ahead of her.

Sullivan said, ‘Oh well. Another day…’ and she laughed a little and said, ‘Another dollar!’ Just one of those silly routines people get into, of course. When the door closed behind her, he stared at it with an odd, unfamiliar sense of loss. The cigarette had left his mouth tasting like an ashtray.

Miriam heard Ben get into his basket. Crouching, she found his bowl and checked with a finger that he had plenty of water – then she stood up, washed her hands in the sink they used for preparation and dried them on the roller towel. Patsy had gone out into the back to get ready for the morning’s delivery, which should be in – she brushed a fingertip over her Braille watch – about half an hour.

Moving to her left, she went back into the front of the shop, found the old-fashioned till and opened it. Using her thumb, she flicked across the edges of the notes, tens and twenties, and found to her relief that the weekend float was all still there. Patsy had been with her for five months, and she could probably stop checking now. The previous girl had been young, bubbly and outgoing but unable to resist taking advantage. When challenged, she had cried and given back the twenty pounds but ten minutes after that she was out of the shop, never to return. You learn to hear the lies in their voices.

Patsy was quiet and still inclined not to start conversations herself. When she came back into the shop, Miriam said in a serious voice, ‘On Saturday evening I had a call about the flowers for the wedding.’

There was a little silence before, ‘Oh. Was there a problem? Was it a complaint?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry. What was wrong? I’m sure we did every-’

‘It was about the bill. They said we’d undercharged.’

You can tell when people are looking at you, trying to read your blind eyes – it’s almost unfair to take advantage of them.

Patsy said, ‘Undercharged? I don’t understand.’

‘The bouquets and table displays were too good for what they paid. They were quite annoyed.’

‘I…’

And another thing is, if you’re disabled, for some strange reason people imagine you don’t have a normal sense of humour, if they think you have one at all.

‘So they’ve insisted we take another fifty pounds. You did at least half the work, so I’ll tell Paul to put twenty-five into your pay at the end of next week. The groom’s sister is getting married in a few months and we’ll get that one now. Why can’t I smell freesias? Have they gone over?’

Patsy knew her well enough now not to make a fuss about the money. She said the freesias still looked alright but that there weren’t many left, and Miriam told her to put them into the recycling – what use are freesias that don’t perfume a room? And what’s happening in the street this morning?

When she got to the window, Patsy said, ‘It’s getting busy, half past eight. Several people have their umbrellas ready – it’s going to rain later this morning. The homeless man, the one who was a soldier, he’s back in the Chinese Chow doorway. He hasn’t woken up yet.’

Miriam said, ‘What about his dog?’

‘Yes, she’s there as well. She looks like she’s on guard.’

‘OK. We’ll take some water, like last time. And some of Ben’s food. I mean for the dog, not the man.’

Patsy laughed, and then fell silent. You develop instincts that sometimes astonish the sighted but it’s just the brain compensating, making use of all that spare capacity. So Miriam said, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing probably. A couple of PCSOs have just stopped there. I expect they’re telling him to move on. Someone’s complained.’

And then, after a pause during which Miriam waited motionlessly and apparently without breathing, Patsy went on, ‘One of them is distracting the dog now, and the other one is in the doorway, waking him up. Bending over him… Now he’s come out, the PCSO, and they’re talking. They’re speaking to someone on their radio.’

If you’ve had sight, as Miriam once had, you can see these things – the mind has its own inner eye that is something more than imagination. The two officers talking and then calling on the radio. So, when Patsy finally said it, it came as no surprise.

‘I think something’s happened.’

Detective Inspector Thomas Greene was wondering whether he had made a mistake – or rather, he was watching himself wondering whether he’d made a mistake. At forty-five years of age, he’d had time to make a few for real, and he didn’t think accepting this job actually was another one, but the doubts are inevitable when you’re sitting in a new room with new colleagues for the very first time. And the drive from Spalding hadn’t been good. He’d need to allow another ten or fifteen minutes in the morning. They might need to rethink who was dropping off his eldest daughter at sixth-form college.

A silence had come after the initial greetings and introductions, and Greene occupied himself with sorting out the paperwork he had with him; he had the personnel folders of each member of the squad, the list of unresolved cases which they seemed to have inherited from other CID teams around the county, and he’d also taken the precaution of printing out some of the more important emails he’d received from DCI Freeman over the past few weeks. He was good with IT but not foolish enough to have complete faith in it. He opened the file of emails and checked they were in date order, aware that one person in the room was watching him – this was Detective Constable John Murray, a big, taciturn man whom Greene had met for the first time this morning. The detective inspector had read the files again over the weekend. Murray had a spotless record, and a few years ago had been shot while apprehending two Albanian kidnappers in the wilds of the Norfolk countryside. Being shot hadn’t stopped Murray. The records showed that after the injury he had shoulder-charged his way through a locked door and knocked down both men, one of whom was also armed with a knife, before assistance arrived. Subsequently, Murray had been awarded the Chief Constable’s Commendation for Bravery.

Greene looked up at the man and received a nod, that was all. The young woman seated beside Murray was from the same team at Kings Lake Central. Serena Butler’s record was not so straightforward, involving a horizontal move a couple of years ago, for personal reasons. She had been in line for promotion before that, and it wasn’t clear to Greene what had gone wrong. But since arriving in Lake there had been nothing but positive comments from her senior officers, including Detective Sergeant David Smith, and Greene noted that Butler had worked undercover in one investigation. That always requires a skill-set a little out of the ordinary. At present, however, she seemed to be pre-occupied with her iPhone.

Their detective sergeant, Chris Waters, Greene had met briefly almost a month ago, and they’d spoken a couple of times on the phone. Another protégé of David Smith, Waters was a graduate who had joined the Kings Lake Central force on the accelerated development scheme; by now he ought to have moved on to rarified pastures new and be wearing a sharp suit, not sitting here on a Monday morning in an open-necked shirt and wearing trousers that were suspiciously close to a pair of jeans. What had happened? Had he been thrown off accelerated development because he wasn’t making the grade? The fact that DCI Cara Freeman had personally recruited him, as she had every other officer in the room, suggested that might not be the case.

Greene looked up and about again, making a point of not staring but that wasn’t necessary, because Waters was – staring absent-mindedly out of the room’s solitary window. Tall, thin and fair-haired, the detective sergeant wouldn’t be picked out by most villains who had an eye for a copper but his clear-up rate was phenomenal; every single case upon which he’d worked since arriving at Central had resulted in charges, and almost all of them in convictions. Of course, the files didn’t tell you how much of that was down to Waters personally.

The other three members of the new team Greene had met for the first time this morning, though he had spoken to his other sergeant, Denise Sterling, on the phone last week. She had worked in Great Yarmouth for several years, and he knew that by East Anglian standards, that wasn’t an easy town to police. She’s thirty-six, divorced with two children, ten and eight years old. Looking to relocate thanks to this job – she’d said on the phone she was aiming to find better schools for her kids. Fair enough, Greene thought, but a single parent taking on a demanding role in a squad that was sure to be subject to a lot of scrutiny and pressure?

He looked at her, nodded and got the same in return. Blue eyes, blonde hair pulled severely back into a ponytail, and a build that suggested she was more track than field. Well, he concluded for now, she’ll need to be as tough as she looks.

Next to the sergeant was Clive Betts – thirty-five, has worked in Norwich as a detective constable for several years. He lives in Dereham, so his daily drive is about the same as mine, thought Greene. Where the members of your team live can matter operationally, and they seemed to have a reasonable spread across the western half on the county. Betts was smartly dressed, wearing a suit like Greene, and the detective inspector wondered whether, like himself, this was only because it was day one and better to be safe than sorry. Freeman hadn’t yet laid down any ground rules about these matters.

One could not help wondering how she had selected the people in the room, though. Betts’ file gave a few clues. Several case reports mentioned his tenacity and his willingness to go the extra mile – that would count with Freeman. So would the fact that Betts was firearms trained to the highest level and he was also a qualified high-speed pursuit driver. With specialist support so scarce now, it was handy to have your own Jason Bourne around. But Greene couldn’t stop his eye going back to the same place in Betts’ folder that it had gone every time he looked at it, as if he still couldn’t quite be sure he’d read it properly. Next of kin: Jack Betts; relationship: civil partner. Now, obviously, some ladies call themselves “Jack” but all Greene’s instincts were telling him that wasn’t the case here. Did Freeman have a diversity agenda – or had she had one imposed upon her?

Because the last member of the team was a shy, silently pretty girl of mixed race descent. Greene wasn’t sure whether she had Indian blood or something from further to the east – her surname suggested the former but her skin colour was pale. Around the eyes she seemed to have a touch of the orient, but had she applied make-up to create the effect? She was a girl easy to gaze at, and so Tom Greene made a point of looking at his watch – Freeman was ten minutes late now, not a good beginning – before he turned over the first page of the girl’s file. Maya Kumar; twenty-three; graduate with first class honours in philosophy from the University of Sussex. Philosophy? Greene put that to one side for a moment and checked something else. Before one can apply to the Criminal Investigation Department, two years in uniformed service must be completed, and she was only twenty-three.

He checked her date of birth and the dates on which she had interviewed for and been recruited by the police service. She’d done her first year in Suffolk – her family, Greene noted, lived near Bury St Edmunds – and then had transferred to Norfolk. But the address in her file was still her home address. Was she planning to drive here every day? Greene double-checked the dates and discovered that Freeman had brought the young woman into the murder squad less than three months after she had completed her uniform service. And for the life of him, he could see nothing in her file to explain why.

There were clever and experienced people in the room, and some of them might be wondering the same about the detective inspector – he was well aware of that. But Greene knew why he was there. He’d met Freeman whilst giving evidence in a murder case last year, at Lincoln Crown Court; Freeman hadn’t been the senior investigating officer but she advised on an aspect of the evidence chain which the defence were challenging. During the three-week trial, she had watched him giving evidence under heavy f. . .