by Isaac, Jane;
Dark opened a buff file and laid out photos of the boys and the man at the ATM and asked if she knew or had seen any of them before. Natalia studied them for some time before she shook her head. When she asked about Sinead’s debt to the nursing home, the young woman’s eyes bulged. She clearly had no idea. ‘Did Sinead ever mention a factory called Billings?’ Dark asked.
‘No.’ Another tear spilled out. ‘Is it true they tortured her?’ Her voice was barely a whisper. She pressed the tissue to her face.
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘On the news. I don’t understand. I mean, who would do that?’
‘That’s what we mean to find out. Did she ever mention an argument, perhaps someone she’d fallen out with? Or maybe someone that held a grudge against her?’
‘No, everyone liked Sinead. When she walked into a room, she brightened it up, even though she was struggling inside.’ Her face pained. ‘I was floored when I saw it on the news yesterday evening. Couldn’t believe it. Had to double-check online. Then I didn’t know what to do. We were supposed to be meeting for lunch at the hotel. When I couldn’t get hold of her, I thought she’d been caught up. By the evening, I started to worry. Then when I turned on the television…’ She shook her head, face tight, reliving the moment. ‘I switched off my phone, stayed at the hotel. Sat up all night wondering what to do.’
‘Why didn’t you contact us? We left several messages for you.’
‘I don’t know.’ She sniffed. ‘What good would it do? Sinead wanted to keep our close friendship secret from everyone when she was alive. Blane knew I was gay. She worried he might suspect something, didn’t want to upset him or the children. She wouldn’t appreciate me turning up now after she’d died and talking about how close we were.’
A stray fly buzzed around the light bulb.
‘Did Sinead ever talk about her family life?’ Dark asked.
‘Not much. She didn’t like to. There were a few odd comments. I knew she’d fallen out of love with Blane.’
‘She told you that?’
‘Well, not those exact words. She was always hinting though. She said he was a good father, worked hard for his family. But she felt suffocated.’
‘In what way?’
‘He liked them to do things together. Everything was “about the family”. Sinead had a strong sense of loyalty, to the point of guilt. She hated discussing her personal life, it was a job to get her to talk. I was hoping the retreat would give us some time away from it all, you know, give her a chance to find time for herself, maybe think about the future. She couldn’t carry on the way she was going, she’d have a breakdown.’
Helen stepped away from the screen and wondered how Natalia would feel if she knew Blane had booked the trip, as a break for Sinead. How he’d planned to join her. She imagined him making his way to the hotel to surprise his wife, only to find them both there together.
A glance back. Natalia was detailing her movements on Wednesday so they could corroborate them with those on file. It was understandable the two women might meet discreetly, to keep their friendship away from Bracken Hall. The nursing home made it clear they disproved of personal friendships between clients and staff; Sinead cherished her mother, and wouldn’t want to lose Natalia as her mother’s carer. But Sinead had kept a separate phone and taken exceptional steps to keep their relationship away from friends and family.
Once again, Natalia described Sinead as a private person. Blane didn’t know about her relationship with Natalia and neither did Mia, her colleague at work. Nor Yvette, her neighbour. Helen was beginning to wonder if Sinead was ever truly open and honest with anyone.
CHAPTER 33
Helen’s mobile phone was ringing when she arrived back in her office, the familiar Dad’s Army theme tune signalling it was her mother. She clicked to answer.
A warm, smooth voice greeted her: the relaxed tone of someone on holiday. ‘Hello, darling. How are you?’
She clearly doesn’t know about the case, Helen thought, relieved that Matthew had kept his word. ‘Good, thanks. I hear you’re building rafts this afternoon.’
A brief chuckle. ‘Well, the boys are. I’m going to catch up with some reading. How are things there? Matt said you wanted to talk to me.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing really. We have a new case on, a murder. The victim was a cop. I wanted to let you know I was all right.’ Helen squirmed in her chair.
‘Oh, I see.’ The line crackled. It was a moment before her mother spoke again and when she did, she sounded agitated. ‘Anyone we know?’ Having been a police wife for most of her life, Jane Lavery had many friends in the force.
‘Her name was Sinead O’Donnell, a young PC. I doubt you’d know her. She was off duty at the time.’
‘And you’re heading the inquiry?’
‘Yes. You might see or hear something on the national news. I didn’t want you to worry.’
‘Is that wise? Putting you in charge… after what happened in March.’
Here we go. ‘Mum, this has got nothing to do with the last case,’ Helen said. ‘It’s a separate inquiry.’
‘But… so soon.’
Helen rubbed her forehead. ‘This is what I do, Mum. You know that.’ This wasn’t the time for an in-depth discussion about career choices. ‘I don’t want the boys to fret. Is Robert there?’
‘He’s popped out to get another bottle of cola.’
Pemberton tapped her office door. She beckoned him in.
‘Okay, well, will you tell him for me? Make sure he knows there’s nothing to worry about. It’s a case I’m working, same as any other.’
‘All right.’
‘Thanks. I have to go, I’ll see you when you get home tomorrow.’ She placed her phone on the desk. Hopefully, her mother would have time to process the information and calm down before she returned home.
‘You need to see this,’ Pemberton said.
He moved across to her laptop and worked the keys. A freeze-frame of the side of Blane O’Donnell filled a box in the middle of the screen. He was sitting in the driver seat of his car. A hanging basket in the background filled with purple petunias told her he was on his mother’s drive.
Pemberton pressed play.
Blane climbed out of the car, turned and approached the cameras. A Peppa Pig soft toy poked out of the top of the rucksack he placed at his feet. He held up his hands, hushed the crowd in front. Waited until they quietened before he spoke. ‘My beautiful wife, Sinead O’Donnell, was brutally murdered on Wednesday evening.’ He paused. A camera flashed in the background. ‘This is a very difficult time for my family, not least because we know whoever did this is still out there. That’s why I’d like to personally request the help of both the public and the press in the search for my wife’s killer.’ He faced the camera, front on. ‘Somebody out there knows something. Maybe they’re shielding the offender. Maybe they saw something they’re not sure about. Anything at all, however small or insignificant you may think it is, please get in touch. We need your help.’
He spoke eloquently, without hesitation, like a politician delivering a prepared speech.
‘That’s it.’ He picked up the rucksack, held up his free hand and said, ‘Thank you.’
A stream of questions followed him up the driveway. Blane ignored all of them and disappeared into his mother’s house.
The footage ended.
‘He’s good,’ Helen said.
‘Hmm. Can’t help wondering what he’s playing at though.’
The footage returned to the beginning. Helen looked back at Blane’s freeze-framed profile in the car. ‘He’s been careful. Hasn’t criticised the police investigation. It might encourage other witnesses to come out of the woodwork.’
‘Vicki Gardener is doing her nut. Wants to speak with you urgently.’
It wasn’t surprising the press office were up in arms. Usually, they’d consider asking a victim’s family to face the cameras a week or so into an investigation, a planned eve
nt, possibly as part of a reconstruction, when they’d exhausted all other inquiries. Blane would know that. ‘The timing’s interesting,’ she said.
‘He wants to play a part, root the murderer out.’
She pressed play, ran through the footage again. They’d released Natalia Kowalski earlier, the hotel confirmed her movements, she had an alibi for the day of Sinead’s murder and appeared to co-operate fully, even handing over her phone for examination. But the clandestine nature of their relationship and the apparent need for secrecy still puzzled Helen. Natalia referred to Sinead as falling out of love with Blane, a description at odds with others. Was that how she justified her intentions towards Sinead, or was there more in the background they were yet to uncover? Did Blane have an affair in the dim and distant past? Was he trying to root out anyone in particular?
‘I take it we’ve exhausted our inquiries into Blane’s background?’ she asked Pemberton.
‘He was at work, carrying out an inventory of the gym equipment. A colleague was with him.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘There’s nothing to suggest he was involved.’
‘Take a look anyway, will you? In fact, dig into both of their pasts. Old flames, that sort of thing. Let’s check they haven’t got any jilted ex-lovers or any other secrets we should be aware of.’
CHAPTER 34
Connor lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Did the detectives question Rhys last night too? He desperately hoped not. Because Rhys would blame him for bringing the police to their door. He’d told him to tell no one about what they’d seen, and Connor hadn’t intended to. His hand had been forced and now the whole episode was distorted and knotted and he didn’t know what to do. Rhys would be angry. Great, his only friend…
He turned it over and over in his head, the speculation chewing away at him. He had no way of knowing, no way of finding out because, as soon as they got back from the station last night, his mother had confiscated his phone. She’d taken his laptop too. ‘I’m not having you messaging that Evans boy,’ his mother said when she demanded he hand them over. ‘I’ll keep them until you go back to school on Monday. The break will do you good.’ No laptop. No gaming. No YouTubing. Nothing to distract him. It was like purgatory.
As if on cue, his mother called up the stairs. ‘Connor, put the bins out please.’
Another job. She’d been like this since they arrived home yesterday. ‘You can do the washing-up, make up for what you’ve put me through today. Tomorrow, you can cut the grass.’ Where was the sympathy? Where was the care? It didn’t seem to matter he’d been in a factory where a woman had been brutally murdered. She’d brushed that aside, focused on him lying about where he was. As far as she was concerned, he’d got himself mixed up in something he shouldn’t have and needed to accept his punishment. When the detectives mentioned counselling, she’d scoffed. He wondered how she would feel if she knew he’d seen the dead body. If she was aware the grisly sight of that woman haunted his dreams.
‘Connor!’ Her voice rose a decibel.
He sighed, climbed off the bed and descended the stairs. His mother was watching yet another soap.
‘It’s recycling week. Blue and red bins,’ she called as he passed the front room.
It was already dark, the low clouds signalling an early night. He pulled on his trainers, stepped outside and waited for the security light to illuminate the garden. Rolled his eyes when it failed. Damn light worked when it felt like it. He collected the bins and dragged them along the back of the house, through the aperture between their terrace and the next and out to the front. The road was empty, curtains on the houses opposite pulled tightly shut. It was nearly 9.30 p.m., after all.
He parked the bins under a street light, turned to go, when he heard a low mewl. Then another. It came from the tree in the front garden next door and, when he looked up, he saw a black and white cat balanced precariously on one of the lower branches. He’d seen the cat before, it even tried to come into their house a week ago and his mother had shooed it away. ‘Don’t encourage it,’ she’d said. ‘We’ll never get rid of it.’ Connor liked animals, he’d have loved a dog or a cat for company, but his mother always refused. ‘You need to be at home to look after a pet,’ she’d say. ‘We’re not there enough.’ The cat mewled again as he stepped closer. It took a step and wobbled, anxiously looking down.
‘Here,’ Connor said. ‘Let me help you.’
It shrunk back as he reached up.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, tentatively reaching out and stroking its head. The animal rubbed its chin against his fingers.
He reached up another hand, took a grip and lifted it out of the tree, stroking its soft back in his arms.
‘It’s all right. You’re safe now.’ He stroked it again, placed it down and watched it scamper across the road towards a house opposite.
Connor retraced his steps. He was closing the gate when a hand shot out of the darkness and pressed against his mouth. Dragging him back. Muffling his screams to tiny squeals. The menthol aroma of throat sweets. It was him, the man from the park earlier.
Connor wrestled to free himself. His heart pounded his chest.
Warm breath on his ear. ‘You’re the kid from the factory.’
A scream rose from the pit of Connor’s gut. He tried to release his arms, but the man’s hold was firm.
‘I won’t hurt you.’ The voice was gruff. Desperate. ‘As long as you tell me what you saw.’
He’d already caused Rhys’s family enough grief by talking to the police. He sure as hell wasn’t about to speak to anyone else.
The man’s grip tightened.
Connor gulped, mustering every ounce of energy. Then lifted a leg to kick out. The man was too quick. He twisted, dodging the heel of Connor’s trainer. Stumbled slightly. Set his foot down, just in time for Connor to drive his heel into it. He jolted back, loosening his grip for a split second as he tried to regain balance. Long enough for Connor to wriggle out and run to the back door.
As soon as he was inside, Connor fumbled with the lock and pulled across the bolt. Choking on his breaths, he rushed to the front and checked the door was secure, then doubled over.
‘All done?’ his mother’s voice called out.
She’d thought their trip to the police station yesterday was an end to the episode. As did he. Until now. He should tell her, alert the police. But how was he to explain what happened outside, especially when he couldn’t make sense of it himself? Who was that man and why was he here? His stomach twisted, the dilemma wringing it over and over.
Rhys would know what to do. He needed to find a way to contact him.
‘Yeah. I’m going up to bed,’ he said, battling to keep his voice even. And with that he clambered up the stairs.
CHAPTER 35
The bedsprings creaked as Blane turned onto his side. The street light outside seeped through the old swathes of curtain material, casting spooky shadows across the peeling wallpaper. This was one of only a few rooms left to be decorated and no matter what he did he couldn’t seem to eradicate the smell of old wallpaper paste.
He pictured the throng of press earlier. They’d been enthusiastic, keen to listen to his speech. He imagined it going out on the major news channels later that evening, lighting up online sites. Hopefully, someone would come forward, respond to his plea and contact the incident room, although he couldn’t be sure the DCI would let him know. He needed to find another way to delve into Sinead’s secret.
He climbed out of bed, toes curling on the bare boards, tugged his robe off the back of the door and pulled it over his shoulders. It was 3.53 a.m. The soft rumble of his mother’s intermittent snores became louder as he navigated the landing. Blane shuffled past her room and entered the next one along, where his children were sleeping.
Thomas was on his back, his face turned away, a bare arm hanging out of the side of his bed. Ava was coiled into a tight ball, her curls sprawled across the pillow. She’d wr
iggled onto her side to expose Peppa Pig’s tail on the back of her pyjama top. He crept into the room, folded Thomas’s arm back under the duvet. Pulled the covers over Ava. They usually had their own rooms at his mother’s, they stayed over so often, but with the other rooms partially decorated, space was at a premium. He should take them home soon.
He tiptoed down the stairs, carefully avoiding the creaky steps at the bottom.
Moonlight streamed into the kitchen. He flicked a switch, illuminating the soft under-cupboard lighting, and set the kettle to boil. The room still needed a refit and, while the kettle coughed and sputtered into action, he glanced at the wooden cupboards, the laminate work surface, the deep country-style sink. They’d had a similar sink at home when he was young. He could remember his mother pulling up a chair to it after they’d made a cake together, letting him wash up after he’d licked out the cake bowl.
Sinead had baked with their children. Only last week, he’d arrived home to find Ava sitting on the work surface, swinging her legs, licking a spatula covered in mixture and Thomas at the sink, his hands immersed in mounds of bubbles. The image brought a fresh wave of tears to his eyes.
Would his children remember cooking with their mother? Her walking them to school and taking time off work to watch their assemblies? Or would those special moments be forgotten, their brains too young to solidify them?
Steam rose into the air. Blane didn’t notice, didn’t hear the kettle switching itself off, his gaze now resting on the broom cupboard in the corner. The cupboard where he’d stored the bag Dick brought earlier: the contents of Sinead’s work locker.
Dick’s words rang out in his ears. ‘You might want to do that later, laddie. There’s some personal stuff in there.’
He opened the kitchen door, glanced down the hallway, listened a second.
The plastic crackled as he retrieved the bag from the cupboard. He lifted it onto the table. The first thing he spotted inside was the single epaulette, the silver numbers of Sinead’s badge that were pinned onto it glinting in the low lighting: 236. For seven years, that had been her collar number. She’d inherited it from a detective called Noel Rogers, who retired the year before she joined. That’s how it worked in the police, the numbers passed along. Blane had known Noel well and they’d joked many a time about the contrast between his love for the gym and hers for all things culinary; the station gym was somewhere Sinead only frequented when the annual fitness tests were due.