by Isaac, Jane;
But nobody prepared you for being on the receiving end, for being the family of the victim. And knowing what was going on in the background, that his wife’s life was being pulled to pieces by an investigative team and his family scrutinised by the media, was like someone placing a noose around his neck and slowly tightening it, inch by inch.
Hours earlier, at the mortuary, Sinead had been taut, cold. Her beautiful tresses coiled like limp snakes behind a bruised and battered face. This time last year, they were in Cornwall, the four of them enjoying a family holiday at the seaside. Now they were three.
High-pitched voices shrieked above, followed by sloshes of water. His mother was keeping the children busy, giving them an early bath.
The look on their little faces when he’d delivered the news that morning would be forever branded on his brain. Wide eyes. A ghostly paleness. The disbelief. The questions and confusion. It had been difficult to work out what to say. They were only three and five, after all.
He needed to shield them from the brutality, focus on easing the loss. At least until they were old enough to be told more detail.
The eerie silence when he’d told them their mother had become ill, so poorly that she’d had to go to heaven, still haunted him. He’d tried to backtrack, to assure them she would always love them and one day they’d be reunited. The words tumbling out of him in a futile attempt to temper their pain. Ava asked if her mum would be home for her birthday next week and burst into tears when he said no.
But what really concerned him, what worried him most, was Thomas, who’d sat silently beside his sister on the floor afterwards, amongst pieces of untouched Lego, staring into space. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t uttered a word since he’d heard about his mum.
Blane trapped the tears threatening to fall. At least he could safeguard them from the news bulletins, and they didn’t have mobile phones or access to social media. Small mercies to be thankful for.
But this was only the beginning. The beginning of days and weeks of disbelief and questions, little minds desperately trying to process the reality of losing such a vital figure in their lives. And he had no idea how to answer their questions; how to fill the void their mother left behind.
Voices raised outside. The hacks were jostling shoulders, shoving each other aside.
A familiar figure emerged from the crowd. She was wearing the same trouser suit and crisp white shirt she’d worn at the press conference that morning, her dark hair tied back loosely into a half ponytail. Blane watched the chief inspector push a microphone aside and stride up the driveway.
***
Helen excused her way through the huddle of press, avoiding the microphones shoved in her face, the questions levelled at her.
She’d expected a crowd to gather outside Blane’s mother’s house. It wouldn’t take the reporters long to suss out where the family were staying and the O’Donnells were top news – the fact that Blane was also a cop only seemed to fuel their morbid fascination. But this was crazy. They clearly hadn’t paid any heed to her comments at the press conference.
Blane had opened the front door before she reached the step. Camera flashes momentarily blinded them as he ushered her inside.
‘Vultures,’ Blane said, before slamming the door closed.
‘I’ll make some calls, see if we can get that crowd dispersed,’ Helen replied. Her powers were limited, the reporters weren’t committing a crime; they were on the pavement, a public pathway, and hadn’t ventured onto the O’Donnells’ property. All she could do was to repeat her appeal to news editors and request dispensation for the family at this difficult time.
He guided her into the kitchen. ‘What’s the news?’
Helen’s heart dipped at the buoyancy in his tone. ‘I’m here to give you an update.’ And I need to ask some more questions, she thought.
She was treading a fine line here, between the welfare requirements of a recently bereaved family and the pressing needs of the investigation, and it didn’t feel good. Without a liaison officer in place, she still had to ensure the family were supported and any outstanding questions answered. The lack of information forthcoming on Sinead in the investigation needled her; she wanted to press Blane again, but she’d have to take it easy.
‘How are you doing?’ Helen asked. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week.
‘As well as can be expected. I saw the appeal on the news. Have you traced the kids?’
‘We’re working on it.’
He looked downcast.
‘How are the children?’ she asked.
‘Difficult to tell.’
‘We can offer counselling.’
‘Thank you. My sergeant was here earlier, he filled me in.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Are you sure you don’t have any news?’
She retrieved the still photos released to the press and passed them across. ‘Do you recognise any of these?’
Blane took his time working through the pictures. ‘No. Who are they?’
‘These are people who were in the vicinity yesterday evening. People we’d like to speak to. Their photos will be appearing in the press.’
His forehead creased. ‘These are the two kids seen leaving the factory, aren’t they?’ he said, holding up one of the stills.
Helen nodded. ‘It’s possible they might have seen something.’
Blane’s jaw dropped as he cast another glance at the photos and shook his head.
‘Your wife’s handbag has also been recovered from a wheelie bin on Weston High Street. We’re working on the basis her killer took that route away from the scene.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I need you to keep that to yourself, for now.’ She watched for any reaction, but Blane’s face remained fixed, grief-stricken. ‘Did your wife have any connection to Weston?’
‘I… I don’t think so.’
Distant chatter filtered down the stairs.
‘My mother’s giving the children a bath,’ he said. He indicated for her to sit and slid into the chair opposite with a slight thud.
‘One of my officers phoned you this morning, I understand, to let you know we’d found Sinead’s car?’
Blane nodded. ‘In Ashdown Lane. Looks like she was taking the back route to the motorway.’
‘That’s what we think.’ She went on to describe how the car was found with a flat tyre. ‘The last phone call she made was the one to you,’ Helen said, ‘at 10.23 a.m.’
He looked perplexed. ‘That was when she asked about the children.’
‘Did she mention any problems with the car, at all?’
‘No. She didn’t speak for long. The line wasn’t good, I think she was on the hands-free.’
‘It seemed odd she didn’t call a breakdown service or attempt to change the tyre herself.’
Blane closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were watery. ‘We don’t have breakdown cover on our insurance. When money’s tight, you turn down the optional extras.’
‘What do you do for cover?’
‘We get by.’ He swallowed. ‘Or we did. I tended to change the oil, do the servicing. I can’t understand why she didn’t ring me again. Are there no cameras on the road leading to Ashdown Lane? She must have been heading west on Sevenfields Pass to approach that road.’
‘Sadly not. We’re working on the assumption someone picked her up, either there or nearby. The car was parked neatly; there were no signs of a scuffle.’
‘You think it was somebody she knew?’
‘Either she knew them, was content to go with them or—’
‘They knocked her out.’
‘Yes. Look, I’m sorry. I need to ask you again if you know of anyone she’d argued with, perhaps someone that had a grudge against her?’
‘Everyone liked Sinead.’ His answer was heartfelt, throaty, almost as if he was trying to convince himself.
She heard the sound of a woman’s voice, chivvying the children along. Blane’s mother. The children were out of the bath now, little footf
alls running around above them.
‘Billings, the factory where she was found, has been bothering me,’ he added.
‘What about it?’
‘It’s probably nothing. We were talking about going into business together, Sinead and I. To run self-defence classes. Like what I do at work, only with the public. I’d do the training, she’d do the admin. A sideline to earn some extra cash. The nursing home is expensive, and Sinead’s mother’s savings are nearly all gone.’
‘Won’t the council help with funding?’
‘They only give a contribution. Bracken Hall’s one of the most expensive homes in the area. Sinead chose it because it gets top marks from the inspection agencies. Her mother, Maeve, deteriorated so fast, we didn’t think we’d ever be in a position that her savings would run low. And when they did, she was settled. Sinead didn’t want to move her. So, we needed to find the additional funding. Billings was one of the premises we looked at.’
‘Billings?’ Helen pictured the bleak factory, the smell of used oil permeating the air. She couldn’t imagine anywhere less suitable.
‘Yes. We spent ages looking for premises in Hampton but couldn’t find anything with parking nearby. Everyone drives these days. A friend of Sinead’s told her the developer was offering space at the empty units on the industrial estate while the project was on hold. It seemed like a good option for us, with easy access, free parking. As soon as I walked into Billings, I knew it wasn’t suitable. Some of the other units were better. We nearly took Wilton’s shoe factory, three doors down. They had a double conference room that would have worked.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘My mother stepped in. Said we worked hard enough and needed to spend more time with the children. Asked me to spruce this place up and help her sell it – she’s been looking to downsize for ages – then she’d sign over half of the equity to us.’
‘That’s very generous of her.’
‘I know. Sinead wanted us to get builders in, speed up the process. We don’t have the ready cash though and, frankly, it’s only cosmetic, I can do it myself.’
‘When did you look at Billings?’
‘Last December.’
Helen baulked. ‘Why didn’t you mention it earlier?’
‘I’m sorry. My head was all over the place yesterday. I don’t see how it would be relevant anyway, we were barely in there a few minutes.’
‘Have you been back to the factory since?’
‘No.’
‘What about Sinead?’
‘I don’t think so. I can’t see why she’d have any reason to.’
***
Helen pressed her foot on the brake. Again. Hampton High Street was busier than usual at that time on a Thursday afternoon. She watched a woman stride past with a toddler in a buggy, the rising wind blasting her hair back into her face. A man in a shop doorway, vaping.
With no sign of a break-in at Billings, they were pretty sure the killer accessed through the broken lock at the back entrance. Sinead could have noticed the lock when she’d looked around. Perhaps she’d visited again afterwards. Helen needed to find out more about the connection between the victim and the factory, and fast.
The line of cars edged forwards to the traffic lights marking the crossroads at the end of the high street. As she arrived, they turned to red. She braked again. The route to her office at headquarters was straight over. She was tapping the steering wheel, waiting for the lights to change, when she noticed a sign to the right for Little Hampstead.
Building up a picture of Sinead’s movements was becoming an itch Helen couldn’t scratch. The calls and texts made from Sinead’s mobile had been matched to colleagues in her team, her neighbour and Blane. Apart from several made to her mother’s nursing home, including one on the morning of the murder. Bracken Hall was on the list to be visited, but, having been advised of her mother’s lack of recognition, and with the wealth of other inquiries waiting, it was low priority.
She chewed the side of her lip. Bracken Hall was on the road out of town, on the way to Little Hampstead. It would only be a short detour. Yvette, Sinead’s neighbour, mentioned Sinead was close with her mother before she became ill and visited daily. She indicated right, turned the corner, then pulled over and dialled the nursing home. It was time to pay them a quick visit.
CHAPTER 17
Fiona Wilson heeled the front door closed behind her and called out, ‘Only me!’
The television they left on during the day prattled away in the kitchen. Apart from that, all was quiet.
She peeled off her jacket, kicked off her shoes and called out again, listening for Connor’s answer. Where was he? He must have fallen asleep. That’s why he hadn’t answered her calls. She’d tried several times since the holiday club had phoned and told her he’d gone home sick, and every time it went to voicemail.
She bustled into the lounge, expecting to find him snuggled under a duvet on the sofa, feeling sorry for himself. But he wasn’t there. The kitchen was empty too. Where was he? In bed?
Fiona climbed the stairs, calling out intermittent greetings as she ascended. The door to Connor’s bedroom was closed.
She pushed open the door and was surprised to find the room empty. The curtains were drawn, creating a dingy grey hue. The pungent aroma of worn socks made her heave. His duvet was on the floor, beside an empty plate littered with breadcrumbs, a glass with remnants of what looked like old milk in the bottom.
Fiona lifted the duvet, shook it out and placed it on the bed, then scooped up the plate and glass. It wasn’t like Connor to fake illness and take a day off. Although… He did bunk off school on the last day of term. The school had called her when he hadn’t arrived. When she couldn’t reach him on his mobile, she’d been forced to leave work to search for him. She recalled how frantic she’d been, only to find him playing football in the park with that Rhys boy, the one that always stooped, despite being short. He was bad news, that one. A bad influence.
She remembered shouting and hollering at Connor, grounding him for the weekend. He’d been apologetic, remorseful. Emptied the dishwasher, vacuumed his bedroom to make amends. Surely, he wasn’t pushing the boundaries again. He’d always been such an easy child. Settled in, wherever they’d landed, never any trouble. Until recently. It was that Rhys, it had to be. Things had changed since they’d become friends.
Back downstairs, Fiona made for the kitchen. She’d go over to the park and find Connor. Give him a piece of her mind. Anger burned within her. Anger mixed with anxiety. What if something bad had happened? But… no. After last week, it was more likely he was playing football. She recalled how he’d come home last night, crept up to bed without even saying goodnight. It wasn’t like him. He was getting older, he’d be a teenager this year. Of course, he’d want to become more independent. But not like this. She hadn’t worked her fingers to the bone, sometimes holding down two jobs, to raise him on her own, for him to go off the rails now. She’d been too lax since they’d moved here. He’d be grounded for more than a weekend this time. Perhaps she’d keep him in indefinitely.
She was grappling with her keys when the television caught her eye. They were showing footage of two kids crossing a road. She spotted a Sainsbury’s Local in the background, flanked by Albert’s Bakery. It was nearby, close to the Cross Keys roundabout down the road. The screen switched back to a newsreader with sheets of blonde hair, parted at the middle, and far too much make-up on for that time of day. Her face turned sombre as she talked about the murder of a woman in a derelict factory on Keys Trading Estate.
The women at Fiona’s work had talked about the murder earlier. The dead woman was a police officer. Rumour had it, she’d been taken there and tortured before she was killed. And she’d left two little ones behind. Fiona shivered. She’d never felt comfortable passing that industrial estate since those factories had been emptied.
‘If anyone saw this man near Weston High Street or these children near Cross Keys roundabou
t on Wednesday evening, police ask you to call the incident room urgently,’ the newsreader continued as photos flashed up on the screen. Her face slackened and she moved on to talk about an accident on the motorway. Fiona wasn’t listening. She needed to see the footage again.
She scoured the room for her laptop, eventually finding it sandwiched between a couple of magazines on the edge of the table. Various windows popped up on the screen when she searched for local news. She flicked across until she found a still of the children walking across the road and clicked on it, replaying the footage.
She watched the two kids running, stopping as they reached the main road. Twilight was drawing in. Car headlights flickered, illuminating the entrance to the gloomy road that led into Keys Trading Estate as they passed. For a split second, they paused. Heads darting about, searching for a gap in the traffic. They found it, squeezed through. And were gone.
Fiona rewound and played it again. They were dressed in dark clothing, their faces obscured by hoods. One was several inches taller than the other. The shorter one stooped, his head tilted to the side.
No, it couldn’t be.
The footage ended. She clicked on an article below. There was a photograph, zoomed in to the head of the taller child. Revealing wisps of a fringe sticking out of the side of his hood. A ginger fringe.
Fiona looked past the laptop, towards the fridge. At the photos of Connor and her: in the Great Hall at Harry Potter World; a selfie in the stands at Chelsea football ground. Their ginger hair shone out, beacons in the crowd. And always him with the long fringe he swept to the side.
He was her one constant, the only child of an only child. All she had. Surely her son couldn’t have been near the industrial estate when that poor woman was murdered? If so, why was he so keen to get away? And why hadn’t he told her? He’d said he was out playing football. Placed his kit in the machine when he came home. Although this wouldn’t be the first time he’d lied.