Black by Rose

by Andrew Barrett

  Since her first encounter with Lisa, she had hardened considerably. The hope had gone of course, she wouldn’t allow herself any more hope; it was a false feeling, a self-destructive feeling. In its stead stepped loathing. Not quite hatred, but not far off.

  She had thought of the restaurant every day since and played it back using different permutations; had altered her role, changed the way she’d approached the table, changed the first words, even made a scene. But it all came down to one thing: rejection. Oh, make that two things: rejection, and denial.

  Today would make up for it, for the denial at least. The rejection she could handle, but Sophie would not let Lisa deny her for a second time.

  Sophie pressed the doorbell.

  This time her mouth wasn’t dry, and she didn’t sweat. This time, she held no comforter. This time, she had anger on her side. This time, she wouldn’t fail.

  Lisa opened the door and Sophie walked right inside, pushing her aside. “In the lounge,” she said.

  Lisa stared at her, and then slowly closed the door.

  “How dare you not acknowledge me? How fucking dare you pretend you didn’t know me—”

  “I beg your—”

  “Shut up. Sit down.”

  Lisa looked at her, saw the grimace and the throbbing cheeks. And then she sat.

  So too did Sophie. “Ten years has been good to you.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  Lisa paused. “You want a drink?”

  “No, I want some answers.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I used to be a copper, remember? It wasn’t so hard.” And then Sophie stared her straight in the eye, “I used to be your lover too.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Why did you stop writing to me? Why did you stop visiting me? Have you any idea, any fucking idea at all, how much I looked forward to the letters and to seeing you once a fortnight? They were the only things keeping me sane.”

  Lisa looked at the floor.

  “Well?”

  “I met someone, Sophie.”

  “Good for you,” she smiled sarcastically. “I had my own cell!”

  “Look, I’ve said thanks, I really was grateful, I really am grateful.”

  “But not quite grateful enough to introduce me to your...” She paused, thinking, “Of course, I should’ve known,” she whispered, “I’m an embarrassment to you.”

  “No, Sophie—”

  “Ah, no I’ve got it. Your past is an embarrassment to you.”

  Lisa was silent.

  “The last ten years have been hell, Lisa. Hell!” And then she laughed, “But you know what, I’m not embarrassed about my past or about what I did to protect you. You killed Chloe. I took the blame for you, because I loved you. No sense in us both doing time. I had the girl’s blood all over me, all over my clothes. You had the chance to get out and get away. I gave you that chance, and you took it—”

  “I was a kid,”

  “Me too.”

  “Sophie—”

  “But you know what, I’m not afraid of my past anymore. All my dirty secrets are out in the open; I’ve paid for my mistakes – or rather for your mistakes, and I have nothing to fear.” Sophie leaned forward. “You’re still scared shitless of your past.”

  “I need a drink.” She made to stand up, and Sophie barked at her.

  “Sit down. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

  Lisa shrank back into the chair, seeming to prepare herself against a barrage of harsh words.

  “You spent your ten years well. Made it right up to DCI, I hear. Got yourself a good-looking boyfriend, nice house, nice car...”

  “What do you want?”

  “Took your time getting to that.” Sophie rubbed her hands together and grinned. “I lost my job, my life. I sometimes think I also lost my self-respect. But actually I didn’t; it was just dormant. You however, you have no self-respect.”

  “I have—”

  “Sssshhh, Lisa.” She got off the chair and sat on the sofa, sinking into the soft leather next to Lisa, invading her space, getting very personal. “You look at me and you see what you’d have become. You look at me and you’re scared.”

  Lisa pulled her gown tighter.

  “I’ll be honest,” Sophie smiled, “I didn’t want anything from you in that fancy restaurant. I wanted to say hi, and I suppose I wanted you to ask how I was. It would have been good to learn why you stopped writing and visiting. But I’m not stupid, I never expected you to wait for me, not really; I knew you’d move on with your life.

  “But you didn’t ask how I was. You pretended I was some deranged fool who’d made a mistake. I made the ultimate sacrifice for your freedom, Lisa, and you stabbed me in the fucking back.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Not yet you’re not.” Sophie stood and looked down on her. “I want recompense. You’ve turned this from personal to business. So I want fifty grand.”

  “What?”

  “I think that’s more than reasonable. It’s only five grand a year. And you must be on, what, forty-five, fifty grand per year?”

  “Where the hell am I supposed to get hold of fifty grand, Christ’s sake!”

  Her eyes narrowed. “See what I mean? You didn’t even argue that you owed me; just how much you owed me. You’re a piece of shit, Lisa. I hope your fucking castle crumbles around your ears.”

  “Look, I didn’t ask for this—”

  “Neither did I!” Sophie was panting, the veins stood proud on her neck, and she felt like she was only seconds away from strangling the sad bitch. How the hell did she fall for her in the first damned place all those wasted years ago? She was nothing special; she had no loyalty, no respect.

  But she didn’t strangle her. Instead, she got up, yanked her jacket straight, and said. “You got to come to terms with your past, girl.”

  “I can’t get fifty grand, Sophie!”

  Sophie smiled. “I was kidding. I don’t want your money.” And then she headed for the door, “But I will make you face your past.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Lisa Westmoreland sat quite still at her desk. She hadn’t even turned on the computer yet and she’d been here twenty minutes already. Her mouth felt perpetually dry. Every time someone came into the large office where the detectives and the CSIs and the admin worked, every time a shadow passed the large window that looked out onto that office, her head snapped up, her eyes searching.

  At this rate, she wouldn’t last the day without having a heart attack or at the very least, coming down with a migraine. She stared at the desk, hands trembling ever so slightly. And then she tried to reassure herself that the picture Slade’s man had taken of Eddie out in the woods last night, was proof he was dead. And it worked, slowly. She still felt twitchy – murder was a hell of a thing to live with; it was harder to pretend everything was normal, much harder, than she’d thought.

  She swallowed again. Squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  Last night, when Eddie walked into the Crosbys’ lounge like the drunken idiot she’d been warned about, she had nearly fallen through the floor. Of all the chances… How often had she been to Slade’s house? Three, four times? And then he had to show up, and then on top of that, Slade had invited her to show herself. He’d wanted her to select a flagpole and nail her colours to it. It also said to Eddie that he would never see the inside of MCU again; he’d never see anything again. It reassured her; but not much.

  Why had he shown up? She still couldn’t figure it out.

  And that was on top of the other problem: Sophie. Why on earth couldn’t she have stayed away? Why did she have to come back and try to resurrect an old relationship? When you said to people on holiday, “You must keep in touch”, you didn’t mean it! You were being polite, you were saying you enjoyed their company for the week and now you’d like to part on good terms
and never see each other again. But some people misconstrued that; some people had to follow you around like a damned shadow.

  And yes, of course Sophie had done a wonderful thing for her, and she was very grateful to her. And she claimed she didn’t want the money, she only wanted to make her remember her past. How abstract was that? Either she wanted money or she didn’t. Why even ask for it if she didn’t want it?

  But what was clear was that Sophie Moran wasn’t going to let this go; she’d become holier than thou, all self fucking righteous. And then it dawned on her: Sophie was going to tell the police about Chloe in the nightclub.

  For a moment, as the thought crossed her mind, she smiled. But it was short lived. She smiled because there was no way anyone could prove Lisa had killed the girl. No way! It would be Sophie’s word against hers. Simple. And look who’d win – especially since Sophie had admitted to the murder in the first damned place.

  The smile, though, had died for one simple reason. Proof didn’t matter in this career, on this side of the line. Suspicion was enough to cast doubt; doubt would get you suspended while they carried out an investigation; doubt would get you off the security clearance register; doubt would see you in disciplinary meetings. Doubt could even see you demoted, if not out of a job.

  That’s why the smile died. Sophie’s veiled threat to expose her was no veiled threat at all. It was very real. It was a potential career-killer. Couldn’t turn back time and try a different move the second time around, buddy! It was done; you accepted the dive, and you “…set me free!”

  “Everything alright?”

  Lisa jumped and looked up to see Cooper standing there, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. Lisa began to feel sick. The dry mouth was still there, her fingers tingled, and her palms grew damp. She smiled up at him, “I’m not feeling well.”

  “You got a minute?”

  She swallowed. “What’s up?”

  * * *

  Jeffery looked at the clock. 0810. Still no sign of Collins. He signed the paperwork granting authorisation for the DNA samples that sat inside a red cooler bag on the admin desk. Two swabs, that’s all they were, individually wrapped in tamper-evident clear bags with all the details correctly filled out on the accompanying panel on each bag, all signed correctly, all dated, complete with exhibit numbers and crime identification details.

  One was a swab from the bedroom carpet in Tony Lambert’s house, and one was a swab from the tree branch at Blake Crosby’s scene. He ticked the box for 24-hour turnaround, and signed again at the Premium Charge Acknowledgement box.

  “Thanks,” Melanie said. “I’ll get them over to the lab.”

  Lisa Westmoreland watched them from her office.

  Jeffery asked, “Heard from Eddie this morning?”

  Melanie looked blank, “Sorry no. I thought maybe he’d got the day off or something.”

  Jeffery smiled at her, and then made straight for Ros. Her coat was over the back of the chair, still wet from the rain, and she sat at her desk staring at the log-on screen, as though she’d forgotten what to do. “You okay?”

  Ros blinked, and then looked at him, a far-away gaze in her eyes.

  “Ros?” He squatted next to her.

  “I’m fine.”

  He could see she wasn’t. Her eyes looked shiny, her hair was tangled, a mess he’d never seen before, and her skin was pallid. “You don’t look so good; you coming down with something?”

  She shook her head, got her fingers busy on the keyboard, and Jeffery stood up ready to leave her alone. “Heard anything from Eddie?”

  Her head snapped around, she checked the clock, “No,” she said, eyes suddenly alive.

  “Don’t worry; he’s always a bit late. We’ll give him till half past before we start to fret, okay?” He smiled warily at her because this wasn’t Ros. She looked fragile somehow, as though one wrong word would shatter her. “Okay?”

  She nodded and then checked her watch just for confirmation.

  “Jeff?”

  Jeffery turned, saw Cooper nod at him, and left Ros alone. He walked across the office, mumbling that his name was Jeffery, not Jeff! It said Jeffery on his birth certificate, and he liked it, it was—

  “Come on, haven’t got all day!”

  * * *

  Cooper guided Jeffery into Lisa’s office and closed the door, then leaned back against it. Lisa was seated behind her desk, eyes wide with a distrust that seemed to calm slightly as Jeffery entered, hands tied together in a knot of writhing fingers. Tom Benson sat in a chair by the window, slightly reclined and with his legs crossed, casually. Jeffery took a seat next to him and Cooper began talking.

  “I wanted to get you all together to bring you up-to-date with a job that happened last night, and one that might have repercussions for Operation Domino. Eddie Collins examined a scene yesterday where the suspect for Blake Crosby’s death lived. Her name is Angela Charles.

  “We believe that Tyler Crosby also went there looking for her, but didn’t find her.”

  “Have you heard from Eddie,” asked Jeffery, “because…”

  “I’m coming to that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “CID called Tom last night to pass on details of a three-nines from an Angela Charles. She’d told the call-taker that a man was trying to kill her. It’s on tape that there was a lot of background disturbance, doors being kicked in, items being knocked over. She was very distressed. Then a shot was fired.”

  Cooper took a moment to study their faces; especially Lisa’s whose fingers had at last stopped their private wrestling match and rested star-shaped on her desk. She was aghast. Benson stared at his shoes; Jeffery was paying attention like Jeffery always did.

  “She made that call from Eddie Collins’s house.”

  “What!”

  Cooper raised his hands to Jeffery, “Bear with me. Eddie was here at the time of the call, as you know, Jeff, working late.”

  “Why would he take a murder suspect home?” This from Lisa.

  Cooper shrugged, was about to speak, when Tom Benson cut in. “He says he didn’t know who she was. He picked her up from Garforth on his way back here. She looked needy, he said.”

  “Doesn’t sound right to me,” she said.

  “I agree,” Benson added, “but I can’t prove that he knew her. He says she was called Charlie, and is adamant that he didn’t find her in that house in Barwick-in-Elmet.”

  “So what happened?”

  “James is working that scene,” Jeffery said. “I thought I recognised the road name – but he never mentioned it was Eddie’s house when I spoke to him a few hours ago.”

  “Is he anywhere near done?”

  “Should be back any time.”

  Cooper resumed, “What happened, I’m guessing, is that whoever tried and failed to find Angela at her house in Barwick-in-Elmet was watching Eddie, saw him pick the girl up and followed him home. Luckily for him, Eddie left and came back here to finish off some work, and that’s when she was killed.”

  “And Eddie?” Jeffery asked. “Where’s Eddie?”

  Cooper braced himself. “We don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you know?” Lisa asked. “He was a suspect at a murder scene, and you didn’t arrest him?” She stared right at Benson.

  “He checked out!”

  Jeffery looked disappointed, “Lisa, he’s your employee.”

  “He’s still a suspect!”

  “Everyone calm down,” Cooper said. “There’s probably a very good explanation for his absence this morning.” He looked again at Lisa, but her face was passive except for a smear of anger directed at Benson. “I think he got spooked and ran.” Still he watched Lisa.

  She turned away from Benson, eyes scooting the floor, and then whispered, “Which reinforces the theory that he’s guilty of something.”

  “Maybe he got drunk. This is Eddie Collins, after all.” Jeffery hated saying it, his face gave it away, but it needed saying, everyone was thinking the
same thing.

  “I thought he didn’t drink anymore.”

  Jeffery shrugged, “Who knows though. It must have been a great shock to find someone shot dead in your house.”

  “He was shocked,” Benson agreed. “I’m no fan of his, but he was horrified at what had happened.”

  “He indirectly caused her death,” Cooper said. “If he’d taken her to the hospital or to a police station, then she—”

  “You can’t blame him for that. If it’s true, that he didn’t know she was Angela Charles, why would he even consider taking her to the hospital or the nick?”

  “I just can’t believe you let him bloody go!”

  Benson stared at her. “I already told you. He checked out, there was no reason to hold him.”

  “Well it might have prevented him going missing!”

  Benson avoided her eyes, looked instead at Cooper, itching to respond.

  “Protocol suggests he should have been arrested, yes; but—”

  “Protocol is written for when we know nothing at a scene; it’s a safety net,” said Benson. “I knew he had nothing to do—”

  “It’s also written to protect people,” Lisa said, eyes boring into Benson.

  “Whoa, hold it there,” Jeffery said, standing, “Are you saying they might have come back for him? The Crosbys? You saying they might have snatched him?”

  Lisa said nothing.

  “Why would they?” Benson said. “They have nothing to gain from him. They killed the woman who killed—”

  “Angela Charles didn’t kill Blake Crosby,” Jeffery was adamant. “Eddie believes it, and I believe him.” Jeffery pulled open the door, shoving Cooper aside.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To ring him, see if we can sort this out.” And he turned to Lisa. “I hope to Christ I never need your support.”

  Lisa shouted, “What do you mean Angela Charles didn’t…” But Jeffery had gone.

  “To ring him,” Benson laughed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  And when Jeffery had gone, Lisa faced Cooper. “I can’t believe you didn’t bollock him,” she nodded at Benson, “for not arresting Collins.”