Holly pulled the passenger door shut. “The only other piece of the puzzle is how the Vogels ended up adopting Layla.”
“That’s simple enough to explain. Mark returned to Tabarka as soon as he was able. He broke the news to Chouhanda that her younger son was dead. She was angry and upset. At that point, she was working all hours at one of the holiday resorts. She told Mark she couldn’t look after Layla on her own. The woman was desperate with grief and fear for the future.”
“So, Mark suggested he and Anna adopt her and take her to the UK?”
Ravi nodded. “It was probably one of the hardest things Mark had to do. He needed to persuade his career-minded wife that they should adopt an eight-year-old orphan from Tunisia. It would have been a tough sell. He must have told her one hell of a sob story about Layla’s background in order to persuade her.”
“Perhaps he told her the truth?”
“Mark swears he did not. But I suppose we’ll never be sure.”
“What about the gang that assisted in the murder? Are your officers rounding them up?”
Ravi shook his head. “We’re still working on Vogel, but up to now, he’s refusing to name them. He says they’ve not informed on him and Daran in all these years, so he’s certainly not going to grass on them.” “Mark will shoulder all the blame.” Holly sounded wistful.
“I think that’s as it should be. The murder was Mark’s idea. It was all part of his grand fantasy of revenge. He’d slowly been withdrawing cash from his bank account, in tiny amounts, to pay for the hit. This had been going on for years. It meant when the police looked at his finances, they wouldn’t notice a suspicious amount disappearing before the murder. He’d been planning the killing for a long time.”
Holly shifted in her seat to face the DI. “You don’t think Richard brought it on himself? He did a terrible thing in Marseille. He was never properly punished.”
“We don’t execute murderers in this country. Mark and Daran’s crime was far more calculated and cold-blooded than Richard’s.”
“Yes,” she sighed sadly. “But I still can’t help but feel that my husband’s crime was worse.”
Ravi said nothing in response. He simply turned on the engine and addressed his passenger in as cheerful a tone as he could muster, “Where to now?”
She sat back in her seat and buckled up. “Back to my flat in Glasgow, please. I’ve seen everything I need to here.
Six Months Later
Chapter 39
Tabarka, Tunisia
Layla Farhat rested her elbows on the smooth wooden surface of the beach bar and gazed out to sea. Beyond the rows of beige sun umbrellas, the water was glistening in the late afternoon sun.
A portly man in swimming shorts which ended below his sagging, bronzed belly approached the bar across the golden sand.
“Hey, sweetheart! How about another one of those amazing fruit cocktails you do for my old lady?” He announced this in a smooth, transatlantic drawl.
Layla stood up straight, opening her chiller cabinet and reaching for the ingredients. “Certainly, coming right up!”
The man perched on one of the stools and watched her at work. “You know, you should come to California. We can’t get enough of those health drinks over there, especially with all the special herbs and spices you put in.”
“Did your wife sleep better last night?”
“She sure did! A couple of drops of lavender oil on the pillow did the job. We’ll be sure to do that every night. My lady’s never been a good sleeper when we’re overseas. You’ve worked a miracle.”
Layla twisted apart the stainless-steel cocktail shaker and poured the bright yellow concoction into a tall glass to which she added ice and an elaborately coiled straw. “Not really, the properties of lavender have been known for hundreds of years.”
The man took the glass and grinned. “Well, we hadn’t come across it before, honey.” He got to his feet and nodded his head. “Put that on my room bill, would ya’? And have yourself a good day.”
She smiled back. “I will.”
In fact, Layla’s shift was over. She removed her apron and waved to the bar manager, who was clearing tables on the sand. He waved back.
It was a long walk from the five-star resort where Layla was working for the summer to her grandmother’s house on the hillside, but she enjoyed every second of it.
The blistering heat of the day had begun to recede and the narrow streets of the old town provided plenty of shade as she strolled along the dusty tracks. But when she reached the familiar faded blue paint that peeled away from her grandmother’s front door, Layla felt weary.
Chouhanda rushed into the sitting room at the sound of her granddaughter’s arrival. She clapped her hands together. “I have made us shakshouka for dinner. I thought we could eat out in the courtyard?”
Layla nodded. “That sounds lovely.”
“Go outside and sit down, girl! I’ll bring you some chilled lemon juice.”
She did as she was told, kicking off her canvas pumps and padding out into the heat of the courtyard, the terracotta stone almost scorching her feet. The table and chairs had been placed in the only shade. Layla took a seat, grateful to rest her aching legs.
On the table, Chouhanda had placed a pile of letters. Two were addressed to her. One bore the familiar handwriting of her mother. She set it aside with a sigh. The other also had a Glasgow postmark, but she didn’t recognise the script. She ripped it open.
Chouhanda entered with two glasses of juice. She frowned as a photograph dropped out of the envelope onto the floor. She stooped to pick it up. The picture was of a plump-faced baby with a clump of thick, dark hair on his head. “Who is this?” She asked.
Layla looked up from the letter she was reading. “It is the baby of a lady called Alice. She came into the café I worked at in Glasgow a few times. I gave her advice on what she should eat and drink during the pregnancy.”
Chouhanda smiled. “Well, her little boy looks very healthy on it.”
“He is called Charles.”
The old lady pulled a face, clearly not impressed by the choice.
“She is writing to thank me for my advice. We promised to keep in touch. She says the birth went smoothly, probably because of the raspberry leaf tea I had recommended she drink.” Layla chuckled with satisfaction.
“I am glad to hear that,” Chouhanda said, before disappearing back inside. She returned with a steaming bowl in her hands, its aromatic smell filling the tiny courtyard. “Now, put your letter away and eat, young lady.”
Layla did not protest. She placed the letter and photo back in its envelope, tucking it into the pocket of her linen trousers. Then she held up her plate, allowing her grandmother to dish out their meal.
Chapter 40
South-West England
It was a blustery afternoon. The charcoal tinged clouds were scudding across the skies over Dartmoor. Bradley Wynne had a back-pack and a small case by his side as he walked out of the security gates and towards the main road.
The bus stop was empty. He was relieved that no one else was being released from the prison that day. Bradley wanted to enjoy the moment, without having to make small-talk about what life would be like on the outside and how they would adjust.
The bus arrived promptly. The Governor always made sure the timings were perfect. He wanted his ex-prisoners’ first experience of the outside world following their incarceration to be a positive one.
Bradley placed his luggage on the shelf by the driver and slid onto a seat close-by. There were already a few passengers on the service. He assumed they must have got on in Yelverton.
The further they drove away from the prison, the lighter Bradley felt, as if a weight were lifting from his shoulders. He hardly dared to allow a sense of optimism to fill his chest. The probation service had arranged a job for him at a garden centre in Bodmin. He would be renting a small terraced house in the town. He’d kept a bank account into which he deposited a small a
mount of money each month. It had built up over the fifteen years he’d been inside.
The journey was long and involved several changes, but Bradley enjoyed watching the familiar, undulating landscape rush by. He savoured every tor and outcrop of granite that jutted from the vegetation of the endless moor. Finally, he reached his destination. It was with a mixture of dread and anticipation that he hauled his bag and case down the steps and onto the pavement.
He stood aside as a lady with an equally large bag followed him off. He noticed she’d been one of the passengers already on the service when he’d got on it outside the prison. He thought it a coincidence she’d also travelled to the same place but quickly forgot about it, as the reality of his situation began to sink in.
Bradley rummaged in his pocket, identifying with relief, the shape of the Yale key he’d been given to the door of his rental property. As it was a day of significance, he decided to use some of his meagre savings to take a taxi to his new home.
The street of houses the address led him to was modest but neat and tidily kept. Number 12 turned out to be at the end of the terrace, which pleased Bradley, as it meant he had a larger garden than his neighbours. He would do something nice with the space.
Bradley paid the driver and walked up the path. He unlocked the door and placed his luggage in the dark hallway. He took a quick look around. The house was sparsely furnished and the kitchen basic, but he could immediately tell it would be easy to make homely.
The upstairs was the property’s best feature. The bedroom at the back had uninterrupted views over the moor. Bradley gazed out of the window for some time before deciding to lie down on the bed and rest his eyes.
He must have fallen asleep, because when his eyes flickered open, the room was in darkness. The journey must have taken more out of him than he’d realised. His body gave a jolt. Someone was knocking at the door. It must have been the noise of this that woke him.
Bradley swung his legs to the side of the bed. He glanced at his watch, wondering who it could be at this time of the evening. He decided it must be his probation officer, checking he’d got settled in. He’d been told the man lived locally.
He switched on the landing light as he descended the stairs, trying to make out who was standing beyond the obscured glass of the front door.
Bradley opened-up, narrowing his eyes to try and focus on the dark outline of a figure, standing a few feet away along the path. “Who is it?”
The figure didn’t answer but stepped forward for a moment, into the light filtering out from the house. Bradley opened his mouth to shout, but before any noise came out, the woman on his doorstep pointed the double-barrel of her shotgun at his chest and squeezed the trigger.
Bradley was thrown backwards by the force of the gunshot. His body lay absolutely still on the worn carpet of the hallway; a growing pool of blood seeping into the fibres and saturating down to the wooden boards below.
Diane Trelawney lowered the gun. She had no intention of viewing the results of her handiwork. She already knew what a shotgun wound to the chest did to the human body. It wasn’t something she wished to witness again.
The noise of the gunshot had brought people out of their houses and onto the street. Diane walked slowly to the end of the path and sat on the stone wall, knowing her woollen sweater and tweed skirt would be covered in blood. She saw a man watching her in horror from his front garden across the road.
“You’d better call the police,” she shouted to him. “I’ve just shot a man.”
The neighbour didn’t need telling twice. He ran back into his own property, slamming the door shut behind him.
©KatherinePathak2018
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© Katherine Pathak, 2018
© Garansay Press, 2018
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