Isolation

by Jay Nadal

  “Bent the rules?”

  “Backhanders and meting out his own justice. That type of thing.”

  “And no one pulled him up on that?”

  Ashman shook his head. “It was different back then. He could get away with it. I was an aggressive journalist at the time. I always looked for the next big scoop. When I heard about him, and sniffed around, he didn’t take kindly to it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ran nothing on him. I figured I would end up in the foundations of some building.”

  Scott smiled.

  “You think I’m kidding, Inspector? That type of stuff was rife back then. Yes, the majority of the force was a good bunch. There were those who hated him, and those who liked him. There were no disciplinary procedures, or the police complaints authority, or anything like that back then. Besides why are you asking?”

  “Because he’s dead, and I think the person who murdered your wife, and Amy Harp’s family, may have killed Golding, too.”

  Ashman’s eyes appeared to glaze over, as the emotion drained from his face.

  Abby joined Ashman on the sofa. “Mr Ashman, we’re working hard to find the person who committed this terrible crime. We believe you, Amy Harp and Golding are linked. Is there anything that you can think of?”

  Ashman shrugged. Dejection hung in his eyes as he chased back his memories. With a shake of his head he fell silent.

  “Mr Ashman?”

  It was as if Ashman had fallen into a mute and unresponsive trance. Whatever it was, he wasn’t willing to talk any further.

  Scott nodded towards Abby, implying that they should leave. He would try again.

  38

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” pleaded Scott as he and Abby walked back into CID.

  Cara had been waiting for forty-five minutes by the time they arrived. If annoyed, her face gave nothing away as she greeted the pair with a warm smile. “It’s fine, Scottie. Business is business. You’ve waited for me in the past. Have you been keeping him out at all hours?” she asked Abby, as she threw a thumb in Scott’s direction.

  Abby held up both hands in mock annoyance. “Don’t blame me, Cara. He was the one who dragged me along. I was ready to get off early and hit a body pump class, but when he gets a sniff of a lead, well, everything else fades into the distance.”

  Cara rolled her eyes in recognition and sympathy. “I know what you mean. The other night, I was shattered and ready for bed. He decided his house needed freshening up. Where do we end up? Dunelm, Shoreham, on a Thursday night, picking up scented candles, a red and gold glitter glass vase, some filled cushions and a rug.”

  Abby hid her laughter behind her hand as Scott placed both hands on his hips and threw Cara a stare. Not deterred, she carried on.

  “To make matters worse, he asked the sales assistant if she could put the rug on the floor. He then proceeded to sit on it…in the middle of the bloody shop. I died. I had to walk away and look at wall prints to hide my embarrassment.”

  “Oh my God. I’ve heard it all. Guv, I never knew you liked to get in touch with your feminine side?” Abby roared with laughter and stumbled back on her heels as she gripped her stomach. “I’ve heard it all now,” she laughed as she walked off, waving a hand over her shoulder. “I’m out of here. See you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for that. That’s my street cred out of the window,” Scott scoffed.

  “I didn’t know that you had any in the first place,” she retorted, giving him a wink.

  “Considering you’ve completed pummelled my reputation, can we grab a bite to eat?”

  “Deal. As long as we can go via my apartment to pick up a few bits?”

  Cara ordered the crayfish and crab meal, whilst Scott ordered the surf and turf burger.

  “When you said that you wanted to stop by your apartment to pick up a few bits, I think you missed out one crucial point…the fact that it’s going to take at least three carloads to get your stuff to mine. And that’s being optimistic.”

  Cara pretended to be hurt. “You should see the amount I’ve already taken to the charity shop, and to recycling. It’s just a few bits and pieces.”

  “I bet most of the boxes are make-up stuff.”

  “You cheeky git,” Cara replied slapping the back of his hand. “You can talk. You said you wanted to eat, and you bring me to a cave?” Cara mocked, waving her hand in an arc.

  The Tempest Inn was a beachfront pub and diner carved into the rocks beneath Brighton. Tourists flocked past, unaware of the uniqueness that lay behind its glass arches. It boasted cool cave interiors and lantern lit lighting, with a dozen booths resembling small caves and caverns. With its distinct theme, great music and cosy dark corners it was popular.

  “Listen, variety is the spice of life.” Scott replied, wagging a finger.

  Scott and Cara had few opportunities like this, where they could unwind, catch up and share moments together. With their busy working lives, much of the relationship relied on text messages, and quick phone calls. With Scott’s hours more erratic than Cara’s, he was the one that let her down, often at the last minute.

  For that reason, he relished moments like this. He dreaded the thought of having to go back to an empty house as he had done for many years. With Cara in his life full-time, he couldn’t wait to get home.

  The wine did its job well, as waves of relaxation washed over him like the ripples on a pond. The tension in his shoulders eased.

  Once finished, neither was in a hurry to leave as they enjoyed another glass of wine. They caught up on each other’s days. Cara spoke of a post-mortem she’d conducted on a seventy-eight-year-old man who had died in suspicious circumstances. She felt for the man, he was alone, with no immediate relatives, and no one other than social services popping in to check up on him once a week.

  Scott sympathised with her as they spoke about the plight of the elderly, and how so many fended for themselves, in an ever-violent society.

  Cara paused for a moment and dropped her head to the side as she stared at Scott, her soft warm eyes taking him in. “Babes, are you one hundred per cent sure you’re happy for me to move in? You can still change your mind?”

  Scott smiled as he reached out and placed his hand on top of hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Listen, I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure. I know we haven’t been seeing each other for long, but it just feels right. I mean us. Does that make sense?”

  Cara sandwiched his hand between hers and savoured their physical connection. She’d longed to be loved unconditionally. After searching for many years, and having been in a violent and abusive relationship, she’d found her equal, her partner and soulmate. “It does, Scottie, more than you can ever imagine. All I’ve wanted was to be loved.”

  “And do you feel that?”

  “I feel loved in abundance. I can’t put it into words. We laugh, we get on so well, we love our closeness. It’s all there, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  For the first time in years, somewhere deep inside, Scott’s heart and mind felt content. He was getting the balance back. His work was challenging, but at least he had a reason to come home. Cara gave him the warmth, love and happiness that he’d missed.

  They walked back arm in arm along the seafront, the chill in the sea breeze heralding the changing seasons. They paused for a moment to watch a solitary small boat pitch and roll in the waters of the choppy and wallowing sea, as massive crests topped with white froth charged towards the shore.

  Cara pulled up the collar on her coat and tucked her head into Scott’s embrace as they enjoyed the evening walk back. She closed her eyes and listened to the lullaby of the ocean, breathing in its poignant salty breath.

  Scott felt some resemblance to a normal life. They were another couple like many others, milling up and down the beach, taking in the sea view. The cries of the seagulls added an element of familiarity, their voices high in the salty breeze. Their incessant, sharp squawks soo
thed him. A pebble beach, an old fishing boat and those crazy birds, and a beautiful girlfriend. It was all he needed.

  39

  The journey to Guildford had taken a little over an hour, as they weaved their way through tree-lined streets. The wealth of Surrey as a county was apparent.

  Detached houses with large frontages, skirted by mature trees, were nestled behind boxed hedges. Except for one. A small, brick bungalow with a broken tarmac driveway, and shrubs that hadn’t been tended to in a while. Whilst the other houses in the street had been extended and fitted with UPVC windows to turn them into bright and airy modern family homes, the bungalow had retained some of its original character. It featured an oak door, and old style Crittall windows.

  Scott and Abby waited a few moments for the door to be answered.

  When the door swung open, the old man behind it had a fringe of grey-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. His wizened face complimented a hunched back. The old man’s thick, groomed moustache was silver-white. Numerous, deep lines were etched into his wide forehead. An expression of frustration and fatigue twisted his features.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, so come in.”

  He led them through to a small lounge at the front of the house where he offered them a seat. Old worn sofas, and a floral carpet gave it a seventies feel.

  “Mr Anderson, I’m Detective Inspector Scott Baker, and this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Abby Trent. Thank you for taking the time to see us at such short notice.”

  “It’s no bother. Although I was a little uncomfortable when one of your officers called me yesterday. I understand you wanted to talk about one of my former colleagues, Golding?”

  Scott nodded. “We are investigating a series of murders, that we believe are connected. We have two survivors, Amy Harp and Samuel Ashman. Amy works as a nurse in a cancer care unit, and Samuel Ashman as an investigative journalist. We’re looking at connections between Harp, Ashman and Golding. Golding was found murdered, and we believe he may have been the first victim of the person we’re trying to track down.”

  Abby took out photos of the victims from her folder and handed them over to Anderson. “Janet, who’s Ashman’s wife, was the first victim. Then Amy Harp’s family were murdered, her two children, her husband and her parents. In both cases, Ashman and Amy were made to witness the brutal slaying of their loved ones.”

  Anderson studied the photos. His eyes drifted over the images. He shook his head in despair. “What is this world coming to?”

  “Do you recall either?”

  “The name Amy Harp doesn’t ring a bell. Ashman does. He used to report on police activity when myself and Golding were still on the beat. Always after the latest scoop and trying to weed out corrupt stories about the police.”

  “Did you have much interaction with Ashman?”

  Anderson shook his head. “Not a lot. Golding did more than me. I think those two didn’t see eye to eye. I tried to stay in the background.”

  “Have a look at Amy’s picture again. Does anything ring a bell?”

  Abby handed Anderson another picture of Amy Harp. “This was Amy when she was much younger. Her maiden name was Evans.”

  “Amy Evans…” Anderson looked up towards the ceiling, tracing back through his recollections.

  Scott and Abby exchanged a quick glance of optimism. Sadly nothing came.

  “What can you tell us about Golding?”

  The man sighed, his chest collapsing. “What do you want to know?”

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to harm him?”

  Anderson fidgeted in his chair. The old man had long forgotten the feeling of moving without pain. His aches were his constant companions.

  “Sadly, the list would be very long. He wasn’t popular. A bully, a bad apple. If he didn’t like an answer, he wouldn’t think twice about dishing out a slap. He’d much rather take a bribe than arrest someone. It’s something I’m not proud to say I witnessed without saying anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Anderson slowed as he spoke. He didn’t avert his gaze from the carpet as if lost in his thoughts. His memories both warmed and haunted him, sometimes drawing a smile, and other times, a tear. He stumbled on his words. Emotions that had been buried for decades surfaced, leading him to pause.

  “We didn’t have the same outlook on life. I wasn’t as strong-willed as him. He was the dominant character between us. And I’m embarrassed to say, that I often turned a blind eye to his behaviour, and his actions.”

  “And no one stopped him? No one levelled any complaints against him?”

  “Son, we lived in a different world back then. Bent coppers and criminals used to share the same pubs, often buy each other drinks, and tip each other off. There were some hard bastards then. Police complaints authority, the DPS, or PACE didn’t exist.”

  “Did you have any contact with Golding after he left the force?”

  “No. Him, the job, the force. They are the reasons I left. I couldn’t live with myself any more.”

  Abby handed Anderson another picture. “Did you ever come across this individual, Ryan McCormick?”

  Anderson studied the picture, possibly a little too long in Scott’s opinion.

  “I can’t say I did. I have a hard time remembering what I had for dinner last night yet alone what I was doing twenty years ago.”

  “We appreciate your time, Mr Anderson. If there’s anything else that you can think of, please do not hesitate in calling me.” Scott handed Anderson a business card. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  They left Anderson alone with his thoughts. As Scott looked over his shoulder before heading into the hallway, Anderson hadn’t moved from his position. He held Scott’s business card between both hands, his eyes permanently fixed on the wall in front.

  “Golding’s going down in my estimations by the minute,” said Abby as they made their way back to Brighton.

  “No one has a good word to say about him. I feel sorry for Anderson. He looked a broken man. Haunted by his memories, a beaten body ravaged by time.”

  Abby agreed.

  “We need to get to Amy again. I know what McAllister will say, but we need to push her. If we can get all the pictures we have, both recent and old, of Ashman, McCormick, Golding and Anderson, one of them must hit home with her?”

  “It’s risky as we don’t want her relapsing, but worth a punt, Guv. Revenge is the clear frontrunner as far as I’m concerned.”

  “We need to find the why.”

  “What happens if the killer gets his kicks from killing? He could kill more victims before we can stop him. It could be a curiosity thing if he’s twisted. Maybe each killing evokes an emotional reaction in him, or gives him a sense of fulfilment.”

  All of Abby’s theories were plausible in Scott’s opinion, as the killer seemed to be playing a game of cat and mouse with him.

  40

  Following a quick stop at the station to grab every photo they could find, Scott and Abby were having a less than helpful conversation with Dr McAllister.

  “Inspector, your visits are becoming a little tedious. I think you’re annoying my patient, and you’re not giving her the space she needs.”

  “I understand your concerns…”

  “I don’t think you do,” McAllister interrupted. “She needs assessment, treatment, and daily monitoring. Without the proper care, her recovery will be longer, and her mental scars may run deeper.”

  “Doctor, I’m aware of the fine line we are treading. The last thing we want is to cause Mrs Harp any unnecessary pain. Not only is she a key witness, but she’s also an important lead. She survived, but her life may still be in danger.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Why do you think we have a uniformed presence outside the front door? It’s not a luxury, it’s a necessity. If at any point you feel we need to leave the room, then we’ll respect your wishes.”

  McAllister folded his arms a
s his eyes shifted between Abby and Scott. “Five minutes, Inspector. That’s your lot.”

  Amy Harp was sitting up in bed, staring at the contents of a magazine. She glanced up for a moment to see Abby and Scott following behind Dr McAllister before she returned to the magazine.

  “Amy, despite my concerns, the police wish to speak to you as a matter of urgency. You’re at liberty to turn them away if you feel it’s too much, however, I have said they can spend five minutes with you.”

  Abby came and sat alongside Amy and gave her a warm smile. From when she had last seen her, Abby thought the woman looked fresher today. Gone were the worry lines and greasy, lank hair. It was combed neatly, her face had colour, and her eyes were clear. At least it doesn’t look as if she’s been crying.

  Scott stayed back towards the end of her bed and let Abby lead. He thought another female may have a better chance of getting through to Amy.

  “We’re sorry to disturb you, Amy. The investigation is moving along at a pace now. We’ve just got some more questions. Would that be okay?”

  Amy studied Abby, her face softened as she offered a small nod.

  Abby showed her a picture of Golding. “Does the face look familiar?”

  Amy studied the picture. “I’m not sure. Am I supposed to know him?”

  “He was murdered eight months ago in much the same way as your family. So I’d like you to think about whether that face rings a bell. I appreciate it’s an old photograph, but this is also a more recent one of him,” Abby said, handing her another picture of Golding.

  Amy held a picture in each hand, her eyes darting from one to another. A few moments passed before her eyes drifted away from the photographs, her mind sifting through a catalogue of memories. Scott could see her body stiffen as she homed in on something.

  “What did he do, as a job I mean?”

  “He was a police officer.”

  “Uniform?”