by D. S. Butler
There was a long pause and then Ryan said, ‘No, I don’t think that’s a very good idea at all.’
‘It could be very helpful, Mr Blake. We believe someone killed Natasha and we need to find out who that was.’
‘Look, I said you can’t talk to her. Why won’t you take no for an answer? I’ve had enough of this harassment. Every time she speaks to you, she gets more upset. Please leave us alone.’
He hung up.
Karen put the phone down and sighed. They were getting precisely nowhere. Without evidence to the contrary, it was logical to believe Chidlow was behind the recordings. Had Natasha discovered what he was doing and confronted him? Was he so desperate to protect his dirty secret that he’d kill to keep it?
Karen leaned back in her office chair and drained the rest of the latte. Had Chidlow lost his temper? Lashed out at Natasha? She really didn’t know.
She pulled a pad and pencil towards her, preparing to make some notes – a mind map of the case. She found putting it all down on paper helped her think.
She wrote a list of names. First, Chidlow. He was definitely high on the suspect list. They couldn’t ignore the fact that Natasha had been found in the lake on his property. The lake held historical importance for the Chidlow family. Had the person who’d killed Natasha been purposefully imitating the past? Consecutive generations of Chidlow women had drowned themselves in that lake. Had it been some kind of sick, twisted fantasy for Chidlow to recreate the tragedy of his family’s past?
Karen circled Chidlow’s name. He’d been recording women in his house without their knowledge, so that was a strong mark against him. His wife said he had an unhealthy interest in young women. Another mark.
Karen made a note to check with his wife and make sure Chidlow hadn’t been caught recording women without their consent in the past.
Then she wrote Doyle’s name. A snobbish little man who put his own needs and wants before anyone else. But he had no real motive. There was no evidence to suggest he knew about the recordings. Nobody had spilled nasty stories about his past. Yes, he was aware of the book describing the drowning of the Chidlow women, but Karen didn’t think he was a killer. He was upset about the murder, not because of the waste of a young life, but because it had ruined his business.
Stuart Blythe and drugs were the next words Karen wrote. Rick had followed up with Stuart’s brother and was reasonably sure he’d never met Natasha. So drugs were unlikely to be the motive behind Natasha’s murder. Karen drew a light line through Stuart’s name.
Ethan? That was a can of worms Karen didn’t want to open. Making an enemy of the chief constable was the last thing she needed. Grayson had come forward with the letters he’d found in which Ethan was confessing his feelings for Natasha. Had Natasha rebuffed him? Had he taken it badly and lashed out? Maybe she’d fallen, hit her head, and he’d panicked and dumped her body in the lake. Grayson had been honest and volunteered information instead of hiding it. Karen’s suspicions of Grayson being corrupt had faded, but she couldn’t remove his son’s name from the list. He was still a possibility.
On the right of the paper, she wrote, Monday night? They still hadn’t found out who Natasha had been with in the restaurant. It wasn’t Chidlow. The man in the footage had dark hair and he wasn’t as tall. So that left Doyle. Unlikely, because he was thinning on top and that would have been visible from the camera angle. Karen could rule him out, which left Mike Harrington.
She leaned heavily on the desk. Could it be Harrington?
He’d led her to the DVDs, but had he done that to take the heat off himself? Chidlow could be responsible for the recordings, but was he a killer?
Ella Seaton had said she’d heard Cressida say she’d been to Harrington’s house. Cressida had denied it, but was that because she was embarrassed or scared?
With a sigh, Karen put her pencil on top of the pad and pushed it away. The case could be so easily solved if Cressida could remember what had happened on Thursday night. If Karen could just talk to her again, maybe more questions would jog her memory. But to do that, she’d need to get past Cressida’s protective father.
She put her head in her hands.
‘That bad, is it?’ a familiar voice asked.
She turned and saw Harinder from the tech department approaching her desk.
‘It’s not good,’ Karen said. ‘I feel like I’m getting absolutely nowhere.’
‘Well, I might have something that could change that,’ Harinder said, pulling up a chair.
‘Really? That’s the best news I’ve had all day.’
‘It’s about the DVDs,’ he said. ‘Chidlow’s wiped his computer, but the video editing software used gave the DVDs a digital signature. It takes information from the user file, so his name is attached to the recording, as well as the time and date they were processed. Resolution and screen dimensions also match the recording equipment. I’m confident the video files were recorded with the type of camera you found and then likely burned on to the DVDs by Chidlow.’
‘So he was definitely recording the women?’
‘Him or someone using his name and software, yes.’
‘I’m sure it was him. I just hope Morgan and Rick find a way to prove it. Thanks, Harry,’ Karen said as Harinder stood up. ‘Appreciate it.’
‘No problem. I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible, but I need to get back to the lab. We’ve got a lot of work queued up thanks to this case.’
‘Sorry about that, but I know you’ll work your magic as usual. We call you Harry for a reason.’
He winked at Karen and left her to her deliberations.
She pulled the notepad back towards her, then stared down at it. Tomorrow morning they’d have the post-mortem results. Maybe that would give them more answers. Or more forensic evidence, anyway. They hadn’t had any luck with footprints around the lake. The rain had been too heavy, washing them away.
Perhaps they needed to go back to the start. They were missing something.
Doodling in the margin, she wrote Ella’s name. She was an odd girl. There was something about her . . .
Karen reached for the takeaway coffee cup and then realised it was empty. Throwing it in the bin, she headed to the coffee machine. A little more caffeine might help her concentrate, and she needed all the help she could get.
Karen had her head bowed over piles of paperwork when Rick entered the open-plan office and made his way to her desk.
‘I think we’ve got enough to charge Chidlow,’ he said without preamble.
Karen looked up. ‘For the recordings?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s great news. Where’s DI Morgan?’
‘He’s with the CPS at the moment, but he’s confident the evidence is going to be enough.’
‘Finally, some progress,’ Karen said, pushing back from the desk. ‘I’ve called twelve of the women Sophie managed to identify from the recordings. Is she still making progress? I was about to check in with her again.’
Rick’s face was grim. ‘Yes, I think she’s made her way through most of the DVDs. There’s no evidence that the footage has been shared, so that’s a small consolation.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘It’s getting late. After we charge him, I’m going to head home.’
Karen glanced out of the rain-splattered window. The sky had been dark for hours. ‘Yes, I’m not going to stay much longer either.’
‘Coffee?’ Rick asked.
Karen glanced at the empty mug on her desk, hesitated, then said, ‘Better not if I want to get any sleep tonight.’
As Rick began to walk away slowly, Karen called after him, ‘Good work, DC Cooper.’
Karen drove home. Her arms and legs felt heavier than usual, her bad knee ached and her eyes were sore. She was tired. Shattered, really. Thankfully, the traffic was light through Lincoln. She couldn’t wait for the bypass to be finished. It should cut her commute in half.
She stopped at the traffic lights at the Ducati Garage junction
. She glanced to her left towards the cemetery and felt a familiar tug of sadness.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I haven’t given up.’
The lights changed and she accelerated, looking ahead to Canwick and the large memorial spire. She would never be able to look at that spot without remembering her previous case. Immediately her mind was filled with the other investigation that weighed heavily on her every day. DI Freeman’s corruption. She hadn’t managed to follow up on DCI Churchill, the name Alice Price had given her.
She needed to talk to Alice and get more information. Had she really gone away as her husband had said?
The most direct journey home was straight on the B1188, but Karen indicated left and turned on to Washingborough Road. She wanted to make sure Alice Price was okay. Her husband had said she wanted peace and quiet. That was fair enough, so why did it make Karen feel uneasy? Why did she feel the urge to check up on Alice? It went with the territory, she supposed. She was a police officer. It was her job to be suspicious.
She parked outside the Prices’ house and saw only one car parked on the driveway. Maybe Alice had gone away.
When Declan Price opened the door, he didn’t bother to hide his irritation. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see Alice. Make sure she’s okay,’ Karen said, looking over Declan’s shoulder.
Everything seemed to be in order. No sign of a disturbance.
‘I told you she’s gone away.’
‘I know what you said, Declan.’
His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You don’t believe me?’ He looked at her and laughed. ‘I don’t believe this. Do you think I’ve got her locked in a bedroom, or maybe you think I’ve bumped her off?’
‘I’m concerned about her,’ Karen said slowly.
He glared at Karen for a long moment. Then stepped back. ‘Why don’t you come in, search the place, satisfy your curiosity.’
Karen was tempted but she stayed on the doorstep. ‘Why don’t you just tell me where I can find her?’
He laughed again. ‘You really have no idea what it’s like, do you? I’ll do better than tell you.’ He reached for his keys on the telephone table. ‘I’ll show you. Follow me in your car.’
He marched past her, got into his car and began to reverse down the driveway. Karen got in her Civic and followed him out of the estate. Why was he being so cryptic? Why couldn’t he just tell Karen where Alice was?
He drove to Branston via Station Road and turned on to the B1188 at the crossroads heading towards Metheringham. He then turned left, driving through Martin and finally into Woodhall Spa.
Karen was starting to think he was winding her up, when finally he indicated and turned on to a private road. A large sign was lit up by the entrance. Jubilee Park Caravan Site.
So this was where Alice was staying. Karen parked up behind Declan’s car. He got out of the car and trudged over to one of the caravans. Karen followed him slowly and was relieved to see Alice open the door and come down the steps.
‘She thought I’d done something to you,’ he told Alice accusingly. ‘Can you please tell her you’re here because you want to be?’
‘Sorry, Declan,’ Karen said. ‘I just wanted to make sure she was okay.’ Maybe she had overreacted.
Alice walked up to Karen and took her hand. She’d lost weight since Karen had last seen her. Weight she couldn’t afford to lose.
Her bony hand gripped Karen’s. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,’ Declan said heatedly.
‘I do, though. It’s my fault Karen’s here. I left a voicemail on her phone about a fellow officer, Churchill, and said I thought he was corrupt.’
Declan sighed and turned away, shaking his head.
Alice’s dark gaze focused on Karen. ‘I needed some time alone. I could feel myself slipping back to that confusing place where it all just seemed too much to handle.’
‘I hoped you could tell me more about Churchill. Why you suspected him. I’ll follow it up.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘When I called you, I was so sure of it. So certain he was tied up in it all, but now I know I was wrong. It’s hard to explain. I get episodes where everything adds up perfectly, it all makes sense. I feel like I’ve unravelled the whole mystery, but when I come back down to earth, I realise I was wrong. It’s like working one day and thinking you’ve created a piece of art, but when you wake up the next morning to look at it, you see it’s nothing but scribbles.’
‘So Churchill isn’t someone I should look into?’
Alice’s hand was shaking. ‘No. I want to help, to weed out officers we can’t trust . . . but I’ve come to realise I can’t trust my own mind.’ Alice’s eyes were sad. ‘I think it’s better if you do this on your own from now on, Karen. I’m sorry to let you down.’
Alice’s experience had to be terrifying. Karen squeezed her hand. ‘You haven’t let me down. I understand how this must feel overwhelming. The most important thing is your health.’ She glanced at Declan, who was staring miserably at the ground. ‘Take care of yourself, Alice.’
Karen walked back to her car. Another setback. She’d always known Alice was troubled, but she’d hoped the woman might have useful information. However, no one from Internal Affairs had wanted to approach Alice for information, despite Karen’s encouragement. The superintendent had been blunt, telling her Alice’s involvement could only weaken the case. Unreliable evidence was the last thing she needed. An investigation was a balancing act. Bring in an element of doubt and the whole thing would come tumbling down.
It wasn’t Alice’s fault, of course, but Karen was bitterly disappointed.
She smothered a yawn as she travelled home. She considered dropping in on her old boss, ex-DCI Anthony Shaw, but decided against it. She wanted someone to talk to, but it was late and it wasn’t fair to pile it all on Anthony.
He’d handed in his warrant card and had earned the right to a peaceful retirement. Maybe she’d pop in one day next week. Or take him to dinner to say thank you. Over the last couple of months he’d shown her a lot of support and had let her chew his ear off as she’d moaned about the lack of progress in the corruption investigation. She owed him.
Once home, she poured herself a glass of fizzy water, wishing it was wine but knowing she needed to keep a clear head.
She felt tired enough to fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but going on her nocturnal pattern over the last few months, she knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Instead she went upstairs, ran herself a hot bath and tried to relax. She left her mobile on the bathroom cabinet.
She thought about calling Morgan just to decompress and go over the day’s events, but he’d probably be with Jill again. She needed to be less reliant on people, to stop leaning on them. She could cope on her own. Anyway, it wasn’t as though she had much choice.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The following morning, Karen was woken by her mobile’s cheerful ringtone. Muffling a curse into the pillow, she reached for the phone.
She squinted at the caller ID. Harinder.
She answered, mumbling a hello.
‘Karen, don’t tell me you’re still asleep. I’ve been slaving away for hours.’
She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen. ‘Am I missing something? It’s six a.m.’
‘Is it? Thought it was later. Sorry. I came in early to set up the PCR for the repeat DNA test. Some of the results are back on the requests you filed. I thought you’d want them as soon as possible.’
Karen sat up. Now he had her attention. ‘Go on.’
‘The polo shirt,’ Harinder said. ‘You asked us to check for Mike Harrington’s DNA, but we haven’t found anything. There’s a chance we could find low copy DNA, but it’s likely been through a hot wash.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Karen said, rubbing her eyes.
‘When a person has worn an item of clothing, they leave behind ski
n cells, sweat. It leaves a trace. If someone had worn that shirt after it had been washed, there would be DNA left behind. But the test has come up negative. Now we can, as I mentioned, do more intensive experiments and get low copy number DNA, which could linger after a cycle through the washing machine. But that won’t mean that person was wearing the shirt when Natasha was murdered. Or when the blood was transferred to the shirt.’
‘So you’re saying the polo shirt left on the roof was clean – that it hadn’t been worn by Harrington?’
‘Yes, not by Harrington or anyone else.’
‘Then it was planted. So how did the blood get on the shirt?’
‘Here’s where it gets interesting. The blood was human, but almost certainly not Natasha’s.’
‘Not Natasha’s?’ Karen repeated.
‘I’m running a duplicate experiment because it surprised me too, but no.’
‘Right,’ Karen said, frowning. ‘So we’ve got blood on Mike Harrington’s polo shirt, but it’s not our victim’s?’
‘Right,’ said Harinder.
‘Okay,’ Karen said slowly, trying to process the information. ‘So it looks like someone was trying to frame Harrington. Why?’
‘Luckily for me, figuring that out is your job,’ Harinder said. ‘I just give you the results.’
‘Anything else for me?’ Karen asked.
‘Only that the fingerprints on the Bluetooth speaker belonged to Ethan Grayson, but I think you knew that already?’
Karen sighed. ‘Unfortunately. Bad news for the chief constable.’
‘Yes, but I do have some good news. We found Chidlow’s fingerprints all over the DVDs.’
‘Great. What about Natasha’s phone?’ Karen asked. It was a stroke of luck that Natasha’s mobile had managed to stay wedged in the back pocket of her jeans.
‘Nothing yet,’ Harinder said. ‘But we’ll be looking at it again later today.’
‘Okay,’ Karen said, suddenly feeling more awake. ‘Thanks for the update.’
She hung up and headed for the shower, her mind racing with possibilities.
When Karen got to her desk, she found a note asking her to go to Superintendent Murray’s office as soon as she got in.