Amy turned to Donovan as the door clicked shut. ‘What was that all about?’
‘I don’t know.’ Donovan flicked through a few of the pages, feeling Amy’s gaze as she looked on. The entries were personal. ‘Sorry,’ he said, snapping it shut. ‘This feels all wrong.’
‘Go through it in your own time.’ Amy squeezed his arm. ‘But don’t leave it too long.’
Donovan smiled, grateful for her understanding. ‘Bicks has invited us over for a late supper at his place after work.’ He was grateful to change the subject. From the way Shaun had looked at him, he didn’t want to share Carla’s diary with anyone.
‘That’s nice of him,’ Amy said, but she didn’t meet his eye. ‘Does it have to be tonight?’
‘Afraid so. I didn’t have the heart to say no.’
A thought seemed to enter Amy’s head. ‘He doesn’t know about us, does he?’
‘No, no. Nothing like that. Apparently, his missus is dying to meet you. Please. Say you’ll come.’
‘Dying to gawk at me, more like,’ Amy said, grim-faced. ‘All right, you win.’ But she didn’t seem all that happy about it. He couldn’t blame her. She’d been treated like an animal in a zoo since she got here.
‘What do you make of Shaun?’ he said. ‘You were a bit full-on back there.’
‘We needed to know.’ Amy’s face brightened as she slipped back into work mode. ‘Interesting, what she said about those teenagers. There’s bound to be more CCTV of them if we can get the manpower to view it. Or you might find something in that diary of hers.’
Donovan placed his hand on the door. Being in a confined space with Amy was a pleasant distraction, but he had to finish up any loose ends if he wanted to get to Bicks’s house for supper tonight. ‘I’ll let you know.’
A question lay heavy in his mind, one that would not go away. Carla had always been upfront at work. If she was talking to witnesses, why was there no record of it? He remembered what Bicks said, about Donovan’s team making the rest of them look bad. A sick feeling rose in the pit of his gut. He had championed the TV series in which they featured, saying it would be good for police morale. But had he created a monster? Would Carla have taken the same risks if she hadn’t been under pressure to perform? That’s why he was reluctant to read the diary. What if he had driven her to take the risks that ultimately ended her life?
CHAPTER TEN
Standing on the pavement, Molly dragged on her cigarette. She shouldn’t be smoking, but a cigarette break was a good excuse to get out of the office to check her phone. She glared at the numerous missed calls from her mother, Jean. She had almost broken her record – having reached forty-four in one afternoon. Anyone else might react with alarm, but to Molly, it came as no surprise. She had silenced her phone during work hours, so her colleagues weren’t any the wiser. She wasn’t being mean; it was self-preservation, although a tinge of guilt always remained. Jean would ring a hundred times a day if she could.
Exhaling a steady stream of smoke, Molly imagined her mother’s disapproving glare. She had already spoken to her upon waking, and last thing last night before she slept. Some would say she was lucky, not having to fork out for accommodation in London, but Molly felt smothered by her mother, who monitored her with force. Coming to Clacton was a welcome relief. When she complained to Gary about feeling stifled, he told her to get over herself. ‘First-world problems’, he called it. If only he knew. Extinguishing her cigarette, she turned towards the station. You had to completely leave the perimeter because of the smoking ban, and that suited her just fine. The sea-salt fresh air had recharged her batteries, and she had come to love the cries of the gulls overhead. If it were an emergency, her mum would have sent a text – it was an unspoken rule.
Molly slowed as her phone vibrated once more. Her finger hovered over the screen as she prepared to kill the call. But her mum was a persistent soul. Molly swivelled her head from left to right. The street was devoid of pedestrians, with a slow stream of traffic into town. At least things were quieter around here. She slid her finger across her phone to answer. Work could spare her for two minutes.
‘Jean, I told you not to ring me at work,’ Molly admonished, her head bowed.
‘Really, Molly, why must you insist on calling me that?’ Her pitch was high, her words spoken with the brittle impatience of someone dealing with a five-year-old. ‘I’m your mummy.’
Molly closed her eyes as she tried to gather up her strength, welcoming the warmth of sunshine on her skin. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, refusing to get into that particular argument. She wasn’t a kid, after all. Molly loved Jean but she was clawing for her independence any way she could. Mummy was too babyish a term, and Jean didn’t like it being shortened to Mum.
‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m just seeing how you are. Have you had a healthy breakfast? Taken your medication? How are you feeling, have you checked your blood pressure?’ Jean fired off the questions without pausing for breath.
Molly’s grip tightened on the phone. ‘I’m fine. You know I’m fine. I rang you this morning to tell you I was OK.’
‘But . . .’ Jean began to speak, but Molly cut her off.
‘Porridge for breakfast, the app on my phone reminds me to take my medication, as you know. I feel good. My blood pressure’s perfect. Now can I get back to work?’ Molly hadn’t taken the blood pressure machine her mother had gifted her. It was part of much health-related paraphernalia that she had bought her, not to mention the other presents – honestly, who gets vouchers for counselling on their sixteenth birthday?
Molly rubbed her forehead, feeling her blood pulsate. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk? It’s a lovely day. Or you could do a bit of gardening?’ In times like these, Jean needed an outlet for her anxiety. Molly had no choice but to be her sounding board. After all, she was the cause of it to begin with, something her mother was only too happy to remind her of. She stood at the back entrance to the police station, pulling her security tag from her pocket. Time was marching on.
‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ Jean said. ‘Your father’s so busy, I’ve not spoken to him in two days.’
Molly’s heart felt heavy. She’d really hoped her mum would move forward in her absence. ‘Then join one of those social clubs that I told you about. You need to get out. It’s not doing you any good, being cooped in all day.’
‘Oh no, I don’t fancy that, not unless you’ll join me?’ Her mother’s words hovered, ripe with hopefulness. In the early days, Molly had done everything with her, and it was rare for them to spend a day apart. But the more she tried to gain her natural independence, the harder it had been to tear herself away. Jean didn’t seem to understand the concept of wanting time without her. But how did you extricate yourself from someone without sounding cruel?
She checked her watch, torn between work and loyalty to Jean. This was why she didn’t answer her calls at work. It was so hard to hang up when her mum was feeling down. ‘Go down the garden centre, get some of those lovely bee-friendly plants.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t risk it. What if you got stung?’ Jean paused, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. ‘I don’t like you being away from home. You need looking after. You don’t want it going back to . . . you know . . . how it was before.’ The words hung heavy in the air.
For the love of . . . Molly rolled her eyes. She would not justify Jean’s ill-timed words with a response. Why couldn’t she leave the past behind? ‘Why don’t you do a bit of spring cleaning? There’s some new disinfectant I’ve heard about on social media. It smells really nice. That Mrs Hinch is always going on about it . . .’ She spelt out the name as her mother wrote it down. Jean would immediately take to that. Disinfecting the house would definitely appeal.
‘That sounds nice. And it’s not harmful to your lungs?’
Molly wanted to tell her that there was nothing wrong with her lungs, but it would only spark an argument. ‘No, it’s completely natural, and it smells gorgeous. They have it in the Co-op.
Maybe treat yourself to a new steam mop too.’
‘Yes . . . maybe I will.’ Molly could hear the smile on her mother’s voice, her concerns fading for now. ‘I was saying to your father this morning, the grouting on the kitchen tiles could do with a good steam.’ A wry smile crossed Molly’s lips as Jean let it slip that she had spoken to her dad today. She pushed open the gate as her security tag clicked to allow her through.
‘OK, well, I’m needed at work. I’m putting my phone on silent, so if there’s any problem, send me a text.’ Her voice echoed down the corridor as she made her way back to her desk. There would be many more missed calls on her phone by the end of the working day. Her mum’s anxiety came in spikes, and she had to ride it out until it passed. She wished she could do more for her. They had been through so much, but Molly desperately needed to escape her past.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amy’s surroundings may have been unfamiliar, but her sense of purpose was unchanged. She stood in front of her team in the office they had been assigned. This briefing was meant for her team only, but Bicks had asked if his officers could sit in. Perhaps it was more out of morbid curiosity than their involvement in the case. Amy was used to people studying her with interest. Her shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, her trousers sticking to her waist. Even with the windows open, the room was increasingly warm. She took a swig from her stainless-steel water bottle to cool herself down. First on her agenda was a response to their complaints about IT.
‘OK, folks, I know some of us have had teething problems getting on to the system, but it should be sorted today. In the meantime, focus on some old-fashioned policing with paper and pens. If you need anything, ask Sergeant Bickerstaff or his team.’ She glanced at the whiteboard that Donovan had set up. It felt strange, working on someone else’s patch, but it was good they were there. Nobody wanted the lousy publicity these deaths were generating, and clearance had been given in record time.
There were three whiteboards in total, one for each area in which the alleged suicides had occurred. Enquiries were ongoing with forces in other British seaside resorts in case they had missed anything. Amy approached the whiteboard with the ‘Brighton’ header. Next to a picture of the victim were bullet points listing the circumstances of their death. A second column listed possible suspects, and the third column on the right portrayed similarities in each case. The second and third columns were depressingly sparse.
‘You’ve all had time to familiarise yourselves with the case. Don’t be afraid to ask any burning questions, just don’t get under people’s feet.’ She was referring to DS Bickerstaff’s team, who were watching her intently. She returned her attention to the board. ‘If there’s a connection, this began in Brighton, six weeks ago. The first suicide was that of Chesney Collier, a thirty-five-year-old builder with a wife and two kids. Death by drowning.’ They already knew that he was visiting the area with his kids having rented an apartment through Airbnb. Amy glanced at her colleagues. ‘According to his wife, they were in Brighton for an impromptu holiday. It had been a busy day, they were tired, and she’d finally got the kids to bed. Chesney went out for some fresh air and never came back.’
Amy pondered on the picture of a stout, ginger-haired man holding his daughter on his shoulders, a wide grin on his face. When she’d first joined the police, the printed photos provided by the victim’s families were often creased and worn, but these days a sharp digital image could be provided, often taken hours before the victim’s death. This was the case here. The picture of thirty-five-year-old Chesney Collier had been taken by his wife earlier in the day. ‘He was a devoted father to his two daughters, and the holiday was a surprise he’d organised for them.’ Chesney’s daughter couldn’t have been more than three, her expression one of unbridled joy. It was their first ever visit to the seaside. A visit marred by tragedy for the rest of her life.
Stepping towards the second board, Amy extended her hand. ‘Sixty-year-old Martin O Toole died exactly two weeks later by throwing himself off a cliff near Brighton.’ She surveyed the ghoulish image. The victim’s face was bloated, his skin grey. Had he surrendered himself to the sea? ‘A pillar of the community, according to his sister,’ Amy added. ‘He volunteered to help the homeless in his spare time.’ Another man who would be sorely missed.
‘Makes you wonder what was going through his mind,’ Paddy said, in tune with her thoughts.
‘It’s certainly nothing like our last big case.’ Amy was referring to the Love Heart Killer, whose victims were placed in shop window displays for added shock value.
‘And the victims were women. These are all men – apart from Carla, of course.’ Paddy folded his arms. ‘It’s not as if they bear any resemblance . . .’
In the corridor, there was a jumble of voices as officers passed their door.
‘Something ties these men together.’ She surveyed the faces of her colleagues. ‘Ask yourselves, what links them? Is there an online suicide group? Or are these a series of murders which have been covered up?’ She turned back to the picture of the first victim, conscious of the time. ‘Chesney had cannabis in his system. According to his wife, he was a recreational user. It could be the real reason he went for a walk.’
‘Maybe he was meeting with a dealer, and something went wrong.’ DC Steve Moss rubbed his chin. ‘This could be drug related.’
‘But victim two was clean,’ Amy replied. ‘So we don’t have a lot to go on. If we can’t make a connection within the next couple of days, we’ll focus solely on Carla’s death.’ She turned towards the image of Martin O Toole, who was reported to have walked with a limp. He was smiling in the photo, his snowy white beard a stark contrast to his ruddy cheeks. It hadn’t surprised Amy to learn that he played the part of Santa at his local shopping centre every year.
‘Martin was visiting his sister near Brighton and offered to take her Yorkshire terrier for a walk. Alarm bells were raised when the dog came back alone.’ Amy imagined the little dog running home in the night, whining as she scratched her owner’s front door. If only dogs could talk.
‘So, they’ve got a few things in common.’ The small plastic unicorn on the end of Molly’s pen bobbed as she made notes. ‘They were both visitors to the area, both male, both went for late-night walks.’
Amy nodded. Hardly motivation for murder, but it was good to get the conversation flowing. As she discussed the case with her team, they turned over ideas as you would turn over a stone. You never knew what you would find beneath.
‘Carla was ambitious.’ An officer known as Denny spoke up from the Clacton team. ‘She talked about the future. She loved her girls.’
‘And then there’s the voicemail.’ Bicks spoke in a quiet voice. ‘But I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would want to hurt her. It wasn’t as if she was investigating any big cases. Her biggest complaint was that she had nothing meaty to deal with.’
A murmur spread through the group as officers aired their thoughts. Turning her attention back to the board, Amy glanced at Martin O Toole’s image. ‘Why would anyone want to hurt any of the victims? According to his sister, he was a jolly soul who enjoyed the simple things in life.’
Amy drew her hair off her face as she glanced at her team. Paddy was sitting back, arms folded. Gary was sporting his usual faraway gaze and Molly was now chewing her nails. ‘Victim three came a month later, in Blackpool. His name was Darius Jennings, and his body was found on the seashore.’ The image portrayed a selfie of a slender reed of a man taken outside the entrance to Blackpool pier. ‘He worked in a children’s nursery, and his family said he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ Amy glanced at Donovan and saw the determination in his eyes. Like her, he was engrossed in the case. He would not switch off until headway had been made. But they had to make it soon. ‘Darius was in his thirties,’ Amy continued. ‘He was single, visiting Blackpool on holiday. But this drowning didn’t happen until four weeks after the last, so the pattern isn’t consistent.’
Up until then, each man had died two weeks apart. Amy approached the third whiteboard. Unanswered questions rebounded in her mind. Were holidaymakers being targeted? Was the timing of each death nothing more than a strange coincidence? Had Carla stumbled upon something she shouldn’t? Amy knew her team would be forming questions of their own. ‘So, if we count Carla’s death and the pattern continues, we could find another body washed up in Clacton soon.’ It’s a shame the pattern was broken, Amy thought. She didn’t mean it in a callous way; a two-week pattern gave them something to work with. If a killer was targeting his victims every two weeks, then they could still be here. Unless . . .
She turned to Molly. ‘Try hospitals and doctors’ surgeries in Blackpool. See if anyone checked themselves into A&E.’
‘Isn’t that what hospitals are for?’ Steve Moss said, a crooked grin on his face. ‘Surely everyone in there is sick.’
Amy gave him a withering look.
‘It’s OK, boss, I know what you mean,’ Molly replied. ‘I’ll ask if anything unusual came in.’
‘Thank you,’ Amy said. Molly could be trusted to use her initiative.
‘So, what do we all think?’ Donovan opened up the conversation as silence descended on the room. Amy knew he was desperate for a quick conclusion. Finding Carla’s killer was only a part of their investigation. Donovan was proud of his team. He wanted to show his old colleagues that he had made the right move by leaving Essex Police for the Met. He had confided as much to her earlier in the corridor, although it had been a challenge to get five minutes with him alone. Donovan was a popular man; today several officers had filed in to say hello to him. Half of them were female, and one even had the cheek to ask him out for a drink.
Amy flushed as he caught her staring. She tried to keep their personal relationship separate, but she needed to be alone with him again. She had never felt this way about anyone, not even Adam, her ex-fiancé. Taking a deep breath, she immersed herself in the conversation, chiding herself for her momentary lapse.
Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller) Page 6