Megan looks for a number, dials it and lets it ring.
‘Hello.’ The voice is hesitant.
‘Miss Naylor?’
‘Who is it?’
‘This is DI Baker from Wiltshire Police. I’m following up on reports you made about your missing brother.’
‘Have you found him?’
‘I’m afraid not. That’s not why I’m calling. Do you have a few minutes to talk?’
The young woman lets out a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ve already gone through everything. I’ve given all the details to the policemen at my local station. Why don’t you talk to them?’
‘I’m from CID, Miss Naylor, you spoke to uniformed officers.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She seems to understand the distinction. ‘All right then. What do you want to know?’
‘When did you last talk to him?’
‘Three weeks ago.’
Megan checks her notes. ‘I’m told he usually rings you every week.’
Nathalie corrects her. ‘Not usually. Always. He never forgets to ring me.’
‘Do you know where he was and what he was doing work-wise when he last called you?’
Nathalie hesitates. ‘Listen, I don’t want to get Tony in trouble. Can I tell you something without it affecting his benefits?’
Megan knows better than to make deals. ‘Miss Naylor, you called us because you were worried. I can’t help find your brother unless you’re honest with me.’
There’s a pause, then Nathalie opens up: ‘When I last spoke to him he said he’d been in Swindon. Helping out some Paddies, I think. Digging and cementing and such like. He said it was a job somewhere over near Stonehenge. He fancied going, he said, because he’d never seen the place.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing since?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Any names for these Irish guys?’
‘No. He talked about a Mick, but I’m not sure if he meant Mick as in Michael or as in the Micks, you know, the Irish.’
‘And you don’t have any contact numbers for him?’
‘None other than his mobile and that’s dead. Sorry.’
Megan moves on. ‘The last time you spoke, did you and he argue about anything?’
‘No!’ She sounds almost offended.
‘Miss Naylor, if there is any bad blood, recent or previous, between you and your brother, I need to know.’
The sister gives an ironic laugh. ‘Tony and me are like chalk and cheese but we never fall out. We’ve never had a cross word in our lives.’
Megan sees no reason why she should lie. ‘Okay. Does he have any other friends, particularly any lady friends that you know of?’
‘No, no special ones. He’s a bit of a lad, given the chance, but …’ she dries up. ‘Put it this way, Tony isn’t the kind of guy that a woman wants to spend a lot of time with.’
‘Why’s that?’
She blows out a long breath. ‘Where to start? He’s not so hot on his hygiene. A shower once a week is more than enough for our Tony. And he’s not romantic. Tony probably can’t even spell romantic.’
Megan finishes writing. ‘If I send a PC round, could you give him some photographs, recent ones of Tony?’
She thinks for a minute. ‘Latest I’ve got is one of them passport ones, you know, the type you have done at the train station.’
‘How old is it?’
‘About five years. It wasn’t even for a passport, we was just messing about after a few drinks. I made him have his picture taken with me.’
‘Should be fine. You give it to the bobby I send round and I’ll start chasing things up and we’ll see if we can find him. All right?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
Megan hangs up and finishes the last of her tea. She has a bad feeling about Tony Naylor. His sister was his only anchor and without a falling out, there’s no reason why he’d set himself adrift. Which means he’s going to be easy to find.
He’s either in jail, or in the morgue.
38
It’s a fifteen-minute drive from Tollard Royal to Shaftesbury. But Gideon Chase makes the journey last twice as long. He checks and rechecks the map and goes at a snail’s pace in Ashmore and East Melbury.
In Cann Common he glides the old Audi off the road near Ash Tree Lane, bangs shut the door and just walks for five minutes. There’s not much to see. Retirement bungalows. A whitewashed cottage. Black smoke billowing from a garden fire. Endless green fields.
Gideon doesn’t really care what’s around him. He’s thinking about what he doesn’t want to see. His father. Dead. Laid out in a funeral parlour only minutes away. Some mortician no doubt hoping his reconstruction disguises the fact that a bullet blew the man’s brain away.
Gideon suddenly throws up. It splatters the pavement in the quiet cul-de-sac. He retches again and feels bad that he didn’t make it to the verge or a drain. If anyone is watching, he knows what they’ll think. He’s a drunk with a monstrous hangover. Fat chance.
Embarrassingly, he doesn’t even have a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. He uses a hand and then rubs it on the grass. Thank you Mother Nature. He turns and sees a sour-faced granny in a doorway glaring at him. There and then he decides on a course of action that will make him late. So be it.
He climbs back into the car with a sense of purpose and drives quickly through Cann Common. He comes to a roundabout and spots a Tesco.
Inside, he feels like he is in Supermarket Sweep, rushing the trolley down the aisles, throwing in milk, bread, beans, pot noodles, orange juice, anything he can think of. Then, most importantly, toothpaste, shampoo, shaving foam, razor and blades. He grabs packs of underwear, socks, deodorant and even a hairbrush.
Straight after checkout, he rushes to the washroom to clean up. It’s such a luxury to use his own toothbrush, not one left by some anonymous guest of his father. He remembers something and goes back into the store and picks up cheddar, a packet of biscuits, some chocolate and a selection of fruit — the items from his father’s shopping list pinned to the fridge. The ones he never lived to buy.
On the way out Gideon casts a greedy eye at a small café. He’s been dreaming of eating a full English breakfast. Maybe later. He asks an old guy walking a Labrador how to get to Bleke Street.
A couple of minutes later he’s there — literally at Death’s door.
Abrahams and Cunningham is to funeral directors what Chepstow, Chepstow and Hawks is to solicitors. Traditional. Old-fashioned. Grim. For a split second, he’s taken in by the illusion that he’s wandered into some old aunt’s quaint hallway. The brushed-velvet striped wallpaper and thick dark-green carpets guide him into a dowdy reception area.
It’s empty. A discreet sign is pinned to the walclass="underline" ‘Please ring for attention’, below it is a polished brass plate with a white marble button. He doesn’t ring. Instead, he wanders. Down the corridor he goes. He doesn’t really know why. It’s a compulsion. He wants to see beyond the dull and easy façade. Understand a bit more before he steps into the black business of burials and cremations.
Behind the first door, the room is filled with caskets. A showroom. Where the gentle persuasion no doubt begins. Oak or cedar instead of cheaper pine or chipboard. Next-door is a staff room. A few chairs, a big table, microwave oven, sink and coffee machine. Life goes on, even around death.
The third room shocks him. First the smell. Embalming fluid. Then the metal. Too much of it. Steel sinks, trolleys, implements. A young man in a white coat looks up from a slab of grey flesh. ‘Excuse me, you shouldn’t be in here.’ He hesitates, walks around the lifeless form laid out on its trolley. ‘Are you a relative? Can I help you?’ The man comes towards him, trying to block Gideon’s view as he advances. ‘If you go back to the reception area, I’ll call through and have someone help you, Okay?’