Silence passed as the purpose of the visit was served.
‘C’mon,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘We don’t want them thinking we’re not pulling our weight.’ They had barely been gone an hour, but Amy was desperate to return. She had put herself at the scene, but had she been correct in her estimations? Whatever it took, she would find out what really went down.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MO
‘I hated school with a passion.’ Mo picked her thumbnail as she reclined in the therapist’s chair. She had been dreading her visit all week. But she had made a pact with herself: to understand what she had become. Why didn’t she feel that what she had done was wrong? Society stated that murder was evil. Did that really make her a monster? If killing another person was so against the so-called moral code, then why did it feel so good? The bottles in her Tesco’s bag clinked as she nudged them with her foot. There was a four-pack of Kopparberg fruity ciders, a variety of chocolate bars and twenty cigarettes. Proper ones, not the roll-ups she could only usually afford. A treat to get her through what lay ahead. ‘You’d think that school would have been a retreat,’ she said, breaking her past down into manageable chunks. ‘Hot meals, a rest from Mum pecking my head . . . but it was just another place I was made to feel like scum.’
‘Lizzie Hall?’ the therapist guessed correctly. Mo twirled her hair, the name invoking a frown. Without a cigarette to hold, it was impossible to keep her hands still.
‘Her . . . and others. “Puddles”, they called me . . . because I supposedly wet myself in school.’ She frowned at the injustice of it all. ‘But none of it was true. Lizzie poured some of her juice onto a plastic chair before I sat on it. When I stood, there was a damp patch on the back of my pinafore. I remember her screaming with laughter, making sure everyone could hear. Nobody would sit next to me after that.’
The therapist’s face was impassive. No doubt a long-practised art of keeping her emotions to herself. ‘You had no friends?’
Mo shook her head. ‘The second anyone got close, Lizzie would warn them off. All I wanted was a friend of my own. But nobody hung out with me – at least, not in school.’ Mo hated talking about this time in her life. She had been so small, so vulnerable back then. So weak, she thought, her jaw tensing with unresolved emotions.
‘And when you went home?’
Mo blinked, focusing on the question. ‘I spent my evenings looking after Jacob. I used to lie next to him on his narrow cot bed to get him to sleep. I remember listening to him breathing. It was the sweetest sound.’ Mo’s heart lifted as she thought of the little boy she had loved most in the world. ‘He’d play with my hair, while I’d stare at the ceiling, wishing for a better life for us both. Then I’d hear his soft snores, and I’d cover him up with his favourite blanket before sneaking out of the house.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere much. Sometimes I’d hang around the playground after dark. That’s where I met Jen.’ Mo paused to swig the plastic cup of water she had drawn from the water cooler when she came in. She had knocked back half a bottle of vodka in her room last night and had a hell of a thirst on. She smacked her lips, the roof of her mouth still feeling like it was coated in sand. ‘Can I have another one of these?’ she asked, rising to refill her cup.
‘Sure, no need to ask. We were talking about Jen?’ the therapist continued as Mo returned.
Mo knocked back another mouthful of water before sitting back down. She could have asked to use the toilet and wasted a few minutes in there. But she was only fooling herself. She would have to discuss Jen at some point, no matter how much it hurt. She inhaled deeply, gathered her reserves of strength, and began. ‘She was five years older than me, seventeen. I knew her from the estate, but she’d never given me the time of day before.’
The therapist scribbled a few words on her pad before returning her attention to Mo. ‘What was she like?’
‘Tall and skinny. And I don’t mean thin – Jen had a bony frame. She used to pad herself out with sanitary towels to make herself look curvy. She put them in her knickers to flesh out her bum.’ Mo rolled her eyes. ‘Seems daft now, but I felt so special that she was sharing her secrets with me.’ She looked at her hands. ‘She used to have these big long nails – painted neon pink. She nicked all her make-up from Boots. Never paid for a thing.’ Mo recalled the time they spent together. It seemed so different, now her perspective on life had changed. ‘We used to get the bigger boys to buy us booze from the local newsagents. You could get these great big bottles of fizzy cider for a couple of quid. Steve, my stepfather, was always losing money down the back of the sofa. He’d come home drunk, and it would slide from his pockets between the cracks in the leather seats. I found a twenty-pound note once. I made it last . . . I didn’t spend it all at once.’
‘What did you spend it on?’
‘Some ice cream for Jacob.’ Mo’s eyes glistened as she recalled the look on his face when she took him to their local cafe for a treat. The ice cream sundae was huge, laced with pieces of chocolate, jelly and whipped cream. She recalled dipping her spoon into the glass as he insisted she taste it first. His eyes watching her intently, asking her what it was like. It was clear he wanted to savour the moment, so unlike other kids his age. A smile almost touched her lips as she recalled telling him it was horrible and that she’d have to eat it all herself. His laugh had been infectious as he cottoned on to the joke. ‘He was so sweet and bright,’ she continued. ‘High on life.’ She paused for a sip of water as her voice threatened to break. It was too painful to dwell on Jacob for very long. ‘I spent the rest of it on booze and fags. The boys down the playground would sell us singles from their packs.’
‘At what age did you start smoking?’
‘Twelve,’ Mo said. ‘Mum was too wrapped up in herself to notice, stupid cow.’ She sighed, regretting her choice of words. Her mother’s life had been no picnic either. ‘She wasn’t a bad mum. She was young when she had us. Her home life was a mess. Her anxiety crippled her. She couldn’t cope.’ Mo sighed. It was hard, keeping her focus on the past. ‘I’d live for those times down the playground. Then one day, Jen invited me to a party. She gave me some clothes that she’d nicked from town earlier that day. It was like all my birthdays came at once.’ Mo shook her head. ‘I was too naive to see that she was using me. She . . .’ The words died on her tongue as the pull of the past became too strong. She had spent so long building her defences, it hurt to have her walls ripped down. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her breath accelerating, her fingers intertwining so tightly they hurt.
‘It’s OK. You’re safe here.’ The therapist’s words were soft and velvety, acting as a valve as they released some of the pressure within. Mo relaxed a little, taking in her surroundings and bringing herself back to ground. Those days were over. She was strong now, and people who displeased her had come to regret it. So why was she even here? The answer appeared instantly, because the question nagged her with intensity every day.
She needed to know exactly what she was.
CHAPTER NINE
‘What’s wrong?’ Amy said, stopping Donovan in his tracks. Given the pace they were working at, it was hard to find two seconds alone. He missed their shared office, but it was a case of making do while they were here. He rubbed his stubbled chin. Amy’s ability to pick up on his concerns was uncanny. Shaun, Carla’s husband, was attending the station to speak to them about events leading up to his wife’s death, and they were debating whether or not he should hear Carla’s voicemail.
‘I don’t know if this is a good idea.’ He spoke in a low voice as a couple of probationers passed them in the hall. ‘He’s been through enough.’
‘We need him to hear it,’ Amy said, closing the gap between them. ‘If only to verify that it’s her. What if he hears something in Carla’s tone that we don’t pick up?’ They had not recovered Carla’s phone, which was most likely somewhere on the seabed.
‘It’s a ten-second message asking f
or my help. There’s nothing more to it than that.’ Donovan didn’t mean to be glib, but he dealt in cold, hard facts while Amy looked at everything else: feelings, intuitions, behaviours, everything that he struggled to decipher. His world was black and white, while Amy’s went beyond the spectrum.
‘Carla knew who she was meeting,’ Amy said. ‘Or at least, she’d spoken to them before.’ She gazed into Donovan’s eyes with a fiery intensity that preceded every case. ‘We need Shaun’s input; however painful it is for him.’
But she would never have forced their meeting. Shaun had suggested it from the start. He had already provided the police with an account, but Amy had a thing for meeting people in the flesh, and Donovan did his best to accommodate her. It was a fine line, balancing the investigation while respecting his grief.
Shaun was already in the VIPER room, having been collected from his home by Bicks. The Video Identification Parade Electronic Recording was a significant improvement on the old physical identity parades, when officers would pull in volunteers who resembled the suspect to stand in line. Now, they used pre-recorded video clips of similar people unrelated to the case. Today, the room was chosen because it was one of the very few available, and they had managed to get a fifteen-minute slot. It was also close to reception, and Shaun had asked to slip in and out of the building as quietly as he could. Donovan imagined that seeing Carla’s grief-stricken colleagues might be too much for him to take, so soon after her death.
He pulled the ‘occupied’ slider across the door and, composing himself, opened it for Amy and waved her through. The room was boxy, with just enough room for two chairs, a computer monitor, a filing cabinet and shelves. Like many rooms in the police station, it was windowless and functional. The air in the room was uncomfortably warm, with the stench of cigarette smoke emanating from Shaun’s clothes.
‘All right?’ Bicks said, rising from his chair. Across from him, Shaun’s large frame was squeezed into a chair next to the door. He rubbed a hand over his bald head, his unshaven face reflecting bewilderment. There was a button missing on his shirt, but he didn’t seem to have noticed. Clothes were the least of his worries now. He looked from Amy to Donovan, the hollows beneath his eyes suggesting that sleep had been a stranger too. As Bicks left, he said he would return in fifteen minutes to drive Shaun home. Such small gestures of kindness were typical of him.
Amy took Bicks’s seat as she explained what Shaun was about to hear. Her grey eyes reflected compassion, but there was a veneer of professionalism there too. She wanted as much as anyone to catch the person behind Carla’s death.
‘Is there anything I can get you?’ Donovan said. ‘A drink? Have you any questions before we begin?’ Donovan had met Shaun a couple of times previously, but they weren’t what you’d call friends.
‘I just want this meeting over with.’ Shaun eyed the computer monitor as he shifted in his chair. ‘I need to get back for the kids. Mum’s looking after them, but I don’t like leaving them for long.’ By the tone of his voice, Shaun could not endure any more pleasantries. Donovan understood. His grief weighed heavy, was almost stifling in the small room. Donovan wished he could turn back the clock for Carla. But right now, he could only right a wrong.
He exchanged a look with Amy before activating the CCTV. Soon, the clip of Carla’s last moments was brought to life. A grainy grey image showed her walking with purpose towards the pier. When the short clip finished, Donovan played back Carla’s voicemail on his phone. He could sense Shaun’s turmoil as he listened to her speak.
Amy was watching his expression intently. Perhaps she was looking for a flicker of guilt. Had they argued? Had Carla stormed out of their home that night? But all Donovan saw was grief. Shaun’s hand froze mid-air at the paused CCTV image of his wife. It was as if he wanted to reach out to save her from what lay ahead. Donovan sighed as the voicemail came to an end. Shaun’s hand fell back on to his lap, and he blinked away the tears forming in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry for your loss . . .’ Donovan began to say, but Shaun stiffened in his chair.
‘Why didn’t you answer her call?’ A flash of anger rose in Shaun’s words. ‘You know she idolised you, don’t you? Why couldn’t you give her five minutes of your time?’
Donovan was taken aback by the sudden reproach. ‘It was late. I’d gone to bed. If I’d known . . .’
‘You mentioned in your statement that Carla said she was meeting teenagers,’ Amy interrupted. ‘Had she spoken about them before?’
Shaun heaved a sigh. ‘I’d been on to her all week to spend some time with her own kids. She’d been putting in long hours at work, always coming home and going out again.’
‘And she didn’t elaborate what that was about?’ Amy exchanged a glance with Donovan before returning her attention to Shaun. They both knew Carla had not logged any extra hours at work that week. So where had she been?
‘Don’t ask me, ask your mate here.’ Shaun grimaced as he looked Donovan up and down. ‘He’s the last person she called, not me.’
Donovan was at a loss as to how to respond. As Amy questioned Shaun further, he felt burdened by guilt at what he was putting him through. What possible good was this doing, making him relive his wife’s death? He could almost feel Carla’s presence, asking him what on earth he was playing at, bringing him in like this. Carla was fiercely protective of her family, keeping work and home separate. She would not have wanted Shaun here. This man played no role in his wife’s death. Of that, he was sure.
‘I’ve told you a million times,’ Shaun said, as Amy fired another question. ‘I don’t know who she was going to meet. I don’t even know if she was telling the truth.’ Sighing, he stared at his hands. ‘She found it hard, managing the kids with work, and she was frustrated because she hadn’t been promoted yet.’ Amy nodded in understanding. Policing was a job that took everything you had to give, then put its hand out for more.
‘What did you think when you got the text from her phone that night?’ Amy’s voice softened as she probed. Sorry, the text had said. Take care of my girls. I can’t do this any more.
‘I didn’t know what to think,’ Shaun said. ‘I tried ringing her back, but her phone was off.’
‘Did that sound like something she’d say?’ Amy continued. Donovan remained silent as Shaun composed his thoughts.
‘No,’ he said, rubbing his face. ‘She never called them “her” girls. They were ours. She never would have left them.’ Shaun straightened as a new thought seemed to cross his mind. ‘You don’t think she killed herself, do you? That’s why you’re here.’
‘It’s too early to tell,’ Donovan said. ‘But we’re exploring every avenue.’
Shaun paused to blow his nose. ‘I want to see the rest of the CCTV.’
‘What CCTV?’ Donovan asked.
‘There must be more . . . They’ve got cameras on the pier.’
‘The pier was broken into and the cameras were vandalised. Didn’t you know?’ Donovan watched as Shaun got to grips with the news.
‘No . . . No, I didn’t . . .’ His voice faded as he became lost in thought. ‘The voicemail . . . The cameras . . . That’s it then,’ he said, finally meeting their gaze. ‘Carla was murdered.’ The colour drained from Shaun’s face as he looked from Donovan to Amy. ‘She hated water. She must have been terrified.’
‘We’ve an outstanding team of officers on this, Shaun,’ Amy said. ‘The best in the country. And we’re committed to finding out what happened to your wife that night.’
‘It’s a shame you weren’t committed to answering your phones.’ The dig was directed at Donovan and he let it go.
‘Don’t speak to the press, not yet,’ Amy said, changing the subject. ‘We need to investigate without hindrance, and we don’t want any possible suspect knowing that we’re on to them.’
‘Besides, we’re only surmising.’ Donovan powered off the computer. Their fifteen minutes was up. He was about to show Shaun out when Amy spoke.
; ‘These kids Carla mentioned, did she say if they were local?’
Shaun shook his head. ‘Carla knew most of the kids around here from when she was in uniform. She got on well with them, but she mentioned last week that these teenagers were new to the area.’
Donovan remembered Carla’s camaraderie with the youth of Clacton. She had a soft spot for them all, even the scallywags.
Amy frowned. ‘When was that?’
Shaun blew out his cheeks. In the confines of the tiny room, his breath was stale. ‘It must have been two . . . three days before she died.’
‘And she didn’t say anything else?’
Donovan scowled. Amy was pushing too hard. It was obvious the man was upset.
Shaun’s lips were thin and bloodless as he reached into his pocket. ‘I wasn’t sure if I should give this to you or not.’ He pressed a small green pocket diary into Donovan’s hands. ‘But you may as well know how she felt.’ His words faltered as he exhaled.
Donovan stared at the pocket diary, recognising the emblem on the cover. It was a freebie officers were sent from the Police Federation every year.
A knock signalled the end of their conversation.
‘You all right, mate? I brought you a cuppa cha,’ said Bicks.
Instinctively, Donovan shoved the diary into his pocket. He could take a statement later, should Carla’s diary be relevant to the investigation.
Shaun glanced at the mug in Bicks’s hand as it was offered. ‘I think I’ll just get off. I need to get home to the girls.’
Donovan took the tea. ‘Thanks for coming in. If there’s anything we can do, you know where we are.’
‘Just find the bastard who killed my wife.’
‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, mate.’ Bicks threw an enquiring glance at Donovan before patting Shaun’s back. ‘My motor’s out the front. I’ll run you home.’
Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller) Page 5