‘What?’ said the detective, glancing over his shoulder towards the front room.
‘Old man, sir. Very confused. Says he should be dead. I think he’s a bit . . . you know . . .’ Calvin’s finger circled his temple to officially diagnose the old man as nuts.
Still the detective stared at him blankly.
‘A body?’ he said. ‘Whose body?’ The young man’s eyes darted past Calvin to the bed and he said, ‘Dad?’
Oh shit.
Calvin realized his mistake with a mixture of horror and defensive irritation. Why hadn’t plainclothes got here sooner? What was taking them so long? Now he’d screwed up big time and it was all their fault!
Right on cue, he heard the front door open and DCI Kirsty King call, Hello.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Calvin told the panicky boffin. ‘Would you mind coming downstairs with me?’
‘But I have to . . . Can I just?’
He tried to peer around Calvin, who spread his arms. ‘Just for a minute, please, sir.’
The man hesitated, then turned, and Calvin followed him.
Not a Crime
Reggie Cann wasn’t a detective or a scientist. He turned out to be something in computers. Calvin guessed that made the leather elbow patches ironic. Now he sat on the sofa, with a cup of tea Calvin had made, shaking a little. ‘I can’t get my head round it,’ he kept saying. ‘I only came home for lunch.’
Kirsty King nodded, her elbows on her knees as she leaned forward sympathetically in the easy chair. DC Pete Shapland perched a little more awkwardly in a less-easy chair and took notes. Calvin watched from the hallway while overhead were the creaking floor and muffled voice of his partner, Jackie Braddick, keeping the old man calm. He’d kept trying to get out of bed, but although she was young, Jackie had the cheerful smile and iron will of an NHS nurse, and so far the old chap had been compliant with her, and her alone.
‘Where do you work, Reggie?’
‘CompuWiz. In Bideford.’
‘I know it,’ said King. ‘Up in Old Town, right?’
He nodded.
‘What time did you leave this morning?’
Reggie shrugged. ‘About eight fifteen. It’s not far.’
DCI King started. ‘OK, we had a call mid-morning saying there were intruders in your house.’
‘Intruders?’
‘A man and a woman.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t know who that could be.’
‘No? Does anyone else have a key to the house?’
‘No. Just me and Albert.’
‘Your father?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Reggie. ‘But he doesn’t go out much. And Skipper hasn’t been outdoors for months.’
‘That’s your granddad? Charles?’
‘Yeah, Charles. Skipper, we call him.’
‘He tells us he has cancer?’
‘Yeah. Lung. Late stages, the doctor says.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Kirsty King.
‘Yeah,’ nodded Reggie, but he wasn’t thinking of that, Calvin could tell. ‘Who called you?’
‘A woman. She wouldn’t give her name.’
King took her phone from her coat pocket and fiddled about with it for a moment, then held it up for Reggie to hear the recording.
It was muffled, but obviously a woman, and with a strong local accent.
There’s people in the house opposite. The bay who lives there went to work and these people have gone in and—
Do you know the people, ma’am?
No, they’re strangers. An old man and a girl. And they looks a bit dodgy.
How did they get in?
In the front door, but they didn’t knock or ring the bell and I don’t know them—
What’s your name, ma’am?
I’m not saying. I don’t want some nutter after me, you know? But I think you should send someone over here because I never seen ’em round here before and I don’t think they should be in that house . . .
She turned off the recorder. ‘Do you recognize the caller?’
Reggie Cann shook his head. ‘No, but it is quite crackly.’
‘It is,’ said King. ‘But from the information given I’m assuming it’s one of your neighbours . . . ?’
‘Could be Jean across the way, I suppose. She’s super-nosey.’
‘What number is that?’
Reggie looked blank for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I don’t know. The house with the gnomes.’
He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face.
‘Sorry to put you through this right now, Reggie,’ said King kindly, ‘but obviously we need to gather as much information as possible as quickly as we can in this situation.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I get it.’
‘Thank you,’ King said, and went on, ‘From the call, it sounds like whoever came in had a key, doesn’t it?’
‘There’s a broken window, ma’am,’ said Pete Shapland helpfully, and Calvin winced for him.
‘That wasn’t done today,’ King said, without looking. ‘No glass on the floor.’
Pete reddened.
‘Who else has a key to the house, Reggie?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Not a neighbour? A relative?’
He shook his head.
King went on. ‘Who cares for your grandfather while you’re at work?’
‘Well, Dad was, mostly. He doesn’t work because he’s got emphysema.’ He stopped and grimaced. ‘Had emphysema. But most days he gets up and comes downstairs to watch TV or whatever . . . Make soup or something.’
‘So normally he’d be out of bed?’
‘Yeah. Most days he gets up.’
‘But not today?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘And you do what you can before and after work?’
‘That’s all I seem to do,’ said Reggie. ‘Work at work and then work at home. I mean, a Macmillan nurse comes in a couple of times a month, but I do pretty much everything! Dad says he helps, but it’s not help. Like, he’ll make a meal but he won’t clean up. Leaves everything out on the side or in the sink and thinks he’s done me a favour. Or Skip’ll try to get up and come downstairs and I’m like, Just stay in bed for fuck’s sake – you’re dying of cancer!’
He stopped and there was an awkward silence. He sighed deeply. ‘Sorry. It’s just, I come home for lunch and my house is full of police and my father’s dead . . .’
‘Of course,’ said King. And then, after a moment, ‘So nobody else comes in to help? Social services?’
‘No,’ said Reggie. ‘The cleaner will make them a sandwich or something.’
‘The cleaner?’ Kirsty King somehow resisted looking around at