Missing pieces, p.24
Missing Pieces, page 24
‘Christ! Can’t any of you people read? You’ve missed the path. Go back through the gate and turn right up the hill. And close the bloody gate behind you.’
The dungarees were wet on her left side where she’d been lying on the floor. The back of her left hand was bleeding a little where she’d scratched it in her attempt to repair whatever had gone wrong, and on her forearm was a faded tattoo of some sort of flower. She was overweight for her height and breathing a little heavily but a trace of the beauty she had once been lingered around her eyes and her full lips. It was her voice that had caught his attention, however, or rather her accent – public schoolgirl posh, Smith might have concluded.
Waters said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you. Am I speaking to Mrs Collinson?’
‘No. And who the hell are you?’
He took out his ID as he answered her – ‘We’re police officers. We’d like a word with Mr Collinson. Is he at home?’
These opening lines had been carefully considered; usually he would have given the station, Kings Lake Central, but he didn’t want to reveal immediately that they had come from Norfolk. Similarly, the request to speak to “Mr Collinson” did not identify which of the two men he believed might reside here he had in mind.
Murray had moved to stand behind Waters so she could see him. She looked from one to the other, and then picked up a sodden tea towel and dabbed at the blood on the back of her hand. She said, ‘He’s up on the top field, turning hay. What’s this about?’
Waters said, ‘We do need to speak to Mr Collinson himself.’
She held his gaze for a second or two and then looked back at her hand. It was still bleeding but she didn’t bother trying to stop it again. She said, ‘I’ll fetch him.’
Waters said they could find him themselves if that was easier but she told him it wouldn’t be – they’d only get lost. They stepped out of the doorway as she came by them, pointedly unhurried, holding herself very straight, and she never looked back as she made her way around the corner of the barn and out of their sight.
Murray said, ‘Should be all right. I can’t see him escaping on that tractor.’
‘John, keep an eye open.’
Then Waters stepped into the kitchen and listened. There was no sound in the house, nothing to suggest anyone else was at home. He went over to the draining board and looked at the small stack of crockery and the knives, forks and spoons – as far as he could make out, everything was in twos rather than threes. On a kitchen table were some washed but un-ironed clothes; a cursory look at those brought him to the same conclusion. Leadsom had told them his watcher had lost sight of Saul Collinson some years ago. It was possible he was no longer here at Tyn-y-Capel but, of course, Waters did not yet know which Mr Collinson was driving the tractor up on the top field.
He moved on to a doorway into another room. It was a sitting room, that’s what his deceased grandparents would have called it – it did not merit the modern label of a lounge. The furniture was dated and of no particular style or consistency – a dark leather sofa slumped at an angle across one end, facing a flat-screen television which was, as far as he could see, the only twenty-first century object in the room. Waters had the sudden realisation that these chairs, that sofa, those standard lamps had been here before the Collinsons arrived and were likely to be here still after they had departed. In one corner he saw a small heap of worn women’s shoes. The room smelled faintly of stale dog.
He heard Murray say his Christian name quietly and moved back to stand where he had been at the kitchen door. Behind the woman walked a tall, stooped figure, grey-bearded and bespectacled, thin in the way that the woman was overweight – not uncomfortably so but enough for it to be the cause of some regret. He appeared to be more or less bald until he was close enough for one to see the emaciated ponytail that hung from the back of his neck to halfway down his checked work shirt. It was grey, and little thicker than a rat’s tail. What interested Waters most, however, was that as the man approached he looked towards the two strangers who had come to find him but not at them, not into the eyes at all. Is it my imagination, Waters thought, or is there about this man an air of resignation? He couldn’t be certain of that, but of one thing he was already sure – he was about to talk to Seth Collinson.
When he finally said they were from Kings Lake Central police station the couple did not look at each other but Waters sensed the significance of the moment. The woman turned away and said she would make a pot of tea – if they’d like some they were welcome. Waters eyed the draining board and the assemblage of old, chipped mugs but Murray said he would and thanked her – Waters followed suit, not forgetting some of the wonders that partaking of tea had performed in his time working with Smith.
Collinson sat at the kitchen table and waved a hand towards the other chairs. When the visitors were seated, he said, ‘You’ve come a long way. What’s this about?’
It was a Midlands accent, not far, Waters guessed, from Serena’s in its place of origin. He said, ‘We’re investigating the murder of a young woman – or, I should say, re-investigating. She died near Wissingham Hall in Norfolk almost exactly twenty years ago this week. I’m sure you remember it, Mr Collinson.’
You’re sitting in someone’s kitchen; you’ve just told them you want to speak to them about the murder of a young woman, and the person with her back to you, busy with tea bags, milk and mugs, does not turn around in surprise, does not say ‘Murder? Really? Why on earth do you want to talk to us about something like that?’ Murray had noticed it, too.
Collinson hadn’t said anything. Waters went on, ‘We believe you were at Wissingham Hall that week, Mr Collinson. There was a pop festival of sorts, which had taken place at the same time for some years previously. You went to the festival on a number of occasions, didn’t you?’
Collinson said, ‘I wouldn’t call them pop festivals. There was some music but it was more about a meeting of like-minded people. A celebration of shared beliefs.’
Waters nodded – ‘I’ll take that as confirmation you were there, then.’ He looked towards the woman and said, ‘And was your partner also present that year?’ Still she did not turn around.
‘No. Fleur wasn’t there. We hadn’t met then.’
For a moment and quite unexpectedly, Waters felt the weight that had been placed upon his shoulders: twenty years, thousands of hours of police work and the sheer expense of it all, Allen’s television appeal, the look of frightened hope on Chloe Favreau’s face when she was told they should soon be interviewing a suspect, and Freeman had handed it to him. She’d told him, you’ve met James Leadsom, you’ve heard his story – it cannot be me, it has to be you. But she could have sent DI Greene and no one would have been surprised. This was the most significant job he’d ever been given, and every member of the squad would have realised that. He felt Murray’s look after a few seconds had passed in silence.
Waters said, ‘And I believe your brother was there as well that year. Your younger brother, Saul. Is that correct, Mr Collinson?’
He received a nod in return. On the worksurface the kettle had been boiling for some seconds before the woman switched it off and poured water into a large brown teapot.
‘It’s Saul we would like to speak to, Mr Collinson. We know he moved here with you. Is he still living with you now?’
‘No. He doesn’t live with us anymore.’
This had been one of the anticipated outcomes when the interview was planned yesterday. The journey had still been considered essential because Seth Collinson himself was an important witness to the events they believed had led up to Sylvie Favreau’s murder.
Waters asked whether Collinson knew where his brother was now but the man did not answer. He said instead, ‘Why do you want to speak to Paul after all this time?’
The change of name, the returning to his brother’s original name, might or might not be significant but Waters did not miss it. He said, ‘We believe he can give us important information about what happened to the young woman. Her name was Sylvie Favreau. She was French.’
Collinson understood the point of that. He said, ‘I don’t remember her. But there were lots of people, it was a long time ago…’
He had said those words staring down at the table – then he looked up at Waters. ‘Why now, I said? What’s changed after all this time?’
It was impossible to say just how much Collinson knew but the look of resignation was still there; he seemed to be going through the motions of being interviewed about this, as if certain lines had to be said.
‘Mr Collinson, a number of things have changed. One is that we have exhumed the girl’s body. This has provided us with significant new forensic evidence. That is what we need to talk to Paul about. Can you tell me where he is?’
For the second time, Collinson avoided the question. The woman, Fleur, had turned around now and was watching him as carefully as the two detectives.
Collinson said, ‘How do you know he moved here with us? You said you know that. Who’ve you been speaking to about something like that?’
As a matter of principle one does not reveal sources, but there are occasions when doing so is the smarter choice. Waters considered it carefully and then said, ‘James Leadsom.’
It went home like a harpoon of truth – Collinson flinched. Waters looked at the woman, and she was staring back as if she despised him. She might not have been at Wissingham but she knew the whole story.
Waters said, ‘Mr Leadsom has been interviewed on more than one occasion, including by me, Mr Collinson. He has cooperated fully in the investigation.’
In other words, he has told us everything.
Collinson had an odd smile on his lined face – a face that seemed to have aged years in the past ten minutes. He said, ‘All right…’ and the woman said simply, ‘No.’
Waters checked with Murray and then said, ‘Mr Collinson, I have to ask again. You have told us Paul no longer lives with you. Do you know his whereabouts?’
Collinson got up from the table, scraping the chair back on the flagstone floor, and Murray moved an inch or two in readiness.
‘I’ll take you to him.’
Waters said, ‘To whom, Mr Collinson? You told us-’
Collinson was moving towards the door as if someone else had knocked upon it, and he said again but in a different voice, ‘I’ll take you to him.’
Murray was already following. When Waters looked at the woman, he saw that she was weeping.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They walked behind Collinson across the yard, through the one-hinged gate and then back a short distance the way they had come before he turned right onto the footpath Murray had pointed out earlier. It was a steepish hill and the path was soon little more than a sheep-track – they walked in single file, Collinson, Waters and then Murray. The two dogs had joined them, scouting out on each side, tails wagging at the novelty of the situation.
As the slope began to level out, Collinson stopped and looked across the cwm. Waters caught up with him and Collinson said as he pointed, ‘I’ve got to finish turning that hay. We’ll have rain before the weekend’s out.’
Waters could see the small red tractor halfway up the opposite slope – it looked like an antique toy, as old and as out of date as the rest of Tyn-y-Capel. He said, ‘Do you farm much land here?’
‘Fifty acres. You can’t call it farming. The land’s worthless except as scenery, and you can’t sell that, you can’t eat it. We thought about a holiday business once, but…’
Murray caught them up, a little breathless after pushing his big frame uphill, but the two detectives exchanged a meaningful look – something odd was going on here. Waters had had a strong premonition as soon as they walked onto the footpath, and his instincts had told him to let Collinson lead, literally and metaphorically – hence the chat about hill-farming. It has also occurred to him that this might all be a ruse to get them away from the house so some hidden occupant could escape, but if that was the case, they had reckoned without the wily Sergeant Davies waiting back at the roadside.
Collinson set off once more. They would soon be on the top of the hill that formed the western edge of the cwm, and Waters could see no building, no habitation. He’d wondered whether there might be a cabin up here, or an old caravan – you see them poked into odd places, in the corners of fields, up lanes, all over Wales and the West Country – but this would be too exposed to the elements, too bleak surely.
Collinson had walked more quickly and got a little ahead of them before he stopped. Murray took a few longer strides and caught up with Waters. He said, ‘He could be leading us on a dance.’ Waters acknowledged that but added he thought it unlikely – he was remembering the woman crying, her horror-struck expression.
They joined Collinson on top of the hill. He was looking down the slope, and following his gaze, they could see some fifty yards further on what appeared to be a heap of stone slabs, but huge ones that only a small crane could lift. Around it was a low wooden fence and on the side nearest to them was a noticeboard. Collinson said, ‘That’s it’ and set off once more towards what must be the Neolithic monument young Gareth had begun to tell them about.
Once again, the notice was only in Welsh, but this hardly mattered because Collinson was telling them. ‘About two and a half thousand years old… It was a burial chamber, communal, probably just for one social group. It aligns perfectly east to west’ – indicating alternately those two points of the compass – ‘sunrise and sunset. Originally it would have been covered with a mound of smaller stones, but over the centuries… One old boy told me some of the stones were used to build the house.’
The view was extraordinary. The peak of Mount Snowdon was clearly visible to the north-west; in between, mile after mile of hills rising and falling like geological waves, and the rivers and streams running between them, the intricate patchwork of woods and hill pastures. Over the hayfield where Collinson had been working, three huge birds circled each other on a thermal, chestnut-coloured in the sunlight, long-winged and fork-tailed – the famous Red Kites of Wales.
‘… those people,’ Collinson was saying, ‘were in harmony with the seasons, the natural and celestial cycles, with Gaia. Today, most of us are too dim and ignorant to understand any of it. We think of the Stone Age as primitive, but the opposite is true. That’s when humans were at their most civilised, most in tune with their world. We’ve been in decline and abusing it ever since, and very soon now, we’ll begin paying the price.’
There was a small gate in the low fence. Collinson opened it and went through – they followed and the stones of the burial mound, grey and white and lichened like those in the graveyard of St Mary’s, were now within touching distance. Up close, they were immense, and like every thinking person before him, Waters wondered how those Neolithic people had hauled them up steep hillsides to this carefully-chosen place. It was now evident that three of them laid flat on the ground formed a roof over a hollow which had been excavated beneath. Waters moved a few steps to his right and crouched so he could see inside.
Collinson said, ‘Dug out by some ignorant Welshman long ago. Nobody knows when exactly or whether they found anything. Before we came they used to pen sheep in it.’
Waters said, ‘So this is all on your land?’
‘Yes.’
Waters straightened up and said, ‘Paul, Mr Collinson? That’s what you said back at the house.’
The man looked away into the west for some seconds. The Kites were still circling in a gyre, above them now as if the tomb held some significance for them, some ancient race memory of when men here had meaning for their species too.
‘He loved this place,’ Collinson said. ‘He sat up here for hours on end. He knew all about it. I took him to the library in Conwy a few times so he could make notes from some of their books. When we got the internet, he kept his research going on that. He told me that up here was his happy place.’
Waters looked at Murray and widened his eyes a fraction – it was reasonably interpreted as saying, if you have any questions, now would be a good time. Murray said, ‘Mr Collinson – were the people who built this place Druids?’
The response came with an oddly bitter laugh: ‘One word describes what most people think they know about the Druids – ignorance.’
He made a strange figure against the spectacular backdrop. Once as tall as Waters, Collinson was stooped now, round-shouldered like an old man but Waters thought he must still be in his fifties, no more than that. The untrimmed greying beard and the remnants of the long hair added to the aged and other-worldly appearance, and no doubt twenty years ago that was the effect Seth Collinson had wanted when he was some sort of alternative leader at those New Age festivals. But the aura around him now seemed more tragic than mystical.
He said to Murray, ‘According to the historians, your dates are out by a couple of thousand years but no one actually knows. The old religions are much older than we think. And one day, if it’s not already too late…’
Somewhere out over the cwm a Skylark was singing again, perhaps the same bird, perhaps another. A poet once called it a blithe spirit, and blithe can mean happy and carefree or something, someone, indifferent to the fate of others. Looking at Collinson now, realising he was about to say something of significance at last, Waters understood too that the man was indifferent to his own fate now.
‘You need to know that never once in fifteen years did he leave Tyn-y-Capel alone. One of us was always with him. When we first came, others followed us but I put a stop to that. So there’s nothing else. All right?’
Waters nodded but said nothing.
Collinson was still staring out across the valley. After a little while he said, ‘I always did my best for him. But he was a troubled soul.’
