by Carol Wyer
‘Okay, wheel him in.’
A few minutes later there was a second knock and Ryan marched in ahead of Ian.
‘Thanks for coming in, Ryan,’ said Natalie.
His head moved like a robot’s as he took in his surroundings before sitting down. ‘When can I return to my room?’
‘We’re not sure yet. Forensics are still examining the house.’
‘Including my room?’
‘Yes, including yours.’
‘They won’t mess it up, will they? I don’t like mess.’
‘They won’t cause too much disruption.’
‘I might need some more clothes and my books. I only took a sports bag of stuff with me. I didn’t think it would be for too long.’
‘We’ll arrange for more clothes if you need them.’
He appeared satisfied with her response. ‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘We’ve made an important discovery. Hattie was killed in the kitchen at your house.’
‘Shit! For real?’
‘I’m afraid so, and whoever killed her cleaned up the kitchen afterwards and removed her body.’
‘Fuck, man! That’s pretty sick shit. For the record, it wasn’t me.’
‘Well, we have to find out who was responsible, and to do that, I need to ask you a few questions.’
He sat up tall, unperturbed by the situation. ‘Fire away. If I can help in any way, I will.’
‘Firstly, do you recognise this bottle?’ Natalie pointed to the bottle on the table.
Ryan stared at it for the longest moment and read the label, ‘Chase GB Gin. I’m pretty certain Fran had a bottle exactly like this one in her room.’
There were no bottles of gin or any other bottle in Fran’s room. Natalie had already asked Forensics. ‘You actually remember seeing it in her room?’
‘I’m sure there was a bottle like this on the floor by her bed.’
‘When would this have been?’
‘Last Thursday. I was doing a presentation that morning but it was raining hard and I didn’t want to get soaked cycling onto campus. Nobody else was around and she was about to leave for a lecture, so I asked her for a lift. The bottle was definitely on the floor.’
‘Fran had a car?’
‘Yes. A Vauxhall Corsa.’
‘Have you any idea where it is?’
‘Probably somewhere along the street.’
How had they missed this? That was a gross oversight on their part. ‘What colour is it?’
‘Silver.’
‘I don’t suppose you know the registration?’
‘No, sorry.’
Murray disappeared to get some information about the vehicle, leaving Natalie alone with the young man.
‘We think Hattie died Saturday evening. Remind me where you were at that time.’
‘I was upstairs in my room. I went out about eight thirty.’
‘Did you see anything unusual at all?’
‘Nothing. I heard Fran and Rhiannon shouting the odds, but I told you about that.’
‘That was about eight?’
‘I think it was about then.’
The timing corresponded with Hattie’s death, but according to Ryan, the shouting had come from below him, in Fran’s room, and Rhiannon had denied any argument. She studied his deadpan face. Was Ryan lying to her? She wished she could penetrate whatever invisible protective covering he wore and establish the truth once and for all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Wednesday, 21 November – Mid-Afternoon
Lucy had spent all day trying to establish if anyone had seen anything unusual on Eastview Avenue. The area wasn’t vast but door-to-door enquiries were time-consuming, especially when most of the properties had been converted into flats and every individual had to be consulted. Many had been out on her first attempt and she’d made repeated efforts to speak to householders. Those who lived in the flats overlooking the accountants’ car park were the most elusive, and although she’d managed to contact some of them thanks to helpful neighbours and friends who’d supplied phone numbers and contact details, there were still many she had yet to speak to. She was jaded and deflated and had walked miles back and forth.
It had been made longer thanks to the midday interruption when Bethany had phoned her, insisting she meet her and baby Aurora at Samford Park.
‘It’s a good thing we came along today. You wouldn’t have eaten all day. I got you a vegan sausage roll,’ says Bethany, passing Lucy a paper bag. The bottom of the bag is shiny brown with grease and the aroma of warm pastry turns her stomach to acid. She’s instantly put off eating, not because of the bag and the food inside it, but because of the schoolmarm tone Bethany has adopted. She smiles thanks but sets the bag aside on the bench, and instead of eating, she lifts the murmuring Aurora from her buggy. The baby has a smell all of her own – fresh like new sheets or warm bread – and she lowers the baby’s furry hood and strokes the child’s downy hair, soft and pale, unlike either hers or Bethany’s.
‘I would,’ she mumbles, her attention on Aurora, passive and weighty in her arms, blue eyes on her, like she’s the most important human in the universe. The baby is growing quickly. It only seems like yesterday she weighed next to nothing.
‘You know what you’re like. You’d have gone all day without a break or food. You’re fading away.’ Bethany’s voice is mock-stern but rankles all the same. Lucy lets it go. She isn’t too pleased that Bethany rang her while she was on duty and asked where she was, then arranged for this impromptu picnic lunch.
‘I’m worried about you, Luce. You’re worn out all the time. It was better when you moved to vice for those few months while Natalie was off,’ says Bethany, voice syrupy, wheedling, irritating.
‘I’ll be fine once this case is over and I can catch up on some rest.’ Lucy lifts Aurora up under her armpits. ‘Hey, beautiful girl. You don’t think I look worn out, do you?’
Aurora’s lips make a semblance of a smile and she produces a spit bubble that bursts, causing dribble to run down her chin. Lucy laughs and wipes it with the bib tied around the child’s neck. It’s one of a set of zoo animal bibs Lucy bought in an expensive baby boutique. This one is of a beaming giraffe. Aurora gets through several bibs a day.
Bethany isn’t going to be swayed. ‘Why don’t you ask for some leave as soon as the investigation is over? We could all go on holiday. It would do us all good.’
Lucy’s heart sinks. It’s not that she doesn’t want to go away with Bethany and Aurora. She loves spending time with them, but she’s saddened. This is the first time Bethany has put any pressure on her. She, more than anybody, ought to understand what this job means to Lucy. It isn’t a mere job; it’s Lucy’s career. She’s hoping to make DI one day in the near future, and she needs to rack up the hours and prove her dedication to the force. She’ll take some holiday when it’s due. Obviously, she’ll take time off. She just doesn’t want to be told to.
‘What do you say, Luce? A few days in Cornwall with the little one or maybe even head off to the Canaries. That’d be better than the cold weather here.’ Bethany prattles on, unaware that Lucy is becoming increasingly irked by the conversation.
‘Aurora is invariably asleep when you get in each day and you never get enough time together. A trip away would give you a chance to bond with her, give you more than snatched moments.’
This is exactly what happened to Ian and his partner, Scarlett. Scarlett had been happy with Ian, his hours and choice of career until after baby Ruby had been born, and then she’d gradually put pressure on him to spend more time with them. Lucy wipes the baby’s face again and says quietly, ‘No.’
‘What do you mean “no”?’ Bethany gives a light laugh although her heavy brows draw together.
‘I’ll take leave when I want to not when I’m ordered to.’
‘I wasn’t ordering you to.’ Bethany’s face has turned ugly, her mouth drawn down. ‘I only thought you’d like to see some more of o
ur daughter… and me.’
‘Don’t, Bethany.’
‘Don’t what? Why are you getting het up?’ Her intonation rises with each word.
‘Don’t get all needy and demanding. It’s not like you.’
Bethany’s hand snakes out, grabs the paper bag and she huffs. ‘I think it’s better if Aurora and I go. We don’t want to disturb your busy work, do we, honey?’
Lucy stares at the beautiful child who shares none of her DNA but is, nevertheless, her daughter. ‘I don’t want us to fall out over this.’
Bethany sniffs. ‘We aren’t. I was only concerned about you and I wanted to see you. I haven’t seen much of you since the investigation began.’
‘It’s been a few days.’
‘But it feels longer. I haven’t seen you at all since last Friday – only brief snatches before you race off again. I go to bed alone. I get up alone. I want to share the things Aurora does with you, all the experiences, so you feel part of our lives, but you’re invariably out of contact. I’m sorry,’ she says suddenly, tears springing to her eyes. ‘I know I shouldn’t behave this way, I can’t help myself. I don’t like being like this.’
Bethany rubs her eyes then stands up, arms outstretched to take Aurora from Lucy. ‘Come on, little one. Let’s get you home for a nap. Say bye-bye to Mummy Lucy.’
Lucy passes the baby over, her arms suddenly lighter and colder, already missing the baby’s presence. Bethany fusses over the child, replacing her hood and tucking her back under the snuggly blanket in the buggy. This is merely a blip in their otherwise great relationship. Bethany hands over the paper bag containing Lucy’s lunch. ‘Make sure you eat.’ She kisses her goodbye on the cheek and pushes the buggy down the path. Lucy watches the two loves of her life as they disappear from view. The pastry bag is greasy in her hand and she tosses it into the bin next to the bench they were sitting on and wipes her hands on her thighs. She hopes it is only a blip.
Lucy pressed on the doorbell to flat 1A, 216 Turner Street. She’d spoken to all the other residents in the converted mansion and been assured the occupant of the remaining flat would be home mid-afternoon. Kirsty Tungsten worked from 6 a.m. until 2 p.m. and was, according to her neighbour, as regular as clockwork when it came to routine, stopping off at the local express grocery store before coming home and usually arriving back at 2.45 p.m. It was bang on three o’clock when Lucy tried her and was in luck.
‘Don’t mind Ziggy. He’s harmless. He doesn’t often fall down,’ Kirsty said. The large chameleon, a shade in between vanilla and a dusty pink which matched the patterned wallpaper, remained suspended on the ceiling, its monocular eyes rotated in opposite directions as it surveyed its surroundings, searching for prey, before it padded slowly towards the curtains, its zygodactylous feet enabling him to perform the act. The room was a testament to Kirsty’s love of animals: toy mice, a scratching post, animal beds, rugs covered in squeaky toys, a hutch inside which sat a floppy-eared black rabbit, nose twitching as it chewed on fresh greens. Lucy wiped sweat from the back of her neck. The room was hot and stuffy, almost tropical. Kirsty reappeared from the kitchen, a moustachioed, black Affenpinscher terrier in a crocheted green coat under her arm. The dog wriggled to get free, keen to greet the newcomer.
‘You okay with dogs?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s a little feisty at the moment and full of energy. I was about to walk him. Ignore him and he’ll not bother you. Pat him and you’ll be stuck with him for life.’ She tapped the dog lightly on his nose and said, ‘No jumping!’
She placed the animal on the ground and he bounded towards Lucy, racing around her ankles and sniffing, tail wagging. She took Kirsty’s advice and paid him no attention. ‘I wanted to talk to you about the cars in the car park opposite. I see you have a good view over it.’
‘Bit of an eyesore, isn’t it? Still, it could be worse.’
‘I wondered if you’d seen any unusual activity in the car park: anyone arguing, a fight, people lurking about?’
‘No, I haven’t seen a thing. The curtains are usually drawn, especially this time of the year when I’m out most of the daylight hours. It gets dark very early this time of the year. I sometimes don’t even bother to open them when I get home.’
Lucy had drawn another blank. She prepared to leave but Kirsty was chatty. ‘I didn’t see anything over the road but I did observe quite a commotion on Saturday night. It wasn’t here though. It was along Eastview Avenue. I was walking Bailey at the time.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Three drunken young women. Out of their skulls, they were. Well, one of the girls was. She was so drunk she couldn’t even walk. They staggered to the car, carrying her between them, and one of them kept her propped up while the other opened the door, then they pushed her into the back seat.’
‘Can you describe any of them?’
‘It was very dark but I did catch sight of them when the car door opened. The one they were carrying was tall, wearing a long skirt. One had piercings in her face, I think, dark-haired girl, and I can’t remember much about the other woman. She was in dark clothing.’
‘Any idea of height?’
‘No.’
‘Hair colour?’
Kirsty shook her head. ‘I’m terribly sorry. To be honest, I assumed it was a young woman. It might have been a young man for all I know. I find it difficult to tell the difference some days, especially in the dark.’
‘Did the dark-haired woman look anything like this?’ said Lucy, drawing out a photograph of Fran.
Kirsty’s head bounced slowly up and down. ‘Yes. She looked like her. She got into the passenger seat. That was her. I’m sure of it.’
‘Can you be more specific about the time?’
‘Eight fifteen. Eight thirty? Does that help?’
‘Yes, it does. I don’t suppose you saw what make the car was?’
‘No. I don’t recognise car makes or models.’
‘Any idea where the women had come from?’
‘Yes, that I do know. I walk that road most days. It was number 53.’
Ian looked like he’d won first prize in a grinning contest. ‘The Vauxhall Corsa was registered in March 2007 to her grandmother, Marie Bennett, who is currently residing in a care home. Fran doesn’t own it but her mother confirmed she drives it, which would explain why we weren’t aware of any vehicle beforehand.’
‘Get Forensics onto it immediately. If Lucy’s witness, Kirsty Tungsten, is correct, then Fran and an unknown person put a drunk or unconscious Hattie into the car. We have to establish who the third person was. The person who drove the car.’ She glanced at Lucy, who nodded.
‘Lennox,’ said Murray.
A line creased Natalie’s forehead as she thought about the possibility. ‘Wasn’t he in the students’ union at around that time?’
‘He was either there or in town having a drink and a meal. I passed his photo around Wetherspoons and none of the staff remember him being there, and there’s no surveillance footage to confirm he was.’
‘I daren’t interview him again, not without something concrete. His lawyer will probably press charges of harassment. She’s not your biggest fan either, Murray.’
‘Like I give a shit.’
Natalie slipped off the edge of the desk where she was sitting and stared out of the window into the corridor. As usual it was empty of human traffic, their office being almost at the end of the corridor. She pinched her nose. ‘No, we have to wait. Let’s see what Forensics uncover first. Can we try and locate that silver Corsa on Saturday evening? Get hold of CCTV footage. I want to know where it went. Start with all the roads between Eastview Avenue and the campus road where Hattie’s body was dumped.’
She was going to use the time to chase up loose ends, but a call from Eric prevented her from getting too involved. She left the work to her team and returned to the hospital. She didn’t have a pathological dislike of hospitals like many people did, even though she’d
had her fair share of bad news in them. Her parents, victims of a hit-and-run, had both been taken to hospital for their final hours, and she’d sat watching the life support machines breathe air into their broken bodies until she had made the decision that there was no point in prolonging the inevitable, and requested they be switched off. Two other occasions had happier connotations: when both her children had been born. Her heels clattered as she marched along the corridor, past the X-ray department where several patients in wheelchairs were lined up. Her mind was lost in the past…
‘Oh my goodness! He has the tiniest hands. And look at those fingers. He’s going to be a musician with fingers like that, or a tennis player, or… whatever he wants to be.’ David’s face is a picture of utter joy as he gazes at their firstborn child, a mini David, with dark hair, bright eyes and a grumpy frown.
‘He’s the spit of you,’ says the midwife, ensuring the newborn is wrapped tightly in the blue blanket and can’t fall from his father’s arms.
David’s mouth is open in amazement and happiness, and in spite of all the pain and effort, Natalie watches his reaction with such warmth in her heart she wants to cry.
‘We have to clean up Mum now. If you’d like to wait in the next room, you can bring him back in a minute.’
‘Come on, little chap. Let’s have some “man time”,’ says David.
The midwife turns her attention back to Natalie. ‘He’s beautiful. I think all babies are beautiful, but he really is. What are you going to call him?’
‘Josh.’
‘That’s a lovely name. Josh Ward.’
‘Josh David Ward,’ says Natalie. She hasn’t discussed the choice of a middle name with David, but she knows it’s the right one. Her heart soars. She couldn’t be happier.
Natalie pressed the lift button and waited for it to descend. She was joined by a porter in a blue gown, paper cap covering his hair, who wheeled an unwieldy trolley. The grey-faced patient was elderly. His veiny hand protruded from underneath the blanket. She read his name on his wristband and gave him a comforting smile. He didn’t return it, too far gone on pre-med to know what was happening. The lift arrived with a hefty clunk and the doors opened. She motioned for the porter to take it. She’d wait for it to return. He stamped on the brake, releasing it, and heaved the wheeled stretcher into the lift.