by ML Rose
“We can get to that later,” Arla said briskly. “Tell me your positive findings.”
Parmentier shrugged. “I was trying to say that when extremes of heat or temperature play havoc with a crime scene, it wastes evidence.” He held up his hand as Arla opened her mouth to speak. “I’m getting to it. We found boot prints around the site. They were large, an adult man’s print.”
A torsion of energy gripped Arla’s guts. She leaned forward as much as she could with the baby bump. “Any match with the boot prints we got from the windowsill in Rebecca’s house?”
“I don’t know, because I haven’t had time to check with Mary. I will definitely ask her, but please note this: The print on the windowsill, as far as I understand, was a partial print. But, it still seems as large as the prints we found here.”
Parmentier continued. “The prints began from where the concrete path ended. We found some prints on the path as well, back where the Common begins.”
Roslyn asked, “So the same person walked off the road, into the Common, and to the crime scene?”
“Yes, it would seem so.”
Roslyn and Lisa looked at each other, excitement clear on their faces. Arla raised her hand, grabbing their attention. “No assumptions, please,” she warned. “The real criminal could well have been and gone, and another person just came because he heard or saw something.”
Harry said, “Which is unlikely, as the baby would’ve been too small to see, and from inside that plastic bag, I doubt there was any sound.”
“Regardless,” Arla said, “let’s just hear the findings with an open mind.” She turned to Parmentier. “How many boot prints did you find?”
“I didn’t find any other prints at the ground, apart from ours, of course.” He pointed towards Roslyn and Lisa. “I found your prints. At least, I think they’re yours. Mary had a copy of our department shoe prints.”
“We dusted the nearby trees for fingerprints. We found nothing.”
Parmentier cleared his throat and moved on. “The plastic bag was made by a company called Refresh. They are wholesale meatpackers. These bags are generally used to shrink-wrap joints of meat that you find in supermarkets.”
Arla said, “Get in touch with Refresh and find out who their customers are in southwest London. See who has made recent purchases. Was there a serial number on the bag?”
Parmentier shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. But there was a barcode, and we can certainly make inquiries about that.”
Roslyn and Lisa were busy scribbling in their notebooks. Arla tapped her lower lip, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then she snapped her fingers. “What about the blue cloth that baby was wrapped in?”
“We didn’t find it. I looked for any cloth fragments that were blue, but found nothing. However, the baby was wearing all the other garments that Rebecca had specified.” Parmentier read from his notebook. “Purple baby grow, black shoes, black-and-white socks. He also had a red-and-black bib on the chin.”
For a few seconds, the ghastly image of baby Reggie, lying there grey, mottled, and forsaken, crashed into Arla’s mind like a comet. Her body shook as she snapped her eyes shut, lowering her head. She was used to seeing dead bodies, often in macabre, gruesome positions. But she was glad she hadn’t been the first person to come upon that crime scene. Her eyes flitted over to Roslyn, sitting on a chair to her far right.
“Thanks for the call list, Roslyn,” she said softly.
The DS grinned. “No problem, guv. Anything interesting?”
“Yes, I have circled the numbers of interest.” She shuffled through the papers on her desk till she found the call list printouts. Roslyn took them from her hand with a murmur of thanks.
Arla asked Parmentier, “Anything else?”
“Like I said, we are still running tests on the soil samples. Specifically, we’re looking for human hair, skin cells, hopefully intact, from which we can isolate DNA. Have we got DNA swabs from the family, by the way?”
Arla nodded. Dr Banerjee’s assistant, Lorna, had taken swabs from the parents when they attended the morgue. Before they left the house, Harry had done the same for the housekeeper, Edna Mildred.
Parmentier rose. “If there is a match, or if we find anything else, I will let you know.”
Arla stared around the room. “Right, so we have our work cut out. While you guys are busy, Harry and I will pay a visit to Rebecca’s parents, and then to Grant Stone.”
CHAPTER 30
Twenty years ago
Godalming, Surrey
Rhys had just come back from one of Grant’s tours in America. They had visited five American cities and the tour had lasted six weeks. Rhys travelled with his mother, and they stayed with Grant in the presidential suite that was booked for him at every hotel.
Rhys was getting used to the constant media attention, the flashbulbs, and attending press conferences with Grant. When he was alone with his mother, the press still followed them around, asking for interviews. Cheryl was more than happy to speak to the reporters, often in exchange for money. However, she never allowed Rhys to speak to the reporters alone. She would always be present, tackling the questions that were directed at Rhys, and always asked for a piece of paper on which the journalists would have to write down the questions before asking them. For most of the TV and radio interviews, Cheryl did most of the talking, and Rhys only made the occasional response.
Rhys also noticed that when his mother was around, Grant did not ask Rhys to sleep with him. He also avoided Rhys’s room, unless his mother was present. Rhys slept in his own room, next door to Cheryl. But after being on the road for four weeks, Cheryl had to return home as she was starting a new job. When she left, everything changed.
Grant started coming into Rhys’s room at night. He coaxed Rhys to sleep with him. Those strange moments he had shared with Grant in Surrey started again. Rhys did not understand why Grant made him do these things. But he knew it made Grant very happy, so despite his increasing confusion, he went along with it.
After they returned to England, Rhys went back to school, and to living with Cheryl. Grant had helped Cheryl to buy a house, and they now lived in Surbiton, a nice suburb just outside London.
Rail links to central London were excellent, which was good for Cheryl’s job. It was also much closer to Grant’s mansion. Rhys would often go and spend the weekends at Grant’s place, without his mother. Cheryl would pack him a bag for the weekend and the big Rolls-Royce would arrive on Friday evening after school.
Rhys never complained as it was nice roaming around Grant’s house. It was more like a palace, with the whole of the ground floor transformed into a museum. Grant had a thing for toy trains. Each room on the ground floor held a massive toy train track and he and Grant would play for ages, hopping from one room to the other. The ground floor also had a full-size cinema screen, complete with popcorn, hot dogs, and a drinks machine. It was Rhys’s idea of heaven. It was September, and a few days of sunshine still remained. Grant had made the garden into an amusement park, with huge rides and roller coasters that were the best Rhys had ever seen.
At night, after dinner, Grant would always come into his room. The routine remained the same. He would hold Grant’s hand and go to his bedroom. Grant would kiss him all over very gently. Then they showered, where Grant made him touch his private parts. Rhys was aware it made Grant very happy, but he had no idea how, or what, to feel. That night, as they huddled together, Grant held him close.
“No one will understand what you and I share. You can’t tell anyone,” Grant whispered softly in his ear. “If you do tell anyone, then they will take me away. I will never be able to see you again. Do you understand?”
This part Rhys did understand. He didn’t want Grant to be taken away from him. He wanted to see him again, because they had such a good time, apart from the strange things that happened at night. He nodded and whispered back. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good boy.”
*****
One weekend, Rhys saw another boy at Grant’s house. The boy was his height and age and he was on a roller-coaster ride with Grant. They were laughing hysterically and hugging each other. Rhys felt a pang of jealousy. They came off the ride and walked straight towards him. The boy was chubby with round, rosy cheeks and glasses. His bronze-coloured hair was long and he looked like he needed a haircut.
“Rhys, this is my nephew, Jeremy. Say hello to each other.”
After they said hello, Grant went off to do some recording in his studio. Rhys and Jeremy hung out, but Jeremy acted like he didn’t like him. The boy didn’t say much and when Rhys asked if he wanted to play, he just shrugged like it wasn’t important.
“Is Grant really your uncle?” Rhys asked. Jealousy surfaced inside him again. Did Jeremy know how lucky he was? It made Rhys think of something else. Did Jeremy ever sleep with Grant? Did they ever do the things that he and Grant did?
Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Yes, stupid. Of course he’s my uncle.” Then he narrowed his eyes at Rhys. “You’re just his new friend.” Jeremy sneered at him, then smiled; it seemed more like a snarl. “Don’t worry, he has a friend like you all the time. You’ll be gone soon, and there’ll be someone new.”
Rhys frowned at him. “What do you mean?” They were in one of the toy train rooms, and an engine whistled as the train passed through a series of tunnels. Jeremy stood and walked a few paces to activate a railway bridge, and brought the train to a stop.
“I mean what I said. Uncle likes boys like you. His last friend even looked a lot like you.” Jeremy went quiet for a while, then glanced sideways at Rhys. “What does Uncle Grant do with you?”
They stared at each other for a while, and Rhys could feel his heart thumping loudly. “What do you mean?”
Jeremy said, “Like, I play with him, we have dinner together, then I go to sleep in my room. Does he do the same things with you?”
Once again, the two boys were very quiet, staring at each other. A moment settled between them, dense and foreboding. Then, Rhys realised this was his best chance to understand why Grant did those things to him, with his mouth and his hands. Without taking his eyes off Jeremy, Rhys shook his head slowly. The toy train was stuck at the railway bridge level crossing. There was no other sound in the room, not even the ticking of a clock.
“He does something else with me,” Rhys whispered.
“Like what?”
Haltingly, Rhys told him. Jeremy listened in silence, his face devoid of expression, blinking. Then he shrugged. “Okay. Whatever. He’s never done those things with me. Come on, let’s play.”
But Rhys didn’t want to play anymore. Suddenly, he wanted to see his mother more than anyone else. He went down to the kitchen, where Yvonne, one of the housekeepers, was preparing breakfast.
Yvonne was his mother’s age, slim, with long brown hair. She smiled when she saw Rhys and bent down to give him a hug. Her kitchen apron smelt of roast potatoes.
“I want to go home. Can you call my mummy?”
“Really? What’s the matter, my love? Are you feeling homesick?”
Rhys nodded.
“Okay, hold on, let me ring your mummy.” Yvonne picked up the phone attached to the wall and flipped open a notebook that held all the phone numbers. She tried three times, but Cheryl didn’t answer. Rhys went up to his room, then came down an hour later. Yvonne had almost finished making dinner. She tried Cheryl again, with the same result.
She crouched on one knee and gave Rhys a hug. “I’ll try again, sweetheart. But it seems your mother has gone out for the night. Why don’t you just stay tonight, and tomorrow morning, as soon she answers, the car can take you back.”
Rhys had no choice but to obey. Grant finished his recording session soon and the musicians waved goodbye. Jeremy, Rhys, and Grant had their dinner and then spent the rest of the evening watching a film in the basement cinema hall.
Grant sat next to Rhys. He noticed Jeremy sat two rows in front of them. Grant slid his hand inside Rhys’s pants, touching him. From his heavy breathing, which turned into gasps, Rhys knew Grant was enjoying himself.
That night, Rhys walked down the large, dark corridor and knocked on Jeremy’s door. When Jeremy opened it, Rhys went inside quickly. Jeremy frowned at him. “What are you doing?”
In answer, Grant’s voice floated down the hallway. “Rhys, where are you? Rhys?”
Rhys turned to Jeremy and gripped his arm. “Don’t tell him I’m here. Please, don’t tell him.”
Jeremy frowned at Rhys, then shook his head. “No. If Uncle wants you, then you need to see him.”
“No.” Rhys pressed on the door to shut it, but Jeremy held it open. He leaned out and called to Grant. “Uncle, he’s here.”
Grant appeared soon and stood framed in the bedroom light. Behind him lay dense darkness. “There you are,” Grant said with a smile. “I was looking everywhere for you. Come on, it’s time for bed.”
Grant held out his hand, and Rhys stared at it. He didn’t move. The smile on Grant’s face faded just a fraction, then brightened up again. He came forward, crouched on one knee, and ran his hand through Rhys’s hair. “Come on, let’s put you into bed.” This time, he gripped Rhys’s hand and tugged gently. Rhys had no choice.
At the door, Rhys turned and looked at Jeremy. The boy had a sneering smile on his face.
CHAPTER 31
Present day
Jeremy parked the black Range Rover Evoque in the driveway of Rebecca’s parents’ home. Her mother had already opened the door. Rebecca got out, relieved that there hadn’t been an argument on the way here. In fact, there had been nothing but a stony silence. Which suited her absolutely fine.
Her heart was broken and she didn’t know what to say, think, or feel. The dizziness persisted, like a low hum that seeped down from her mind, all the way to her fingertips, making her whole body feel prickly, uncomfortable. She rubbed one hand against the other elbow continuously. She found it hard to stay still and ignored the inquisitive looks that Jeremy cast in her direction.
Breathing the fresh air in Weybridge should’ve been a relief, but all she smelled was the fumes of traffic and a rotting odour from the wet ground. She grimaced and covered her nose. Her parents lived in a leafy, middle-class suburb ten miles down the A3. The two-storey detached residence her parents called home was also where Rebecca had grown up. Rebecca’s childhood days had been filled with sunshine. It felt chilly and morose now.
She pulled the coat lapels tighter and shivered in the cold. The neighbourhood was nice, but all the detached houses surrounding her seemed desolate and forlorn. Older people lived here, empty-nesters. Rebecca cast her eyes around the decaying homes, with peeling paint and overgrown, weedy gardens. She was glad she had escaped from here. The bustle of London was far better than being in the country.
Christine, her mother, hurried down the driveway and gave her a hug. Rebecca was stiff for a few seconds, then pressed her mother close. She had a fractious relationship with her mother, but Rebecca was still closer to her than anyone. Both of them wept in silence, bodies shaking subtly. Jeremy put an arm on the small of Rebecca’s back.
“I think we should go inside,” he suggested.
Christine separated from Rebecca, then gripped her daughter’s hand tightly. Together they walked inside. Jeremy shut the door behind them. Her father was standing there, dressed in his habitual blue pullover and blue slacks. Roger was in his mid-sixties, with sunken, sagging cheeks and a forehead lined with worry. He outstretched his arms and enveloped Rebecca in a bear hug.
Her mother wept again as Roger murmured his condolences. Rebecca heard her father sniff and then his body shook. She realised her father was crying, which was a strange occurrence. She had never seen him cry, not even when her grandparents died.
As her parents pressed her closer to them, Rebecca felt loose, detached. She was slowly coming apart, disjointed, her mind and body fading into a vacuum that was sucking her in slowly. Her
eyes were open, staring at the still, black arms of the old grandfather clock. The thinnest arm of the clock moved, marking seconds, ticking down the units of a time that didn’t exist for her.
Roger’s eyes were red as he shook her shoulders gently. But anxiety creased his forehead as his eyes narrowed. “Becky. Becky, darling. Please talk to me?”
Rebecca blinked and opened her mouth to say something, but her throat was so dry she coughed instead. Christine said, “Let’s go and sit down. I’ll get some water.”
Jeremy said, “Make that a tea for me, please.”
They sat down in the large living room with its long, Georgian-style sash windows that looked out into the hedges of the front garden. Roger sat next to Rebecca and Jeremy discreetly placed himself in an armchair to the side. They sat in silence, because there was nothing to say. Her parents knew everything, including the identification at the morgue. Mere words could not penetrate the fog of acute misery they were suspended in. Roger held her hand in his, and when it shook, she glanced at her father. She was surprised again to see tears rolled down his cheeks. Roger dried them clumsily with his gnarly hand.
Her rational mind told her she should perhaps comfort her father, or even feel the sorrow. It was weird, but she felt incapable of emotion at the moment, as if her whole being had turned to stone. Her heart felt absent, like it had been ripped out from its bony cage. She sat there, still as a statue, staring into space. Her mother came back, bearing a teapot and four cups. Christine poured out the tea and handed a cup to everyone. Only Rebecca refused.
The doorbell went. Christine said, “Karen’s here. I asked her to come.”
A knot of irritation creased Rebecca’s forehead. Her perfect sister was three years older than her and had a successful career in a city law firm. It was the same firm Roger had worked in, but Karen liked to keep that quiet.