He wasn’t entirely wrong. She hadn’t killed his fiancée, the troubled young woman had done that all on her own. But he was wrong if he thought her hands were clean in all of this.
It was at that moment that Harriet wondered if she’d made a mistake in agreeing to look at the files. When all was said and done, the likelihood of this being anything more than a tragedy was tiny. Which meant that DI Haskell was fighting shadows that weren’t really there.
He beckoned to her and Harriet drew in a deep breath. If that’s all this was then she would disengage at the first available opportunity. But she had to look into it, if only to put her own mind at ease. If there was even the remotest possibility that he was right, then it meant someone had so far gotten away with murder.
Three deaths in three months. If it were true, then others would die.
And that wasn’t something she could have on her conscience.
Chapter Fourteen
“I thought you were going to stay in the car all evening,” he said. “Is there something wrong?”
Harriet shook her head. “No. I was lost in thought is all.”
Drew nodded and turned away from her but not before she glimpsed something akin to understanding flash in his eyes.
“I do that sometimes,” he said quietly. “Especially with the cases that involve kids. They’re harder to deal with somehow. I don’t know why but they slide under my skin easier.”
“Do you dream of them?”
He pushed open the front door and the stale air swirled out, engulfing Harriet in its dry warmth.
“Sometimes,” he said. “I don’t get much sleep.”
“Because of the nightmares,” she surmised, more to herself than to him.
“That would be a better description,” he said grimly, directing her to move ahead of him. “I’ll follow your lead.”
“Forensics have been through here?”
“Yeah, it’s safe. Just don’t break anything or I’ll have to log it and then explain the extra paperwork to the Monk.”
Harriet glanced over her shoulder. “The Monk?”
Drew’s face went police detective blank, nothing more than a mask behind which he could hide his true emotions from her.
“It’s just something we call DCI Gregson. We don’t mean any harm by it. I guess it’s our way of blowing off steam.”
She said nothing as she stepped into the hall. It wasn’t unusual for those in the lesser ranks to chafe beneath the authority of their superior officers. And it certainly wasn’t her place to draw any kinds of inferences or conclusions on the working relationship between Drew and his boss.
“Her bedroom, it’s on the first floor?” Harriet paused at the bottom of the stairs and peered up into the gloom.
Drew answered her question by flicking on the downstairs lights. The staircase was suddenly illuminated in a warm yellow glow that seemed to highlight the pictures hanging along the walls.
“Is this the rest of the family?” Harriet pointed to a framed picture of four people huddled together on a beige sofa. Their bright smiling faces reflected warmth and happiness.
“That’s Janet and her first husband Roy. He died six years ago when Sian was just eight and her brother was five. Cancer.”
“I didn’t know,” Harriet said softly. She stared at the image, her mind conjuring the scene as it must have been. They’d been happy, there was no doubt about it. Pictures could sometimes hide a multitude of sins but the open, innocent smiles that all four of them wore weren’t something that could be faked.
“That must have been hard for her,” she said. “The death of a parent isn’t easy for any child.”
“She’d have been too young to fully grasp it,” Drew said from behind her.
Harriet shook her head. “Her brother maybe. But not Sian. She would have memories of her father. They might not be solid but the feelings he evoked in her—safety, joy, love—" Harriet ticked them off on her fingers. “—They would all be there. Eight is old enough to recognise the trauma something like cancer causes. And, well, it’s certainly old enough to realise that death is something permanent.”
“Maybe they didn’t tell her when he was sick?”
Harriet shook her head and glanced back at the picture. “It would be difficult to keep something as traumatic as cancer hidden from an inquisitive eight-year-old.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
Harriet shook her head. “Not exactly.”
She moved up the stairs, noting the progression of photographs. The family pictures stopped, replaced instead by photographs of Sian smiling in her school uniform. Her brother’s image was much the same although he appeared in more pictures with his mother, their familial relationship as plain as the noses on their faces.
Sian’s smile faded in the images, replaced instead by a teenager who looked a little sullen, but it was the eyes Harriet found herself most interested in. There was a profound sadness that lurked in the pictures. But just like many things, where teenagers were concerned, it wasn’t uncommon.
“This one here,” Harriet said as she paused next to another family photograph. The set-up for this image was so far removed from the last family picture that it stood out in stark contrast.
“Who is that?”
“Sian’s mother remarried. Nigel Thompson, forty-eight, previously unmarried with no children.”
“Was there friction between the children and Nigel?” She glanced over her shoulder at Drew who stood just below her on the stairs.
“Well, not according to Sian’s mother Janet but I find it hard to believe.”
“And Mr Thompson what did he have to say?”
“Not a whole lot,” Drew said with a shrug. “The bloke seemed pretty cut up about the whole situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“He could barely form words he was crying that much. It’s not uncommon to see a father break down over the loss of his child.”
“But you thought it was odd,” she finished for him.
For a moment he seemed to consider her words before he finally nodded. “It was odd. Janet was in shock, you could see that, and it’s what I would expect. She helped to cut her daughter down and Sian, when they found her, was not in a good way. It’s not something I would wish on anyone.”
Harriet nodded. She’d seen enough suicide in her life to know just what he meant. When she’d worked with patients in a clinical capacity, suicide was the sword of Damocles that hung over all of their heads.
“I’m sorry that they had to see that.”
“So am I.”
“In spite of this you still think Mr Thompson’s reaction was unusual?”
“Look, I don’t know the bloke but after what happened, I’d have expected shock. Not the watering can he turned out to be. He went through four packs of tissues and Officer Crandell in the end had to take him out of the room so I could finish speaking to Mrs Thompson and make sense of things.”
Harriet’s lips twisted into a rueful smile and she turned away on the stairs to hide it from the detective. It had been a long time since she’d heard anyone describe an emotional person as a watering can but it was certainly descriptive and it instantly conjured an image in her mind.
“And how did Mrs Thompson respond?”
“She didn’t say much. Everything she did say had to be prompted but I can deal with that,” Drew said gruffly. “If I’m perfectly honest with you, she looked to me like a broken woman.”
“What about Sian’s brother; Paul isn’t it?”
“The grandparents were there and they kept him and the little baby sister, Clare, out of the worst of it.”
“We should go up,” Harriet said as she started back up the stairs. Reaching the landing, she paused outside Sian’s bedroom made obvious by the teenager’s name written across the door with faded multi-coloured letters that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a child’s bedroom.
“I thought that was strange too,” Drew
said, noting her observation of the name.
“It probably holds some sentimental value to her,” Harriet said, raising her hand so that her fingers hovered over the worn lettering. “Perhaps her father put them up for her.”
Drew said nothing but she could feel him at her back, a warm comforting presence as she stood outside the dead teenager’s room.
Harriet took a step forward and the floorboard creaked ominously beneath her foot. Why not ask to have it fixed? The question popped into her mind alongside a thousand others and she pushed it aside. Questions could come later, for now she needed to soak in as much information as possible, only then would she be able to form a picture in her mind of who Sian was.
Her hands closed around the handle and she pushed the door inwards.
The room was much as she imagined most teenagers’ rooms to be; clothes strewn around on most surfaces except for where they belonged. The wardrobe stood opposite the bed, despite the doors being ajar the light from overhead didn’t penetrate the gloaming filled cavernous space. The bed reflected in the mirror on the dresser and Harriet turned to stare at it.
The sheets were pulled up and tucked in, the corners folded so neatly that Harriet was instantly reminded of the hospital corners she saw used on the beds in the institution where she’d worked.
“Who made the bed?”
“Excuse me?” Drew leaned against the doorjamb as though he didn’t want to cross into this sacred space.
“The bed,” Harriet said gesturing to it. “Who made it?”
“Sian I suppose,” he said.
Harriet shook her head and took a step back from the bed. “I don’t think Sian made it.”
“What makes you say that?” He sounded genuinely confused.
“How many teenage girls do you know who make their beds this neatly? I know that when I was a teenager, I wasn’t doing this. It was a good day if I pulled the duvet up, never mind actually going to the effort of creating such tight, pristine corners.”
Drew craned his neck around the door.
“You can come in,” Harriet said softly.
He shot her a guilty look. “I know that.”
“You just don’t like to?”
He nodded. “Yeah, you could say that. I was in here the day we got the call about her. I always feel like I’m snooping. I mean if she was still here, she wouldn’t want me pawing through her stuff.”
Harriet turned and looked about the room. “No, she wouldn’t. But the problem is that she’s not here anymore. And if you’re right and someone is responsible for that, then I think that even Sian would agree to you searching her room for clues.”
Drew nodded and stepped into the room. “I suppose when you put it like that.”
He moved around the bed and peered down at the perfectly neat sheets. “One of her parents must have done this.”
Harriet nodded. “It’s possible. Although it’s more common for the parent to do things like this when children go missing. They prepare the space as though by doing it they expect their child to return at any moment.”
“And when a child dies?”
“Most parents leave the rooms exactly as their loved one left it. Many treat the bedrooms of their children as if they’re sacred. You’ve got to remember that for some people, something like this is their last connection with their deceased loved one.”
Drew’s lips thinned as he turned and examined the room. “You still think she committed suicide?”
Harriet hesitated. There was nothing so far to suggest otherwise, at least nothing overtly obvious.
“It says in the file that Sian knew and was friends with the second teenager to commit suicide. Aidan Wilson.”
“They were boyfriend and girlfriend,” Drew said. “According to her mother, Sian was pretty cut up about his death.”
“You see, that makes it sound like this was a Romeo and Juliet tragedy,” Harriet said. “Two teenagers in love with each other, one kills themselves and the other can’t live without them and so follows them.”
“So, you’re saying you think this is just a cluster of suicides then?”
“I’m saying I need more information. There are a lot of unanswered questions but so far most of them point in one direction.”
“The one direction I don’t want them to point,” Drew said. “Shit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “You’re not the one looking for crimes where there aren’t any. I’m the one who should be sorry for dragging you out here for nothing.”
Harriet chewed her lip nervously as he paced back and forth in the small space.
“I really believed this was more, you know?”
Harriet nodded but she didn’t answer him. She didn’t need to; his questions weren’t really the kind that required an answer.
From the corner of her eye, Harriet spotted the empty place where she imagined Sian’s laptop would have sat. “Have they found anything on her laptop?”
“Her what?”
“Sian’s laptop. Have they found anything of interest on it?”
Drew shook his head. “Nothing outside the ordinary stuff you’d expect to find on a teen’s laptop.”
“What about research for suicide? Had she looked up any sites that might have told her how best to tie the knot?”
His forehead creased. “I don’t think so. Why should they have?”
“Maybe she wiped the history...”
“I can have my people do a more thorough search if you’d like.”
Harriet nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt. And do you have any statements from her friends?”
“What we do have I can send over to you.”
Harriet paused her perusal of the room. “Why do I get the feeling you’re holding something back from me?”
Drew raised his hands in mock offence. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“But I can’t help but have the feeling that there is something. I told you before Detective that everything and anything could be important here. You holding out on me isn’t going to help me make an accurate assessment.”
Drew sighed. “Fine, there is something.”
Harriet bit her tongue to keep from interrupting him. If there was one thing that really frustrated her when working with a detective like Drew Haskell it was their inability to trust her with all the information. It was almost as though they believed if they told her everything it would somehow influence her in the wrong way. A preconceived bias that ultimately hindered her understanding instead of focusing it.
“When we looked through her phone, we found a lot of troubling text messages.”
“And you’re worried that I’ll take that into account and just dismiss everything out of hand?”
He glanced sheepishly down at the ground. “You wouldn’t be the first. I mean, even the Monk said it confirmed suspicions that this was nothing more than a troubled teen who had her heart broken.”
“But I’m not him.” Harriet said trying and failing to keep the anger from her voice. It was all too easy to dismiss the thoughts and feelings of the young as though once you turned a certain age your mind caused you to forget just how painful it was to grow up.
Harriet sighed and turned away. Getting angry at Drew’s boss wasn’t going to help anyone, least of all Sian.
She pushed her hand back through her hair and studied the room with a critical eye.
What are you trying to tell me?
The back of the door caught her attention and she moved toward it as though drawn there by an invisible cord that tugged her closer.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, pausing next to the door. Dropping down into a crouch, Harriet eyed the lock. Tiny screw holes dotted the surface above the handle and the paint was discoloured as though there had been something there once but it had since been removed.
“What does this look like to you?”
Drew moved over and crouched alongside her. He rea
ched up and brushed a gloved finger against the wood. “Maybe there was a lock or something here?”
Harriet nodded. “It makes sense, most teenagers are fiercely protective of their privacy. But why remove the lock?”
“Maybe she got a key for the door and didn’t need the lock anymore?”
“If she did, then where is the key now?”
Drew climbed onto his feet and felt along the frame that ran over the top of the door. “I don’t know,” he said finally admitting defeat. “What do you think it means?”
Harriet shrugged. There were too many variables and possibilities as to why the lock had been removed.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “It could be something and nothing. Without talking to her parents as to their reasons I couldn’t possibly say.”
“Why couldn’t Sian have taken off the lock?”
Harriet shot him a withering look. “You don’t have many dealings with teenagers, do you?”
“Nah,” he said. “My sister’s kid is only four and a half and likes Paw-Patrol. I’m pretty lucky.”
“A teenager isn’t going to willingly remove a lock. Especially when it adds an extra layer of security to their safe haven.”
Drew stared down at the blank place where the lock had sat.
“But you think it’s important?”
“I really don’t know. If I had the answer don’t you think I’d have said it?”
“We should go then,” Drew said, his tone icy as he strode from the room.
With a bemused shake of her head, Harriet did another turn of the room. If he thought he could just growl at her and she would jump to attention then he could dream on. She would leave when she was good and ready and there was something about the room that nagged at her.
Dropping down onto the mattress, Harriet stared up at the landscape pictures that were framed on the walls. It wasn’t entirely a typical teenager’s room.
Climbing onto the bed, she peered at the wallpaper noting the slight discolourations and variations in the paper itself in various sizes and shapes that to her eye at least looked rectangular. If she had to guess she’d have said there were posters on the wall at some point in the not so distant past. But someone had removed them all and replaced them with the bland framed images that now adorned the space.
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