Local Gone Missing(38)

“I don’t know. But that’s what I’d be asking her about.”

“Okay, I’m on it. So did you find out anything else of interest before I speak to her?”

Elise took a deep breath. “Yes, Caro, I did. That’s why I rang you. Charlie was born Charles Williams. He took Pauline’s name when they moved down here—and they are about to have their house repossessed.”

“Right . . .”

“And not necessarily relevant but . . . his daughter from his first marriage was left with life-changing injuries in a botched burglary at Charlie’s home twenty years ago. Really nasty case.”

Elise was doing so well today. Brain clicking into gear. And Caro scribbled it down, trying not to look too impressed.

“Right, thanks. Have you got the daughter’s name?”

It vanished as Caro asked. “Begins with an S—or is it a B? I’ll have to look at my notes. Sorry . . .” Shit. It’s in here somewhere.

“Text me when you’ve remembered. I’ll start looking at his finances—and his real identity.”

“Well, actually, I can give you a steer.” This was starting to get embarrassing but Caro needed to know everything. “I visited his ex-wife and daughter yesterday. I’ll text you the contacts.”

“Are you joking? What were you playing at?”

“Nothing. I went round to see Pauline as a concerned neighbor and it sort of developed from there . . . and I was going to tell you when we found him.”

“Were you?” There was an angry flush rising above Caro’s neckline.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Elise said, “but I’ve only done a bit of legwork. It’ll save you the bother. And I’ve got to do something with my time.”

“Anything else?”

“Charlie was nervous about an unexpected visitor at his daughter’s residential home a couple of weeks ago. The visitor said he’d come back but never showed up.” Oh, and there was something about a shirt she needed to say. “Oh, yes, there’s gossip that Pauline is having an affair with a man who takes his shirt off a lot.”

Caro tried not to laugh but failed. “Bloody hell,” she snorted, “it’s a whole season of a soap opera. Look, we’re jumping through all the hoops at the moment, gathering evidence at the scene, but the Senior Investigating Officer isn’t ruling out accidental death—that the old boy stumbled into the cellar. You said you almost did and it must have been pitch-black when he got back after the festival. The hatch doors have rotted away completely—they should have been boarded over—and he’s got a nasty head injury.”

“Really? Who is the SIO?”

Caro looked at her feet. Her tell.

“Who?”

“Look, don’t go off on one but it’s Hugh. He’s just finished his secondment with City of London and come back to Major Crime. I thought maybe you’d heard.”

“No.” Elise looked round, heart thumping. “Is he here?”

“No, he’s on his way from HQ.”

A car pulled into the drive and Elise felt her knees go.

Caro steadied her, cupping her elbow. “Hey! It’s only the pathologist. We’ve got Aoife Mortimer, thank God. I’ve got to go and talk to the widow Perry. Will you be okay?”

Elise nodded. And then caught her sergeant’s arm as she turned away. “You probably shouldn’t tell Hugh that I got this info. He might not like it.”

Caro nodded back. “Got it. I’ll make sure he gets all the details for himself when we talk to Mrs. Perry. I’ll give you a call after.”

She knew Caro meant she should go but she couldn’t face the walk now. She loathed being dependent on anyone but she rang Ronnie. “Can you come and get me?”

“I told you it was too far. Where are you?”

“I’m still at Pauline’s.”

“On my way.”

Elise sat on the grass by the entrance to the drive and waited. Hugh’s accident scenario played in her head even as the questions crowded in: How did Charlie get home? It was more than two miles from the festival site. He was completely wasted yet he managed to get through the security fence and right round the back to the cellar. It’s a nightmare to get to. And she looked at her arms, scored red by the vicious suckers. I wonder if there’s another way in from the rear.

When Ronnie skidded up, Elise opened the door without speaking and practically fell into her seat.

“Is everything all right?” Ronnie said.

“Not exactly. I’ve found Charlie.”

Ronnie stalled the car, jerking them both forward in their seats.

“You’re joking? What? After I left? Where?”

“In the cellar under the house. He’s dead, I’m afraid.”

There was silence.

“Ronnie?”

“Poor Charlie,” she said, his name choking her. “Who did that to him?”

“We don’t know that anyone did it. There were no doors on the outside hatch and the team is keeping an open mind. They think it might be an accident. . . .”

“But you don’t.”

“No. I don’t.”





Twenty-nine