by Isaac, Jane;
He closed the door. ‘Just wondered how you got on with the organised crime bods?’
Helen cast her mind back to the stuffy meeting room, Jenkins’s warning afterwards. ‘Well, if I was a gambler, I wouldn’t put money on a connection,’ she said, and recapped the meeting.
‘So, the Chilli theory is officially dead?’ His eyes shone as he laughed. ‘Excuse the pun.’
‘Looks that way.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I can’t see what he would gain by killing another cop, but Chilli’s unpredictable. If he is responsible, he’s hiring his own people, going it alone.’
A movement in the incident room caught her attention. Dark had dropped a phone into its cradle and jumped up. They both rushed out.
‘Has something happened?’ Helen said.
‘Two minutes ago, Miss Kowalski’s Volkswagen Polo pinged a camera outside Worthington,’ Dark said. ‘Looks like she’s taken the country route home.’
The entrance door clicked open. Everyone’s eyes turned to Spencer, who squeezed in through a tiny crack, closing the door firmly behind him.
‘Everything okay?’ Pemberton asked.
Spencer lowered his voice. ‘Blane O’Donnell’s outside,’ he said, looking past him to Helen.
‘What, here?’ She glanced at their murder wall: the plethora of photos of Sinead, the detailed injury shots taken at the autopsy. Blane would have undoubtedly seen worse during his career, but this was his wife, the mother of his children. No partner should ever see a loved one in that state.
She thanked her lucky stars for the lock on the door. ‘How did he access the main entrance? All the external passcodes have been changed.’
‘Someone must have let him in. He’s asking to see you.’
She looked back at Pemberton and Dark. ‘Okay, I want you both to get out to Natalia Kowalski’s home. Bring her in for questioning if you can,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and speak with Blane.’
Helen could feel her team watch her as she approached the door to the corridor. She cast a brief glance back at their murder wall. It was at the front of the room, flanked by a map of the industrial estate and another of the housing estate where Sinead lived. If she opened the door fully, as she usually would, the edge of the boards would be visible.
She pulled the door ajar and slid through the gap, mirroring Spencer’s movement minutes before.
‘What are you doing here, Blane?’ she said, relieved to find the corridor behind him empty.
‘I had some paperwork to drop off for a new course next week.’ He glanced down the hallway towards the training department.
‘You should be with your children.’
‘That’s what my sarge said. I thought, since I was here, I’d check to see if there was any news.’ He looked past her at the closed door and eyed the keypad. ‘Didn’t know you guys worked in a secure unit nowadays.’
‘Why don’t we find somewhere to talk?’ She guided him away from the incident room. Pemberton and Dark would be hurrying out any minute. Plus, she didn’t want him to catch a snippet of information through the thinly plastered walls. If Helen had learnt anything in a major inquiry, it was to control the flow of information to the press and the family.
She led him into a small room that had originally been planned as the DCI’s office when this new station had been built. The idea of being stuck down here, away from her team, during the midst of a major case left Helen cold and when she took the job, she’d asked for some changes so she could have an office in the corner of the incident room, on hand.
Musty air gushed out as she opened the door. Boxes were stacked on the unused desk in the middle, a couple of chairs were pushed to the side. She indicated for Blane to sit. He declined, folding his arms uncomfortably across his chest.
‘What’s the latest?’ he asked.
‘We have several leads to follow up.’ The discovery of the remains of Sinead’s fingers in her recovered handbag hadn’t been released publicly and she saw no benefit to passing on this information.
‘I heard you were interviewing someone.’
Helen baulked. ‘Pardon?’
‘On the news, it said a man was helping with inquiries. We all know what that really means.’
She cursed Jenkins’s hasty move to put out a statement, to reassure the public, at whatever cost. ‘I can’t talk about it, I’m sorry.’
He closed his eyes and when he opened them, his face folded. ‘Let me help, please?’
‘You know I can’t let you do that.’
‘So, I get my next update on the local news channel, is that it?’
‘You didn’t want a liaison officer, Blane. We’ll update you as soon as we can.’
‘What about the kids you were trying to trace? They weren’t mentioned on the news bulletin this morning. Does that mean you’ve spoken with them?’
‘Blane—’
‘Please!’ His face crumpled again, desperate. ‘I need to know. I’m going insane.’
It was always tricky to liaise with families after the loss of a loved one in traumatic circumstances. A fine balance, to release enough information to reassure, keep them on side, without causing alarm. It was even more difficult when they had the inside track and knew what was going on behind the scenes. ‘I understand your frustrations. Really, I do.’ Helen stared at him squarely when a thought nudged her. ‘Were you aware that last month’s payment to Bracken Hall wasn’t made?’
‘What?’ He looked astounded. ‘No. I’ll speak with them. Sinead had power of attorney and controlled her mother’s account. I’m sure it’s just a problem with the bank.’
‘That’s what Sinead told them.’
He shot her a quizzical look. ‘I knew it was running down, but there should be enough in there to tick along. Sinead would have told me otherwise.’ He seemed convinced. Perhaps he didn’t realise how bad her mother’s finances were.
‘Okay. I can’t tell you any more right now.’
‘We’re both cops. Doesn’t that mean anything?’
‘I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.’
He took a breath, his face contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I want to help.’
‘Have you given us every contact you can think of?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t have anything else to add?’
‘No.’
‘Then go home, Blane. Leave us to it. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have some news.’
***
It was a humid afternoon, sticky and uncomfortable in the car. They needed another rainstorm to clear the air.
Pemberton wound down the window. ‘I thought she would have been here by now.’
‘Maybe she stopped off somewhere on the way,’ Dark said.
He stretched out his back. Ivy crept up the front of the terraced house converted to flats beside him, snaking around the sash windows. The curtains of the ground-floor flat Natalia Kowalski rented were closed. They’d tried knocking when they arrived. When there was no answer, they’d scoured the streets for her Volkswagen, which was also missing.
Dark looked down the road, one way and another. ‘You don’t think she’s gone to her brother’s first, do you?’
‘Don’t know.’ He got out of the car and wandered up and down the road, double-checking each of the parked cars, then tried the side roads nearby. He was about to give up, to call the office, when a black Volkswagen Polo rounded the corner.
The driver cruised past him, seemingly oblivious to his presence, and reversed into a parking space further down the road. Pemberton gave Dark a nod and they moved down to the car. The driver had climbed out and was fiddling with the lock on the boot when she noticed them.
‘Natalia Kowalski?’ Pemberton asked.
The boot door opened to reveal a small suitcase.
The woman looked at them both. When she didn’t speak, he showed his badge again and she nodded.
‘Miss Kowalski, I wonder if yo
u’d accompany us to the station?’ Pemberton asked. ‘We have some questions we’d like to ask you about Sinead O’Donnell.’
CHAPTER 31
Blane placed a key into the lock of 21 Richardson Close and clicked the door open. A familiar blue carpeted hallway stretched out before him. Children’s shoes were scattered to the side. A lump filled his throat. The last time he crossed this threshold he’d been met with the chatter of his children, the babble of the television, Sinead’s music in the background. Today the house was screamingly quiet.
Sinead’s pink fleece hung on the coat rack, sandwiched between Ava’s summer raincoat and Thomas’s denim jacket. He pulled the fleece off the hook, touched it to his nose and inhaled a bouquet of fruity perfume. Sinead’s smell. Clean, fresh. How could her scent be so strong when her body was no longer there? Tears blurred his vision, tipping down his face, soaking into the soft material. He slid to the floor, buried his face into the fleece and sobbed.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. For two days he’d fought back the tears. For his mother. For the children. Now his strength was waning, trickling away, water disappearing down a plughole, and the wrench of death grew stronger by the day. He’d lost his wife. His children their mother. And he couldn’t even begin to fill the void she’d left behind.
Eventually, his breaths evened. He lifted his head and looked down the hallway, through the open door into the kitchen. He could still see the sparkle in Sinead’s eyes when they’d first viewed this house. She’d fallen in love with the kitchen as soon as she’d seen it, with its granite work surfaces, double cooker, central workstation, and enough room for their pine family table in the corner to boot. Many a time he’d arrived home from a long shift to find her trying out a new dish, singing along to Ed Sheeran as she stirred a pan. It was her happy place, her relaxation.
Two days had passed. Two days in which he’d been treated like a member of the public and told the police were following up leads, dealing with inquiries, interviewing witnesses. Where was the camaraderie? Cops looked after cops. Or they always had when he’d joined.
Even his colleagues in training seemed sketchy when he’d visited the office earlier. And the homicide suite was placed under lock and key.
He’d trained as a detective and he knew Sinead better than anyone, yet they wouldn’t even let him assist, off the record. His chest hardened. Well, if they weren’t prepared to share with him what they knew, he’d find out for himself.
He opened his rucksack, shoved the fleece inside and wandered into the front room. The lump in his throat expanded. This was their family home, with the portrait of the four of them above the fireplace, the bookshelf stocked with children’s books on the far wall, the pine chest that doubled up as a toy box in the corner. His eyes rested on the oversized sofa, a wedding present from his mum. They were so excited when it arrived, bouncing up and down on it, standing back, commenting on how nice it looked, how soft the leather felt. Later, they’d christened it, their lovemaking deeper, blooming with the opportunity their future together presented. That was in the early days, when they could enjoy sex with wild abandon, before they had to hush each other, conscious of waking the children. But even in recent years, they’d cuddled up on it to watch television, Sinead resting her head on his shoulder.
A lilac My Little Pony poked its nose out of the top of the chest in the corner; a soft Peppa Pig toy was propped up against the side. He pulled open his rucksack, placed the soft toy inside. It would be a while before he could bring the kids home. Maybe they would feel calmer having more of their toys with them. He opened the chest, collected a couple of trucks, then crossed to the bookcase and lifted out a few Horrid Henry books.
Upstairs, he picked up changes of clothes for his children.
When he’d reached his own bedroom, the bag was brimming. He dropped it to the floor, his heart contracting as he looked around at the pale blue walls, the Laura Ashley bedcovers, the Jack Vettriano print he’d bought Sinead for her last birthday on the far wall. The dressing table was still littered with her hairdryer, straighteners and perfume bottles.
Somehow, he expected the room to look different now Sinead was gone. But apart from the odd ornament out of place, or photo askew, a legacy of the police search, it was unchanged. In the en suite, he spotted a black elastic hair tie on the side of the sink, beside her toothbrush. There was a time when they’d been transparent, told each other everything. Not anymore. There was something Sinead hadn’t told him. Something crucial. Something that had cost Sinead her life.
A secret.
The search team would have seized her laptop, outstanding post, address books, anything they felt might provide some clue to her associations and movements in the days leading up to her murder. But they didn’t know Sinead. Not like he did.
He opened her wardrobe, ran his fingers across dresses, skirts, shirts, trousers, all arranged haphazardly. She’d never been one for order. She tidied the living space relentlessly, shoving everything into cupboards, wardrobes, drawers and boxes. Open a cupboard and invariably items fell out. He dug a hand in each of the pockets of her coats. Tried the pockets of her trousers and pulled out a used tissue and a stray hair tie.
He turned his attention to her bedside cabinet, moving aside her clock, a tube of hand cream, a half-used blister pack of paracetamol. At her dressing table, he worked through each drawer in turn. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Some clue about her recent life. He pulled out the bottom drawer, pressed his face to the floor and peered into the gap behind. Apart from a layer of dust and a few stray hairs, it was empty.
He grabbed her jewellery box, moving aside the gold chain he’d bought her for their first wedding anniversary: her father’s wedding ring. A nest of bracelets and necklaces. Where would Sinead hide things?
A tap at the front door stopped him in his tracks. The jewellery box snapped shut. He peered around the curtain edge to the empty road outside.
Another knock, harder this time. A distant voice he didn’t recognise shouted out. It sounded like they were calling through the letter box.
Blane lifted the rucksack and made for the stairs.
A man in a striped shirt and navy slacks was standing on the front step when he opened the door, a bag hanging over one shoulder.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said. ‘I was leaving next door and saw the car.’
‘And you are?’
‘Andrew Burton, Hampton Herald. I wondered if we could—’
‘Get off my property,’ Blane said, squeezing the words through his teeth.
‘If we could just—’
‘Now!’ He slammed the door and leant up against it, gobsmacked at the sheer temerity of the journalist.
Another knock. ‘I think you misunderstand me. I’m here—’
The journalist prattled on. Anger coursed through Blane’s veins. He turned back to the door, ready to give the reporter a piece of his mind, when a single thought stopped him. The media. If the DCI wasn’t going to let him assist, he was pretty sure the press would. But not here, not now. He wasn’t interested in one lone reporter. What he needed, was an audience.
CHAPTER 32
Helen stood beside Pemberton, transfixed at the screen in front of her, watching the interview play out.
Natalia Kowalski was a short woman with cropped dark hair and brown eyes. In her plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled back, she looked more like an A-level student wandering out of school than a twenty-eight-year-old carer at a prestigious nursing home. Pemberton had said she’d barely uttered a word when she’d arrived home earlier to find them waiting and willingly agreed to accompany them to the police station.
Now, sat at the Formica table, with a faraway, almost trance-like, look on her face, it was difficult to decipher whether she was genuinely in a state of shock or carefully hiding something.
‘How long have you known Sinead?’ Dark asked.
‘I met her when I started at the nursing home, nine months ago. He
r mum, Maeve, is one of the residents I look after.’
‘Were you close friends?’
Natalia bit her lip. A white ring surrounded the tooth sinking into the skin. ‘It’s awkward.’
‘Take your time.’
Her gaze darted about the room, as if she wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I’m guessing since you’ve found me, you’ve seen the messages on her phone. So, you’ll know.’ Her eyes filled. ‘We were very close.’
Helen stilled.
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Dark said. ‘Can you explain your relationship with Sinead?’
A tear streamed down Natalia’s face. ‘We started meeting up outside of work about four months ago,’ Natalia said with a sniff. ‘I liked Sinead a lot. I think she liked me too. She knew I wanted more, but it was complicated. She had children, a husband, and her mum to think of.’ She swallowed. ‘I was taking it slow, giving us time to get to know one another. I had hoped that—’ Her voice cut. She looked away, dried her cheeks with the back of her cuff.
‘Did you meet regularly outside of work?’
‘Once or twice a week. Sinead couldn’t always get away. We spoke on the phone most days though.’ Another tear meandered down the side of her nose. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ Dark said with a gentle smile. She offered her a tissue and they spent some time going through dates and locations where they met.
‘Barbara, the owner at Bracken Hall, is very strict about personal friendships with clients,’ Natalia said. ‘Sinead was concerned about her finding out about us. She didn’t want me to lose my job. I’m one of the few people she trusted with her mother, you hear so many horror stories. So, we always met outside of town.’
‘When did you last see each other?’
‘On Friday. We went for a drive, out into the country. It was my lunch hour.’ Another tear plopped onto the table in front on her.
‘How did Sinead seem on Friday?’
‘Okay. The usual. She liked a joke, wanted to have fun.’ A longing glance to the side. ‘Our meet-ups gave her the opportunity to forget her worries and be herself for a while. It was good to see her relax.’