by Isaac, Jane;
‘What’s this?’ she said, taking it.
‘It’s the last performance report for Ivan Newton.’
The new inspector. With the events of the past few days, she’d put his imminent arrival out of her mind. She ran her eyes over the sheet and started. ‘He’s a trained Senior Investigating Officer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it wise to have two SIOs on the same team?’ she asked, astounded. An SIO usually ran an investigation. They kept their own policy log, theorising on different approaches, explaining every judgement they made, and deployed their team accordingly. It was a bit like employing two head chefs in a restaurant.
‘He’s keen, enthusiastic and fiercely ambitious. All he needs now is a mentor.’
‘You want me to mentor him? I haven’t even been with homicide a year myself.’
‘Yes, and during that time you’ve had good results. Now it’s time to take a step back and pass on some of the knowledge and insight you’ve learned.’
Helen felt a flare of anger. This wasn’t about finding the right fit for her team. It was about keeping her off the streets, in the office. It was about Jenkins appeasing his own guilt for not supporting her decisions on the last case.
Suddenly she realised why she recognised the name. Ivan Newton and she had been on the same course last year. ‘Human Exploitation and Modern Day Slavery’, a three-day residential course in Derbyshire. And now she pictured him: a stocky Lancashire man in his early thirties, with a bushy beard and a bellowing voice, who saw himself as the joker of the pack. Nothing wrong with that in essence, until he stretched the bounds of humour when he froze another delegate’s car keys in a block of ice on the last day of the course. What he didn’t anticipate was the panic when the delegate was called home because his pregnant wife had gone into early labour and he couldn’t find his car keys. And when he did finally find them, he couldn’t use them, the water had messed up the mechanism.
Ivan had been sorry afterwards, but him taking such steps ‘for a laugh’ sat uncomfortably with the whole course. Shame really, because he’d also shown moments of real vision. Though the two together were a recipe for disaster.
‘I’m not sure about this,’ she said, relaying the story.
‘An unfortunate judgement call,’ Jenkins said dismissively. ‘I’ve seen worse.’
Helen levelled Jenkins’s gaze. The last thing she needed was someone with poor judgement on her management, especially if she was to mentor them. ‘He needs more time to mature.’
‘The decision’s made, Helen. He’s joining you on Wednesday, I hope you’ll make him welcome.’
She stared at him, working hard to prevent her jaw from hitting the floor, about to protest further when he spoke up again.
‘There’s something else.’ His face tightened. ‘My partner, David, has testicular cancer.’
Helen baulked. She wasn’t even aware he was in a relationship, let alone with a man called David. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She cringed at the banality of her words.
Jenkins gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and turned to the window.
Suddenly it was her that felt awkward. ‘What’s the prognosis?’ she asked quietly.
‘We don’t know. That’s why I’ve been absent, yesterday and today. I wanted to tell you, I’m applying for a career break for three months to look after him. I need to ask you to cover my position.’
‘Me?’ From what she’d seen, the superintendent role was full of politics, budgetary constraints and strategy meetings. She couldn’t be more unsuitable for the role. ‘I’m not sure I’m the right person.’
He lifted a hand to silence her. ‘You know what this place is like. Plenty of people waiting in the wings to take over. I need someone I can trust. With so much uncertainty hanging over us, I need to know I’ve got this role to come back to.’ A sharp intake of breath. ‘Think about it. That’s all I’m asking. If you decide to take it, another trained SIO will alleviate the strain.’
***
Helen’s eyes grew watery as she left Jenkins’s office and traipsed downstairs. This was the most emotion he’d ever displayed, the most insight she’d ever had into his personal life, and it was heart-wrenching.
She’d questioned his absence in the office, his focus on the potential organised crime link, his lacklustre interest in the investigation over the past twenty-four hours, and now she knew why. She’d been so convinced he was struggling to work with her since her return from injury leave and searching for the opportunity to sideline her, that she’d single-mindedly failed to consider alternative explanations. And for that she felt wretched.
What was it she was constantly saying to her staff? Assume nothing. Believe Nobody. Challenge Everything. It was the basis of detection, their mantra. Well, it was about time she took a dose of her own medicine.
***
DC Dark was at the filing cabinets reading a sheet of A4 when Helen entered the incident room. ‘Where’s Pemberton?’ she asked.
‘Out delivering the news to Gordon Turner’s family.’
‘And Spencer?’
‘Finishing up at the crime scene, I believe.’
‘Okay.’ Helen talked her through going out to see Blane. She was finishing up when she was reminded of her first encounter with him at the factory, the bruising on her shoulder still aching. He’d been contrite yesterday evening, but he certainly had a quick temper and the suspension from duty would do nothing to lift his mood. ‘I’ll give Spencer a ring, get him to meet you there,’ she added. ‘You can go in together.’
CHAPTER 50
Apart from a couple of parked cars and a family wandering out of the nearby pizza restaurant, Hampton High Street was empty for a Sunday afternoon, the warm weather encouraging locals away from the town centre to BBQs and picnics in the country. Hayes’s cheery pink awning stretched out onto the pavement, tables and chairs set neatly beneath it. In the far corner, a woman sat with her head buried in a magazine. A messy ponytail hung out of the back of her baseball cap. She wore sunglasses; a denim jacket draped over her shoulders.
The woman didn’t look up as Pemberton strode across. ‘Angela Ingram?’ he asked.
She slid her glasses down her nose, peered over them and nodded.
‘Acting Detective Inspector Sean Pemberton,’ he said.
She ignored his proffered hand. ‘Do you have ID?’
Taken aback, Pemberton nodded and reached into his pocket.
She examined his badge, then checked the street before she removed the sunglasses to reveal an angular face framed by a wavy fringe. A few curls had escaped her ponytail and nestled at her cheeks.
Pemberton noted the empty latte glass in front of her. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’ll have another latte, thank you.’
He moved into the café and ordered coffees, all the time keeping half an eye on the woman outside. They got lots of time-wasters on murder investigations. Crank calls, people giving differing accounts. He desperately hoped this wasn’t another, especially with the wealth of paperwork he had to work through in connection with the Turner case. But something about the woman’s demeanour bothered him. The way she kept looking around her, checking the street. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was one very frightened woman.
‘What did you want to see me about, Ms Ingram?’ Pemberton said after he’d carried out the coffees. He settled himself into a shaded area in the corner.
‘You’re investigating the murder of Sinead O’Donnell, aren’t you?’ She paused, awaiting his acknowledgement before she continued. ‘That’s why you contacted me.’
‘I contacted you to check dates with regards to your relationship with Blane O’Donnell. It’s quite routine.’
‘I have some information. I need to be assured whatever I say will be treated in confidence.’
‘You sound like you are in some kind of trouble.’
‘Not really. Well… I could be. Oh, God.’ She rubbed the back of her neck.
The new in
formation on Gordon Turner and the connection to Sinead hadn’t yet been released to the press, the powers that be were working on a press conference as they spoke. He was aware there were a lot of unanswered questions and they still needed to find Turner’s killer, if there was one. Perhaps if he could settle her nerves, she could help.
He gave a brief nod. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘I don’t know where to start,’ she said.
Pemberton sat back in his chair. ‘Why don’t you tell me why you felt the need to come here today?’
She took a sip of her coffee. ‘Blane and I lived in Dorset before he moved here. We were together for just over two years, shared a home for about eighteen months. After we separated, I went to live in France; he moved up here to be closer to his mother and transferred to Hampton police.’
Pemberton gave a brief nod, resisting the temptation to shift in his seat. This wasn’t how he’d seen the talk unfolding.
‘Blane was a very attentive partner. Interested in everything I did, liked to know where I was, who I was with. He was also kind, gentle, patient. I was flattered, to be honest. My previous partner had worked away and travelled a lot and when he was home, he was lazy. Blane was always around. We spent more and more time together until moving in seemed the only option. We’d only been together eight months or so, but it felt right. He was what I’d been looking for all my life, or so I thought.’
‘What changed?’
‘It’s hard to pinpoint. Difficult to say an exact time. It’s almost like you become a possession and he won’t let you go. When I look back, I can see now he was controlling. He knew every aspect of my life, every movement I made. At the time, I mistook it for attentiveness.’
A car passed, the heavy beat of music momentarily filling the air, and then all was quiet.
‘I think it must have been when I changed my job. I was a buyer for a clothes company and the new job required more time on the road. He was forever phoning and texting, asking where I was. It was stifling. Anyway, I asked for a break, said I needed some space. He wasn’t keen on the idea. It took a while for him to agree. Eventually, he moved out and stayed in a hotel nearby. We were separated about a month, although we still met up for drinks and he called in to see me. During our time apart, I realised our relationship was oppressive and decided to end it. So I asked him to come around and we talked. I told him how I felt. It all seemed to go okay, he was shocked, sad, but… he listened. Until I said we should give up the house. I don’t know what it was, but at that comment he turned. One moment, I was sitting on the sofa talking about places to live, the next he’d thrust a hand at my throat and lifted me from the seat. He slammed me against the wall. I thought he was going to kill me.’
Pemberton sat forward. ‘What happened?’
‘Somebody knocked the door. One of our neighbours. They’d heard the noise. He let go. Got rid of the neighbour. When he came back, I was in the kitchen, trying to get out of the back door. It was locked and I couldn’t find the key. I could never understand why he always kept the doors locked when he was in the house, front and back. He was sorry, remorseful. Said he didn’t know what had come over him.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Asked him to leave. I was terrified.’
‘Did you call anyone, report the incident to the police?’
She closed her eyes. It was a moment before she opened them. ‘What, and tell my account to Blane’s colleagues? They’d never believe me. He was popular around the station, he’d received a commendation the month before for using the... What do you call it?’ She waved her hand in the air. ‘The Heimlich manoeuvre, to save a baby from choking.
‘Blane pleaded with me to keep it quiet. He’d lose his job if it came out. He said if I told anyone, he’d find me, finish what he’d started and hide my body. He’d always said criminals were stupid, if they were clever our jails would be empty. Used to joke about committing the perfect crime. I should have realised.’
‘Had he ever been violent or aggressive to you before?’
‘Not violent, no. Blane doesn’t like confrontation. He’s fine with it in the police, not in a personal setting; not with family. We barely exchanged cross words when we were together. If I had a moan, he listened, apologised. When I said I needed a break, he was upset and said he loved me, would do whatever it took to make it work. But this… this was something else.
‘When he left the house, I was terrified. The man I’d known for two years wasn’t who I thought he was and I couldn’t tell anyone. My neck was covered in bruises. I was mindful of his caution, worried he’d come back. So, I left. That night, I packed my things, took a night flight and went to my sister’s in France. He wouldn’t be protected by his police cronies there. And I haven’t been back.’
‘Did you speak with him afterwards?’
She shook her head. ‘His mother turned up at my sister’s a week after I left. I was petrified. I told her exactly what happened and she apologised, pleaded with me not to report it to the police. Blane was an only child and could never please his father when he was young. When he was eight, his father left and his mother moved them both in with her parents. They didn’t hear from him for years. Blane tried to trace his dad in his late teens. His dad refused to have anything to do with him. His mother said Blane suffered from a fear of rejection and he was dealing with it, getting help. All he wanted, all he ever wanted, was a family of his own. She convinced me he’d never been aggressive before, even offered me money, although I didn’t want her cash.’
‘Why contact us now?’
She tugged at her collar. ‘I wanted to call. I did. Several times. I felt guilty for not reporting the incident in case it happened to someone else. But I kept losing my nerve. I was worried I would be talking to one of Blane’s mates. Then, when I saw an article online about his wife’s murder, I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened to me. What if she asked for a break, or wanted to end the relationship? Perhaps this time he was more controlled. He’d rather kill her than lose face.’
CHAPTER 51
DC Rosa Dark checked the clock on the dashboard again. Where the hell was Spencer? He’d been in the town centre when the DCI called and asked him to join her at Blane’s mother’s house. Only minutes away. He should have arrived before her.
The street outside Blane’s mother’s house was empty that afternoon, the press interest in the family waning. She watched a couple of pigeons wander up and down the nearby telegraph pole. It was probably a good job Blane’s charge and suspension hadn’t yet been released to the media. It was late when he was released on bail last night and, after the discovery at Gordon Turner’s that morning, the line was to deliver an upbeat press conference, reiterate the positive result. The DCI had somehow placated the boys’ families. Blane’s charge and suspension would be pushed out later no doubt, under the cover of the result. Played down as a distressed husband taking the law into his own hands, his actions coloured by grief.
A glance in her rear-view mirror. Nothing. The pigeons left the telegraph pole and flew above the housetops. Dark checked her phone. Spencer hadn’t responded to her texts. She opened the door and climbed out of the car. There was no point in waiting around. She might as well make a start. It was a welfare visit, after all. She was here to deliver good news to the family. News that Sinead’s killer had been found. Blane had been calm when they’d taken him in for interview yesterday. Remorseful. He’d taken his own investigation too far, but this had been the essence of his actions, to seek justice. She’d deliver the decision, check on the family and get back to the station to assist with processing the evidence recovered from Gordon Turner’s squat. They were snowed under. Plenty of time later to chew off Spencer’s ears.
Dark rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, she tried it again, stepped back and checked the front room window. Hopefully they weren’t out. The press conference would be starting shortly, she wanted to pass on the message before they heard the news elsewhere
. She was mulling this over when a door slammed inside.
Seconds later, the front door opened a fraction, Blane O’Donnell’s stocky frame filling the gap. Gone was the coiffed shiny hair, the manicured beard. Not surprising after what he’d been through the past few days. But there was an uneasiness to him. Nothing to do with the straggly hair that looked in dire need of a wash, the shadows beneath his eyes. It was his twisted, contorted face that unsettled her.
He stared at her.
‘I need to talk to you, Blane,’ she said.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
‘There’s been a development. May I come in?’
He seemed to hesitate for the shortest of seconds, then moved aside. ‘You’ll have to be quick. I’ve got an appointment.’
This was going to be more difficult than she’d anticipated. Dark glanced back as the door closed behind her.
She stepped over the toys strewn across the sitting room floor. ‘How are the children doing?’ she said, glancing around. He seemed to be alone.
‘My mother’s taken them into town shopping. Thomas needs new socks for school.’
‘Ah.’ She gave a brief smile. A Ford Focus drew up outside. She looked out hopefully, expecting to see Spencer’s spindly frame when a man in a T-shirt and jeans climbed out and crossed to a house on the other side of the road.
‘Shall we sit down?’
Blane remained standing. ‘As I said, I need to go out.’
‘It won’t take long.’
Reluctantly, he edged towards the sofa.
Dark moved a teddy bear on the armchair beside the window and sat. If she turned sideways on, she could still keep half an eye on the window.
She folded her hands into her lap and passed on the information about Gordon Turner in as much detail as she was able. As she spoke, Blane’s shoulders relaxed, and when she mentioned the press conference, he looked visibly calmer.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I mean it was always possible, but… I don’t know. I had hoped Turner would piece his life back together. He’d even reached out to his brother.’