Somebody's Daughter

by Carol Wyer

  ‘You tell her.’

  Naomi’s eyes shone like polished onyx. ‘We have found several prints belonging to Katie Bray and several more that are Eugene’s. Let me show you.’

  She darted across to her stool, clicked several keys and brought up a photograph of a white porcelain sink; the plug and chain removed. The stainless-steel taps were pitted with age and the letters denoting hot and cold long since worn off. Naomi enlarged the photograph and pointed to the outlines where the prints had been lifted. ‘There are clear prints, here and here,’ she said, hovering the mouse over two areas about a hand’s width apart. ‘These inner prints are from the index, middle, ring and little fingers, and here on the outside of the bowl are thumbprints, all belonging to Katie. The positioning of them suggests she was clinging to the bowl with both hands. These prints, either side of hers, belong to Eugene Hardy.’

  ‘Could he have been standing behind her?’

  Naomi nodded. ‘I’d say it’s likely, especially as there are other partials – fingerprints and palm prints – on the floor here.’ Naomi zoomed in on the tiles, where a length of toilet roll lay discarded on the tiled floor, next to a metal bin. ‘They were both on the floor, and it again indicates that he was behind or on top of her, and finally…’ She looked at Darshan, who spoke.

  ‘It’s fortunate for us that these particular toilets don’t appear to have been cleaned very often or used a great deal by the general public, because among all the other traces, we not only identified those prints but found droplets of dried blood on the floor. The blood’s a match for Katie’s.’

  ‘Then it indicates he had rough sex with her in the toilets,’ said Lucy.

  ‘We reached a similar conclusion, and given the autopsy results, I’d say there’s no doubt it was Eugene who sodomised her.’

  ‘Then maybe it is no coincidence he was killed outside the toilets. Tommy or somebody else knew about this.’

  ‘You want to check Katie’s toxicology report while you’re here?’ asked Darshan, fingers already on the laptop keyboard.

  ‘Definitely.’ She joined him, breathed in his clean fragrance and watched his elegant fingers as he typed, then read over his shoulder. Naomi watched them both, arms resting on the desk, waiting to hear.

  They finished reading at the same time and Darshan nodded. ‘Well, there we have it. High levels of heroin but no historical signs of substance abuse. Raised levels of cocaine and evidence she’d been taking it for several months.’

  Lucy stared at the wall, mind trying to make sense of the information. ‘I suppose she could have been so high on cocaine, she might not have been aware of how much heroin she’d injected herself with.’

  ‘Don’t discount the theory somebody else might have injected her with it while she was groggy,’ said Naomi.

  ‘I won’t. Someone, presumably the person who strangled her post-mortem, took the needle away with them. My question is why?’

  ‘Souvenir?’ suggested Naomi. ‘Or to disguise the fact she’d died of a heroin overdose.’

  ‘Did you get any prints from the syringe Natalie recovered from Tommy’s kitchen bin?’

  ‘Katie didn’t handle it. We lifted a partial but have no match for it yet.’

  ‘What about Tommy? I need to know quickly because if there’s someone else involved, we have to find them.’

  ‘We haven’t received a copy of Tommy’s prints yet. I’ll ask Pinkney for them,’ said Darshan.

  ‘I’d appreciate that. Thanks again, guys. Catch you later.’

  She let herself out of the quiet laboratory with determination. It was almost certain Tommy intended blackmailing Eugene, but why he would have killed Rachel and Dominic still remained a mystery, and that threw doubt on Tommy’s culpability.

  Bev sat at her desk and twisted the top off her fountain pen for the third time. The pen, a ridiculously overpriced Montblanc, had been purchased as a reward for being promoted to chief reporter at the Hatfield Herald. She used a laptop for her articles but they all began life in her reporter notepad, written in blue ink. She loved pens, the feel of them between her fingers. They were objects of beauty, and the Montblanc had set her back £300, an extravagance she couldn’t really justify or afford since most of her salary went towards renting a flat in the most expensive area in Samford and designer clothes. She’d been waiting on tenterhooks for the mystery caller to ring her back, and she was having difficulty concentrating on the piece she was supposed to be writing. It lacked direction, not surprising given she really wanted to be concentrating on the recent murders.

  The office was cluttered with six desks in three cramped rows, all looking as if their occupants had emptied the contents of their wastepaper bins on top of them: scribbled, sticky notes attached to every visible surface, including the sides of computer screens; charging mobiles linked with washing lines of cable to various wall sockets; half-eaten bags of crisps and sweets, squashed in between reusable coffee cups. Water bottles and bags were crammed in between desk legs and chairs, and on the wall that ran alongside the workstation, the most sensationalist front pages of the Hatfield Herald, framed for posterity, to encourage the current team to produce more of the same.

  Bev despised the first-floor office in a building that smelt like her gran’s front room. The whole place was in dire need of modernisation and would have been gutted if she’d been in charge. At the very least, it required a refurbishment, and the revolting magnolia walls definitely needed a fresh lick of paint, but the newspaper wasn’t earning enough to reinvest in the premises. It was all they could do to pay their staff. It was a far cry from the spacious offices Natalie Ward and her team now occupied. She twisted the cap back onto her pen and sighed. Here she was, chief reporter in a cramped room with a bunch of kids who hadn’t long been out of school, and a geriatric sports reporter who ought to be pensioned off. It was hardly the high life she’d imagined. Still, she was one stepping stone closer to moving to a larger newspaper and another position, one with much greater earning potential. All she needed was to secure a scoop.

  At last! A withheld number appeared on her phone. She clawed at the mobile and scurried into the corridor, away from wagging ears.

  ‘Bev Gardner.’

  ‘Tonight, 7 p.m. The wasteland. Turn off your phone and come alone. This is going to be your only chance. Don’t blow it or you’ll die.’

  The line went dead, and once the rat-a-tat-tat of her heartbeat ceased pounding in her ears, she assessed the situation. The wasteland, once the site of an enormous abattoir, was now laid bare, several acres of rubble and some empty outbuildings, waiting for development. It was home to druggies and gangs of youths. Burnt-out cars, stolen and deliberately set on fire for pure entertainment, were often left there, and several rape incidents had been reported. It was generally considered unsafe and out of bounds to anyone who didn’t wish to risk their lives. The metal fencing originally erected to protect the site from intruders had been broken in several places. It would be dark and a massive risk to meet a killer there. Peering through the small pane of glass in the office door, she observed her colleagues, some staring at screens, others with phones tucked under their chins, enthusiasm seeping from every pore. What they wouldn’t give to snatch this story from her… yet why had the killer said she was guilty? It was unnerving, and could she trust this person? She wasn’t even sure if it was a man or a woman. She might be walking into a trap. Shit, what if she was actually in danger? Panic replaced curiosity and she dialled Natalie’s number. It went straight to answerphone, and Natalie’s calm and pleasant voice gave the customary response.

  ‘Natalie, this is Bev. I’m worried. The killer, or at least I think it was the killer, contacted me. I don’t know who it is, or if it’s simply a hoax. They accused me of being as guilty as the others, but they’d give me a last chance to save myself. I don’t know… I don’t know if I’m in danger or not…’

  The door to the office flew open and one of the junior reporters, cheeky-faced wi
th pale ginger hair, hurtled out. He rushed past, leaving behind the aroma of a sea breeze, and the moment evaporated. The fear that had travelled through her veins vanished, leaving her instantly regretting the call. What would Natalie do anyway? Besides, she needed this story. She chastised herself for acting too quickly and ringing Natalie. ‘It’s okay. Forget I rang. It’s nothing. Not important. Panic over.’ She regarded the Artex ceiling through hooded eyes and crossed her fingers that Natalie wouldn’t contact her before she had the opportunity to interview the killer. However, if she was going to do that, she needed to practise extreme vigilance. She couldn’t take any chances whatsoever.

  Whitey is going to carry out his revenge at some point in the near future. He knows it. It’s a matter of when. Nothing’s been said but the atmosphere is charged. Whitey hasn’t spoken to him or acknowledged him in any way since the night before, and now the others in the barracks are following his example. He can’t imagine why they’re behaving this way. He hasn’t done anything to offend them.

  He spoke to the woman, Lorna, a fellow squaddie, only this morning. They’d sat outside her billet, backs against a low wall. She reminds him a lot of Felicity, her looks, even her mannerisms, but she isn’t Felicity. She is Lorna, and he’d tried to establish if she was going to officially accuse Whitey of attempted rape…

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t. I want to forget all about it.’

  ‘Do you think you can?’

  ‘I don’t know, but if I tell anyone about it, it’ll rake over the memory and I… I…’ The tears pool in her large grey eyes and she struggles to find the words. He understands. It was degrading, humiliating for her, and he’d witnessed it.

  He assures her with, ‘Listen, I won’t say a word if you don’t want me to.’

  The tears swell but don’t fall and she puts out her arms, drapes them around his neck and falls against him. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  He puts his arms around her. What else can he do? He breathes in her floral scent, reminding him again of his girlfriend, nuzzles her neck to inhale the aroma and waits for her to pull back. She does. ‘Thank you for saving me and for respecting my wishes. For the sake of my sanity, I have to let this go. I can’t face telling anyone about it. Besides, you’re all going back to the UK in a few days and we’re staying here. I’ll manage. I won’t have to see that bastard every day.’

  He understands. Everyone has a coping mechanism, and denial is her way of getting through this ordeal. He nods and rises, leaves her sitting with the sun lighting up her golden hair, and his thoughts turn to his girlfriend, who he can’t wait to see.

  Lorna isn’t going to press any charges and wants to deny the whole thing happened. Even if he speaks out, it will be his word against Whitey’s.

  He lies awake, listening to the heavy breathing of the other men as they sleep. Whitey has his back turned to him and is snoring lightly. He can rest easy for the moment. He remains, hands behind his head, thoughts on Felicity, who is waiting for him at home. He can’t wait to see her again. He needs to decide how to surprise her with his proposal. Probably at a restaurant or maybe he should drive somewhere with spectacular scenery – a mountain or seaside. The thought warms him and his body relaxes. Sleep comes for him. As he begins to drift into the peaceful darkness, there is a moment of silence broken by a whoosh of air and a collective swoop as he is attacked from all angles. His reactions are too slow as the sheet is yanked away from his body and rough hands grab his limbs, cover his mouth, pin him to the floor. Those who were once his friends and comrades tie his hands behind his back, strip him of his pyjama bottoms and bind him with sniper tape, covering his head and eyes, rendering it impossible to see or speak. They laugh, turn him over, fingers reach for his private parts and he is subjected to sickening abuse before he is dragged outside, still naked from below the waist, and left helpless on the ground.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tuesday, 5 November – Afternoon

  The afternoon raced on, with the entire team on a mission to discover who killed Tommy. Lucy sat opposite a woman having a pedicure who squealed every time the beautician rasped the file over the pads of her feet. The room was heavily perfumed and uncomfortably warm. Lucy turned her attention to her phone to distract her from the woman’s irritating noises. Why have a damn pedicure in the first place if your feet are sensitive to touch? There were no messages or missed calls. Nothing from Dan either. There surely would be soon. She hadn’t written the report.

  Heaven Scent Spa was a small but popular destination for the town’s wealthier citizens, offering a range of luxurious treatments including a gold facial and a caviar conditioner, although Lucy couldn’t see how rubbing fish eggs into your skin would be anything other than revolting. She was here for one reason: to speak to Georgina, who had been one of Rachel Hardy’s friends.

  A beautiful woman emerged from a door and, after speaking to the receptionist, looked across at Lucy and said, ‘DI Carmichael? Would you like to come this way, please?’ Lucy followed the baby-blue-uniformed woman along a scent-filled corridor to a treatment room. There was no massage table, only a low coffee table and two brown leather tub chairs. Georgina took the furthest one and crossed one leg over the other; the picture of composure was flawed by the trembling of her lips.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  She nodded, unable to respond with words, and reached for a glass of water.

  ‘You were close to Rachel, weren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve known her since school. We didn’t see a lot of each other but we were friends. My mum telephoned with the news of her death. I didn’t believe her at first. Cried all the way home. A twenty-three-hour flight. I must have driven my fellow passengers crazy. I still can’t get my head around it.’ Her eyes misted with sadness.

  ‘I’m leading the investigation into her death, and to be honest, we’re struggling to work out why she would have been targeted. She didn’t have any enemies you know of, did she?’

  ‘None. She got along well with most people.’

  ‘What do you know about Dominic Quinn?’

  She sniffed back tears and reached for a glass of water before saying, ‘He was a fling.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  ‘Rachel enjoyed her life. She didn’t want commitment. She had a good job, she had a great home, everything she needed, and she wasn’t into long-term relationships. She’d date a guy, have fun, then move on.’

  ‘Did she talk about Dominic?’

  ‘She said the sex was amazing, which was the only reason she kept on seeing him. Normally, after the third or fourth date, she’d dump them.’

  ‘She wasn’t serious about him, though?’

  ‘She wasn’t in love with him.’ She moistened her deep-red lips and they glistened as she spoke. ‘Rachel enjoyed sex. She was turned on by performing in public places or places where there was an element of risk of being caught. Dominic was too. He’d let them into school early and they’d shag in his classroom before anyone else arrived.’

  ‘Did she ever get caught?’

  ‘No, but she wouldn’t have cared less if they had been. She even used to joke and fantasise about getting caught screwing Dominic in her father’s office. That’s partly why she did it there. She wanted to see the look on his face when he walked in and caught them at it. She was wild and carefree. I loved her for that.’

  ‘I thought she got on well with her father?’

  Georgina studied her nails. ‘They sort of got on. Maybe not as well as they pretended. Much of it was for show. Her dad insisted they put on a public display – you know, father and daughter working together, helping the community, attending charity events. She played along because her goal was to take over the running of Hardy’s and she needed to stay in her father’s good books. It didn’t stop her from pushing his buttons though. He used to get uptight about her sexual activities so she’d deliberately flaunt her partners in front of him, have men and women stay over at Springbanks.’<
br />
  ‘She was into women too?’

  ‘Threesomes. She loved threesomes, and before you ask, no, I never took part.’

  Lucy recalled the conversation with Dominic’s friend. ‘Did she mention having a threesome with Dominic?’

  ‘Funnily enough, she did. She WhatsApped me while I was away. They invited a young woman to join them at the school where Dominic worked. She laughed about it because they almost all got caught out when the head teacher arrived sooner than expected. She wasn’t bothered, but Dominic panicked. Rachel, who was always quick-thinking, convinced the head she was a prospective parent who, together with her younger sister, had spotted Dominic arriving at the school and asked him for a quick tour before lessons began.’

  ‘And she believed the story.’

  ‘Fell for it hook, line and sinker. Rachel had a way of convincing people.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Rachel mentioned the young woman’s name?’

  ‘Amelia. She said the woman was as beautiful as her name.’

  A frisson of excitement had supplanted the crawling irritation Lucy had been experiencing following her conversation with Dan. Eugene, Rachel and Dominic had all played out sexual fantasies with Katie or Amelia. A strong connection had been made yet she knew Dan would link it back to Tommy, suggest the man had been angry with them all, or tried to blackmail them and failed. Lucy’s gut feeling was this went further than Tommy. The killer’s pattern changed when they had begun writing the word ‘guilty’ on the victims’ foreheads, and the biggest anomaly in all of this was the fact Katie had been strangled after her death.

  She returned to her car and stared at the passers-by, swaddled in winter clothing, some on their mobiles, others carrying heavily laden bags of presents. Christmas wasn’t far off and the High Street was already reaping the benefit. It reminded her she had not yet decided what to buy anyone. She had time yet. Her priority wasn’t shopping for gifts, yet the sight of men and women staring at shop windows, rolls of wrapping paper sticking out from plastic bags, made her question her priorities. She couldn’t consider the festive season until she nailed this investigation, and what would happen if another followed swiftly after it? The answer was clear. Having earned this promotion, she wasn’t going to lose it. Bethany knew Lucy was hungry for success and had accepted her ambitious urge, long before Aurora had been born. Would she still understand Lucy’s desperate need to keep proving herself? She wouldn’t be satisfied with being a DI. She’d want to become DCI and then she’d set her sights higher still. She and Bethany needed a serious chat but, like Christmas presents, it would have to wait until the investigation was over.