‘Yes, that’s right.’ She pointed at the side of the house. ‘We have a little cottage at the rear that we’ve rented out for the past five years. He’s a strange character, very pleasant, nothing bad to say about him, sort of keeps himself to himself.’ She frowned. ‘But last night I heard his van – it has rather a distinctive sound; my husband, John, thinks it needs a new exhaust – coming home just before midnight. Then this morning, when I woke up, I could hear the engine running. I went out to feed Henry at 7 a.m. The front door of the house was shut. I rang the bell, but there was no answer. I gave it a few hours, then tried again at midday. That’s when I decided to phone you. I really hope I’m not wasting your time . . .’
‘Not at all,’ Susi Holiday said. ‘You did exactly the right thing.’
‘I was worried, you see. I read an article in the Argus a couple of weeks ago about the number of false emergency calls made.’
‘My colleague’s right, Mrs Morgan,’ PC Roberts said. ‘Your tenant’s name is Lester Stork?’
The horse pulled, as if impatient, and she gave a sharp tug on the reins. ‘Henry!’ Then she turned to the police officers. ‘That’s right. Lester Stork.’
‘Could you show us where the cottage is, please?’ Susi Holiday asked.
‘Yes, of course. Let me just tie Henry up, then follow me.’
She tethered the horse to a wooden rail, then they walked around the side of the house, up a short, steep farm track. It led to a small red-brick cottage, more recently built than the main house, with a decrepit garage annexed to it. A rusty white Renault van was parked outside, and they could clearly hear the engine idling as they neared it.
Dave Roberts, holding on to his hat to stop it blowing off in the wind, peered into the driver’s window of the van, then opened the door, which was unlocked, and peered inside. The cab was empty and apart from a petrol can, a wheelbrace and an old newspaper, the rear was empty, too. As a precaution, in case fingerprints became important, he took out his handkerchief, gloved his hand inside it, and turned off the ignition.
Then he entered the porch, rang the doorbell, and moments later, rapped hard on the cheap front door with his knuckles. When there was no response, he knelt, pushed open the letter box and sniffed. He couldn’t smell anything untoward. To the left of the door there was a window onto a small sitting room, with an elderly television, which was off.
‘Midnight, yesterday, he came back, Mrs Morgan?’
‘Yes, a bit before.’
‘Do you have his phone number?’
She gave it to him. Susi Holiday dialled and all three of them heard it ringing, until it fell silent and the answerphone kicked in, with a chirpy voice. ‘You’ve reached Lester Stork. I might be busy, I might be dead. Take a chance, leave me a message!’
The three of them walked around the house, peering in the rest of the downstairs windows. They saw a small, empty kitchen, and tried the side door, but it was locked. At the rear of the house the curtains were drawn. On the far side, where the garage was, there were no windows. Back around the front they stopped outside the porch. Roberts studied the locks on the front door. ‘Do you have a spare key, Mrs Morgan?’
‘I do, but I’m not sure where it is.’
‘Would you mind if we broke in?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Go ahead.’
He braced himself, then kicked the front door hard. It did not move. He tried again, even harder. Still it did not move. He frowned at his colleague. ‘Feels like it’s reinforced.’ He went over to the window, pulled on a pair of gloves, then pulled out his baton and hit the glass hard. It shattered, a chunk of it falling into the sitting room. Then he put his hand through, feeling for the latch. But could not move it. ‘Bugger!’ he said, then turned apologetically and said, ‘Forgive my language.’
Carol Morgan grinned.
‘Window lock,’ he said. ‘Not making it easy for intruders.’
‘He must have fitted them himself,’ she said.
He smashed out the rest of the glass with his baton, then climbed into the little room, which smelled like a million cigarettes had been smoked in it without a window ever being opened. A couple of dull, framed horsey prints were on the otherwise bare walls. The furniture, on a threadbare carpet, was meagre and tired. He called out, ‘Mr Stork! This is the police! Mr Stork?’ He waited some moments then walked through into the hallway. And stopped.
It had been many years since Dave Roberts had last seen the old crook, but he had no difficulty recognizing him. Lester Stork, a wizened shrimp of a man, who might have been a jockey in a better life, was dressed in a shabby herringbone jacket, crumpled cream shirt, grey trousers and cheap black shoes. He looked like he had been heading upstairs, but never made it. He lay sprawled across the bottom steps, eyes wide open and sightless, dark-brown wig askew.
The PC knelt, peeled off one glove and touched his face. It was stone cold. He felt for a pulse, even though it was obvious the man had clearly been dead for some hours. He checked his face carefully and his position, looking for any signs that he might have died violently, but could see none. But the immediate thoughts going through his experienced mind were why had he shut the front door behind him, leaving his van engine running?
‘Maybe the wind shut the door? But why would anyone arrive home close to midnight and go into his house leaving his van’s engine running?’ Dave asked.
‘You’d only do that, surely, if you were planning to go out again,’ PC Susi Holiday said, staring at the body.
‘So where is a seventy-five-year-old man going at midnight on a Sunday, in an old van?’ he queried.
‘Not clubbing, that’s for sure.’
‘Probably not to church either,’ Dave Roberts said. He radioed for their Sergeant to attend, then requested a Coroner’s Officer.
While he was making his calls, Susi walked through into the room at the rear, little bigger than a box room, and switched on the light, and immediately realized why the curtains were drawn.
There was a stash of antique items on the floor. She saw bronze statuettes; Chinese vases; a silver tea set; an ornate clock; several oil paintings; a gold plate. Immediately, well aware of the major domestic burglary that had taken place in the city less than a fortnight ago, she pulled out her phone, selected the camera icon, and took a rapid series of photographs. Then she contacted the Incident Room for an email address, and sent them with a brief note:
Found this stash at a G5 of an old fence. In case any of it might have come from your Withdean Road robbery.
58
‘I do horrible things sometimes,’ she said.
‘Go on.’
There was a long silence. After several minutes the Munich psychiatrist, Dr Eberstark, asked, ‘What kind of horrible things, Sandy?’
She lay on the couch, facing away from him so they had no eye contact. ‘I put an advertisement in their local paper’s Deaths column that their baby had died.’
‘Roy Grace’s baby?’
‘His and his bitch girlfriend.’
‘But you’re not with him any more. It was your choice to leave him, wasn’t it?’
‘I didn’t think he’d replace me with some bloody bitch.’
Dr Eberstark sat impassively, his face revealing nothing. After several minutes he asked, ‘What did you expect after nine years? For him to be celibate for the rest of his life?’
It was Sandy’s turn to be silent for some minutes. Then she said, ‘I did something else horrible too.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I vandalized the bitch’s car. What’s her name? Cleo? I carved on the bonnet, with a chisel. COPPER’S TART. UR BABY IS NEXT.’
‘Nine years after you’d left him?’
‘Almost ten years, actually.’
‘What did you think you would achieve by doing that?’