Make You Sorry

by Christine Rae-Jones

  She heard the low vibration of the diesel engine as the Hardy and Wynn Removals van reversed as far as it could on to the drive. ‘They’re here,’ shouted Victoria and immediately burst into tears again. Samantha’s mobile rang.

  ‘What is it Nick? I’m busy, and the van’s just arrived. Have you not got anything to do?’

  She wasn’t really listening to his reply as she waited for the doorbell to ring. Then she heard words which focused her attention on the call. Nick said ‘So we can’t move the furniture in until CSI release the house.’

  ‘What? What do you mean? Answer the door, Victoria, and for God’s sake, stop crying. Go and brush your teeth Alex. Stop there, Nick. I don’t understand. What do you mean we can’t move in?’ She was holding three conversations at once and it made her feel dizzy.

  Ricky, the van driver, came into the kitchen. He waved to attract her attention then pointed across at the kettle. His accent was from somewhere between east London and Essex. ‘I see you’ve remembered not to pack the most important item in the house. Two teas with two sugars and one with only milk. Thanks Mrs Morgan. We’ll start again upstairs.’ She heard heavy footsteps followed by laughter and loud singing from one of the bedrooms.

  Samantha told Nick to wait then turned to the twins. ‘You two. Go and get Truffles sorted while I talk to Dad. Take him with his basket and all the stuff I’ve left on the draining board to Mrs Gifford across the road. She’s going to look after him until I’m ready to pack the car. Quickly now. And brush your teeth first, Alex.’

  At a little over five feet two, Samantha had to step up on to the foot rest to reach the seat of the breakfast bar stool. She plonked herself down before giving the call her full attention. ‘I swear to God, Nick. This had better not be your idea of a joke.’

  Morgan kept his description of finding the body to the bare minimum before continuing. ‘CSI are there now and I’m at the station. I’m waiting to write a statement but the DS who went to fetch the form has disappeared. I’m gasping for a cup of coffee. Oh, and Riverview have cancelled our booking. They say their boiler has burst so I need to find somewhere else for us to sleep tonight.’

  ‘I don’t understand how there can be a body in our house when you were there all night. It can’t have been there that long, can it? You said it’s still bleeding.’

  There was a long pause before he replied. ‘I went to the steakhouse on the cliffs to get something to eat. It could have happened then.’

  Samantha’s jaw clenched. ‘Bleeding bodies don’t just walk in and lie down on a bedroom floor. How did he hurt himself? I assume it is a he?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a he. And Sam, love, I don’t know what happened, and it’s too early to jump to conclusions. Can you ring round and find storage down here for our furniture for a while? Let’s say a week. I’ll need you to bring a couple of my suits in the car and a few shirts and ties so I have something to wear for work. You and the twins will need more of the basics too. I’ll find us somewhere to stay for a few nights. I need to go now but I love you.’ He ended the call before she had time to say any more.

  As she went into the hall, a large clothes hanging box tumbled down the stairs and landed behind the front door. She looked up to see Ricky’s grinning face. ‘Don’t worry, love. It’s just bedding, nothing fragile. Any sign of that tea?’

  Chapter 6

  He first noticed Abigail Slater at Club Europium as last summer merged into autumn. That shiny silver dress barely covered her arse and when she reached up to punch the air, he caught glimpses of panties, reflecting the purple strobe lighting. Did she know? Of course she did. He saw other lads watching her, mesmerised; their girlfriends, stony faced. Occasionally, she would glance around to see who was looking before throwing her head back and picking up the beat, her long fair hair swinging like a bright curtain in sunlight.

  Out of his league, he thought and went back to his overpriced beer.

  His next sighting of her surprised him. She was wearing a business suit and white blouse and her hair was tied back into a neat ponytail. Her black skirt covered her knees but, from his seat four rows behind her, he could see it was tight enough to define both cheeks of that backside. Her jacket fitted neatly before flaring out from the waist into a short frill and her white blouse was unbuttoned to her cleavage.

  She was standing in front of three unsmiling magistrates summing up the case for the defence. Her client had taken the purse out of an elderly lady’s bag while she picked through the reduced shelf at a supermarket. Abigail Slater’s passion was as evident as it had been on the dance floor and he saw her ponytail swish left and right as she tried to engage with each magistrate.

  They found him guilty and one of them said they were going to ask the Probation Service to prepare a report on the defendant who was then taken away by the security staff. Abigail Slater chatted amiably with the prosecutor as she gathered her papers. Then, she slung her handbag over her shoulder and made her way towards the back of the court. As she passed, she smiled at him and he knew he had to have her.

  Chapter 7

  Friday 7th February

  Once he had ended his call to Sam, Morgan left the office. He walked along the corridor and through the open plan CID area to the far end where there were desks allocated to the Central & Southern Major Crimes Unit.

  He sensed he was being watched although nobody made eye contact. Some were concentrating on a computer screen or deep in conversation with a colleague. Others were on the phone, gesticulating with their hands as if emphasising what they were saying. He was looking for a coffee machine or a water fountain. Finding neither, he paused to look at the whiteboards which showed the status of on-going investigations.

  ‘DI Morgan?’ It was a loud, deep voice calling from behind. ‘I wasn’t expecting you until Monday. Couldn’t you wait?’

  Morgan turned to see Detective Chief Inspector Richard Johnson striding towards him with an outstretched hand which he shook. He said, ‘I received an unwelcome housewarming present last night and I’ve come in to make a statement.’

  Johnson closed his eyes and nodded a few times. ‘I saw it on the overnight log. Cause of death unknown and deceased unidentified. How are you coping?’

  Morgan thought it was an odd question to ask an officer with over twenty year’s service. He had lost count of the bodies he’d encountered in that time, most of them in a much less presentable state than his current tenant. He replied ‘I’m coping well, sir, but it’s causing some difficulties for my relocation.’ Johnson smile was sympathetic and Morgan continued, ‘As I said, I’ve come in to make a statement. DS Spence went to get me a coffee and an MG11 but that’s the last I saw of him.’

  ‘I met him in the car park and sent him back to the scene. We’re a bit thin on the ground at the moment so he’ll have to do his best as SIO until I can get hold of DI Patel.’ Johnson pointed vaguely to one of the boards which had pictures of three young women pinned to it. ‘She’s gone to West Midlands to arrest a suspected rapist who’s been hunting round the student accommodation. She’ll be back later today. Anyway, come with me, I have my own supply of coffee and I’ll get someone to fetch the statement form. I can also update you with what we had going on before you brought your own case to bugger up my crime figures.’ Morgan fell into step behind the taller man. So Spence had been in the car park, had he? He’d never intended returning with the coffee and form. That was useful to know.

  The two men walked to the stairwell. Johnson’s office was a couple of flights above the CID floor and he bounded up the stairs two at a time. Morgan followed and passed through the fire door which his boss was holding open for him.

  When they got to his office, DCI Johnson busied himself making two black coffees using a machine and pods which Morgan guessed he’d brought from home. He accepted a cup gratefully, inhaling the aroma and savouring it before he took his first sip. God it tasted good. He wanted to gulp it down but he didn’t want to make a bad impression.

&nb
sp; Sitting in his high backed chair Johnson began, ‘I’ve never liked bad coffee or even instant coffee which is a completely different drink. It’s sacrilege to give it the same name. Bad tea is even worse. My wife bought me this after we started using one at home and I find it makes the start of another day actually bearable.’

  ‘Thank you sir, I completely agree. Thank you.’ As soon as he said it, Morgan thought it sounded grovelling but it couldn’t be unsaid. ‘You wanted to talk through some cases?’

  ‘One case, Morgan, just the one. It’s a tricky one and it’s caught the attention of the local media. We’ve got a missing person. A solicitor actually, from a local practice.’

  Morgan took another sip of coffee and waited for Johnson to continue, but he seemed in no hurry. Morgan glanced down at his watch.

  ‘She’s not been with them all that long - a year perhaps? She deals with a lot of the cases that get to the Magistrates’ Court but that could be because she pulls a lot of the out of hours shifts. Her name’s Abigail Slater although I understand she prefers to go by Abi.’ Morgan felt Johnson’s eyes on him. He was trying to pay attention but was also conscious of everything he needed to organise and the limited time available. ‘The flatmate didn’t come to us straight away. Apparently, Abi has disappeared before. But eventually, this same flatmate came in and reported it. It seems that she’d taken advice from a missing persons’ charity. The girl’s been gone a little over two weeks now and the local papers and TV have picked up on it. Her work laptop and phone are missing but we got her personal phone. That’s only because she forgot it when she left work in a hurry.’

  Morgan felt his investigator instinct twitch. He’d been in Gullhaven less than twenty-four hours and was already aware of a possible murder and a missing person. He’d expected life here to be quieter than London. Maybe not.

  Johnson was still speaking. ‘Of course, we’ve done all the usual. Phone log, emails, social media, the works. We’ve spoken to the fiancé, the flatmate, friends and neighbours. I’m told we’re still waiting for bank and credit card statements.’

  Morgan frowned. When it came down to it, nothing Johnson had said hinted at any suspicion of foul play. He glanced again at his watch. ‘You said she’d gone missing before, sir?’

  The DCI had been staring into the distance and now looked back at him. ‘We believe so, but not for longer than two or three days and certainly not under these circumstances. It’s the human interest angle that’s got everyone hooked. You see, she’s due to marry tomorrow and she disappeared on the way back from collecting her dress. All the witnesses say she was really excited. Talked of nothing else from the minute she got engaged, so nobody believes she would disappear of her own volition. That’s why we think something has happened to her.’

  Chapter 8

  Friday 7th February

  When Morgan returned to his office he found a small pile of statement forms and two cheap pens on the desk. He hesitated before starting to write. He should balance the amount of detail he provided with what he preferred not to disclose. Surely details of his alcohol consumption were not relevant to the investigation? When it came down to it, he didn’t know anything about the body on his bedroom floor or how it got there.

  When he finished writing, he put the pens in the desk drawer and turned his thoughts to his other problems. Johnson had suggested an alternative four star hotel for the night and Morgan hoped it might go some way towards making amends with Sam. When he rang to book, the receptionist told him that they didn’t allow pets. He was mid-explanation of his predicament when she ended the call. Truffles was a member of the family and since the move would already be unsettling for him, he decided against putting him into kennels and set about finding another solution.

  He returned to the open plan office to find someone he could leave his statement with. This time, he observed the photos of children, thank you cards and brightly coloured mugs containing coffee which had gone cold. He caught the attention of two young women who introduced themselves as DCs Lynn Greenfield and Jennifer Smart, members of the CID Major Crime Unit. Both looked to be in their late twenties and were wearing black trousers and low heeled black shoes. Greenfield was smaller than Smart by about two inches and completed her outfit with a grey jumper and black jacket. Smart was wearing a white blouse and was holding her jacket across one arm. Morgan couldn’t tell if she had just arrived or was about to leave. He noticed that she was more heavily made up than other female officers he had worked with and, as he got closer, he saw that her cheeks and forehead were scarred from adolescent acne. He wondered how much bullying she had suffered in her teen years.

  The women commiserated with his accommodation plight and Morgan was about to turn away when Smart put out her hand to detain him. ‘Have you considered a park home?’

  ‘You mean like a caravan?’ Morgan asked, and imagined his wife’s reaction. Samantha had inherited her mother’s snobbery gene.

  Smart smiled politely. ‘A lot of people make that mistake, but park homes couldn’t be more different from caravans. When my parents visit, I don’t have space to put them up, so I book them into Gullhaven Park. It’s on the outskirts of East Gullhaven, just past the country club and golf course. The locals would prefer it not to be there of course, but it was a park home site long before the NIMBYs moved in, so they have to put up with it. Some of the properties have two and three bedrooms and all mod cons. You’ll be comfy there and it’s quiet in winter so I don’t think you’ll struggle to book. If you can, try to get one overlooking the lake and the woods.’ Smart asked for his mobile number and sent him a text with the contact details. He thanked her and returned to his office to make the call. East Gullhaven was where his mother-in-law’s supported accommodation was, but he couldn’t remember ever noticing the site.

  The friendly female voice which answered his call confirmed that there was a home available by the lake which had three bedrooms. She told him that if he secured it with a credit card immediately, she would drive up there and turn on the heating so it would be cosy for everyone’s arrival. Morgan asked about sheets, pillowcases and towels as, somewhere in his mind, he thought that caravan sites expected you to provide your own. The woman’s laughter was throaty and deep and he could hear that she was still smiling when she answered. ‘They’re provided. This isn’t the fifties, you know. It’ll all be set up and ready for you by three o’clock. You’ll have to bring your own food, or eat out. Our restaurant is closed. And this is low season so I’m afraid the pool and recreation areas are off limits too, while they are being prepared for Easter re-opening. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Morgan. ‘I’m just pleased you can fit us in.’

  ‘See you soon, then. Bye.’

  Replacing his phone in his jacket pocket, Morgan wondered if he should have looked harder for a hotel. If Sam wasn’t happy there would ultimately be a price he would pay.

  Chapter 9

  Friday 7th February

  Dorothy Cooper was sitting at her window overlooking the grounds and drive of Silver Sands. She liked to know who was coming and going and it was busy today. Delivery vans bringing food for the weekend and medical supplies; a taxi for one of the inmates – hospital trip probably – and the grey van used by Danny Easton, the maintenance man. She liked Danny. He reminded her of her errant son, Steven, except he was taller, and more respectful.

  Breakfast had been a disappointment. The inmates were more excited to hear that Betty Andrews had got a date for her hip replacement. What was wrong with these people? She hoped that Plod would get on with the house renovations quickly so she could move back in and not have to waste her time with them anymore.

  She looked at the clock. If she put her smock on now, she would be in good time for Helen Talbot’s art class in the activities room. Her mobile rang and she squinted at the screen to see if it was someone she could be bothered speaking to.

  ‘Hello, dear. I’m surprised you’ve got time to ring me today. How’s the
packing going and how are the twins? Is the van there yet? I’m really looking forward to knowing you’ll be just down the road.’

  She heard Samantha exhale. ‘It’s chaos in the house, so I’m in the shed. It’s pouring with rain and I’ve just served the removal men their umpteenth round of tea and biscuits so I’m ringing to update you.’ Dorothy waited for her to continue, sensing she wasn’t going to like what was coming.

  ‘There’s a bit of a problem with the house.’ Her voice dropped. She was reluctant to continue. ‘It’s a crime scene and we can’t move in.’

  Dorothy was confused. ‘Speak up, dear. What do you mean? Do you mean burglars? There’s nothing left in the house that’s worth taking. And why didn’t Plod fight them off? Wasn’t he supposed to be there last night?’

  ‘Please don’t call him that, Mum. You know I don’t like it.’ She chose her words with care. ‘He got there late and may have slept through whatever went on. And it’s not burglars... Nick says there’s a body upstairs.’

  Dorothy frowned as she took in the information. She would have to book breakfast in the dining room again tomorrow as this news would definitely trump Betty’s hip replacement. But what if the family decided they didn’t want to live in a crime scene? That would upset all her plans. Samantha was still speaking and she just caught that the hotel booking had been cancelled.

  ‘Where are you expected to sleep tonight then?’ she asked. ‘And what about the furniture... and the children?’

  ‘And the dog,’ said Samantha. ‘Nick is sorting out accommodation and my next call is to a storage company. That’s why I’m ringing. Who did you use when you went into the home?’

  ‘It’s not a home, dear, it’s supported accommodation. I’m more than able to look after myself as you know. I’ll send a text with their number as soon as I get off the phone. And be sure to bring the lovely twins to see me as soon as you arrive.’