Janssen shook his head. He had been about to do so first thing but he’d got the call to divert and pick her up so had put it off figuring the SIO would most likely want to attend. They set off back to the car. The McCalls lived further inland on an old strip of common land that had been the subject of many disputes among local landowners over the years. No one ever successfully laid claim to it with competing titles repeatedly overturning each other in the courts. The upshot of which meant the McCalls managed to stay there with no one ever securing their eviction. On one occasion, a local petitioned the council to have them removed but they were in such a remote location, away from anyone else, that it wasn’t deemed worthy of the expenditure from the public purse.
The address was difficult to find. The McCalls lived at the end of an unmade track, churned up by both farm machinery and livestock being driven between grazing land. The car bobbled around as Janssen picked his way along it, doing his level best to avoid the peaks and troughs. The winter may have been mild with little rain but in the flatlands of Norfolk, the ground remained boggy. Tamara held onto the door handle, sometimes glancing in his direction with the odd disapproving look. He was tempted to offer her the chance to drive them back but thought better of it.
Reaching the end of the track, tucked away alongside a small copse of Silver Birch trees was the McCall house. It wasn’t really a house. By the look of it, it was an old railway carriage the likes of which hadn’t been seen on the network for decades. The exterior to the frontage was lined with windows. They were ingrained with dirt and it was impossible to imagine you could see through them with any clarity. The remains of the carriage were no longer on wheels and as they got out of the car, Janssen figured they’d actually stripped the panels and reused them to fashion a makeshift dwelling with other structures precariously attached in something of an ad hoc fashion.
The roof was made up of an odd assortment of corrugated metal sheets, similar plastic ones and a hopscotch of felt linings, the likes of which would be commonly used on domestic sheds and garden out-buildings. Janssen noted a cable running up the exterior side of the ramshackle accommodation before angling off and disappearing into the trees. I wonder where the power is drawn from? There was no possibility the property was connected to mains water and he assumed they must have access to a natural spring or something nearby. The family were about as close to living off grid as one could get without a lot of green technology and a significant budget.
They approached but didn’t get far before the door creaked open and a man stepped out and headed them off. He was short for a man, probably around five-foot-six in height but stocky. He wore grubby jeans and a white vest, now greying with age. He sported several day’s worth of stubble growth and his hair was unkempt. Callum McCall scratched at his crown eyeing them warily. “I’ve nae seen him and I don’t ken where he is. Not that I’d tell you if I did!”
Tamara looked to him and Janssen inclined his head. “Good morning, Mr McCall. How do you know we’re looking for Mark?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“We are, Mr McCall,” Tamara said, displaying her warrant card. “DCI Tamara Greave and this is Detective Inspector Janssen.” She indicated in his direction and Janssen nodded a greeting towards him. Callum disregarded her and addressed Janssen.
“Janssen? That’s not a Norfolk name.” He seemed quite serious, his expression was fixed, disdainful. “You don’t look local either. That name sounds more Scandinavian to me. Is that where you’re from?”
“When did you last see Mark?” he asked, ignoring the question. “Are you expecting him back soon?”
“No idea.” Callum didn’t appear to be in the cooperative mood.
“It’s very important we speak with him, Mr McCall.” Greave asserted herself, coming over to stand slightly in front of Janssen. She clearly wanted to display her authority to Callum. That was fine with him, if she felt the need. “I’m sure you’re well aware of how these things go.”
“Well aware, aye.” Callum fixed her with a stare. “Don’t worry about finding the real perpetrator when a McCall will do just as well.”
“Seeing as your son isn’t here,” Tamara said, glancing around the surrounding area, “perhaps you would like to tell us about your relationship with Holly. You did have one, didn’t you?” The last was framed as a question but she sought to make it a statement of fact, forcing an admission or a flat-out denial. She was canny, Janssen had to give it to her. Callum thought about it, probably conceiving the question in the same way.
“Yeah. I knew her. She was Mark’s girl. Of course, I did.” He sniffed loudly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
“And the altercation you had with her in town a while back. What was that about?” Tamara wasn’t messing about, going straight in on him.
Janssen judged Callum was going to offer a considered response, choosing his words carefully. He didn’t want them coming back to bite him. “That was in the coffee shop in town. She pushed in front of me in the queue. Trying to wind me up, that’s all. I told her what’s what. Nothing more.”
“Anyone around to corroborate that?” Janssen asked.
Callum glared at him and nodded. “Loads, yeah.”
Tamara exchanged glances with him, turning to go back to the car. “Tell Mark to get in touch, would you,” she said over her shoulder. Janssen took out one of his contact cards and passed it to Callum who accepted grudgingly. He glanced at the
