Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 01-08

God, he was trapped! No he wasn't; everything was quite innocent, wasn't it?

'Well, I was sketching. And she was just walking. People do, walk there, that is.'

'And you just got into conversation?'

'Yes, people sometimes like to look, when you're sketching.'

'And where exactly were you sketching?'

'I don't really know.'

'Well, how far into the cemetery?'

'Oh, a fair way...'

'What's a fair way, would you say? Put a figure on it?'

'Oh, maybe a hundred yards or so. No, more I think, perhaps even two.'

Another glance passed between them and this time he thought he might know why.

'And what were you sketching?'

'Oh, the cemetery. A gravestone. Then she asked me to do one of her.'

'And could we see your sketch of the gravestone?'

'Yes. It's in here.'

'Hmmmm. It's very good. Quite detailed for a sketch. This could be interesting. Could we borrow it, see if we can find the location?'

'Could I just scan it for you? So I can keep the original.'

'Yes, that'll be fine. And the sketch of your friend?'

'Yes of course.'

He managed to work the scanner with steady hands and printed out the two drawings.

'And your friend. You have a phone number or address?'

'No, I don't, sorry.'

'Name?'

'Oh...it's...Molly; but I don't know her surname.'

'Oh well. Thank you sir, you've been very helpful. We may need to visit again if we need further information. Will you be here for the foreseeable future, not leaving the country for any reason?'

'No, I'll be here. Except...I had thought of making a trip to France for a short break soon, but not yet. Nothing booked or anything.' He could have kicked himself for being stupid enough to tell them too much again.

'Would you mind letting us know if you plan to go abroad within the next say two weeks?'

'Oh, of course.'

'Thank you, sir.'

He let them out and then squinted down from his living-room window to watch them without letting himself be seen. They spoke to each other for a few moments, then the man walked off towards next door. The woman paced the pavement speaking on her phone, glanced up at his window a few times, then nodded and ended the call. She moved out of his line of sight, heading towards his door again, or perhaps to Star Pizza.

#

Half an hour later his doorbell rang.

'Sorry to disturb you again, sir. Could I please have another short chat? We think you might be able to help us a bit more than you already have. Just the two of us?'

This time he led the way up but at the top she walked past him and into his painting room.

'In here OK, sir?'

They sat on the two chairs, his and Polly's. She looked at him for a full five seconds, then surprised him by giving him an apparently genuine friendly smile, showing gappy front teeth. Her hair was short and gold and probably quite curly if allowed to grow; interesting to draw or paint just as it was, though. Good figure; slimmish but definitely curvy. Being alone with her made him aware of her sexuality, and frightened him in a different way from before.

'I like to have a quick follow-up chat with sensitive cases like this. Two police officers can be a bit intimidating for the average person, and there's more chance of us relaxing and you remembering something, however small, that could be a vital bit of information.'

'Oh I see.' He had no intention of relaxing.

'I see you are quite an artist. Do you specialise in pretty girls?'

'No. I don't have any to draw or paint, but I love portraiture!'

'And life?'

'Sorry?'

'Life drawing and painting. You know, nude figures.'

'Oh, no. You need models for that and I can't afford life classes let alone proper models.'

'Couldn't you find friends to model for you? Like your friend yesterday?'

'No, she wouldn't model nude!'

'You asked her to?'

'No I didn't! Why are you asking questions like this? What happened in the cemetery?'

'I'm afraid I can't discuss that at the moment, Mr Bloomfield. Oh, sorry, I'm Victoria -- Vicky - by the way. May I call you Tim?' Another smile.

'Yes, if you like, but I'm not sure if I can reciprocate, in the circumstances.'

She looked pained.

'Tim, why not?'

'Maybe old-fashioned. I don't know you, and you are a policewoman.'

'Forget that, Tim. Pretend we are friends catching up, and you are relaxing and telling me what you've been up to lately.' She leaned forward and reached to pat his knee, but he avoided her touch by spreading his thighs, then adjusted his position and crossed his legs, not wishing to be in what he felt was a rather suggestive posture.

'I haven't been up to anything!'

'I didn't mean like that! I'm not trying to catch you out or anything. Just trying to understand you. You are a potentially important man in this case. You've got a grandstand view.'

She changed tack.

'I had a chat with Antonio downstairs, he's a great character. A big flirt! He's not in the least bit scared of policewomen.'

'Oh. Yes, we had lunch there yesterday.'

'You and Molly?'

'Yes, that's my friend.'

'Yes. He told me her name. He's such a chatterbox.'

'Yes.'

'Only he thought it was Polly. And he told me your name, too. 'Jim'. How come he got those names wrong?'

'Oh well, his English. He pronounces my surname as if it's Bumfilled!'

She raised her eyebrows. 'Does he? Still, I'm sure he doesn't mean any harm, he seemed a nice chap; just the accent, as you say. Anyway, despite the accent he seems to me to be quite shrewd, quite on the ball. He says you insisted that he call you Jim, not Tim. Why was that?'

'Well Polly thinks my name is James. It's all a bit complicated.'

'You and Polly seem to have been rather close, closer than we might have thought from what you told us.'

'Well, we only really met last Sunday.'

She wasn't taking notes of this second session, but he could almost hear her mental notebook being scratched, 'really met?'

'Antonio says she seemed to have been worried about her late period and concerned that she might be pregnant. Very grateful to you for helping her out financially. Reminiscing about a steamy past.'

'No, all that was just a misunderstanding! He just heard snippets. Read too much into them!'

'Are you homosexual?'

'No I'm f...No! Sorry.'

'You seem to be rather touchy about that question.'

'Well it's just because I'm not gay, and it's not pleasant to be asked such a thing. I don't particularly like the thought of touching another man, although I have nothing against those who do.'

'Do you dislike gays, Tim?'

'Of course not; I mean, I take people as I find them, and if there was a gay I didn't like personally I would just dislike him for his own sake not because he's gay. Or her, a woman, of course.'

'You see, Tim, what we are looking for in a case like this is motive. Murder is usually motivated by issues of money or passion. Passion, and money for that matter, is linked to sexuality. D'you see what I'm getting at?'

'Murder? Someone's dead? Are you accusing me of murder?'

'No, no, no, of course not. It's all early days, and we are looking at all the angles. Tim, I know it's hard on you, but it's something I have to do. It's my job to get to the bottom of things and it's never easy for those in the firing line. I want you to think of me as a friend who will sort things out, not a copper out to get you. Just be straight and tell me everything you can, and it'll be fine.' She smiled again but her eyes were hard. 'I've been in the police force for sixteen years and I've got a sort of instinct for people, and you know what? I don't feel I'm talking to a murderer. I think that we'll have a nice chat and it'll all be over.'

'But why are you asking if I'm gay? One minute it's me painting nude women, the next it's am I gay?'

'Just looking at all the angles, like I said. There is one interesting thing about the case. There seems to have been an element of ritual about it. Cemetery and all that. The deceased was lying on a grave, on his back with his head resting on the headstone. Head was smashed in at the back as if he was held down and his head forcibly rammed back to cause injury.'

'No, surely? That's disgusting!'

'And then, the genitals were mutilated.'

'Oh, my god!'

'Rather badly crushed, as though deliberately attacked after the fatal head injury. Rather gratuitous. And injuries to the hand, cuts, as though he was trying to defend himself from a slashing. Yes, someone really had it in for the poor man. Of course, this is all preliminary hypothesis; forensics will tell us more about what happened, the sequence of events.'

Tim could hardly believe his ears. What sort of distortion was this?

'Three possible scenarios. One: sexual jealousy involving male stroke female issues. Two: sexual jealousy involving male stroke male issues. Three: homophobia. All preliminary of course. Could be something else behind it, drugs, revenge, whatever, but for some reason I don't think so. No obvious financial motive jumps out. No theft of wallet, phone or anything.'

He felt sick and confused.

'You see, we have the scene circumstances, and then we have you making a casual acquaintance quite close by a few days before. The cemetery is a good place for casual contacts, of all kinds. Could fit in with scenario one, if there's another Polly boyfriend, or girlfriend, involved. We have the possibility of scenario two or three if it turns out that you, or the victim, or both, are homophobic or homosexual. I'm making no accusations here, but you see how we have to think.'

'Yes, I do.'

'Anything to tell me?'

'No, except I'm not a murderer, it makes me feel sick to think of deliberately killing another human being.'

'Well, this seems to have been deliberate alright. Hard to see how it could have been accidental in view of the injuries. And there are a few scene indications. Quite interesting ones. Anything you want to tell me, that you might have forgotten about?'

'No.'

'Well, please think about it. Why did you say her name was Molly?'

'Did I?' I meant Polly. Sorry.'

'And what relation is Polly really to you?'

'Sorry?'

'You said she's a relation of yours.'

'Did I?'

'Yes, to Antonio.'

'I'm confused, sorry. Look, it's rather confidential and not something easy to talk about.'

'Take your time, Tim. I hear a lot of confidential things and they go in one ear and out the other if they aren't relevant to the business in hand.'

'Well...she is actually my granddaughter.'

'Oh I see. So the talk about periods etcetera was just her confiding in granddad?'

'Yes it was. That is...not really...she doesn't know I'm her grandfather.'

'Doesn't know?'

'Well, we only met just recently.'

'But you know she's your granddaughter?'

'Well. I've seen her photo, but she's never seen me before till the other day. I mean, it all happened before I was married and I lost touch with her grandmother.'

'You're losing me, Tim. It all sounds rather complicated.'

'I know, I'm sorry.'

'And do you know her surname? Her grandmother's surname?'

'Tatt.'

'Excuse me?'

'Tatt is the surname. T a t t.'

Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then she smiled. 'Interesting name. Is that the granddaughter's surname too, or just the gran's?'

'The gran's. I didn't ask Polly hers. I suppose it could be something else.'

'So she didn't confide in you to the extent of telling you her name. And the marks on your trousers? Friendly confiding with someone she thought was a perfect stranger?'

'No! I mean, yes. We were in here and I was sketching her and she got upset and...buried her face in my lap in tears. I comforted her. I wouldn't touch her, or her touch me!'

'You both touched each other, if she buried her face in your lap.'

'Yes, but...there was nothing...between us.'

'What upset her?'

'Oh, something silly; I just happened to call her pretty Polly and it touched a nerve, made her sound like a parrot, and she was having her period and she just got upset...'

'Tim, I think you're feeling a bit distressed?'

'Yes. It's just that meeting Polly was unexpected and I had reasons not to tell her about our relationship until I felt that the time was right. I've been feeling rather emotional about it all; it brought back memories from my young days before I was married. And now all this has happened; I feel shaken up by it all.'

'I understand. I think you've been very helpful and I'm grateful for your openness. And I'm interested in your story and dying to hear more. I do think we will need another chat, but I suggest that we take a break and then talk again in a day or two. The investigation is just starting and there's no rush at the moment. We won't arrange an appointment at this time; you just carry on, life as usual. Keep yourself available but don't feel you need to stay in, waiting for the knock on the door. Oh, and if you remember anything at all, please contact me; here's my card. I'll see myself out.'

She smiled encouragingly and left him sweating and trembling. The card showed her name, 'DS Victoria Linklater' and a mobile phone number.

#

He turned on his laptop and began searching for his e-mails to Polly and the scanned images of his sketches. He copied them all onto his memory stick, and deleted the originals. He then opened Ccleaner and swept his computer to delete all the junk files it could find. He repeated the process until it was finding nothing to remove. He clicked to the Drive Wiper and set it to thirty-five passes over all the deleted items in his hard drive. He waited, his heart thumping.

After half an hour it was still at it, and he was sick with anxiety. He hadn't made any conscious decision about what he was going to do, but he found himself searching the internet for information about Montmorillon: he would need to get to Poitiers by Eurostar and TGV, then take a local train. He could probably buy tickets online with a few clicks. But he'd need to use his credit card. But he could simply walk to Reading station and take his chances. Get some cash on the way. Any delay might make it more likely that he'd be under surveillance.

Still not quite sure what he was doing, he packed his shopping trolley with his sketches, drawing stuff, two pairs of underpants, jeans and two shirts, toilet roll, and wet wipes. He dug out an old Brittany Ferries plastic travel wallet and stowed his passport, wallet, Euro health card and mobile phone. By the time he was finished the laptop had finished scanning and wiping itself, and he put it and its charger into the shopping trolley. He didn't need to dress for the journey; the day was hot and sunny. He went downstairs and cracked the front door open a touch.

The police were still over the road near the cemetery gates: there was no sign of DS Victoria Linklater; but he didn't dare try to make his escape, even though he did look as if he was just going shopping. Then there was a smell of diesel and rot, and an enveloping shadow and laughing men in high-vis jackets grabbing the rubbish bags, and without thinking he was out of the door, screened from view by the waste collection truck. He followed it along the road, easily staying abreast, and managed to go over a hundred metres until he could take a left turn and continue his walk to the station along back streets. As he walked everything seemed unreal, as though he was a character in a film; he'd have to cover his tracks, lay a false trail.

He bought a single ticket to Bristol, paying with his debit card. He then withdrew five hundred pounds from the cash machine in the station and bought a ticket to Paddington, paying cash.

From Paddington he took the Circle line to St Pancras. The place was packed, and he saw a pair of uniformed police officers, a couple really, man and woman, sauntering slowly through the crowd. He was trembling as he approached the Eurostar ticket office. He breathed slowly and deeply and forced himself to relax into a calm optimistic mood of innocent serenity.

He managed to get one of the last few tickets to Brussels, and a return for a week later, then drifted through the crowd towards the Eurostar departure area, trying to be as invisible as possible. A toddler ran towards him wailing, and tripped and fell at his feet. He bent to help her up, then heard a shrill voice. 'Leave her alone! Get away from my daughter!' People turned and stared and he saw a woman before him, eyes blazing, and the police couple pushing through the crowd. The little girl stopped crying and stared up at him with wet face and trembling lip. Her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her away and the girl started to cry again. As she was dragged away, she turned to look at him curiously over her shoulder. Her mother smacked her: 'Don't you ever run away from me again! Don't go near old men like that!' The police officers looked him over, then the woman officer said, 'Best not to intervene, sir. Maybe get a woman to help.'

People made room for him as though he were diseased as he pushed through the crowd towards the departure barrier. A young Indian woman with a sash and badge helped him work his ticket through the machine and he joined the queue for luggage search. He was stopped after he had passed through the metal detector archway, asked to show his laptop, and an officer swabbed it with a dry tissue held in tongs, then disappeared with it for a minute but, on her return, waved him through without further comment. Passport control scared him, as he saw that each passport was placed briefly onto a scanning device and he might already be marked as a wanted person, but he was allowed through without challenge.

As he walked along the platform he was in a state of near-panic, expecting to hear running footsteps behind him and a hand on his shoulder, but he was allowed to board the train safely. His shopping trolley was small enough to fit on the rack above his seat, and he was relieved when the train began to move without anyone having sat next to him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply and slowly, trying to relax but failing to control the pounding of his heart.

#

'Sorry, but I've got the seat next to you; the window seat, is that OK?'

She was tall and slim, with frizzy dirty-blonde hair tied back in a bunch like a bushy fox's tail, and a face slightly out of focus. She smiled, showing a gap between her front teeth, which reminded him of DC Linklater's. He stood and watched her put a small wheeled suitcase up on the rack. The raising and lowering of her arms revealed tufty golden armpits and blew wafts of tangy menstrual air into his face. She settled into her seat by the window and he sat down beside her, keeping his elbow off the arm rest between them so as not to touch her or make her feel cramped. She removed her jacket, puffing sweet, warm body odour with every move, then gave him her gappy smile and leaned back into the corner between seat and window, using her rolled-up jacket as a pillow, and fell asleep.

He looked down aslant at her bare forearms. They were covered with fuzz, a golden flue of fine down, quite long, natural, soft growth, not stubble. He recalled the odd unfocussed look of her face and, risking a sideways look as though at the passing cityscape, saw that she was furry there as well. There was nothing ugly about it; it gave her an animal appearance which was feline and sexy. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her body, downed all over, fine leg fur becoming thicker at the crotch. He snoozed.

#

He came to again as they approached the tunnel, the train slowing down and finally stopping. She woke up, and peered out of the window.

'Is this the tunnel? Why have we stopped?'

'I presume it's the tunnel, and I don't know why we stopped; they haven't made an announcement.'

'Do they usually stop before going in? I haven't been in the tunnel before. A tunnel virgin!' She laughed uneasily. 'I get claustrophobia. Is it very narrow?'