In the kitchen at the back, two of Challow’s forensics team are dusting the room for prints. One of them nods to Challow and pulls down her mask to speak to him. There’s a line of sweat across her upper lip. ‘This is one of those times when you’re actually grateful to be wearing one of these. Christ knows when anyone last cleaned properly in here.’
‘Where’s the cellar?’
She points. ‘Behind you. We’ve rigged up some better lighting. Which only serves to make it worse.’ She shrugs grimly. ‘But you know that.’
Challow makes a face; he’s been doing this job twenty-five years. He ducks slightly to avoid the lamp now strung over the top of the cellar stairs and makes his way down, throwing giant juddering shadows across the bare brick walls. At the bottom, two more forensics officers are waiting for him, staring round at the accumulated junk.
‘OK,’ says Challow, ‘I know it’s a pain in the arse but we need to get all this lot back to base. Where was the girl?’
‘Through there.’
Challow moves to the inner room. An arc light is throwing a merciless brilliance over the filthy floor, the dirty bedding, the macerator toilet standing in a pool of evil-smelling waste. More boxes of junk. There’s a cardboard pallet that once held bottles of water, but there’s only one left, and though a plastic sack is bursting with packaging and empty tins, there’s no sign of any food. And in the far corner, a child’s bed, curled like a mouse nest.
‘Right,’ says Challow eventually, into the silence, ‘we need to take all this stuff away too.’
One of the officers walks over to the crack in the dividing wall. Some bricks are broken and the mortar’s been dug out.
‘Alan,’ she says after a moment, turning back to Challow, ‘look.’
Challow joins her, then bends closer. The damp plaster is streaked with red smears.
‘Jesus,’ he says eventually. ‘She was trying to claw her way out.’
***
I haven’t seen Derek Ross since the Daisy Mason case. He’d sat in with her brother when we questioned him, so one way or another I saw a lot of Ross back then. It was less than a year ago but to look at him you’d think it was five. He’s lost more hair, gained more weight, and there’s a tic under his right eye. But I suspect Quinn may have something to do with that.
‘DS Quinn,’ I say, turning to him. ‘Why don’t you go and get us all a coffee. And I don’t mean from the machine.’
Quinn looks at me, opens his mouth and closes it again.
‘Sir, I –’ he begins, but Gislingham touches him on the elbow.
‘Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’
It’s as good a thumbnail of these two as you’re likely to get: Gis, who has always been exceptionally good at knowing when to stop digging; and Quinn, who carries his own set of shovels.
I take Ross into the office next door. The screen is on mute now but still shows the interview room. The lawyer is on her feet, getting ready to leave, and Harper is huddled sideways on the chair with his knees clutched against his chest. He looks very small, and very old, and very scared.
I put a cup of water down in front of Ross. Then I take a seat opposite and push it a little further back. He has large dank patches under his arms and the atmosphere can best be described as ‘tangy’. Take it from me, you don’t want to get that close.
‘How have you been?’
He glances up at me. ‘So-so,’ he says, wary.
I sit back. ‘So tell me about Harper.’
He stiffens, just a little. ‘Am I some sort of suspect?’
‘You’re an important witness. You must know that.’
He sighs. ‘Yes, I suppose so. What do you want to know?’
‘You told my officers you only went in once a week. How long has that been going on?’
‘Two years. Perhaps a bit more. I’d need to check the file.’
‘And you don’t stay long?’
He takes a gulp of the water; some of it spills over on to his trousers but he doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I can’t – I don’t get the bloody time. Seriously, there’s nothing I’d like more than to sit there for an hour and crap on about the weather, but with the budget cuts we’ve had –’
‘I wasn’t accusing you.’
‘That DS of yours did.’
‘I’m sorry about that. But you have to remember – he saw the state that girl was in. Not to mention the child. And if he was finding it hard to see how you could have been going there all that time and not known she was there, well, I can’t say I blame him. To be honest, I’m struggling with that myself.’
Because despite what I just said, I’m a hair’s breadth from questioning him as a suspect. And until I’m absolutely sure he isn’t, Harper’s going to need someone else to sit in with him. It’s going to be difficult enough getting a conviction on this one; the last thing I need is a botched investigation.
Ross rakes a hand through his hair. What he has left of it. ‘Look, those houses have thick walls. I’m not surprised I didn’t hear anything.’
‘You never went down there?’
He looks me straight in the eye. ‘Like I said, I didn’t even know he had a cellar. I thought that door was just a cupboard.’
‘What about upstairs?’
He shakes his head. ‘Bill’s been pretty much living on the ground floor ever since I’ve known him.’
‘But he can actually get up and down the stairs?’
‘If he has to – but he doesn’t much. Annie sorted out a bed in the front room before she left, and there’s a bath out the back in the lean-to. It’s pretty basic but it does. I dread to think what state the upstairs is in now. It must be years since anyone went up there. Probably not since Priscilla died.’
‘No cleaner – doesn’t the Council send someone?’
‘We tried that, but Bill just shouted abuse at her. She refused to come back. I wipe a cloth around a bit and shove bleach down the bog. But there’s a limit to what anyone can do in the time I’ve got.’
‘What about food – shopping? Do you do that too?’
‘When they took his driving licence away I got a local elderly charity to organize him a regular supermarket delivery. That was about eighteen months ago. There’s a standing order back to his bank account. He has plenty of money. Well, not “plenty” perhaps, but enough.’
‘Why doesn’t he move out? That house must be worth a fortune. Even in that state.’
Ross makes a face. ‘The tosser next door paid over three million. But Bill refuses to go into a home. Even though his arthritis has got worse the last month or so, and the doctor’s going to put him on medication for the Alzheimer’s and he’ll need to be monitored to make sure he’s taking it properly. There’s no way I can do that. If he stays in that house on his own it’s only a matter of time before there’s some sort of an accident. Like I said, he’s already burned himself once.’
‘Did he know you wanted him to move?’
Derek takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, he did. I sat down with him about six weeks ago and tried to explain it all. I’m afraid he didn’t take it at all well. He got violent – started yelling at me, throwing things. So I backed off. I was planning to talk to him again this week. A place has just become available at Newstead House, in Witney. It’s one of the better ones. But God only knows what’s going to happen now.’
There’s a pause. He finishes his water. I pour him more.
‘Has it occurred to you,’ I say, carefully, ‘that one reason why he didn’t want to move is because of the girl?’
Ross’s face goes white and he puts the water down.
‘He couldn’t leave that house with her still there, because she’d be found. And he couldn’t let her go, for exactly the same reason.’
‘So what was he going to do?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I was hoping you might –’