by M. A. Hunter
‘Would you like us to bring anything?’ Charlie asks, gently rubbing Jess’s tense shoulders.
‘Ah no, just yourselves. We’ll see you soon.’
With that Charlie wheels Jess and the trolley away, and as I watch them disappear among the throng of shoppers, I can’t keep my eyes off Grace’s bobbing ponytail as she cheerfully skips along.
Chapter Five
Now
Detective Inspector Mike Ferry squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if the pressure would somehow distract him from the pounding ache behind his eyes. It didn’t help, and so, straightening, he squinted at the small screen on the desk before him. Of all the days to forget his glasses, why did it have to be today?
The blinds drawn, the only light in the small box room came from the desk lamp, casting his disjointed shadow over the filing cabinets against the opposite wall. He had no idea of the time, other than it was late enough for his stomach to be growling. Running a hand over his closely cropped coffee-brown beard, he casually sniffed his pits, before reaching for the can of antiperspirant in the desk drawer, pushing it under his shirt and spraying liberally. He should have been home and in bed by now, but nobody had accounted for the late 999 call that would have the whole team on tenterhooks.
A short, sharp knock at the door was followed by DC Polly Viceroy’s head appearing through the gap. ‘You look like shit.’
Her cruel efficiency was misinterpreted as intolerance by some, but Mike couldn’t argue with her conclusion. Stretching barely five feet, Polly had the tough exterior of a hardened detective who has seen and heard every joke about gnomes and dwarves and has a cutting reply for each. Rumour was that she kept her hair short and clothes neutral so others wouldn’t consider her femininity a weakness. Mike had never found a weakness in her approach to the job.
‘I brought you some painkillers,’ she offered, holding out her fist, before emptying the contents into his outstretched palm.
There was no sign of a drink, so he threw the pills into his mouth, and ground his teeth to generate enough saliva to wash them down. He managed it on the third attempt, grimacing at the chalky aftertaste.
‘Is that her?’ Polly asked, nodding at the screen, as the door closed behind her.
Mike nodded. ‘Yeah. What do we know about her so far?’
Polly studied the image of the woman who had been found at the bloody scene. ‘Only what the first responders managed to ascertain, and I think they only identified her thanks to the debit card in her purse. Hasn’t said a word since she was brought in, even when they collected her clothing for forensic examination. We’re waiting for the on-call to check she’s medically sound for interview.’
Mike leaned closer to the monitor. The tiny screen did little to help him ascertain age; anywhere between forty and sixty, as best he could guess. Hair tangled from the shower they’d had to arrange to wash the excess blood from her skin and hair. She hadn’t moved since he’d been standing here watching. Not an inch. Maybe a sign of her guilt, or just shock at what she’d witnessed.
‘You look nervous, Mike,’ Polly observed. ‘You’ve been chomping at the bit to be made SIO of a murder investigation. Don’t tell me you’re bottling it already.’
He fired her a scathing look. He wouldn’t have tolerated such insubordination from anyone else in the team, but then Polly wasn’t just anybody.
‘Not nervous,’ he replied evenly, ‘just keeping a calm head. You know how important the first twenty-four hours are for a Senior Investigating Officer. Key decisions have to be made, which will drive the success of the investigation. Hare around like a bull in a china shop and things will be missed.’
She raised her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. ‘Someone’s been cramming up on their textbooks. I’m impressed, Mike. For a moment, it almost sounded like you knew what you’re doing.’
He ignored her attempt to get a second rise out of him. ‘Anything more you can tell me about the victim yet?’
‘Identity yet to be confirmed,’ Polly said, consulting her notebook. ‘Fingerprints and DNA not matched in the database, and no form of ID found on the body.’
‘Has the post-mortem started yet?’
‘Body was being transported to the mortuary the last I heard, but I’ll follow up with the forensic pathology team. Initial conclusion at the scene was that the victim probably died as a result of a severed carotid artery, inflicted by the large blade discovered next to the body.’
Mike grimaced at the memory of the photographs of the scene he’d already been privy to. Even in a still snapshot, the scene was visceral, and enough to turn even a seasoned detective’s stomach.
‘And the blood pattern on this lady’s clothes, is she killer or witness?’ he asked.
‘Too soon to say, but the forensic examiners are working on the clothing as priority. I’ll chase for an update and let you know as soon as I have more information. What does your gut tell you? Did she do it?’
Mike ran a hand over his beard again, trying to read the woman’s mind. ‘Her clothes were covered in the victim’s blood, she was the only person found at the scene, and she has yet to speak to us. Is that because she is in shock at what she saw, or because of what she did? I honestly don’t want to answer that question until we know more. She’s been brought in as a witness, and isn’t under arrest, so the holding clock has yet to start ticking. We have time for now, but it’s never enough. I want more of the unanswered questions resolved before we interview her.’
Polly turned to leave, before stopping and spinning back around. ‘If she hadn’t been discovered in a wheelchair, would you have already made up your mind?’
He glared at the challenge. ‘I’m not discriminating against her because she can’t walk.’
Polly raised a finger of warning. ‘We don’t know for certain that she can’t walk yet. It could just as easily have been the victim’s wheelchair, and that woman in the holding cell is playing on our pre-existing prejudices that less abled people aren’t just as fucked up as the rest of us. If she truly is paraplegic, it doesn’t mean that she couldn’t just as easily have wielded that blade.’
Mike swallowed hard. Polly was right, of course she was. The bloody tyre tracks in the crime scene photograph showed that the wheelchair had been beside the body, prior to the discovery of the witness in the hallway of the large detached house in Northwood. That didn’t necessarily mean that the woman he was staring at owned the wheelchair. Only an examination of her medical history would confirm that, and even if it did turn out that she had no feeling in her legs, it didn’t mean she couldn’t have struck the killer blow.
He knew the first rule of investigating any major crime was to assume nothing, believe nobody, and challenge everything. Able-bodied or not, he had no doubt that the statue on the screen knew a lot more than she’d told them so far, and it would only be a matter of time until he figured out what dark secret she was keeping from them.
Chapter Six
Before – Jess
I knew going to the supermarket on a Saturday morning wasn’t going to end well. Something in my gut told me things wouldn’t be as rosy as Charlie had suggested, but against my better judgement I allowed him to convince me to go. Unfortunately, the weekly shop is another task I’m no longer able to undertake without help, which is why it has to be done at the weekend when Waitrose is crazily busy. Back in the day I would have avoided visiting any supermarket at the weekend.
It was his idea to put Grace in charge of the trolley. Initially he’d suggested strapping one of those custom-built baskets to the front of the wheelchair, but it’s already hard enough to manoeuvre the chair without making it larger. Grace’s eyes had lit up at the prospect of finally being allowed to wield the trolley, rather than being strapped inside it. On one of my good days I’d have been able to move the chair myself, but today isn’t a good day. I’ve been awake since three, the curse of insomnia, a side effect of the antidepressants I’m taking. I’d
begged Charlie to just leave me at home, but he’d said I needed a break from the house as I’d spent all Friday inside.
I know he doesn’t want me to feel excluded, but I’m so exhausted that I just want to switch off from the world. I’m not sure he really understands how difficult some days get for me. He says he does, but then I catch frustrated eye rolls, and sharp sighs under his breath, and my mind fills with doubt.
I can’t forget how disappointed he looked when he returned home last night. Doug had actually allowed their team to finish work early, as the pitch to the new client had gone well. Of course, Doug’s concept of finishing early meant dragging the team to the pub for food and booze. Charlie was slurring as he walked in through the door at six, expecting his dinner to be waiting for him. But yesterday wasn’t a good day either.
My condition and the cocktail of pills mean my life has more ups and downs than a rollercoaster. For every good day when I feel I have the strength and energy to accomplish anything, there are days when I can barely function. I think I overdid things with Thursday’s trip to the park. I pushed myself all the way there and back, and now I’m suffering the consequences.
He’d hugged me tight as he’d lifted me out of the chair and into the downstairs bed, and his breath had been hot against my neck. I knew what he was hoping for, but I had to disappoint him again. He’s always so understanding about it, but sex just isn’t what it once was for me. We’ve attempted it once since the diagnosis – about a month ago – but it was as awkward and clumsy as the first time we ever slept together, all fingers and thumbs, and Charlie constantly checking I wasn’t in pain. My loss of sexual appetite is just another worry on the pile. I can’t deny him forever without risking losing him.
I’ve already lost too much.
My hand presses against my abdomen. We’ve been socially AWOL since losing Luke. I don’t think our friends have been deliberately avoiding us, but I don’t blame them for not wanting to hang out with a grief-stricken family, adjusting to what happened to me. I don’t want to force them to tread on eggshells because they don’t know what to say to us.
Before I’d even realised Charlie was pushing me towards Morag, our eyes had met, and she’d offered a small wave in my direction. Too late to turn back, I’d had to sit and watch while she introduced herself to Charlie, all charm and overly excitable chatter. Charlie might have fallen for it, but I see through her. There was no sign of Daisy today, so no chance for me to call her out on what she told me.
She’s not my mum.
Daisy’s words echo through my mind again. I spent a long time thinking about those four words yesterday, and even asked Grace whether Daisy had said anything to her at the park, but Grace admitted she’d done most of the talking.
Now here we are, bundled in the car, driving to their house ahead of a barbecue I’m genuinely dreading. Charlie had wanted us to host a barbecue today, and invite over all of our former friends, and even though the thought of that had filled me with dread, I’d reluctantly agreed to it to save disappointing him again. I suppose I should be relieved that Morag’s invitation has meant sticking a pin in that idea, but knowing Charlie, it won’t be long until he suggests something similar again.
‘I don’t see what your problem is,’ Charlie is saying as he kills the engine. ‘We hadn’t arranged anything for this afternoon, and I think it was very kind of your friend to invite us around for food.’
She isn’t my friend, I want to scream, but I’m conscious that Grace is in the back of the car, and I don’t like her to hear me and Charlie arguing.
The house is bigger than ours and stands detached from any others, an inclining driveway bordered by a patch of yellowing lawn. There is a Land Rover facing down the driveway, and there’s probably enough room for our little Hyundai, but Charlie has parked against the grass verge lining the pavement outside the property.
‘We’re here now,’ he says brightly. ‘We might as well go in and say hello. Grace is excited about seeing her friend too, aren’t you, sweetie?’
Grace’s head is bent low, scribbling another story in her notepad. ‘Yeah,’ she comments without looking up, a tinge of frustration that her father’s question has interrupted her trail of thought.
I look up at the house, which blots out the cloudless sky. Large wooden struts hang down from the edge of the roof, giving it a faux-Tudor look, but judging by the size of the property and the others in the road, this street wasn’t in existence even fifty years ago. There’s something haunting about how dark the property’s windows seem from the angle I’m looking at them, like something out of a horror movie. I can almost picture flashes of lightning against a black night sky, and kids daring each other to go and knock on the large oak door.
I shudder as Charlie’s fingers brush against my arm.
‘Hey, what’s going on here?’ he asks. ‘If you really don’t want to go in, I suppose we can drive away and phone them from home to say something came up.’
It’s exactly what I wanted to hear him say, but his tone is desolate. I turn to look at him, and all I can see is fear and concern in his eyes. He’s still as handsome as the first time I clapped eyes on him, but his face now wears an abandoned look. It is at times like this when I wish he would just open up about what happened. I want him to grieve too, but it’s as if he feels compelled to be strong enough for the both of us, driving me to take on new challenges and move on with life, but I’m not ready to move on yet. It’s barely six months since Luke was taken from me; why should I pretend like it’s just another bleak chapter in life’s story?
How can I explain that I don’t want to get to know Morag and her family, when I can’t even explain to myself why that is? I really wish he hadn’t agreed to come here, or that he’d allowed me to just stay at home. I’ve been awake for ten hours, and I am exhausted. The doctor said I shouldn’t overdo things, but I don’t think Charlie quite appreciates how much effort it takes just to put on a happy face and pretend like I am coping with what’s happened.
‘How about,’ he begins, glancing up at Grace’s reflection in the rear-view mirror, ‘we go in, and if you’re still not happy after an hour, we make our excuses and leave? That’ll give Grace and her friend a chance to play, and will ensure we’re not being rude. You never know, Jess, you might find it’s not nearly as bad as you think.’
He opens his door without another word, and I feel a knot tightening in my stomach. His door slams closed, and the car shakes as he then opens the boot, removes my chair and unfolds it. We can’t afford to trade in the car for one that is more accessible for a wheelchair user, so we make do with the same car I was driving the night I was rushed to hospital, only I no longer drive it. My door opens, and I feel Charlie’s strong arms shift below and around my body, and then he lifts me into the crushing humidity, plonking me into the chair, and securing my feet in the straps. He wheels me onto the pavement, before helping Grace out of the car.
‘You must be Jess,’ a baritone voice booms, as a barrel-chested man in navy swim shorts and a short-sleeved shirt only fastened by two buttons exits the house and proceeds down the drive towards us. ‘I’m Angus,’ he says with a thrust of handshakes for me and Charlie, and a pat on the head for Grace. ‘Morag’s told me all about you,’ he adds, smiling at me.
God only know what that means; she knows nothing about me other than I’m wheelchair-bound and occasionally shop in Waitrose. What else could she have said?
‘You’re all most welcome,’ Angus adds, turning and ushering us towards the property. ‘Might be easier for you to push Jess past my car, rather than through the house. There’s a gate into the back garden by the garage. I’ll go through and open it.’
I hear Charlie grunt with pain as he begins to push me up the driveway, steeper than it had looked from the car. I want to offer to help, but I can barely lift my hands to brush my fringe from my eyes. Charlie soldiers on, as he always does, and despite the squeeze, we make it past the Land Rover, and find Angus waiting
for us by the tall wooden gate.
‘Can I get you a lager, uh…?’ Angus says, suddenly realising he doesn’t know Charlie’s name.
‘I probably shouldn’t, as I’m driving,’ Charlie says, pushing me through the gate and onto a large patio. ‘And it’s Charlie, by the way.’
The garden is far longer than I had imagined. The patio is large enough for an eight-seat square table, a swing seat by the fence, a barbecue, and one of those tall outdoor heaters. In fact, their patio is only a fraction smaller than our entire back garden. The lawn must stretch at least twenty metres, is recently mowed, and contains a large enclosed trampoline, which Grace immediately sprints over to. Daisy stops bouncing, unzips the netting, and helps pull Grace inside before the two girls start bouncing in tandem, as if they have rehearsed the routine for years.
‘Ah, go on, you can have one lager without breaking any laws,’ Angus says encouragingly, slapping Charlie’s back, and causing my chair to shake. ‘Plus, Morag will be less judgemental of me having a few if you have one.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Charlie says, and the two men walk off towards the side door into the garage.
They return a moment later with a chilled can each, already talking like close friends. Angus escorts Charlie to the smoking barbecue, leaving me stuck near the gate, with nobody to talk to, and no guidance on what I should do. I can’t see Morag in the garden, but can’t shake the sense of being watched. Daisy and Grace are still bouncing on the trampoline, and Angus is too engrossed, showing Charlie all the wondrous gadgets that he has for the large drum-shaped barbecue. I twist awkwardly in the chair to try and get a better look at the rear face of the house, but as I do, I feel a sharp twinge just above my hip, and wince.
‘Our guests have arrived!’ I hear Morag declare excitedly from somewhere within the house, and a moment later she is strutting out of the back door, and playfully swiping at Angus’s arm. ‘You never told me they’d arrived.’