by Kerena Swan
I hammer on the door, jumping as a large dog begins barking behind the garden fence to my left. The neighbour’s door opens and I back up against the fence in case whoever it is peers over. I stay silent, not wanting to get into a conversation.
‘Shut the fuck up, Rex,’ the voice says.
It’s Desperate Derek. Greasy-haired, shifty-eyed, adorned with tacky bling and always too free with his hands. Great at sorting out a dodgy car deal though. The dog ignores him and emits a deep growl level with my feet.
‘Who’s there? Make yourself known or I’m calling the police.’
Shit. ‘It’s Sarah. I’ve come to see Mum but she’s not answering the door. Have you got a key?’
‘Hello, Sarah. Lovely to hear your voice.’ His change of tone makes me cringe. ‘Hang on.’ The footsteps recede and return then a hand appears over the fence dangling a key. ‘Let me have it back tomorrow. Your mum likes me to keep it in case she locks herself out.’
I take the key and mutter my thanks then enter the kitchen and switch on the light. The first thing I notice is the smell. Rotting food, unwashed clothes and something else. Mice? I shudder.
‘Mum?’ I stand and listen but there’s no sound. Not even the TV is on.
The soles of my shoes stick to the floor as I cross the room. I push open the lounge door and groan. From the light of the kitchen, I can see Mum lying on the sofa, flat on her back with her mouth open – her hair hanging in a lank, unwashed curtain down the side of the cushion and her hand resting on a tumbler of clear liquid on the floor. I step closer, wrapping my coat about me so she won’t see the blood on my clothes.
‘Mum!’ My voice is loud in the quiet room.
She opens one eye then the other and stares at me before pulling herself into a sitting position and wiping a line of drool from the side of her mouth. ‘What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting a visit.’
‘Clearly. I don’t need to ask you how you’ve been. I can see for myself. This place is a shit-hole.’
‘Nice to see you too,’ she mutters. She reaches for the remote control and flicks the television on. A police drama fills the screen and I swallow and look away.
‘Is there any food in the house?’ I hate the thought of eating in this filthy place but I’m starving.
‘Help yourself.’ She waves an arm in the direction of the kitchen and flops down again.
After opening several cupboards I resign myself to eating a bowl of stale porridge made with water, but at least there’s sugar. I rinse a saucepan and while it heats I wash the crockery in the sink. I’ll tackle the other stuff tomorrow. I eat the porridge then go upstairs to my old bedroom.
I’m relieved to find Mum hasn’t made any effort to clear my things out. All my old clothes are still in the wardrobe and there are worn shoes slung in a corner. I even find some toiletries in the cupboard. I strip off my blood-stained clothes and bundle them up, ready to wash, put on my old, fleecy pyjamas and kick my shoes under the bed. As I lie back on the fusty pillows it’s as if I’ve never been away and I’m back to the long days of working my butt off at the supermarket, trying my best to get promoted to management but being overlooked by people with irrelevant university degrees and posh voices. Back to falling into bed exhausted and frustrated. Any minute now my dad, John, will burst in, demanding I make him a cup of tea after his day at work, telling me I’m lazy and don’t deserve a roof over my head.
I close my eyes and think instead of Robert, his warm kisses and promises, his lies and betrayal. His hands too. Swinging at me. Pushing me … Pushing me too far.
Chapter 5
February | DI Paton
As Paton passed by the open door of the Detective Chief Inspector’s office he heard his name being called. Damn. He was already late and his small team were waiting for him.
‘Sir?’
‘Sit down, Dave.’
Oh, no. Had the DCI heard about the disaster over the blood spatter evidence? This wouldn’t help Paton’s already fragile relationship with the chief and his team would rip him to shreds when they found out. It was an unwritten rule that the person making the biggest blunder of the week had to buy cakes for everyone.
‘I need to update you.’
Paton relaxed slightly.
‘The Major Incident Team is looking at this case so we can expect a visit shortly from Detective Superintendent Metcalf from Inverness. He’s been assigned as the Senior Investigating Officer.’
Paton tried not to let his disappointment show. He knew there were teams across Scotland that were called in to these cases, but he’d been hoping he’d be able to lead the enquiry at a local level. He’d wanted the SIO role for a long time but years of helping Wendy through her recurring depression and being around for Tommy had meant he hadn’t been able to dedicate himself to his job as much as he would have liked.
‘Don’t look so disheartened. I’m making you Deputy SIO so you can manage the day-to-day enquiries if Metcalf is absent. I have to ask you this, though.’ The Chief Inspector leaned across his desk and lowered his voice. ‘Are you able to take this on? I know you’ve got commitments at home and Tommy to think about.’ The chief sounded sympathetic but his sneaky glance at his watch showed that he was merely going through the motions of concern.
Paton had arrived fifteen minutes late this morning, but Tommy’s school bus had been delayed because of the snow and Wendy was at work in the old folk’s home. The lad could hardly have been left on his own. Paton sat up straighter and held eye contact. He wanted this role. He hoped his home life wouldn’t take away such an exciting opportunity.
‘I’m sorry about this morning, sir. Wendy went to work at six and Tommy’s school bus was late.’
‘I’m sure your priorities will be in place going forward.’
Paton felt his muscles tighten. It was okay for the chief. He didn’t have a wife with mental health issues, let alone a vulnerable teenager. Surely a man at his level should show more empathy. ‘They will. Is that everything? Only the team’s waiting.’
The incident room was warm and stuffy. The heavy smell of coffee and bacon rolls in the air made Paton’s stomach growl. He stood in the doorway and marvelled at the number of officers in attendance. There were at least fifteen, some without chairs perched on desks or standing at the back of the room. He’d have to buy a ton of cakes for this lot. Several unfamiliar faces must be from the Murder Investigation Team. He was pleased to note that Metcalfe hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe he’d been diverted to something bigger. At least now if one of Paton’s team grassed him up about his cock-up at the crime scene it wouldn’t be in front of the SIO.
Paton strode to the front and picked up a whiteboard pen, glancing only briefly at the photographs of the corpse on display nearby. He couldn’t risk feeling light-headed again. ‘Okay, everyone; thanks for waiting. We’ll go through what we’ve got so far, then I want you to throw in any questions.’
The babble of voices dropped to an expectant hush and Paton saw the excitement on his team’s upturned faces. They hadn’t had a real murder investigation in the area since the suspicious drowning of a tourist in 2014, so for some of them it was their first. He hoped they were up to the task. He hoped he was up to the task. His attention was diverted from his musings by a loud sneeze from a young man with pink, round cheeks and a mop of blonde hair. DC Mitchell Tomkins.
‘Mitchell, would you like to start?’ Paton asked him.
The DC cleared his throat and his flush deepened as he looked around the room. He’d only been with Paton’s team a few weeks and was keen to prove himself. ‘So far, we’ve discovered that the holiday cabin is owned by Harold Enright. He tells us that the booking for the last seven days was in the name of Richard Newman, but so far no one of that name has been reported as missing.’
Paton interjected. ‘We found no documents or credit cards to verify his identity, and his phone was a pay-as-you-go that had been topped up using cash transactions. This leads us to believe he may h
ave been operating under a different identity.’
Mitchell waited for a nod from Paton, then continued. ‘The booking was made over the phone and a courier hired to take a cash payment to Mr. Enright. He thought this a little odd but, in his words,’ Mitchell looked down at his notebook and read, “It isn’t the first time a customer has booked the place for a bit on the side.” Apparently, remote cabins are popular with married men.’
The team tittered. ‘Can I have his number?’ one joker called out.
Paton frowned. ‘We’re not ruling out other possibilities for why the cabin might have been booked. It could have been for an illegal business transaction or even a hiding place. The bed sheets are missing but that may just as easily be because the perpetrator wants to misdirect us into thinking there was a love tryst that went wrong and she – or he – was worried about leaving their DNA on them.’ Paton looked around the room, catching eye contact with each officer as he spoke to keep them engaged. ‘As I always say…’
‘Assume nothing and question everything,’ his team chanted, like kids in a school assembly.
Paton grinned.
‘What about DNA on the victim or elsewhere in the cabin?’ A young DC with her hair twisted into a tight, shiny pleat flicked her pencil up and down between her thumb and forefinger.
Was she trying to embarrass him because she’d heard about his blunder with the blood spatter evidence? Or was she merely asking a sensible question? Paton didn’t know her well enough to judge. He wondered if he should simply admit to the blunder there and then, but why risk losing the team’s focus – and perhaps their respect – when there was a chance they’d never get to hear of it? ‘We won’t get the results back for a while,’ he said instead. ‘Don’t believe everything you see on the telly. We’ve plenty to do in the meantime.’
He looked at one of the DCs. ‘Tony, I want you to organise house to house calls in the area. See if anyone saw visitors or unknown cars around. Maybe someone was seen speeding yesterday morning. Visit Mr Enright as well. See if he knows the name of the courier service.’
‘How do you think the victim got to the cabin? He didn’t have a car there.’ It was the eager DC again.
‘Good question. The forensics team is trying to match the tyre tracks, although the snow hasn’t helped. There are several options to consider.’ Paton counted them off on his fingers. ‘One, the victim flew into Glasgow, Aberdeen or Edinburgh, then caught a cab. Two, he drove his own vehicle or a hired car and the perpetrator stole it. Three, he was given a lift by someone. Maybe the perpetrator.’
He picked out another DC. ‘Ian, I’d like you to look into abandoned vehicles in the area and check with local taxi services. I’m not sure about him flying as there’s no passport, although he wouldn’t need one for a UK flight. He seems to have taken pains to conceal his identity but, as I said before, let’s not assume.’
‘Maybe the killer took his ID, boss.’
‘That’s possible, Cheryl. I want you to look at missing persons’ records nationwide. We’re looking for men between their late twenties and early thirties who’ve been reported missing in the last few days. If we don’t get an ID today, I want you to look again tomorrow and the day after. He’d booked the cabin for a week and wasn’t due to leave until yesterday, so it’s possible that he’s only just being missed. Let me know who reports him missing – a wife or whoever – as soon as possible.’
Chapter 6
The Following June | Jenna
Dad used to tell me off when I skidded to a halt and left bare patches on the gravel drive but I’m too desperate to get to Mum to care about that now. I don’t even bother locking the car but run through the wrought iron gate to the garden at the side of the house and burst into the utility room. Grace is pacing in the kitchen beyond it, pulling her cardigan sleeves over her hands. Her hair is sticking up and her eyes are wide with worry. I’m so used to seeing the sensible Grace, with her neat brown hair, plain clothes, and calm approach to life that it’s a shock to see her so agitated. ‘What happened?’ I ask her.
‘Fiona was watering the houseplants when I heard a clatter. I came to see if she was okay and she was lying unconscious on the floor.’ Grace points towards my feet. ‘I wasn’t sure if she’d fallen and knocked herself out or if she’d fainted. She came round as I was fetching my phone to call an ambulance and insisted I shouldn’t bother because it was only the heat that had made her dizzy.’
Mum isn’t the sort of woman to make a fuss over anything but she’d had another dizzy turn a few days ago and blamed that one on the heat too.
‘I rang Lucy and she said I should help Fiona into bed for a rest. I thought she’d refuse but she surprised me. She’s been asleep for an hour but I keep checking on her and she seems to be breathing okay.’’
Since Dad died six months ago, Mum seems to have had very little appetite and perhaps she’s let herself get rundown. ‘Do you think she’s eating enough?’ I ask.
‘She rarely eats all the lunch I prepare and she’s always working at her laptop.’ Grace replies then pauses, looking a little awkward. ‘Will you be okay now? I really need to get to another job.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. Thanks so much for helping.’
She picks up her sensible-looking bag then heads for the door, saying, ‘I’ll ring later to see how she is. See you tomorrow.’
There’s no reply when I tap on Mum’s bedroom door so I tip-toe in. It’s a large room with the high vaulted ceiling Mum and Dad craved when they bought this barn fifteen years ago and converted it into a magnificent family home. The curtains shut out most of the bright sunshine but the room is suffused with a warm glow and smells of the rose-scented diffuser. Mum’s lying on her side, her eyes tight shut and her breathing even. I’ll give her another half-hour then wake her up with a cup of tea.
As I leave the room my attention is caught by a photo of Mum and Dad in woolly hats, ski masks pulled up onto their heads, their cheeks touching and huge smiles on their faces. My throat tightens and I blink away the ready tears.
God, I miss Dad, the man who taught me to ride my bike without stabilizers, made me learn to tie my own shoelaces and always pushed me to do better. I don’t dwell on the scenes where he shouted at me for not doing my homework, grounded me for staying late at a boyfriend’s house or confiscated my phone when I got poor grades. I know now he just wanted the best for me and I feel sad that I wasn’t as clever as Lucy and able to achieve more.
I touch his photo with a fingertip. ‘I’m sorry.’ I whisper to him. ‘I should have tried harder.’
Now I’ll never hear him utter the words, ‘I’m proud of you, Jenna.’
I turn at the rustle of cotton bedding behind me.
‘Jenna? Did you say something?’ Mum asks.
‘How do you feel? You gave Grace quite a fright.’
‘I just felt a bit light-headed. I skipped breakfast and hadn’t got around to having lunch.’
She sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed. She’s a good-looking woman and her sleek blonde hair falls into its customary neatness, but for the first time I realise how much she’s aged lately. Her complexion resembles the skin on a cold latte coffee. It even has a strange hue to it.
‘You really must eat more, Mum. I know you haven’t had much of an appetite lately but you need to look after yourself. I bet you’ve been working all hours as well.’ Mum is a part-time University lecturer in business economics and often spends all her free time marking assignments and planning lectures.
‘I haven’t done much lately,’ she says. ‘I can’t find the motivation I once had.’
Mum and Dad were always the golden couple, the envy of friends and acquaintances. Driven, intelligent and successful. Very successful. Lucy’s a lot like them, but somehow those genes must have been used up on her because I don’t possess any of those qualities. My feet are firmly planted in the “work-to-live” camp whereas the rest of my family are definitely of the “
live-to-work” ethos. At least they were.
I’m not so sure now. With Dad taken away so suddenly by a heart attack, will Mum change? All that hard work for what? A retirement of luxury holidays for one, a big, converted barn with empty rooms, and a fast car with no one to drive it. All those days and nights when they were too busy working to spend time together… No, grasp the day and enjoy it, I say. Life’s too bloody short.
Chapter 7
The Previous February | Sarah
I open my eyes slowly and stare at the slab of pavement-coloured sky between the cheap curtains. For a moment I’d been back in the log cabin, Robert’s warm breath on my cheek and the promise of a day filled with brisk walks, log fires and love-making.
But I’m not going to think about Robert. He let me down but I won’t let him ruin my life. The people going into the cabin after us must have discovered his body by now but no one has come to arrest me yet and hopefully they’ll never find me. I need to put what happened behind me and plan what to do next.
First I need a cup of tea. My eyes feel bruised and my nose is tender, but I don’t ache as much as I’d expected after all that driving. I drag some old clothes out of the wardrobe, kick my bloodstained clothing into the corner and throw an old jumper over it in case Mum pokes her head in my room. I’ll deal with it later.
I make my way downstairs, carefully sidestepping the piles of tatty newspapers and letters on the treads. Mum isn’t on the sofa, which is a good sign. At least she made it up to her bedroom. I head to the kitchen then stop in surprise in the doorway. Mum’s there in her grubby dressing-gown, a container of milk in her hand and two steaming mugs of tea on the counter.
‘Where did the milk come from?’ I ask. ‘The fridge was empty last night.’