by Carol Wyer
‘It’s most likely because I’d been asking questions, digging into the case.’
‘Exactly.’
She felt her pulse rate increase. She didn’t want to be reminded again of the carnage that had taken place on the four-thirty train from Euston at the beginning of the year. Kate had been one of the first responders to attend the scene and discover the compartment of passengers who’d been gunned down. It had been little wonder she’d reacted as she had when faced with what she’d believed to be another gunman when travelling home with Dickson. ‘I made discreet enquiries.’
‘Not discreet enough. He found you out and he set you up, made sure you were left discombobulated by the whole event, and then he forced you to take a leave of absence. He wanted you to stop probing.’
‘But how did he manage to stage that fake-gunman situation?’
‘It isn’t important how – more why, and the answer to that is he wanted you out of his hair.’
‘Then why did he request I lead this investigation?’
‘Because he thinks you’re broken, Kate. He wants somebody he can manipulate, somebody who might make mistakes.’
‘Surely he’d want somebody he felt could solve the case?’
‘Maybe he’s hoping you won’t be able to solve it,’ came the reply.
Chris fell silent and Kate digested his thoughts. She trusted her husband one hundred per cent. He was astute, with an uncanny ability to home in on and expose wrongdoings; a gift that had earnt him a great deal of respect in his profession. He wouldn’t hurl allegations without reason. Maybe this investigation would give her a chance to find out the truth about John Dickson. She would make it her personal mission.
CHAPTER TEN
SATURDAY, 5 JUNE – MORNING
Weak rays of early-morning sunshine filtered through the tree canopies. Kate’s footfalls were light as she jogged along the leaf-strewn track through the forest, past oak, sycamore, maple and Scots-pine trees. A burst of soft tapping from a woodpecker drilling for insects came from nearby, followed by a sudden explosion of wings as a pair of pheasants, disturbed by her arrival, hastened for safety elsewhere. It was cool in the shadows, and therapeutic. It gave her time to reflect on the investigation. She was aware of Chris directly behind her. Not pushing her on, merely a running mate.
She hadn’t run around Blithfield Reservoir before. It had been a whim to drive out to the car park at 5 a.m. and choose one of the three routes normally used for walking. She bounced along the longest, the Yellow Route, that wound first through the woodland towards a dell and a bird-feeding station. Although she was aware of the fluttering of wings, she had no time to observe the various species that flittered from feeder to feeder, but concentrated instead on her rhythmical breathing and watching out for tree roots or obstacles. A slight strain in her calf muscles indicated the ground was rising and, puffing hard, she and Chris left the forestation behind and traversed a wildflower meadow ablaze with yellow buttercups, into Stansley Wood, where flashes of pale blue caught her eyes – late-flowering bluebells, frail, tattered heads bending and bowing in unison. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She was out of condition and cursed her laziness in not getting back into an exercise routine sooner.
‘Look . . . bluebells,’ she said.
‘You remember Hem Heath Woods?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Stop the car!’ Chris unclips the seatbelt, shoves open the door and leaps out in the direction of a five-bar gate. He clambers over it and disappears into the woods.
She stares idly at leaf-rich branches that appear to frame the darkened scene, and the harder she stares, the more she makes out the beauty of delicate fern fronds balancing on a carpet of green moss, and subtle colours in the foliage that carpets the woodland. The sat nav indicates they are at Hem Heath Woods. To Kate it is the stuff of fairy tales and she half-expects a sprite or deer to emerge. There’s movement, and it isn’t a woodland creature who appears but Chris, a bunch of bright blue bluebells in his hand. He brings their freshness and sweet perfume into the car with him and presents them to her.
‘What are these for?’ she asks.
‘They represent gratitude, but also everlasting love and constancy.’ Then he grins wickedly. ‘In actual fact, I was bursting for a pee. I spotted these in the woods and I thought I’d earn some brownie points . . . maybe to be cashed in this evening, after a takeaway and a bottle of wine.’
She can’t help but mirror his grin. ‘Yeah. Okay. Brownie points earnt.’
Their feet thudded against the ground, a steady, hypnotic slap, slap, slap, and soon they were on the home straight, the car park only five minutes away. The last push was up hilly ground and that was where exhaustion disorientated her.
The forest grew grey and slipped from view, shifting in a blur to transform into the interior of a train carriage, and a figure untangled itself from the bark of an oak tree and moved ahead of her, his gun swinging left and right.
Kate fought the terror that filled her veins with freezing liquid nitrogen and considered all possible actions. There was so little time. She wouldn’t be able to save everybody, but she had to act. The gunman would transit through this first-class carriage and into the next, where there were more unsuspecting passengers who’d become his victims. It was too late for the elderly couple visiting their grandchildren, but there were others here who needed help: a fair-haired girl clutching a Paddington Bear, her eyes wide with fear.
Kate pounded up the incline in pursuit of the gunman, then as quickly as it had altered, the landscape re-emerged and she was once again beside tall tree trunks, heart smashing against her ribcage. She bent over, hands on knees, unable to hear Chris’s concern for the drumming in her ears. She couldn’t tell him what had happened. She couldn’t tell anyone about her nightmares. She had to deal with it herself. She needed to regain control, and she would. This had to stop. She gulped in lungfuls of air and forced back angry tears. When would this terror end?
Kate downed the glass of water. Even after the run, her head was still woolly from the lack of sleep, and her mouth dry. How many pills had she taken last night? She remembered popping two before bed, but had she risen during the night to take another two? She couldn’t remember.
Chris’s words from the night before rang in her ears. John Dickson. Whatever Dickson might think about her state of mind, she’d prove him wrong and, if necessary, bring him down into the bargain. A sudden urge to talk to Chris about this again overcame her, and she rang his number, only to be met with an automated voice informing her that Chris’s voicemail box was full. She typed out a text for him:
Hey.
Just wanted to say thanks for coming running with me.
Please ring when you can.
By the way, your voicemail box is full. Best delete some messages.
Love you.
She left the mobile on the shelf above the basin, drew back the shower screen and reached for the shower tap, and halted as thoughts of Lisa popped into her mind. Her actions still puzzled her. Although Lisa had explained why she’d laundered her clothes and then thrown them away, Kate couldn’t commit to believing or disbelieving her. There were inconsistencies in her behaviour that Kate wasn’t comfortable about: clothing aside, there was the fact Lisa had publicised her feelings for her boss on social media. Had Alex seen those posts and assumed she would want to have sex with him? She blew out her cheeks. Something didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly was bothering her.
As scalding water cascaded over her shoulders, she considered the possibility that Alex and Lisa had been involved in a relationship. Water raced down the sides of the cubicle like fat, translucent slugs and she wiped it away, clearing a patch from which she could see her own reflection in the mirror – wet hair clinging to her face and one eye staring out. Thoughts shunted into fresh positions and her mind danced away from Lisa to Alex. Why had the killer stolen Alex’s eye?
Her mobile rang as she was towelling hers
elf dry. Chris. He’d read her message and was ringing her. She snatched up the phone, but it wasn’t him.
‘Finally. I’ve been trying you for days. Why haven’t you been picking up?’ Tilly’s nasal voice was peevish, just as Kate remembered it had always been. That was Tilly all over: spoilt and sulky. However, they’d managed to rub along as stepsisters for a while, both surmounting their feelings of jealousy. Kate had loathed the idea of another woman supplanting her dead mother in her father’s affections, and Tilly had hated getting a new father. In the end, thrown together by misery and with no other option available, both girls had given up on their rivalry and become friends – good friends even, especially in the wake of Tilly’s ordeal. That was until Tilly did the unthinkable – something Kate still could not completely forgive her for. After her recovery, she had run off with Kate’s fiancé, Jordan.
It had only been six months since Tilly had come back into Kate’s life, full of remorse and wanting to put the past behind them. She’d contacted Kate by email, saying life was too short to bear grudges. Ellen, her mother, had died. Kate’s father was dead. They only had each other, and there was also Daniel to consider – Kate’s four-year-old nephew, who needed his auntie. Tilly wanted a fresh start with her stepsister even though she now lived thousands of miles away in Australia. Kate talked it over with Chris, who told her family was everything, and even if Tilly wasn’t her real sister, she was still part of Kate’s life. Tilly had suffered too, he argued. Ellen’s tragic death in a freak motorbike accident, only a month after Kate’s father had passed away, had left a gaping hole in her life.
Thanks to Chris, Kate had eventually rung Tilly, who had wept gratefully and repeated that she wished she could turn back the clock and had not absconded with Jordan. Kate had acknowledged that Jordan had been supplanted by Chris and no longer held any place in her heart. Those particular scars had healed and so Kate had loosened the knot of animosity and forgiven Tilly.
‘So, why haven’t you been picking up?’ Tilly asked again.
‘Work,’ Kate mumbled. ‘I’m in the middle of an investigation.’
‘Kate! Do you think you should be at work?’
‘My boss thought I was ready to return.’
Tilly let out a snort of derision. ‘Short-staffed, more likely. Surely he can tell you’re not ready for all that pressure and responsibility again. You should take some proper time off – a year or six months at least; come and stay here. I keep offering—’ Once Tilly got on her high horse, there was no stopping her.
‘It’s not full time. I’m working on a small case with a couple of officers from my old team.’
She heard Tilly sucking in air through her teeth. ‘Kate, I’m not sure. Are you still seeing Dr Franklin?’
Kate winced at the question. She’d cancelled the last few appointments with the clinical psychologist. She’d get through it all in her own good time, with Chris by her side, not by talking about the horrific event in January with some man who looked perpetually saddened by life.
She prided herself on being honest, as her father had always encouraged her to be. ‘No. I didn’t go to a couple of sessions.’
The hiatus grew longer this time and, for a second, Kate imagined that Tilly had hung up. The sigh at the other end of the line was drawn out. ‘You should go back to him. You can’t do this on your own.’
Kate wanted to say she wasn’t on her own; she had Chris. But that would start an argument and she didn’t have the energy to bicker. She changed the subject to one she knew would be raw for Tilly, even after all this time, but having helped run a centre for abused women over the last ten years, she was probably the only person Kate could question on the subject.
‘Tilly, I need your input. I interviewed a woman who claims her boss raped her. After the event, she went home, took a bath, washed her clothes and then threw them out into the rubbish. Have you come across similar behaviour with any of the victims you’ve spoken to?’
She could hear Tilly wetting her lips to answer. It had been almost twenty years since she’d been raped. Tilly had tried to bury the incident in the recesses of her mind, pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t. Ellen had seemed happy to accept her daughter was coping. Kate had not, and had been there for Tilly when she’d finally crumbled.
‘I know women who’ve burned their undergarments, washed them repeatedly until no colour was left, and who scrubbed themselves so hard to get rid of the smell of the man who attacked them they made themselves bleed. I would assume she wanted first to wash away all trace of the rape and then throw away the clothes because they’d only serve to remind her of what had happened – clean or otherwise. The poor woman. I hope you’re looking after her.’
Tilly’s words burned into her. Maybe she shouldn’t doubt Lisa’s motives for dumping her clothing. ‘I am, sort of. The rape isn’t the case I’m working on. It’s a murder enquiry. The victim’s the man she’s accused.’
‘Ah.’ Tilly let unsaid words hang in the air.
‘I’m having difficulty understanding her actions. She’s eradicated any trace of her assailant, leaving the police with nothing to go on – no DNA, nothing. Why, Tilly? It defies reason.’
‘If you weren’t a detective, aware of protocol or how the system works, what would you do if you found yourself in the same situation? Would you think logically and present yourself at the station, or would you act on instinct, race to a safe haven, like home, and dispose of anything and everything that reminded you of what had happened to you? In these situations, reason and thoughts of catching the person often fly out of the window. A victim doesn’t want to discuss it with family and friends, let alone the police. They might, like me, feel self-loathing, disgust and shame – so much shame. I know exactly how that feels, Kate. You don’t think anyone will believe you. You wonder what you’ve done to deserve it. You hate the person who’s done it to you and, most of all, you hate yourself. Reason doesn’t come into it – self-preservation does. You act without thought to protect your mind. You pretend it hasn’t happened, and if that means burning your clothes or washing them and then throwing them away, you’ll do it. Treat this woman with respect and compassion. She’s probably horribly confused by what’s happened. She might even doubt it actually took place. Be kind. I know you will be. You were to me. You helped me even though I pushed you away. You were patient and caring when I needed it most, even though I didn’t understand I needed it. Remember that and it’ll help you understand what this woman is going through.’
Kate exhaled softly. ‘I will, Tilly.’
‘And promise me you’ll make another appointment to see Dr Franklin. By the way, Daniel sends his love. He thinks you’re the bravest auntie in the world and he wants to be a policeman when he grows up.’
‘Tell him to choose a different career. This one will eat into his soul.’ Kate was serious.
‘We’re so proud of you, Kate. Don’t forget it. Have you thought any more about coming to visit us?’
Despite having met Chris, Kate still wasn’t sure she could face seeing Tilly and Jordan together. ‘I’ll let you know. I’m still considering it.’
‘Good. Please do. We’d all love to see you. I have to go. I just wanted to check up on my big sister.’
‘I’m fine, Tilly.’
‘Next time, text me, or pick up the phone when I call you. I worry about you, Kate. Love you.’
‘Love you too, Tilly.’ Kate knew she meant the words. Much had happened between them both, but Chris had been right. She and Tilly had been close and shared many experiences; it would have been stupid to harbour a grudge any longer. She hung up and glanced at the clock. It was 8 a.m. Time to go to work.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SATURDAY, 5 JUNE – MORNING
Kate was surprised to see Morgan at his desk when she clattered into the office half an hour later. She didn’t get the chance to pass comment on his punctuality because he spoke first. ‘Lisa Handsworth is strange.’
‘What do you mean by “strange”?’
‘She removed several document files and deleted some of her browsing history from her laptop, but she didn’t bank on my technological skills. Here’s what I’ve retrieved so far.’
Kate looked at the extensive list, her eyes widening at some of the searches: ‘“Seduction techniques for a woman”, “How to flirt with your boss”, “Make your boss fall in love with you”, “Seven ways to make your boss fall in love with you” . . . This complicates things even further. However, if she is telling the truth, we have to handle her sensitively.’
‘I agree, but here’s another snippet of information that might help you work out who’s telling the truth. Her mother, Anne, is currently undergoing treatment at an NHS alcohol-and-drug rehab clinic in Shropshire. This is the fifth time she’s been admitted to the same establishment. Anne’s got a record for possession of class-A drugs and two shoplifting convictions. Lisa was put into care in 2007, when she was twelve, but ran away, claiming the foster parents abused her.’
‘What happened about that?’
‘The claims were unfounded and quashed. Lisa was rehomed and returned to live with her mother eighteen months later, in 2009. She took a part-time secretarial course and qualified in 2013 and temped at an agency for three years before becoming Alex’s personal assistant in September 2016.’
Kate picked up her car keys again. ‘That’s useful to know. I’m going to visit Fiona Corby and see if I can find out anything further about Alex’s relationship with his secretary. What time is Digby Poole coming in for interview?’
‘As soon as his plane from Frankfurt lands and his secretary can reach him. She assured me she’d inform him of Alex’s death and urgent need to talk to us. I’ll carry on rooting about on Lisa’s laptop for the moment and see if I can come up with anything else while I’m waiting to hear from him.’
‘Good stuff. Catch you later.’
She retraced the route she’d taken that morning to the reservoir and followed the causeway across the water. Tiny white waves skittered across the surface and a flock of gulls bobbed like plastic ducks at a fairground. A silver bus obscured the view ahead, and as she drew closer to its rear she could easily read the name – First Class Travel – and her heart thudded ominously as the words blurred, only to reappear etched on a frosted-glass door that slid open. She hesitated a second before walking into the first-class carriage of the four-thirty train from Euston. Each movement was awkward, marionette-like. Left foot. Right foot. Into the aisle. The smell of death hit her immediately. She’d known what to expect here, but had yet to experience the full horror.