‘Does she know what she did?’
Why was everyone so damn keen on resolving this issue? Why couldn’t they leave well enough alone?
‘She says she’s sorry,’ I told him.
Aaron opened his mouth to speak but I cut him off. ‘It’s easy enough to say that. Sorry is just a word. A five letter word. Look, sorry. See? Easy.’
‘Hannah.’ He looked at me like you would a child.
The kettle clicked off and I poured the drinks.
‘You’re doing a very good job of detracting attention from the Baxter situation,’ I said as I handed him his coffee.
‘You’re doing a good job of detracting attention from the Zoe situation,’ he replied. ‘And I don’t know what you want me to say. What am I supposed to do? I’ve gone through the official channels and had my return rubber-stamped.’
He was right. ‘He wants you out, Aaron. That is a problem. And one I want to support you with.’
He nodded and walked out of the kitchen.
It was two days since Sebastian Wade had been found on the steps of the council building on Market Square and we were no further forward in finding out who had killed him.
Going through the CCTV footage was a long and arduous job, as was getting all the statements from people who may or may not have seen or known something.
What we were really waiting for was results from the forensics tests. Maybe the killer had left a stray fibre on Sebastian or at the scene, or we would find DNA in the nail clippings that had been taken from him. A fingerprint left carelessly on the length of crime scene tape he had put up around the body.
Or he could simply have looked up at a camera on another street after dumping or while carrying Sebastian.
Our job was about waiting.
And it frustrated me.
People often thought a murder investigation was all excitement. But, for every ten minutes excitement, there were days and weeks, and even months of tedium as the case crawled by.
I held the briefing. Martin had called in at a local greasy spoon on his way in and grabbed a box of sausage and bacon sandwiches. Grease filled the air as we discussed what we had and what we needed to progress. No doubt there would be grease marks inside incident books as well.
Pasha was eating a bowl of muesli and laughing at Ross, who was managing to make a mess of himself as he ate. If anyone was going to dump his food inside his major incident book then it was going to be Ross.
‘So, today,’ I caught their attention again. ‘You all know what you’re doing?’
Ross nodded vigorously, his fringe flopping over his eyes. With the back of his hand he pushed it back. He’d probably find some fried egg in there later.
‘What’s the social media side of it like?’ I asked Evie.
She wiped her hands with a square of paper that had arrived with the sandwich. ‘It looks to have died down considerably,’ she said. ‘Yes, there’s still a few stragglers talking about it. But Twitter is a fickle beast. They’re talking about today’s subject and won’t talk about this again until, or unless there’s something new that catches their attention.’
That was good at least. Baxter was not happy with the pressure of having the most chatty social media site focused on our investigation. And if he was unhappy, it rolled down to me.
‘Let’s keep it that way then shall we?’
Evie rolled up the paper bag that had contained her breakfast, aimed her arm and with one shot, threw it in the bin.
Ross whistled.
‘What? You think because I’m a woman I can’t do that?’ said Evie in mock outrage.
‘No, I er, no, it–’
She laughed. ‘Calm down, kiddo. I’d hate for you to hurt yourself.’
Ross, never sure how to take Evie, partly because of her good looks, quickly shut up.
The door to the Major Incident Room opened and Baxter walked in. Looking relaxed in a jeans and a shirt, obviously not here for a full day’s work, but coming in to check up on us. He smiled as he moved into the room, catching the eye of different staff members. He knew how to keep people onside when he wanted to.
Then his gaze fell on Aaron. The chair which had been vacant for the past six weeks was now occupied. The smile slipped from Baxter’s face and his eyes drifted to mine. They turned to cold granite and they begged the question, what the hell?
28.
Drew stood in front of the door. The cold air was no longer clean and crisp. It was damp and seeped into his lungs as though they were a sponge, soaking up any available moisture. It made his chest feel tight.
At least, he thought it was the damp air.
This door, he used to be able to turn the handle and walk straight into the house. Feel the warmth of the central heating, click the kettle on, kick off his shoes and get a hug from one of his children, depending on what mood they were in, depending on what else had snagged their attention.
Yet, here he was, standing in front of the moss green door, staring at it as though it held the answers. Or as though it was the one in the wrong.
Because this front door used to be his front door.
With sluggish movements he lifted his arm, his frozen hand clenched tight, rigid with built-up anger, and rapped on the glass pane.
Waited.
Waited to be allowed into his home.
Waited to be allowed in to see his children.
Waited. To be allowed.
The anger was a red hot spot in his core. Buried deep. So deep, he could feel the acid burn in his stomach.
He stayed there, waiting. Listening to the sounds of home beyond the door. The muted sounds of the television. The sound of his daughter upstairs in her bedroom, singing along tunelessly to some current pop song. And the spot inside him burned and his lungs choked him.
‘Drew.’ There was a hint of surprise in her voice as she opened the door. As though she hadn’t expected him. And yet she had been the one to tell him about today. Who had said to come round.
Who had invited him into his own home.
‘You said to come.’ He was sullen.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She stepped back a little, pulled the door with her. ‘Come on in.’
An invite. He’d been invited into his own house.
The spot deep inside him swelled. He rubbed at where his diaphragm sat. Then he stepped over the threshold, into the house that used to be his home, and he smiled.
‘Is she about then?’ He grasped the bag in his other hand. The handle was all knotted and twisted round his fingers, turning them white where they were cutting off the blood flow. A small token held within.
Mel pushed the door closed behind him. He felt her energy as she stepped closer to him. The electricity that used to flow between them. The gentle layer of her scent floated into his nose. A memory of evenings on the sofa when the children had gone to bed. Of better times.
Of good times.
‘Drew?’
He shook himself. ‘Sorry.’
Mel walked down the hall, turned right into the living room. He followed.
Like a puppy.
Bag still clenched in his hand.
‘Libbie upstairs?’ he asked.
‘Shall we sit down?’ She waved at the seats. As though they were in some strange room, not a place they had made their own. The cornflower blue sofas had seen many an evening in front of a flickering television playing to itself.
‘I thought I’d give Libbie her present before seeing if she wanted to go out for something to eat.’
Mel didn’t answer.
‘And, of course, I can see if Dylan wants to come along as well. Just because it’s Libbie’s birthday, doesn’t mean I’ll leave him out. He’ll probably want to spend the day with his sister.’ He paused. Realised what he had said.
Mel gave a gentle incline of her head.
‘He’s fifteen. He’s not going to want to spend time with his sister. What was I thinking? Libbie’s only just turning thirteen. She won’t mind
spending an hour with her dad. Not yet anyway. I have a year or two in me yet, I’m sure.’
Mel sank down into one of the single armchairs. ‘Drew, why are you doing this?’
‘It’s her birthday.’
She put her head in her hands.
Drew felt the heat spread. The day wasn’t going the way he planned. There was an underlying current here he didn’t want to acknowledge. He pushed it away and tried again.
‘Shall I shout her down?’ He moved back towards the hall, to the stairs.
‘Drew, no.’ Mel was up and out of her seat, but Drew was gone, already out of the room.
‘Libbie,’ he shouted up the stairs. The music hummed through her door. ‘Libbie,’ he raised his voice.
‘Drew. No. Please. Stop.’ Mel was close to him now, her hand resting on his arm.
‘Libbie!’ A roar.
The music stopped.
Drew turned to Mel and smiled. The colour drained out of her face. Resignation flitted into place as her shoulders slumped.
Footsteps stomped across the floor and then Libbie was standing at the top of the stairs. She looked to have grown a foot overnight. Her legs were clad in black skinny jeans that were more holes than jeans. A tight fitting T-shirt topped off the look. Her usually straight hair had been curled as he’d never seen it before. And was that lipstick?
‘Happy birthday, Libbie.’ He ignored the lipstick and pasted a smile to his face. He was the absent father. If her mother had had the make-up discussion, he couldn’t come in and go against her. He respected her far too much for that.
‘What are you doing here?’ She leaned against the wall.
He turned to Mel, not sure if he had heard her properly. Mel shrugged.
‘It’s your birthday, and on a Saturday. How good is that?’ Drew forced cheerfulness into his voice. He could feel the joy sliding away from him, an ugly darkness seeping in. This wasn’t going the way he had imagined, or at least hoped for.
‘You want to go out for dinner with your dad, don’t you?’ Should he have asked the question? The silence enveloped the small hallway. Smothered them all.
‘Libbie?’ he prompted.
‘Mum?’ Libbie whined towards Melissa.
Drew looked at her. ‘What’s with Mum? Of course it’s okay with your mum for you to come out with me. You know that.’ His voice was getting more and more high-pitched.
Libbie’s eyes pleaded with Melissa. Just catching her eyes over the bannister rail. Please Mum, they said. Please Mum, help me.
Mel stepped towards him, arm outstretched. ‘Shall we go back into the living room a minute, Drew?’
He jerked away from her. To accept her comfort would be to accept this, whatever this was. And he wasn’t going to accept this. He looked at his daughter. Her face was now downturned to her feet. Shoulders heavy. Hands tied up in front of her.
Melissa’s hand caught his elbow. ‘Drew?’ Her voice was gentle, low. ‘Let’s talk about this in the living room. You can say…’ She stopped mid-sentence. ‘You can speak to Libbie again in a little while.’
Her fingers wrapped around his arm and she tugged at him as he continued to look at his daughter and she continued to refuse to face him. Eventually he allowed himself to be steered back into the living room where he sagged into the cushions of the sofa.
‘She doesn’t want to come out to eat with me, does she?’ he asked when he could bear the silence no longer.
‘You need to give her time. Give them both time, Drew.’ He stared at his ex-wife. ‘They’re teenagers,’ she said. As though this explained it for him.
‘What does that mean? That they don’t eat any more? I presumed it meant they ate a hell of a lot more,’ he snapped. He couldn’t help it.
Mel held her tongue, let the silence play out again.
‘It’s me?’ He was incredulous.
‘Not so much you…’ She hesitated. ‘It’s to do with the incident.’
‘You know I didn’t do what they said I did.’ His anger fired up like a match. Fast and bright.
‘Drew, it was brutal.’
‘I did not attack that homeless boy. I did not just randomly see a homeless boy in the street and decide to push him over. There was a car coming, behind him. I had to get him out of the way. I was trying to save his life.’ His voice filled the room, his anger a living breathing entity that he struggled to control. It happened whenever he thought of what he had lost due to the stupidity of how everything was recorded nowadays and how this incident had been recorded from only one angle. ‘Why does no one believe me.’ He stood now.
Melissa followed suit. ‘Drew. Lower your voice,’ she hissed.
He clenched his jaw, fury vibrating through his body.
‘You said all this when it happened. But still–’
He interrupted her. ‘But still, you left. But still, the children were ashamed of me, believing I had hurt a homeless boy and for all to see. For all their friends to see.’
‘It wasn’t that, Drew. It was the furore that we couldn’t cope with.’ She softened. ‘And then what it did to you. We, me and you,’ she moved to stand in front of him, her face just a whisper away from his. Her breath silky on his face. ‘We couldn’t cope with what it did to us.’ Her eyes were dark pools now with a sheen covering them. ‘It wasn’t about the video, it was about the social media campaign and how they managed to get you fired from the school and how the press targeted our lives. It blew out of all proportion. We were in no position to withstand that. We didn’t have the tools to start with. We’re average people, Drew. That kind of scrutiny…’ Her hand rested on his arm. ‘Your anger.’ A tear slid down her cheek. ‘We couldn’t survive it.’
Drew looked away from her. He had heard all this before. She had abandoned him when he needed her the most. When it seemed as though the entire world had turned on him baying for his blood. For not only had they castigated him, they had been made demands for him to lose his job. They had rejoiced when the papers had reported the separation. They had wanted his life destroyed. And they had succeeded. And Mel and the kids had done nothing to stop it.
‘The kids?’ he asked. Surely they had moved on by now. It was he who had borne the ridicule, the torment, the derision.
‘They had a lot of problems at school, you know that.’
‘After I left though…’
‘Even then. They’re only just starting to settle back in. Dylan was suspended for punching a lad who called Libbie the spawn of the devil.’ A hand brushed away the tears that were flowing freely now. ‘I’m sorry, Drew. Give it time. They’re kids. These things, especially online problems, they affect children. You’re their dad, they love you. They just don’t know how to deal with it all. So, they’re burying their heads in the sand. It’s the only way they know.’
Drew moved towards the door.
‘I’m sorry, Drew.’
He turned. Threw the carrier bag he was still clutching onto the sofa. The box inside rolled around in the bag then settled. ‘One of the latest wireless speakers. I thought she’d like it for her room.’
Mel gave a weak smile.
Drew stalked out of the house without a backward glance.
His day had just been freed up.
29.
Drew had watched the ghouls gathering at the steps where he had left the true-crime blogger. Not only were they using their phones to photograph the steps – even though there was nothing to see – but they were turning around, their backs to the building, their arms outstretched, taking selfies of the place the blogger had been found.
His stomach curled in on itself at such crass and disturbing behaviour.
As much as Libbie and Dylan were distant from him now, they were good kids and would never put themselves in such a position. Though, Libbie looked up to some girls in the media he thought questionable. Girls that were famous for being famous.
He hoped that Libbie would grow out of it. See the girls for what they were. Leeches, absorbing any
thing and everything that was online and thrown their way.
He had his next plan. It was vague. He had to work on it. He was good at making a decision, researching it and then putting a plan together. Teaching had honed that skill.
He had a photograph of the four of them; him, Melissa, Dylan and Libbie, on the beach in Corfu, smiling. Fresh-faced, no make-up, not posed. Natural and happy. They thought they had all the time in the world in front of them. Life was good. They had jobs and security, each other, and that was all they needed. The Ionian Sea sparkled behind them. The sun glinted on the waves, creating a beautiful crystal blue backdrop.
Libbie had only been ten. She had been carefree. Not worried what she looked like or what boys may or may not think of her. Still a child. Mel had mused about having another baby after they’d had a few drinks and the warmth of the evening kissed their skin on the walk back to their apartment, kids strolling away in front of them. They’d reluctantly agreed that they were probably getting a little too old, though Mel had said with a wistful tone that she was only thirty-five. Three years younger than he was. They could if they really wanted to.
And he’d been tempted. That night. As a gentle breeze lifted their hair from the sticky napes of their necks and the dark velvet night enveloped them with a scent of shellfish, garlic and wine, he’d been tempted. He’d never felt so calm, contented, settled and happy.
Little did he know then how his life would change and would be torn apart by someone with a camera phone. How three years ago a camera phone would snap a beautiful image on a beach, capture a moment of love, and two years later it would distort and lie and destroy everything he held dear and he would lose it all.
He placed the photograph back on the top of his drawers. Remembered the final decision that they wouldn’t bring another child into the world. They had all they needed, they decided. Why rock the boat? Start again when their children were so old? It would mean going back to the start, when now they could travel and enjoy each other’s company. They had a future in front of them that was filled with so much potential.
He nearly laughed.
The Twisted Web (Detective Hannah Robbins Crime Series book 4) Page 9