Skeeter opened the file and slid a still photograph of him standing in the shop. ‘You’re with Carla there. Is that you and is that Carla?’
He looked at the photograph but did not pick it up. He then nodded.
‘We need you to speak as gestures can be misconstrued on film.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, we have your initial statement which now seems to be contradicted by that evidence. You told us a lie, an untruth. Why was that, Mr Smith? What exactly are you hiding?’
Chapter 10
On hearing the news on Cameron Jennings’s murder, following so quickly after Carla’s disappearance, Stuart Groves felt disquieted. The details were here in black and white. He had taken the Liverpool Echo from the newspaper rack and his friend’s face had stared back. That face was the same face that had been here, in the café not long ago, arguing about whose turn it was to pay. ‘When in life does the average man personally know anyone who’s been murdered?’ he mumbled to himself, loudly enough for a woman on the next table to look his way, frown, before moving her chair a little further away. Not many people ever do fortunately and here he was, within a matter of a few days, finding he had one friend missing and another murdered. He immediately felt as though the sword of Damocles was hanging above his head.
He did not look to check, instead he looked out of the café window at the light drizzle flushing Lord Street. He thought about Cameron and a simple question looped in his mind: why him? Turning back to the report brought even more confusion. For one thing, Cameron was never an early bird so to be murdered at that time in the morning was absurd. The place seemed to make no sense either. Yes, he was a runner so he might be out along Marine Drive. But, was he out running? He ran later in the morning usually. He looked at the photograph of the shoes featured in the article, clearly identified as evidence. He never wore that type of footwear and he certainly never ran in brogues not even for a bus. He felt a strange tumbling within his stomach and made a dash for the toilet.
Lucy and Tony Price pulled off Strand Street and into the underground parking area for Liverpool One, the large conglomerate comprising shopping centre, leisure facilities and accommodation. The specified parking area was on the first level. It had to be said that neither found the apartment block inspiring as it seemed to be constructed mainly from glass. Interestingly, it was within a hundred yards of the Merseyside Police HQ.
The entrance hall to the apartments was airy and contemporary. To the right was an area holding elegantly designed post boxes, row upon row, each numbered. Two dark grey leather settees were positioned next to the concierge’s desk. He had watched with interest as they emerged from the carpark elevator.
Tony nodded before walking to the bank of ten buttons under the label ‘Floor Eleven’. He pressed button four.
‘Taylor,’ the voice announced with unusual clarity for an intercom.
‘Mr Taylor, you’re expecting us at two.’
The lock on the door clicked and swung slightly. ‘Just take either lift.’
‘Hold the door, sir. Your car registration, if I may. We don’t want to find it clamped on our return, do we now?’ The concierge smiled, a smile that could curdle milk but was well intended. Tony looked at Lucy in the hope she would know. She checked the key fob and read it out. ‘Thank you. Your first time here I see.’ With that he returned to his seat and continued to monitor the three large CCTV screens.
Arriving on the eleventh floor had been less of a challenge than they had thought and apartment 114 would have been clearly visible even without Simon Taylor standing outside the door.
Once inside the apartment Tony could not contain his enthusiasm for the view from the expanse of glass that seemed to fill the far wall. A small balcony ran along its full length. Tony whistled low and slow as he moved closer, his admiration made very apparent.
‘Sir, that is some view. May I?’
‘Please, allow me.’
Taylor slid open the door and Tony walked outside. The whole of the riverfront was laid before them stretching from the Albert Dock along to the Three Graces and then beyond. The view the apartment captured was that of the iconic Liverpool waterfront and the UNESCO World Heritage site for which it is famous.
‘I bet it’s a special view in all weathers and at night, Mr Taylor. I’ve seen it from our police building further down the road but the balcony makes all the difference.’
‘On a clear evening it is truly special, when the sun has set and Mother Nature’s illuminations blend with the complementing lights of the waterfront. Yes, it’s stupendous. The real beauty is in the subtle daily change of the light and how that plays on the colour of the river. It’s loving art that makes me see these things – an artist’s eye you might say. Sorry! I’m being rude. May I offer you tea or coffee?’
‘Thanks, but no. We just need to chat about your time in Craufurd Gaskell’s flat,’ Lucy answered, eager to proceed.
Tony had moved inside and taken a seat next to Lucy.
‘Craufurd, yes. I was there for a short time. I had a contract for four months although I didn’t stay the full term but I paid up fully. It was when I was waiting for this to become available. City living suits me and my business but I’d seen the Southport apartment having attended a party there and liked the whole ambience of the space and its general position. Being close to the Atkinson Gallery was a key consideration. So, for short term it suited me. It became available at the right time
