Runaway Girl

By Paul Kennedy

Tasha, a rebellious teenager, runs away from a threatening family situation. Arriving in London she meets Ann Swinton, a well-off woman who, with her husband, Steven, helps runaway and homeless children. Eighteen months later Ann is brutally murdered at her home while her husband is away on a fishing trip. Police suspicion falls on Steven and a few days later he is found dead in his car, having supposedly committed suicide. But Tashas life has become entangled with other young runaways, an Italian hotel waiter, several Ukrainian prostitutes and their pimp, Giorgio, who Tasha meets soon after her arrival. All struggle to forge a living at the margins of Londons multi-national society.
When Tasha seeks refuge with Giorgio she accidentally uncovers the operations of a vicious gang who are kidnapping runaways like herself. When they discover that Tasha has reported their activities to Ann Swinton their lives are placed in imminent danger. Indeed, Tasha only narrowly avoids death after escaping from her locked room. When DI Tariq Hassan and his new colleague DS Sue Bridges are assigned the formidable task of tracking this gang down they desperately need Tashas help. But is she still alive and where is she hiding?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496984234

Paul Kennedy

Paul Kennedy is Professor of History and Director of International Security Studies at Yale University and author of the international best-sellers, ‘The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers’ and ‘‘Preparing for the Twenty-First Century’.

Book preview

PART ONE

Dangerous Crossings

Chapter 1

Tasha

Tim looked at me sadly with those big eyes as I walked out of the house and waved to him down the path. I’m sure he knew what I was going to do but I don’t know how. I’d never talked to him about what living there had done to me. But he’s not stupid. He could see the way things were even if he is only eight. His lips were moving and I’m sure he was trying to say, ‘don’t leave me behind Tasha.’ But no words came out. Just as well cos if he’d said them out loud I’d have had to go back and put up with more of their misery. I could cry here right now just thinking about him. My sweet, little brother with his gentle ways, and all those funny faces he pulls. We’ve always loved each other to bits. I could never feel jealous of him when he was always so cute, when he reached out his little fat arms to hug me almost from the very beginning. At least they treat him a bit better than me so hopefully he won’t come to too much harm. And if they do make his life a living hell I hope that when he gets bigger in a couple of years he hits back at them hard and makes them pay.

Shite, this bus has gone so fast since we left Birmingham. I’ve just seen a sign for Luton airport. Isn’t that somewhere near London? I must have fallen asleep. Not surprising when I was up half the night planning how I’d get away. I think I was quite clever, even cunning. Gran would have been proud of me. She knew what they were like. One of the last things she ever said to me before they carted her off to that hospital to die, was that mum isn’t right in the head. ‘Your mum can’t help it,’ Gran said, ‘she doesn’t know how to accept people and their little weaknesses. So she’s full of spite and can’t deal with her own unhappiness.’ And now she’s worse after jacking up with that fat moron, Keith, with his pig ignorant cronies and foul temper. Don’t know what she sees in him and he’s either drunk or high on drugs most of the time, a real smack head. ‘You need to get away sometime soon, make your own life,’ Gran said. I remember the rest of her advice as well.

It would be hard, but better than staying here under their hellish feet. Gran told me that I’m clever like my dad. She said I had a grip on what makes people tick and I knew how to cope with people’s ups and downs without cracking up or taking out my own shit on the weakest person around. And then she reminded me that there’s always money stashed away somewhere in that house, mostly from Keith’s dirty business on the estate and I shouldn’t hesitate to take some of it if I ran away. You know their favourite hiding place, Tasha, she’d said, it’s under the bathroom floor boards, just by the heater cupboard. I remember that she chuckled to herself. ‘Not very clever are they? They think we don’t know what they get up to and where they hide their cash.’

Poor Gran, she didn’t deserve my mother for her daughter-in-law. Nor an only son who ran away when the going got tough: no work, two kids, having to live on that crummy estate surrounded by smack heads. But my mum’s drip-drip-drip of nasty remarks, always putting him down, her foul outbursts over nothing and always plotting to get even with everyone she thought had it in for her – that was the worst thing. That’s where she’s completely loopy. Gran was right. Still, dad didn’t do us any favours when he scarpered just after Tim came on the scene.

Anyway, when she smacked me so hard across the face on Sunday – don’t even know what I was supposed to have done. And me fourteen now! That was the last straw. I thought, that’s the last time you do that to me, bitch. If there’s any smacking to be done in future, it’ll be me doing it to you. Then he had to add his pennyworth, of course. ‘You useless ugly kid – bout time you made some money.’ Blah, blah! ‘Though who’d want to employ you I don’t know.’ He started to lurch across at me and I thought he was going to hit me again with his strap like before. But I was lucky. He was too drunk or something to get up without falling down and spoiling his new trousers or looking stupid. But I’ve been worrying that if I stayed much longer he’ll find a way to push me into his drug scams or even worse – he’ll have me lying underneath those leering, fat bellied nobody friends of his, all dying for it when no girl in her right mind would have them. He could run quite a racket with me as the prize. Not risking that either.

So I got up in the middle of the night. Couldn’t sleep anyway. Grabbed a few things. Hope I didn’t leave out anything important. Anyway I couldn’t take to too much. How would I carry heavy bags all over London? I worked out that with it being Saturday morning and them sleeping late after their piss-up the night before I could creep downstairs and out of the front door without them waking up. Especially if I got away early enough. Sure enough when I got downstairs the main room was full of fag ends, empty bottles and other trash. Grabbed a roll from the fridge and some crisps and then remembered the money. Back up stairs to the bathroom. Thought I heard one of them waking and my heart started thumping fit to burst but thankfully they didn’t. Down again and found her purse. I knew she’d have her wages from Friday night and some family allowance money left - money we kids never saw any of. So now I’m ready to catch the first bus round the back of the estate and get to Chorlton Street Bus Station for the London coach at eight. I’d checked that weeks ago on the school Internet when the idea was buzzing around in my head. Everything was fine until I heard Tim follow me downstairs just as I was opening the front door. Tim, you’re going to break my heart.

*     *     *

Did the voice-over just say something about arriving at Golders Green in five minutes? Don’t know where that is but must be somewhere close to the city. This journey has passed so quickly. Seems just a minute ago I hid behind the bus shelter this morning on my way to catch the London coach, nervous in case either of them had woken up and found me gone and came looking for me. Someone on the estate could have seen me, too, and gone back to them gassing on about me standing there with my little holdall. Or saying, ‘Tasha, where are you off to so early this morning? Does your mum know?’ I didn’t want them to know I had gone till much later. If Tim doesn’t say anything they won’t even notice I’m not there till tonight, may be not till tomorrow. And one thing’s certain, they won’t be running to the cops saying, ‘Oh, Mr, policeman, our lovely daughter Tasha has gone missing, we’re so heartbroken, sob, sob, please find her.’ Not with their shady carryings on. And let’s face it she’ll be glad to see the back of me.

Shite, that woman who got on in Birmingham’s looking at me again. She’s been staring in this direction over and over again. What does she want? Is she a lookout for some London pimp trying to find another girl for his troop of sex slaves? Perhaps she’s a police woman not in uniform who sits on these coaches looking out for runaways. What story can I have ready if asked? I could pass for sixteen – or I could have if I’d stuck on some makeup earlier. But it’s too late for that now. She’d see me and guess what I’m up too. Oh, great she’s getting all her bits together. She must be getting off here at Golders… what did they call it? Yeah, she’s up and moving down the aisle and yes, the coach is stopping.

*     *     *

Now we’re really moving through central London and my tummy’s starting to swim around inside. I’m excited and scared at the same time. Never been anywhere further than Blackpool before and I’ve only got the forty pounds I took from her purse and the other sixty from under the floorboards in the bathroom and some of that went on buying a ticket. How long’s ninety quid going to last? Sorry Gran, but when it came to it I couldn’t bring myself to take any more. So all I’ve got is the money and the address of someone called Sharon from my estate back home. She’s living in somewhere called Clapham and might or might not put me up for a night or two on her spare mattress. Oh, and the map of London I got from the school library, just in case. Well, you stole it Tasha, actually, to be honest. In any case do I dare call on this girl - Sharon, is she called? I hardly knew her when she still lived on our estate, only through her friend Keighly who gave me her address ages ago. And both of them are older than me. What if she contacts my mum and tells her I’m down here and staying with her? No, it isn’t likely and would they be bothered anyway? So stop worrying, Tasha, and get on with your life. Christ, they just said, Victoria coach station in five minutes. I’m feeling sick now and there’s something beating harder and harder in my chest. Whoo!

Get all your bits together, girl, and join that pile of people trying to get off. This Victoria place looks busy, loads of buses, taxis, people everywhere and yes there’s a couple of cops standing over there where the crowds are pushing into the main station. Don’t want to ask them anything but how am I going to find what bus to take to Clapham? Find a bus Inspector. Do they have these down here? There aren’t many left in Manchester. Wow, I’m out of the coach and my feet are touching London’s earth. My head’s swimming. Where do I go now? Tasha girl, pull yourself together, you’re wandering from bus to bus and place to place like a loony. You won’t find anyone to ask about local buses in the cafe or the newsagents. Find the main information office. Look, it’s over there… and don’t lose your holdall, don’t leave it lying there for someone to pinch. It’s got all that stands between you and a freezing death. Number what did he say? Thirty six? Catch it near the main train station round the corner and that means walking over there. Thanks.

I swear I keep seeing that same woman every time I turn a corner. She looks OK but I don’t want her following me, don’t want anyone following me. Don’t stop girl, don’t look as if you are lost – even if you are. Shite! Now she’s not even pretending not to follow me. She’s catching up with me and calling out. Should I run? Bet I can run a lot faster than her. Yes. But where too? I’ll only get lost again and she’s too old to be a copper. Perhaps she can help. At least get me to my bus stop.

She takes me to a cafe and insists on buying me a meal and a drink. It’s nice and restful, not many people and its warm. Quite posh too: all the tables are covered with white cloths and there are pictures on the walls. I only want a sandwich though I’ve eaten nothing since that ham roll this morning at the coach station. But she buys me a full English breakfast even though it’s what, nearly one o’clock? Have to say, though, it’s great and I’m wolfing it down. While I’m doing that she’s telling me all the time that her name is Ann Swinton and she lives with her husband Steven out in the country in a village near somewhere called Ware – spelled, apparently, W-A-R-E. While she’s talking my head is saying, ‘Oh where oh where is Ware?’ She says they are both retired now but they try to help runaways like me. She asks me my name and I don’t want to tell her. But then I think, well, she can’t find out much about me if I just say it’s Tasha. So I do. She’s got blue twinkly eyes and a nice friendly face which sort of helps to take your mind off all that grey hair and her old-fashioned clothes. She also speaks in a posh voice like Mrs. Earl, my science teacher. But I’m not sure whether this is really more to do with her Southern accent. I let her talk till I’ve finished the food and the coffee but then I decide I’ve got to be a bit rude. So I interrupt her talking and say, ‘Mrs. Swinton…’

‘Please call me Ann,’ she says.

‘This is very kind of you,’ I say. ‘But I don’t really need any help.’ I lie and say I was sixteen last week and I’m going to stay with a friend who says she can get me a job waitressing. I can see she isn’t convinced and I begin to panic that maybe she will call a social worker or, worse, a copper. I’m a skinny underweight kid dressed in clothes that have seen better days and I’ve no make-up on. I probably do only look fourteen to her and everyone else.

She smiles and says, ‘Tasha, I’m sure you aren’t sixteen – more like fourteen.’ I interrupt and said, ‘well actually I’m fourteen and a half.’ She smiles again.

But then she continues by adding, ‘I also think you’ve a runaway from home just like thousands of other underage children.’ She never uses the word kid. ‘But I have no powers to stop you nor do I wish too. I’m just a volunteer helper or advisor. I just want to try to persuade you to think about going back home – though I expect there are things there that you’ve every right to escape from. That’s very often the case with runaway children. However, if you feel that going home is out of the question then I want to persuade you to think about seeking professional help from properly trained social workers or people who work for special charities that try to help young people in your predicament.’

I’m not sure what a predicament is but I saw where her talking was leading me. She went on like this for some time and wrote some names of organizations down on a piece of paper she tore out of neat little pad she dragged out of her handbag. There were some telephone numbers including one for a London police department that also tried to help kids like me.

She says, ‘Tasha, I can see I’m wearing you out with so much information. But I do want you to know that you face dangers here, alone in this city. There are sharks everywhere who may try to get you on drugs, into thieving or prostitution. But you can escape whatever predicament’ – that word again – ‘you might find yourself in at any time just by calling any of these numbers or visiting the addresses I’ve given you. Help is at always at hand. You don’t have to be cold, hungry or in danger from unpleasant, menacing people. You can do something about it just by telephoning. And that includes contacting me. Here’s my card. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you don’t want to get involved with a charity or the police. I live twenty five miles from central London but I can be here within an hour on the train and I will be more than happy to come whenever you think you need me. Now, Tasha, promise me if nothing else that you will keep this card safe and won’t lose it.’

I nodded my head. I suddenly felt sorry for her. She was only trying to help even if she was a bit of a busybody. And, actually, she hadn’t asked very much about me or my reasons for being here. She was showing some respect for me, not just concern, and I liked that. Also, while she was making that last little speech I wondered whether she had her own problems. Something she was trying to keep buried by doing all this voluntary work and worrying about people like me. Then she dug into her purse and pulled out a fifty quid note. She insisted I take it and said she was sure I would need it. Suddenly I felt very tired and more than a bit frightened. I had to fight to keep back the tears though I’m not sure whether it was her predicament or mine I was feeling bad about. I almost felt like asking her to take me back with her to her nice home and husband in the countryside, there and then, though I wondered how long before I would start to get on their nerves. So I just agreed, thanked her for the card and the money and let her take me to the right bus stop without arguing any more.

She shook my hand, smiled sweetly, waved and then disappeared into the crowd before I could blink twice. Somehow, after meeting her, I felt more alone than I had before.

Chapter 2

Saturday November 13th 2010

The noise was louder, more persistent. It seemed to be following him. Resisting its dangers would be impossible if he remained where he was. Flight through the dark space ahead seemed the only solution. But branches were clutching at his legs as he tried to move. And the noise was catching up with him, growing closer

The relief he felt when waking up was overwhelming. He lay perfectly still and allowed his eyes and brain to absorb the safe ordinariness of his bedroom. As he did so the gloom gradually dissolved and gave way to clarity and form. Then he heard the banging noise again: the sudden slam of something hard against a resisting materiality. A sudden dash of rain hit the window pane accompanied by a long rolling moan from the autumn wind. While it was still rushing through the beech trees in the garden he heard the crashes of sound once again. Somewhere a door or similar object had not been securely fastened and was swinging loose.

There was nothing else for it. He grabbed his dressing gown and went downstairs. After checking the front door he headed for the kitchen. From there he could peer outside towards the shed and garage. He watched as another burst of wind swaggered through the bushes and trees but the doors of both remained perfectly closed even as he heard the banging noise again. It seemed sharper and nearer now. Persuaded that his property was not the cause, John Cussons returned to his bed.

*     *     *

He switched on the kettle in preparation for his morning drink and prepared to use their awkward toaster. Even as he did so, a blinking light hitting against the side kitchen window curtain demanded his attention. When he pulled it back the cause was immediately apparent. To the left he could just see the corner of his neighbour’s front garden. There, parked at the back end of their drive was a police car, its amber lights flashing. When he moved to the front room and peered though the bay window two further police cars were visible, one at each end of the curved drive. Three cars? A young WPC was standing guard on the top steps just in front of the nearly open door. She was peering into her mobile phone.

Questions began to pick at John’s mind. Had his neighbours, Ann and Steven experienced some kind of accident? If so, when? Why was there no ambulance? He remembered that Steven was away on a brief fishing trip. Then he recalled the previous night’s persistent knocking sound. Was this somehow connected to whatever had occurred next door? Had a burglar left a door unclosed in his haste to escape? Then with a rush of concern he realized something else. Why hadn’t Ann been roused by the noise and taken steps to close the offending door? Had she been hurt in some way? Leaving the boiling kettle to switch itself off he went next door to the waiting constable.

‘Just a minute sir, I’m sorry but you can’t come into the house. I’m not even sure you should be here in the drive.’

As if it overruled all possible protocols and contingencies he remarked, ‘But I live next door and would like to see if I can offer any help to Ann, my neighbour.’

‘Makes no difference sir, I must ask you to come no further and wait till Detective Inspector Hassan comes out and talks to you.’

He moved back a few steps but when he looked down towards their back gardens he could see two more police officers placing security tape across the side entrance to the Swinton’s garden and right along the back entrance. Here, their land abutted onto a small stretch of woodland which led to a narrow lane some hundred yards away. His sense of alarm was mounting rapidly. A tall, clean-shaven, Asian-looking man with olive skin and even features opened the door. He was, perhaps in his mid-thirties. After smiling and speaking quietly to the WPC he descended the three front steps and walked towards John. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Hassan of the Hertfordshire Constabulary. His superior, Detective Chief Inspector King, was still inside the house with the pathologist and their forensic team. After apologizing for the intrusion, he enquired as to whom he was speaking.

‘I’m John Cussons and I live in the house next door with my wife Gill, though she’s away this weekend. I couldn’t help noticing the police cars. I mean, is Ann alright?’ The grimace that passed over the Inspector’s face was unmistakable.

‘Can I ask what on earth has happened?’

‘We’ll be able to tell you more soon, Mr Cussons. Indeed we will need to interview you, probably later today - to see if you noticed anything unusual during the night.’ He paused and chewed his lip momentarily. ‘It’s not nice I’m afraid. We don’t know much at the moment but Mrs Swinton was brutally murdered during the night. It certainly wasn’t any kind of accident.’ He stopped to give John a chance to absorb the horror of what he had just said. ‘Mrs. Taylor from the village discovered the body just after eight when she arrived to undertake her usual weekly clean. She phoned the station at Hertford immediately.’ He slipped in his next remark quietly and almost casually. ‘There is no sign of her husband, by the way – I believe there is a husband?’

‘Yes, Steven. He went away late yesterday afternoon on a short fishing trip by himself. He often does that.’ John desperately wanted to pump more information out of Hassan but all he could manage was, ‘Oh my God, how dreadful this is. Does Steven know about it? He’s going to be devastated. Have you been able to contact him?’ Hassan shook his head. ‘We’ve found what must be his mobile number on the desk in that room there – which we’re assuming is Mr Swinton’s bedroom or study.’ He waved his hand in the direction of the front upstairs near window. ‘But he isn’t answering. It’s tricky because we need to talk to him - urgently. Hopefully he’ll switch on his phone again soon.’ He paused before asking whether the Swintons had any other neighbours or friends living nearby.

John explained that the vicar and his wife lived about seventy yards further along the road but, living right next door, he and Gill probably saw more of them. He added that the Swinton’s sometimes babysat for them. ‘There’s also Bob Hampton, he’s an especially close friend of theirs. He lives perhaps, three miles away. I think they all attend the same choir and that’s where they met. Ann and Steven took Bob very much under their wing and so we’ve also met him at their house. Nice fellow – but rather a lost soul. I think that’s part of his appeal to Ann and Steven.’

‘Any other friends nearby, do you think – or perhaps further away?’

‘Well, it’s only my personal impression, Inspector Hassan, but I don’t think they enjoyed much of a social life. And they never talked about their past though they must have a past - or pasts. They are both in their late fifties and were only married in 2003. Mind you, I seem to remember that Steven has friends in the West Country, somewhere - who he visits very occasionally. And Ann has a son in his late twenties. I believe he’s some sort of geologist who works for a Brazilian oil company in the Amazon basin or is it out in the South Atlantic? We’ve met him once or twice but he rarely gets back to the UK.’

He stopped suddenly. ‘Sorry, I’m blabbering on when you have other more pressing matters to deal with.’

Hassan briefly tapped John’s arm and smiled. ‘Not at all Mr Cussons, I think that’s exactly the kind of information we need. I know CDI King will want to ask you more when he interviews you later.’

Feeling hungry in the cold November air, John went home to eat. He was frying some bacon and struggling to prevent the toaster from setting off the fire alarm when he heard the sound of another car. Glancing out of the side kitchen window he recognized his friend and neighbour. John watched in dismay as Steven parked on the road, jumped out of his car and rushed up the drive. He could hardly bear to watch as the WPC stopped him from entering the house. Then Hassan appeared. John stared as the full horror of the murder took hold of Steven. The man clutched and shook his head and then leaned against the wall by the door. Hassan and the WPC were clearly doing their best to comfort him but it could never be enough.

A pang of sorrow mixed with shame overwhelmed John Cussons. Realizing he was voyeuristically witnessing his friend’s grief he turned back to the kitchen and the burned toast.

Chapter 3

Later the same day

The DI led Steven Swinton into the house and asked WPC Hayley White to make him a cup of tea. He pointed to the front room and suggested that Steven should sit on the sofa and try to breathe deeply. Steven had turned almost white. Hassan had witnessed this before. Not long after they had been ripped apart by their sudden shock and initial desperate grief, the victim’s closest relatives came to a further realization: bereavement and loneliness would consume their lives for the foreseeable future and there was no way of avoiding either. Steven made no sound but he kept clutching his beard and head and his hands were shaking slightly. He was beginning to wonder why Steven wasn’t asking any questions when the man finally looked up.

‘What can you tell me about how Ann was killed? When can I see her body? Presumably it will be necessary for me to identify her?’ He shuddered as if the thought of seeing her in her murdered state was just too much to bear.

‘Yes, I’m afraid you will need to identify her at the path lab later today. We are fairly certain your wife was struck on the back and side of the head, from behind, by a very hard instrument – perhaps a large hammer or a spanner. It’s difficult to know at the moment. We haven’t found any such weapon in the house but our officers are searching the garden and woody area further back. A pathological investigation will also be necessary and will determine whether she was under the influence of drugs, medicines etc. So it will be some time before we have a complete picture.’

At that moment there was a swish of noise along the hall and WPC Pauline arrived with the tea. She looked anxiously at the DI.

‘Should I have made you a cup as well sir? Or is it still Ramadan?’

‘No, Ramadan was over some time ago. So, yes, a cup of tea would be very welcome Hayley.’ He smiled at her and then turned back to Steven. The mundane act of being given tea somehow reassured Steven and he visibly calmed down a little.

‘Is there anything else I can tell you at this stage, Mr. Swinton?’

‘Yes Detective Inspector – is it Hassan?’ The DI nodded. ‘Do you know how the intruder got into the houses and whether anything was taken?’

‘Well, our immediate investigation points to the back kitchen door as the point of entry. One of the panes near the lock was smashed. A classic MO in many burglaries. However, they used sticking plaster, so only a small quantity of glass fell onto the floor. Then he or they were able to unlock the latch from the outside. It’s strange, though, because they seem to have left the back door on the latch and then forgot to undo this when they left – by the same door. Consequently the kitchen door was still open when we got here.’

Steven interjected briefly, ‘Do my neighbours know about the murder?’

‘Well, yes and no. Mr Cussons saw the police car from his kitchen window at about 9am. I’ve talked to him briefly but I couldn’t tell him much. Only that your wife is dead. As for other neighbours, I understand there is only the vicar and his wife and their house is too far away for them to have heard much. So I doubt whether we’ll talk to them. I don’t know whether Mr Cussons has informed his wife. Apparently she is away this weekend.’

Hassan paused as if to gather his thoughts. ‘Your other question… yes, missing items. Well, again, we won’t have a clearer picture until you’ve gone through the house yourself. But it does look as if several items have been stolen while others have been broken. In fact, it looks as if they didn’t complete their search for valuable items to steal. Perhaps they were disturbed and decided to take flight earlier than they had intended.’ He stopped. ‘Or maybe stealing your possessions wasn’t their sole aim…’

Steven had gone quite white again. He returned to his previous gesture of holding his head in his hands.

‘Are you saying that they were not real burglars… that, that they might have had quite other intentions?’

‘Oh no, I don’t want to give any such impression’, Hassan added, quickly. ‘Some things were definitely taken. You’ll see for yourself later. It’s just that the vicious way in which she was bludgeoned – sorry, there’s no other word for it – to death does seem disproportionate. I mean, in relation to what they seem to have stolen. In my experience it isn’t often that murder occurs as the direct result of burglary. On the other hand, perhaps some highly valuable items were taken last night – items the burglars somehow knew about.’

The noise of footsteps coming down the stairs brought Hassan’s speech to a halt. He turned as another person came into the room. ‘Ah! Mr Swinton, let me introduce my senior officer and partner in crime investigation, Chief Detective Inspector Brian King.’

CDI King was as light skinned, almost pale, as his subordinate was olive-brown in complexion. If he had ever acquired a summer ruddiness it had melted away. He had also lost most of his hair but what remained was reddish blond in colour and formed a tonsure around his scalp. He was in his late forties and quite tall though Hassan definitely overlooked him. He immediately motioned Steven to remain seated and bent down to shake his hand. After declaring how sorry he was for Steven’s loss he reassured him that they would find the killer or killers. ‘No doubt about that, sir.’

His eagerness to proceed with the next stage of the investigation was clear from the way he immediately listed his set of priorities. Hassan’s mouth opened to speak but he quickly shut it again. Once his chief moved into his full speed ahead mode, complete with list, it was usually pointless to change whatever plan of action was in his mind.

‘If it’s OK with you Mr. Swinton, we’d like you to go and stay with your neighbour next door, say till 12 pm. According to our WPC he seems a helpful person and you know him quite well. Also his wife is away so you wouldn’t be in their way. That would give us a chance to complete our forensic investigation. In the meantime we’ll arrange to move your wife to the path lab. Then, early this afternoon, could you return and undertake a thorough examination of the house? That way we can ascertain exactly what’s been taken as you’ll notice stolen items that we may have missed. This will help us should the perpetrators try to sell on the items to a fence or other outlet.

‘Third, at around four o’clock, we’d be grateful if you came to the station so that after you’ve identified your wife’s body we can ask you some questions that will hopefully throw light on this dreadful event – killing two birds with one stone as it were.’ His voice briefly tailed away as he realized his faux pas. He coughed slightly. ‘I’m sure you want to assist us in our enquiries as much as possible. Naturally, a police car will bring you to the station.’

Hassan winced several times during this speech at the familiar display of official jargon. It was like the script for a rather tedious play that just had to be learned by heart and then performed each time. CDI King continued with the last items on his list. ‘Fourth, we’ll return later so we can talk to your neighbour, Mr Cussons, who is the person most likely to have heard or seen something yesterday or during the night. Finally, can I suggest that you make arrangements to stay with a friend nearby tonight, rather than remaining here by yourself. Mr Cussons, again, for example?’

Steven appeared overwhelmed by these suggestions. Yet after a moment he nodded his head and rose to go. CDI King waved his hand at Hassan. Nothing was said but the DI’s intended role in ushering Steven into the care of his neighbour seemed clear.

*     *     *

As if on cue, a minute after four, WPC Haley White knocked on the DCI’s door at the police station in Hertford and announced Steven’s arrival. Both officers rose and invited their witness to sit down in the most comfortable chair, reserved for distinguished visitors, respectable witnesses and the victims of crime.

The CDI spoke. ‘Three cups of tea please WPC White. Milk and sugar alright for you, too, Mr Swinton? I’m afraid we both need our additives.’ The visitor barely nodded his head. ‘In fact taking sugar in his tea and coffee are about the only vices my colleague, Inspector Hassan, here, allows himself. In fact, his only vice is not having any – no alcohol, no tobacco, no drugs of any kind and no swearing. Of course I can’t be absolutely certain about his love life, but between you and me I suspect that’s pretty sparse as well. Yes, he’s an example to us all.’ If this little diversion was intended to put Steven Swinton at ease the attempt seemed to fail. Swinton continued to look blank. He remained staring ahead entirely absorbed in his own misery.

Meanwhile, DI Hassan shrank into his chair and tried to put on a weak smile. ‘I don’t think Mr. Swinton is interested in hearing about my sins, chief. So perhaps we should begin, now?’

‘Right, so let’s move on. First, thank you for identifying your wife’s body just now. It must have been intensely distressing for you. If it’s any consolation it never gets any easier for us in these situations, either: having to watch people gaze at their loved ones in despair and grief. Now, this isn’t a formal interview but with your agreement we’ll record this discussion. Can we begin by asking whether you’ve managed to put together an itinerary of items that appear to be missing?’

Steven nodded. He began by indicating that they had slept in separate rooms. And both had also used their own room as an office. He looked a little embarrassed and hesitated as if wondering whether this required an explanation. But then he sighed and continued his description. Both his and Ann’s laptops had been stolen. It was difficult not to gain the impression that he regarded this as the most serious loss they had incurred. Asked whether the information, photos, videos or other materials posted on their machines had any special value other than a sentimental one, Steven hesitated again before suggesting, rather unconvincingly, that they didn’t.

He then fumbled for a piece of paper and reminded himself of its contents before reading the additional missing items. Virtually all Ann’s jewellery had been taken and he listed as many of the objects involved as any husband could reasonably be expected to remember. Most were not especially valuable except for a gold bracelet – a present from him when they married – an antique pearl necklace and a Georgian cameo broach that Ann had been especially fond of. He estimated these as perhaps worth five hundred pounds though he couldn’t be sure as none had been valued for insurance purposes. He’d also found a couple of her rings and some amber earrings scattered on her bedroom floor, presumably dropped in haste by the intruders. Apparently all the draws in Ann’s room, including those in her office desk, had been rifled as well as her large wardrobe. But nothing of great value had been taken. Most had merely contained clothes and shoes.

Next he described the situation in his own room. Again, what seemed to cause him the greatest concern was the fact that much of the furniture had been ransacked and their contents strewn all over the floor though little had actually been taken. He mentioned a pair of binoculars, his personal digital radio and earphones and their camera.

He stared at his paper a moment. ‘Oh yes, they also took our three Dufy prints which we bought on EBay a couple of years ago and five eighteen century miniatures. These were family heirlooms Ann inherited from her mother. Of course, all were valuable.’ He took out his handkerchief and began to clean his glasses.

‘Ann would have been heartbroken if she had known those were stolen. The prints were all situated in the hall upstairs but the miniatures were posted on the living room wall. Of course, we have a number of other originals, by contemporary artists, and some are worth a fair amount. But most have large heavy frames and I suppose the thieves couldn’t carry those. Or their knowledge of art works is limited and they failed to realize their value.’

When CDI King intervened and enquired whether there were any other missing items from downstairs, Steven consulted his list again. ‘I was surprised they didn’t make off with our Hi Fi equipment since it was compact and light. Some of our furniture is quite valuable. But I suppose the Chesterfield, nineteenth century oak table, walnut cabinet and a few other pieces – would be impossible to remove without a large van.’

Before finally stopping he emphasized once again how much mess and chaos the burglars had caused. Dining room and kitchen cupboards had been opened and their contents spilled out, books were pulled pointlessly off shelves and so on. Hassan wondered whether this distress concerning the devastation was partly due to some other concern or emotion kicking round in his mind. The disruption hadn’t seemed quite so overwhelming to him when he had looked around.

‘Thanks very much for that Mr. Swinton. You’ve noted all that down of course DI Hassan?’ His second in command nodded.

‘Now we need to turn to a few other matters. I understand you were away last night, and when you turned up you were unaware anything remiss had occurred. Can you tell us where you’ve been. And when you were last in contact with your wife?’

‘I don’t have many hobbies. Ann and I share – sorry, shared – a strong interest in singing – we belonged to a local choral society. From time to time we went to classical music or jazz concerts round the area or occasionally in London. Our other common interest was in our garden. Over the years we’ve probably spent far too much money on buying shrubs, putting in ponds and so on. You can easily get carried away. We also liked travelling around Britain and Europe – mostly visiting art galleries and exhibitions but we also enjoyed exploring small towns, village churches…’

He stopped suddenly in full flow and tugged at his glasses again before pulling out a dishevelled handkerchief. He breathed heavily on both lenses before proceeding to clean first one glass and then the other laboriously.

‘I’m sorry chief Inspector, I’m talking too much. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all about our leisure interests and how we spent our time together.’

King interrupted. ‘In your own good time Mr Swinton – we’re not in any hurry.’

‘Thank you. I was about to say that the only interest we didn’t share was my passion for fishing, especially fly-fishing. Though I wouldn’t describe myself as a fishing fanatic, not like some I’ve met on my travels. It’s probably the only aspect of my earlier life – I mean before we met - that I’ve carried over into the present. So, a couple of times every year I’ve tried to get away by myself for a day of two on a fishing trip. Ann came with me soon after we were married but she was bored by all the paraphernalia, the long spells sitting around, often in bad weather. So we agreed that she would stay home in future.’

Hassan was fidgeting with his tie and King was shuffling his feet. ‘Sorry, too much detail again. I know that to most people fishing is boring enough without having to listen to someone talking about it as well. But I hope you can see that my absence from our home last night was not out of the ordinary. Yesterday I’d planned to visit the lakes near Keswick. So I made a reservation for two nights. Just a small pub but, according to its website, it sells local beers, sports a large log fire and offers traditional cuisine. Just up my street. I intended to depart early on Sunday afternoon. Depending on the weather, of course – if it had turned out really nice I might have stayed a bit longer. However, that seemed unlikely when I left yesterday. As you know the forecast wasn’t exactly promising though I decided to give it try regardless.’

‘We’ll need you to write down the name of the pub please – before you leave. Now, just to get a more exact fix on your timing, do you remember at what time you left yesterday Mr Swinton?’

‘Yes, it was coming up to five o’clock, just enough time to get there before it got too late. I would have left earlier but Ann wasn’t feeling well. She kept sneezing and complained of a sore throat. So I dithered over whether or not to go. Eventually she persuaded me it