Sam introduced himself and the man looked surprised. ‘Bradfield?’ he said. ‘You’ve come a few miles, then. I’m Brian Carson.’ He waved a vague hand at the window. ‘This is my site. I’m the owner.’
‘Have you been here long?’ Sam asked.
‘Since 1987. I used to be a printer, down in Manchester. When we all got made redundant, I sunk my money into this place. I’ve never regretted it. It’s a great life.’ He sounded sincere, which left Sam feeling baffled. He couldn’t imagine many more tedious occupations.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ he said. ‘Because the person I need to ask you about lived here fourteen, fifteen years ago.’
Carson perked up. ‘By heck, that’s going back. I’ll need to look in the records for that.’ He turned and pointed to a door behind him. ‘I keep all the files in the back. Not that I need the files. I pride myself on knowing my tenants. Not the holiday-makers so much, but the ones who keep their vans on, I know all of them. What’s occurred that you’re looking for someone from that far ago?’
Sam gave a lazy, rueful smile, the one that generally got people on his side. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to discuss the details. You know how it is.’
‘Oh.’ Carson looked disappointed. ‘Well, if you can’t, you can’t. Now, what’s the name of this person you’re interested in?’
‘Harry Sim.’
Carson’s face brightened. ‘Oh, I remember Harry Sim. He stuck out like a sore thumb round here. Most of our long-term tenants, they’re older. Retired. Or else they’ve got young families. But Harry was unusual. A single bloke, in his middle thirties, I suppose he must have been. He kept himself to himself. He never came to barbecue nights or karaoke or anything like that. And his unit was right out at the very back. He didn’t have much of a view, but he did get peace and quiet. The units down there are always the hardest to let, on account of they’ve not got the benefit of the bay view.’ He flashed an awkward smile. ‘With a name like ours, that’s what people expect. A bay view.’
‘I imagine,’ Sam said. ‘You said he lived alone. I don’t suppose you remember if he had many visitors?’
Carson was suddenly crestfallen. ‘It’s not that I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I’ve no idea. Where he was, down at the end there - well, there’s no way of seeing whether people were visiting or not. And in the summer, I know it’s hard to believe, looking at it today, but it’s mayhem out there. There’s no way I could keep track of any individual’s visitors unless they’re right out there where I can see them through the window.’
‘I appreciate that. Did you have much to do with him?’
Carson sank even further into gloom. ‘No. Obviously, when he took up the tenancy, we spoke then, to make the arrangements. But that was pretty much it. He never stopped by for a chat, only came in if there was a problem, and since we pride ourselves here on there not being problems, we didn’t see much of him at all.’
Sam almost felt sorry for the man, obviously so eager to help but with so little to offer. Except that he was the one losing out because of Carson’s deficiency. ‘How long did he live here?’
Carson brightened again. ‘Now that I can tell you. But I’ll have to look at my records to be precise.’ He was already halfway through the door into the back office. Sam could see a row of filing cabinets, then he heard a drawer being opened and closed. Moments later, Carson re-emerged with a slim hanging file. ‘Here we are,’ he said, laying it on the counter. The label on the file read 127/Sim.
‘You’ve got quite a system here,’ Sam said.
‘I pride myself on keeping proper records. You never know when someone like yourself is going to be in need of some information.’ Carson opened the folder. ‘Here we are. Harry Sim took out a year’s lease in April 1995.’ He studied the sheet of paper. ‘He didn’t renew the lease, he only had the unit for the year.’
‘Did he leave anything behind? Any papers, clothes?’ The remains of a life that had been snuffed out by someone else?
‘There’s no note of anything. And there would be if he hadn’t cleared it out, believe you me.’
Sam did. ‘And you’ve no idea when specifically he left?’
Regret on his face, Carson shook his head. ‘No. The keys were left on the table, it says here. But nothing to show how long they’d been there.’
This was looking like a very dead end. Harry Sim had gone, but nobody knew when or where or why. Sam knew where he’d ended up, but not where he’d begun. There was one last question left to try. ‘When he took on the rental, did you ask for references?’
Carson nodded proudly. ‘Of course.’ He pulled out the bottom sheets from the file. ‘Two references. One from the bank and one from his former boss, a Mrs Danuta Barnes.’
To Carol’s relief, Blake was available almost immediately. She was surprised to find him behind his desk in full dress uniform. She’d grown accustomed to John Brandon only wearing the full rig when it was absolutely necessary, much preferring the comfort of a suit. Blake clearly liked to make sure nobody in the room forgot exactly how important he was.
He waved her into a chair, steepled his fingers and leaned his chin on them. ‘What brings you here, Chief Inspector?’
Carol resisted the childish temptation to say, ‘My own two feet.’ Instead, she said, ‘I need you to intervene on our behalf with West Yorkshire.’ She outlined the situation clearly and succinctly. ‘This is a murder inquiry, sir. I haven’t got the time to play silly buggers with my oppo. We need not to waste any more time.’
‘Quite. They should be happy to hand it off to us. It’ll save them money and, if we’re successful, I’ve no doubt they’ll claim at least half the credit. Leave it with me, Chief Inspector. I’ll get it sorted.’
Carol was pleasantly surprised at Blake’s lack of fuss. And that he took her side so readily. But then, there might be serious credit further down the line, which would suit a man with his presumed ambitions. ‘Thanks,’ she said, starting to rise from her chair.
Blake waved her back down again. ‘Not quite so fast,’ he said. ‘These two murders are definitely connected, in your professional opinion?’
She felt a sense of trepidation. Where was he going with this? ‘I don’t think there’s any room for doubt. Identical MO, similar victims, same sort of body dump. It looks pretty clear that Seth Viner was stalked online and we’ve been told something similar went on with Daniel Morrison. We were careful not to release any details of what happened to Daniel, so we can rule out a copycat. I don’t see how it can be anything but the same killer.’
He gave her a small tight smile that bunched his cheeks into a pair of crab apples. ‘I trust your judgement,’ he said. ‘That being the case, what you need to do now is to bring in a profiler.’
Carol struggled with her composure. ‘You told me my budget didn’t run to that,’ she said, her words clipped and tight.
‘I told you your budget didn’t run to Dr Hill,’ Blake said, managing to invest Tony’s name with disdain. ‘What we have access to are the profilers from the National Faculty. Once I’ve dealt with West Yorkshire, I will arrange it.’
‘I can do that, sir,’ Carol said, hastily trying to wrest some control back. ‘You shouldn’t be wasting your time on admin like that.’
This time, Blake’s smile had an air of cruelty. ‘I’m happy to help,’ he said. ‘You have two murders on your plate. I know how easy it is for things to slip through the cracks when you’re so occupied.’
The bastard was suggesting she’d deliberately ignore an order. Anger fizzed underneath her polite demeanour. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She couldn’t manage a return smile.
‘You’ll be amazed how well you manage without Dr Hill.’