by Isaac, Jane;
While she struggled to believe Chilli would risk ordering the killing of a cop while he was on remand, she couldn’t quell the niggling doubts within. After he was charged, there were rumours that people in Chilli’s organisation thought he’d passed his best. Others flexing their muscles to take over. Chilli had lost his position, everything he’d worked for. What if he’d lost his grip on reality too?
She tore her gaze away, rested her head back and listened to the radio. The newsreader had moved on to talk about the troubles in Syria. The suit tapped the top of the car in front of him twice, turned on his heels, walked towards her and motioned for her to lower her window.
‘There’s a jackknifed lorry at Cross Keys roundabout,’ he said, bending down. ‘Best to turn off at the next junction.
Helen thanked him and was winding up the window when a familiar voice filled the car. ‘The safety of our officers is always of paramount importance.’ She hiked up the dial and listened to Chief Constable Adams passing his condolences to Sinead’s family. The media channels had recorded his statement at the press conference yesterday and were sharing a rearranged edited version. When he finished, the journalist repeated the incident room telephone number and moved on to talk about the upcoming budget.
Helen switched off the radio. National media attention was expected. It would raise the profile of the investigation and encourage more witnesses to get in touch. It would also ratchet up the pressure; the whole of Britain would be watching and waiting, drumming their fingers until they found the killer. But something else bothered her: her family. She still needed to make them aware.
She dialled her mother’s mobile. The phone rang out twice before the voicemail kicked in. She tried one of her boys’ numbers, to no avail.
The traffic moved quicker once she’d pulled off the main drag and she steered into the office car park well before 8 a.m. Rain clouds were gathering, intermittently blocking out the sun. She was retrieving her briefcase from the boot when a monotone voice popped up behind her.
‘Morning,’ Jenkins said as he crossed the tarmac to join her. He was in extra early. To prepare for their organised crime meeting, no doubt. ‘Any news?’
‘As it happens, yes.’ They fell into step as they walked up the back stairs together while she updated him on their new findings.
‘Where is Mr Kowalski now?’ Jenkins asked when she finished up.
‘Pemberton’s gone straight out to question him.’
‘Great, I’ll let the chief constable know. He wants to put out another press statement this morning, show some progress. Let’s hope this is the break we’ve been waiting for.’
‘I’m not sure about a statement. We don’t yet know—’
‘Leave that to me,’ Jenkins said. ‘It’s all about keeping the media on side in a case like this.’ They’d reached the landing now. He bade farewell and continued up the stairs to his office with renewed vigour. They hadn’t even interviewed Kowalski, yet he’d become a sound bite, a snippet of information to appease the media, even if it was only to say, ‘a man’s helping police with their inquiries’.
CHAPTER 25
A low wail filtered through from the hallway, followed by a rip. It sounded like paper.
‘They’re mine!’ Ava’s voice insisted.
‘No, they’re not.’
Thomas had found his voice that morning and the children were arguing again.
Blane sighed. They’d been crotchety since they woke, before 6 a.m., and, after a night of virtually non-existent sleep, his patience was beginning to wane. He dropped the dishcloth in the bowl, wiped his hands and wandered out to find Ava sat on the doormat, surrounded by scattered envelopes in pastel shades of yellow, pink and cream. Some of them were torn, picked at the edges, others ripped open. Blane’s gaze rested on a card poking out of an envelope, a picture of a white orchid with the words In Sympathy etched above.
His chest tightened. ‘What’s going on?’
Thomas immediately let go of the card he was still tugging from his sister. ‘Tell her, Dad,’ he muttered. ‘She thinks they’re her birthday cards.’
Blane’s heart was in a vice. Thomas had seen bereavement cards before, they’d bought one together when the wife of his schoolteacher was tragically killed in a car accident last year. He rested a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder, then dropped to his knees in front of Ava. She was still holding the card with both hands, her knuckles white. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I think these might be for all of us.’
‘It’s my birthday!’ Ava said indignantly, jutting her jaw. She tucked the card behind her back.
The vice tightened a notch. ‘It is. Next week,’ Blane said gently. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see other cards with gentle landscapes, flowers and birds discarded on the mat. He fought back tears. ‘But these aren’t birthday cards.’
‘Yes. They. Are.’
‘They’re not, darling.’ There was no simple way to say this. ‘These are cards people have sent us to say they are sorry because we’ve lost Mummy. Your cards will come separately next week.’
Thomas turned and stalked up the stairs.
Ava let out another wail. ‘No, they’re not.’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, they are.’
Her face crumpled. ‘I don’t want them,’ she said, casting the card aside and crawling onto her father’s lap. ‘Take them away. I want Mummy.’ She buried her head in his chest.
The tears came hard and fast, bleeding into the cotton of his top, dampening the skin beneath. He hugged her close, kissed her soft curls, rested his chin on her head. ‘I’m so sorry, pumpkin,’ he said.
Time stood still. The television in the front room chattered away while Blane rocked his daughter, uttering soothing sentiments. Assuring her everything was going to be all right when, really, he had no idea if anything would ever be right again.
Eventually Ava’s sobs subsided, and her body grew heavy as she slipped into an exhausted slumber. How could he pick up the pieces after this? Especially when he was struggling himself. Blane mustered all his energy and stood. Ignoring the cards, he carried Ava to the kitchen and levered them both into a chair, adjusting her limp body into a more comfortable position.
It was a grey day, the sky heavy with the promise of rain. He needed to check on Thomas. But he didn’t want to disturb Ava. Another check outside, down the garden. Where was his mother? Over an hour had passed since she’d said she was popping out for some essentials. He could really do with her help now.
The door to the hallway sat ajar, the cards still scattered across the doormat where he’d left them. Sadness bubbled inside him. He imagined their friends and neighbours squeezing through the journalists outside, keeping their heads down until they reached the drive. There’d been notably less reporters that morning, the DCI had obviously spoken to the editors, pulled some strings. Still, there were plenty enough to make a nuisance of themselves. It would be worse on the way out. Once the hacks clocked on and realised the visitors were acquainted with the victim’s family, they’d surround them as soon as they left the driveway. How do you know the O’Donnells? When did you last meet? How did they seem? The questions rung out in his ears. They’d nag them for a quote, a photograph for their next news piece.
He adjusted Ava into a more comfortable position on his lap as his mobile bleeped on the table. Another message from a friend or colleague. It had been constant. Messages he’d ignored because he couldn’t bear to read them. He grabbed the phone, switched it to silent.
Blane glanced at a photo stuck to the fridge with a couple of magnets: a selfie of Sinead and her brother, Aidan, who’d been killed in action shortly after they’d got together. With her brother passed away and her mother sick, Sinead didn’t have any close relatives, but Blane had still spent a good chunk of yesterday calling up her extended family in Ireland to deliver the news. Every phone call on a knife-edge, as shocked relatives wanted all the details. Details he couldn’t give because he didn’
t have the answers. Each call draining him of another ounce of energy. It was exhausting. One auntie made noises about coming over to help. It took all his powers of persuasion to deter her. ‘The children are upset. They need stability, time to grieve. I’ll let you know when the funeral is, we can get together then.’ Despite the kind gesture, he preferred to carry on alone. He had his own mother there to help with the children. Where was she?
As if on cue, a knock at the door. Fist on glass. Surely his mother hadn’t forgotten her key. He lifted Ava over his shoulder and made his way out into the hallway.
Blane stepped over the cards on the mat and pulled the door open, surprised to find his sergeant on the doorstep with an orange carrier bag in his hand.
‘Dick,’ Blane said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’ He stood aside for him to enter.
Dick glanced at the sleeping toddler. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he said. A card scrunched beneath him. He looked down, stepped off the pile at the door. ‘If this isn’t a good time…’
Blane followed his eyeline. ‘Oh, sorry. Ava found them before the rest of us,’ Blane said. ‘Thought they were birthday cards.’
‘It’s her birthday?’
‘Next week.’
‘Poor lass. Let me get them.’
‘No, please—’
Before Blane could protest any more his sergeant was on his knees. Within seconds, the cards were gathered together in a neat pile on the hallway table.
Blane’s chin quivered. The kindness was touching. ‘Thanks.’
‘No problem. Listen, I won’t stay long,’ Dick said. He followed him to the kitchen. ‘I just wanted to bring you this.’ He handed over the carrier bag.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the contents of Sinead’s locker. I’m so sorry.’ His face contorted. ‘The investigation team have finished with them. I thought you’d like them back.’
Blane swallowed, moved Ava to his other shoulder and rested the bag on the table. Through the open top, he could see a striped shower bag, some pink jogging bottoms. A pair of epaulettes, the silver numbers 236 attached to them glinted in the light. Sinead’s collar number.
He made to open the bag further when Dick placed a hand over the top of it, blocking his view. ‘You might want to open it later, laddie,’ he said, glancing at the toddler. ‘When you’re on your own. There’s some personal stuff in there.’
CHAPTER 26
Marek Kowalski lived on Birch Road, on the edge of Hampton, in the middle of a line of 1970s pebble-dashed semi-detached houses that overlooked the nearby Oakwall Park.
Rain had started to fall when Pemberton and Dark arrived, peppering their shoulders as they climbed out of the car. Relieved to find a parking space outside, Pemberton turned up his collar, climbed the few stone steps leading to the front door of number 46 and pressed the doorbell.
A small walled garden was laid to concrete, which had cracked and become uneven over the years.
Pemberton pressed the doorbell again and turned back to the road. Maybe Mr Kowalski had already left for work. He was about to look through the letter box for a sign of life when he heard the thud of feet on stairs. A chain rattled from the inside and the door juddered open to reveal a shirtless man. His toned chest was bare; a pair of washed-out denims hugged his thighs. Dark hair, razored at the sides, was swept back from a tanned face that held the ruggedness of someone who worked outside.
‘Marek Kowalski?’ Pemberton asked.
The man said nothing, his gaze switching from one detective to another. A gold chain around his neck slipped as he tilted his head.
‘Are you Marek Kowalski?’ Dark asked.
‘Yes.’
They raised their badges.
‘Can we come inside?’ Pemberton asked.
A cloud flickered across his face. ‘What’s going on?’
‘If we could come inside,’ Pemberton said, stepping forward. He wasn’t about to have this conversation on the doorstep.
Kowalski reluctantly stepped back and allowed them to pass. He closed the front door and guided them into a sitting room that overlooked the road out front, the park beyond through a grubby sash window. Tired sun-bleached curtains draped its sides. A sofa sat in the middle of the room, facing an oversized flat screen television over the fireplace.
‘What’s all this about?’ he said, indicating for them to sit.
‘Would you like to put some clothes on?’ Pemberton said. ‘We can wait.’
The man huffed and withdrew. Pemberton raised a brow at Dark. Ash from an overfilled ashtray on an adjoining coffee table skipped up as he undid his jacket and sat on the edge of the sofa.
A layer of dust greyed the sideboard in the corner. The original floorboards had been polished, although they’d dulled over the years and were pitted and grooved.
Apart from a clock on the far wall, there were no paintings, photos or pictures hung in the room. Dark peered in closer at a single frame on the sideboard. She picked it up, blew on it, as Marek Kowalski re-entered, a checked shirt now covering his torso. He shot her a hard stare, pulled a stool from the corner and sat down.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said.
Pemberton paused before he spoke. He could really have done with a tea or coffee, but if the front room was anything to go by, he wasn’t sure he fancied drinking out of a mug there. ‘Do you know a woman called Sinead O’Donnell?’
He sniffed. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Where were you during the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m. on Wednesday?’ Pemberton asked.
‘In Ibiza. I flew back yesterday evening. What is all this about?’
‘Sinead O’Donnell,’ Pemberton said, repeating the name.
Kowalski’s eyes widened. ‘Wait, isn’t that the woman that was killed? The cop? I saw it on the news yesterday.’
Pemberton stayed silent.
‘It’s got nothing to do with me. I was out of the country.’
‘Have you ever met her?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Please think carefully before you answer.’
Kowalski flicked a glance at Dark, who’d leant back in to examine the photo on the dresser. ‘I don’t need to think. I’ve never met her. What’s going on?’
‘Can you tell me your mobile number?’ Pemberton said, ignoring his question.
He reeled off a number. Dark took out her notebook, scribbled it down and showed it to Pemberton.
‘Do you have another number?’
‘No. Why?’
Pemberton retrieved an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a sheet of A4 paper with a single mobile phone number printed in bold print across the middle and passed it over.
The paper crackled in Kowalski’s hand.
‘Have you seen this number before?’
He took a moment to scrutinise it. ‘Yes, it’s my old number.’
‘It’s still registered to you.’
He shook his head. ‘I gave the phone away about four months ago. It’s pay-as-you-go. Didn’t think the registration mattered.’
‘Who did you give it to?’
‘My sister.’
‘Most people prefer to keep their number when they pass phones along.’
He shrugged. ‘I had a few exes bothering me. You know what’s it like.’
‘No,’ Pemberton said.
‘They kept calling, getting on my nerves. So, I changed. Natalia didn’t care. She was pleased to get a new phone.’
‘Natalia?’
‘Natalia Kowalski. My sister.’
Pemberton blinked at the mention of Sinead’s mother’s carer at Bracken Hall. Why did Sinead feel the need to have a secret phone on which to contact her? He kept his face deadpan.
‘Do you know if Natalia was a friend of Sinead O’Donnell’s?’ Dark asked. ‘A personal friend.’
‘I doubt it. She wouldn’t have been Natalia’s type.’
&
nbsp; ‘Why do you say that?’
‘She wouldn’t be. I know.’
‘Where does your sister live?’
‘On Brooke Street, in the town centre.’
They already knew the answer, the nursing home had given them the details, but it was always possible she’d given a false address. Pemberton glanced at his watch. Brooke Street was barely ten minutes away.
‘You won’t find her there.’
‘Why. Where is she?’
‘Somewhere in Derbyshire. She left on Wednesday, I believe, while I was in Ibiza. Went off to a yoga retreat.’
CHAPTER 27
Helen watched beads of rain multiply on the windowpane until they conjoined and snail-trailed down the glass. She tugged at her shirt collar. The conference room was stuffy that morning, even though there were only four of them sat around the end of the table.
Detective Inspector Terry Burns sat forward in his charcoal suit and purple tie, periodically clicking keys on his laptop. He was flanked by his sergeant, an enthusiastic twenty-something in a slick Hugo Boss suit whose name Helen couldn’t remember. Burns and she joined the force and completed their basic training together. They both signed up for the accelerated promotion scheme, racing through the ranks at breakneck speed. But that’s where the similarities ended. Whereas Helen had reached her goal of heading the murder squad, Burns had always made it quite clear he didn’t like to get his hands dirty, convinced his spreadsheets and organisational charts, along with a good measure of the gift of the gab, would take him to the top. He was a career manager of the worst kind and if he said, ‘singing from the same hymn sheet’ one more time, she was sure she’d throttle him herself.
He clicked another key and a photofit filled the screen. ‘Paul Gladstone, head of the other Rabbit Warren gang, or the “East Side Boys” as they prefer to be known. He’s been the biggest rival to Chilli Franks’s operation for years. Never really had the muscle until now.’ A broth of a man with a balding head and goatee beard filled the screen. Dark sunglasses were balanced precariously on top of his head. He looked like he was crossing a road, unaware of the lens tracking him.