They drove up the bumpy mud track, watching as the unkempt farmhouse in the distance got nearer. Ivy grew up the left side of the building, covering all the windows on that side of the house.
They pulled up at the gate. Wyre got out of the car and unlatched it before jumping back into the passenger seat. Magpies pecked at what looked like the carcass of a rat. The road narrowed. They’d have to walk the rest of the way. Gina pulled up on the grass verge and they both stepped out of the car. ‘There’s tyre tracks in the mud.’
‘Maybe Ms Benson has gone out,’ Wyre replied.
‘Maybe,’ Gina said, trying to avoid the rain-filled potholes. ‘She certainly wouldn’t walk out of here easily.’
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a message from Hannah, saying the memorial service was at ten the next morning at St John’s. She took a deep breath. The whole thing was a farce. Terry hadn’t even been religious, and in her mind, he wasn’t deserving of any form of remembrance. She ran her fingers through her knotty hair as she tried to reign in her unusually mixed emotions. Her hand got stuck in a tangle. ‘Get lost,’ she muttered, as she snatched her hand away from her head and ripped a few strands out.
Wyre stopped beside her. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Family problems.’ She’d said it. No more blaming the virus or brushing past it. ‘I’m going to a memorial service tomorrow for my ex-husband, Hannah’s father. Thing is, we had an awful relationship. I’m doing it for her, and if I’m honest, I’m absolutely dreading it.’
The young woman placed a hand on her arm. ‘Family is a funny thing. I don’t get on with my dad, he left us when we were still in nappies, but the other year, I had to attend his bloody wedding. Not only is he close on being a member of the EDL, he’s a sexist, racist and… What can I say, I just don’t like him and I resent the abuse he showered on my mother. Anyway, sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. I didn’t want to go to the wedding, but my fear of future regret was so great that I still did it. I suppose I hoped he’d changed. Am I glad I went? I have no idea.’
‘I had no idea about your dad.’ Gina smiled and they carried on avoiding the potholes as they neared the front door.
Wyre knew that her father was an unsavoury character, but Hannah didn’t have a clue about her father’s shortcomings. The father Hannah had created in her mind was so different to the real person. He’d died when she was two. Gina had been twenty-five – such a long time ago, though it still haunted her everyday memories. One day she would share her past with her grown-up daughter. Maybe secrets were a bad thing. Though perhaps the circumstances around his death weren’t for sharing. After all, she still wasn’t sure what had happened. Did she help Terry down those stairs or was he going anyway? That uncertainty would stay with her forever.
The black paint on the front door was mostly chipped away, right down to the hard wood. Gina knocked and the flimsy door rattled in its frame. She gazed at the front window, trying to see beyond the dirty yellow netting. She spotted something that looked like a sideboard with a lamp on it. Gina walked around the corner and saw a two-storey barn in the distance. The woodland behind almost reached the back of the barn. As with the road, the approach to the barn was defined by trodden mud and wild shrubbery.
‘I wonder if she’s gone out,’ Wyre said.
Gina walked back to the front door. She rang the bell several times and followed it with a loud knock. ‘We’ll try again. If no one answers, we’ll go and take a quick look at that barn behind the house.’ Gina walked back over to the window and stared hard through the dirty netting. She could just about make out the back of a white-haired woman, a crocheted blanket draped over her shoulders. The wind picked up, blowing a gale around her ears. She shivered as she began tapping on the glass, hoping that the hunched woman in the chair would notice, but there was no response. She stared for a moment longer; there was no movement. ‘There’s someone there. Shout through the letter box.’
‘We’re police detectives. DC Wyre and DI Harte. We need to ask you a few questions.’
‘We need to get in. She’s not moving.’ Gina pushed the door and heard it rattling against the lock. She rammed it with her shoulder, breaking the flimsy lock and almost falling into the hallway.
She slid in her damp shoes along the tiled hallway, which was scattered with old, matted rugs, and entered the living room.
The smell of excrement and urine hit them as they saw the woman. She was sitting stiffly in a chair, propped up by cushions. Gina almost heaved as she leaned over and checked the woman’s pulse. She was gone. Her eyes were drawn to the woman’s bloodshot eyes and the large mole on her cheek. A pillow lay in her lap. She thought of the woman struggling for breath as Wall held it over her face.
‘Call it in.’
Wyre stepped out of the room to get a signal.
Gina stared at the birdcage in the corner. A large, dead bird was lying on the bottom of the cage. Wrappers from sausage rolls and pies filled the other corner, next to the orthopaedic chair the woman was sitting in. Two settees and several wall units filled the room. One wall unit was crammed with porcelain dolls; the other was piled up with Royal Doulton. The tops of the units were stacked with old newspapers.
‘Deborah, Debbie, are you there? Just shout or bang,’ Gina called as she began walking around the house. Her heart pounded with every step. Was Wall behind a door, ready to pounce?
As she reached the kitchen, Gina noticed the full ashtray on the worktop. A collection of straw hats spilled out of the cupboard doors. Clutter and cobwebs filled the room. She could just about make out that the work surface was pine underneath all the oddments and dust. It was strewn with money boxes, empty bottles and tins and more old newspapers.
Gina darted up the stairs, careful not to touch anything. ‘DI Harte,’ she called as she reached the top. She was met by silence. All she could hear was the blood thundering through her veins. She quickly checked the four bedrooms and the old-fashioned avocado-coloured bathroom. Cobwebs, damp, mould and decay were all she could find. She ran back downstairs. ‘Clear,’ she called.
‘Backup is on the way,’ Wyre replied, meeting her in the hall.
A scratching noise came from the back of the house. ‘I think there’s someone in the kitchen,’ Wyre whispered.
The two detectives left the room and crept along the hallway. The scratching got louder and was followed by barking. ‘A dog,’ Wyre said. They hurried towards the back door and opened it. A black spaniel darted past them, wagging its tail.
The cupboard door under the stairs blew open slightly as Wyre pushed the back door closed. Gina pulled her phone out of her pocket and used its torch to see. On an old bookshelf was a family portrait, a bit like the photos that were bagged from Wall’s flat. She picked up the photo and stared at the woman. She had a large mole on her cheek, and was standing next to a young boy who bore a striking similarity to Jeff Wall. Ms Benson was Wall’s mother. They’d been looking for someone going by the name of Wall. She’d never married Wall’s father.
‘Let’s check out the barn,’ Gina said, sprinting out of the house.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for backup?’
‘We might not have that long. I’m going up there now.’
Fifty-Four