by Paula Daly
‘How many more of these?’ she asked, meaning the chemo.
‘Three.’
‘And then?’
‘And then you get me back as your boss, DS Aspinall. But enough about me. You’re looking really quite radiant. What’s going on? You found a replacement lover for me already?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure? Because you can tell me. I’m a big boy. I can cope.’
‘There’s no one,’ she said firmly, but she did wonder privately if her feelings towards Noel Bloom were somehow clouding her ability to conduct this investigation effectively.
She took out her notes and gave Pete a quick overview of Karen Bloom’s murder. When she’d finished, he said, ‘Same as always, Joanne. Go back to the beginning.’
‘But I have. I’ve been back to the crime scene and nothing is speaking to me.’
Pete McAleese looked at her straight. ‘I mean the very start, Joanne. You want to go back to the girl going missing. Begin there. That’s where you’ll find your answer.’
43
Wednesday, 28 October
The calls started coming just after seven. They were relentless.
‘Would you like to comment, Dr Bloom?’ ‘How do you feel about your wife’s death now, Dr Bloom?’
He’d fucked up. That much was obvious. Lessons had been learned.
Pictures of him appeared in the Daily Express under the headline: DOCTOR SHOPS FOR UNDERWEAR DAYS AFTER WIFE MURDERED.
He had been photographed at the till in the Calvin Klein shop, laughing with the sales assistant, handing her his Superior trunks. And then, once more, outside Ann Summers. That was the money ball. He had his head turned, and he was smiling in the direction of the photographer, with the blindfolded mannequin in the background. Noel had to agree it was an excellent shot – if you were trying to create a narrative for some poor bastard you wanted to nail. He wondered how much the photographer had been paid. An easy day’s work, he should think.
Noel made the front page (though, it had to be said, it was a slow news day) and his thoughts immediately turned to Amanda Knox. Escorted by her boyfriend, Miss Knox had bought new underwear after her housemate had been found murdered in Italy, and the press had crucified her for it. Amanda’s excuse had been that she’d shopped for underwear because she wasn’t allowed at the crime scene, her home, but she also bought a host of other essentials that day. Which had always seemed a pretty plausible explanation to Noel. But he didn’t have that excuse. He’d bought new underwear because he wanted to spruce himself up a bit for DS Joanne Aspinall, should they have the opportunity to get together again. But he could hardly say that, could he?
So instead he said, ‘No comment…no comment…no comment,’ and then he unplugged the phone, before nipping out to pick up a paper to survey the full extent of the damage. He’d read it online first, of course, but he wanted to see the hard copy in all its glory. And it was worse than he thought. The only other story on the front page was one of more bad weather on the way, so Noel was the main feature. The story continued on page two, where a photograph of Karen had been included. Except that it looked nothing like Karen. At this blunder, Noel’s heart leapt, as he thought of the possibility of suing the Daily Express for getting their facts wrong. But then he realized they’d copied Karen’s Facebook profile picture. The one of her lying on the bedroom floor. The one she’d taken from above in an attempt to make her appear younger. The wind-tunnel picture, as he’d come to think of it.
At nine thirty, his mobile rang.
‘Noel,’ she said.
‘Joanne,’ he replied.
‘You’re famous, I see.’
‘It’s looking that way, yes.’
‘Not a great move,’ she said. ‘Have you spoken to the press?’
‘I’m avoiding their calls. The kids don’t know yet either. They were with me yesterday, incidentally. The story doesn’t mention that. We were having a day out, the four of us, in an attempt to take Brontë’s mind off things, and I don’t know if you’ve been to the Trafford Centre, but it’s quite ghastly. Anyway, I took myself off to a quieter section in an attempt to keep sane. Sadly, my plan backfired.’
‘You should probably warn the kids to stay inside,’ Joanne said. ‘The press may turn up,’ and Noel detected something in her voice. Was it weariness? Or was she just plain pissed off with him?
‘Joanne?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Will this affect the investigation?’
‘Hard to say,’ she said.
44
JOANNE WAS GOING back through her case notes from the time of Brontë Bloom’s disappearance when she received a piece of interesting news.
She hadn’t told Noel or the rest of the Bloom family about her plan to re-interview the girls. She wanted to catch them unawares. Brontë had been a stubborn little urchin the first time Joanne had spoken to her, revealing nothing – which was harder to do in practice than you might think. Brontë had not been brought up as the type of kid who loathed the police. She was a nice girl who respected authority. So Joanne reckoned she’d been primed.
Perhaps without any forewarning, and if Joanne could apply the right amount of pressure, Brontë Bloom might crack.
She was eager to get going when she got a call from a bobby at Windermere station.
The day before, Joanne had put in a request for information on Russell Wallbank. She’d expected nothing back. The guy had dropped off the radar in Sussex and, as much as she hoped he’d headed north and put a knife to Karen Bloom’s carotid artery, she knew it was unlikely. Russell Wallbank was fast turning into one of those lines of inquiry that Joanne pursued for no reason other than she couldn’t let it go until she had a satisfactory answer. The kind of loose end that would be needling her at four in the morning unless she did something about it.
‘You’re looking for Russell Wallbank?’ the bobby had asked.
‘I am,’ she’d replied.
‘Well, you’re in luck, detective. He’s been staying at our hotel since last night.’
By ‘our hotel’, he meant the cells.
‘We picked him up for drunk-and-disorderly conduct at the Wheelhouse,’ he said. ‘Broke the leg off a table and went for a bouncer, but the club’s not pressing charges.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
—
It wasn’t against the law to be weird, but it did stir Joanne’s interest all the same. Russell Wallbank was like a kid with ADHD. He sat in his chair, tapping his fingers, twitching and writhing like a snared rabbit. He weighed no more than eight stone.
On paper, this Russell Wallbank fell into the right age bracket – forty-five to fifty-five – though he appeared much older. His skin drooped from his face, as if pulled down by invisible hands, and strings of dark, ratty hair haloed a white, perfectly circular bald patch on the top of his head.
Despite this, if Joanne had to pick out one man in the county who could be Ewan Rigby’s father, her money would be on this guy. He had Ewan’s dark, dark, shadowed eyes, his elfin ears and, when he wasn’t twitching and jerking, he held his head over to the right slightly, in much the same manner as Ewan.
Life had not been kind to our Mr Wallbank. He was typical of the type of transient worker Joanne often saw passing through the Lakes: broke, shitty social life, drink problem.
‘Can you tell me what brings you to Windermere, Mr Wallbank?’
He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘The great weather.’
‘Believe you got yourself in a spot of bother last night. Care to tell me what happened?’
‘Not really. Who are you anyway?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Joanne Aspinall. I told you that a moment ago.’
‘But what do you want?’
‘Just to ask a few questions, that’s all.’
Russell Wallbank rolled his eyes and then fixed her with a glare that said: Drop dead. Russell Wallbank had had plenty of run-ins with the police, and it was a
look a seasoned criminal like him had perfected.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said.
‘Then you have nothing to worry about. The quicker you answer my questions, the quicker I’ll be out of your hair.’ At this, Russell touched his bald patch, and Joanne winced. ‘So to speak,’ she added quickly.
‘The guy hit me first,’ he said.
‘Which guy?’
‘In the club.’
‘Oh,’ said Joanne. ‘Right. I’ll make sure that’s noted. How about you tell me what brought you north in the first place? Your accent tells me you’re not from around here.’
‘Just passing through. No crime in that, as far as I’m aware.’
‘Where are you staying?’
Russell shrugged. ‘Here and there.’
‘Do you have accommodation?’
‘Not really.’
‘Where do you plan on staying tonight?’
‘I’ve got a number. A guy I met said he had a free settee.’
‘And then you’re heading back to Hastings?’
At this, Russell Wallbank stopped moving in his seat and sat deadly still.
‘How do you know where I’m from?’ he asked.
‘Lucky guess,’ she said. ‘How about you tell me why you’re really here, Mr Wallbank? Like I said, the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner they can get you processed and get you out of here.’
‘I came to find someone,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Just someone.’
‘And did you find them?’
Russell Wallbank dropped his head. ‘No,’ he said.
‘When did you arrive in the Lakes?’
He hesitated. Then he said, ‘Day before yesterday.’
‘And you got here by…?’
‘Train.’
‘So if I were to check the CCTV at Oxenholme station I would find you disembarking?’
‘Yes?’ he said, sounding unsure.
‘See, I have a slight problem with that, Mr Wallbank. When I spoke to a member of staff at the Beachcomber Guest House, they told me you’d done a bunk from there around two weeks ago. You haven’t been seen in the area since.’ That last sentence was not strictly true. Joanne had not been told that at all. But she could see Russell was freaking out a little at the mention of the Beachcomber, so she decided to run with it.
She waited. And Russell was suddenly having trouble answering her questions.
‘Do you know what I think, Mr Wallbank? I think you left your job and headed north to find someone in particular. That’s what I think. And that person is now dead. So why don’t you start trying to convince me that I’m wrong about that because, right now, you’re the only person I have earmarked for this crime. You should also be aware that I know all about the history you have with the victim…and I know about the phone calls you made to her.’
‘I want a lawyer. I should have a lawyer.’
‘You’re not under arrest. And if you want a solicitor present, I can arrange that. But I have to tell you, you’ll be waiting some time.’
‘How long?’
‘I can’t give you an exact time. It varies. It depends on availability and how far they have to travel. Though it shouldn’t be more than three hours or so.’
Russell Wallbank began rapidly tapping his fingers on his thighs.
Again, Joanne waited.
Eventually, she said, ‘You know, you really look like you could do with a drink.’
And he nodded.
‘Faster you tell me what I need to know, faster you can be on your way. All I’m looking for is the truth, Russell. Mind if I call you Russell?’
He shook his head.
‘How do I know you’re not fucking with me?’ he asked.
‘Because I’m a detective. If I fuck with you, I get into trouble. Tell me something logical, Russell. That’s what I’m after. I know you didn’t arrive here two days ago. The duty sergeant himself says you were in an altercation in the Stag’s Head last week, so I know you’re lying.’
Russell sat on his hands.
‘I came to see Karen,’ he said.
‘Great,’ replied Joanne. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’
‘She has my kid.’
‘How did you know where to find her?’
‘Saw her on the news shouting her mouth off, and I recognized her. I found her number and I told her I wanted to know about my kid, but she wouldn’t tell me. She always was a bitch.’
‘Did you threaten her?’
‘No.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I told her I knew where she lived and if she wouldn’t tell me about the kid then I’d come looking.’
‘And what did Karen say?’
‘She didn’t say anything.’
‘So, you’re obviously aware that Karen was murdered, Russell. What do you make of that?’
‘I’d say someone had it in for her. But it wasn’t me. I’d say she probably had it coming. She got pregnant on purpose, you know? She told me she was on the pill. She thought I had money. Thought my folks were minted. When she found out they weren’t, she bailed. Bitch.’
‘We have some DNA,’ Joanne said, watching Russell’s face carefully, ‘something found at the scene belonging to the killer. What we’d like is for you to provide a sample, Russell. That would eliminate you from the crime scene. Would you do that for us?’
Of course, a sample from Russell wouldn’t really eliminate him, as they didn’t know whether the blood on the tree was the killer’s or not. But Russell didn’t need to know that. And Joanne had to work with what she had. If he refused to offer a sample, then he had something to hide. She’d haul him into Kendal and interview him under caution.
‘I’ll give you my DNA,’ Russell Wallbank said quickly. ‘Because I never fucking touched her.’
—
As it turned out, Joanne didn’t need the swab. She submitted it anyway, for the sake of dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s, but once she told Russell Wallbank she would not be keeping him for further questioning, he handed over his train ticket. ‘There,’ he said defiantly. And on checking the date, Joanne immediately saw that he’d travelled to Oxenholme from London Euston the day after Karen’s car was found. Unless he was working with someone else, Russell Wallbank was in the clear.
‘Just out of interest,’ she asked him, ‘what had you intended to do when you met Karen?’ and he told her he hadn’t really had a plan.
‘Frighten her a bit, I suppose,’ he said. ‘She deserved it. Taking off the way she did and leaving me with no idea what happened to her.’
‘Do you still want to see your child?’
‘I don’t even know if she had a girl or a boy.’
Joanne gave an empathetic smile. ‘Can’t really help you there, I’m afraid. I think social services are your next stop.’
She wondered what Noel would make of this tragic-looking deadbeat turning up on his doorstep claiming parental rights over Ewan. Ewan was almost an adult. He could make his own decisions about whether he wanted to meet his father. Joanne couldn’t help thinking Russell might be better off getting back on the train and forgetting all about it. But it wasn’t her call.
‘Good luck,’ she told Russell. ‘I’ll be in touch if anything comes back with the sample.’
‘It won’t,’ he said.
Driving back to Kendal, Joanne thought back to the murder cases she’d been involved in. There hadn’t been many. Cumbria had one of the lowest murder rates in the country. Surprisingly, both South Yorkshire and Bedfordshire had higher rates than London – something Joanne had learned while studying for her sergeant’s exams. In Cumbria, you were more likely to die from falling out of bed or banging your head on an open kitchen cupboard. Random, unmotivated murders were practically nonexistent. People in Cumbria tended to kill their drinking partners after a stupid argument, or kill their mother as a result of simmering, decades-long tensions. Which made Joanne th
ink about Russell Wallbank’s comment about Karen Bloom deserving her fate. Perhaps the key to this wasn’t the forensics or trying to find and interview all the skeletons marching out of Karen’s closet. Perhaps the only thing Joanne needed to do was find the one person, other than Russell Wallbank, who thought Karen deserved to die.
45
‘I THOUGHT THE press would be here,’ Joanne said to Noel.
‘Been and gone. There were two reporters here for most of the morning, but I think they’re taking a lunch break.’
They were in Noel’s kitchen. He’d made her a sausage-and-egg sandwich, which was really rather good, and they both stood at the kitchen island, eating. Joanne often stood to eat, so she didn’t think it was unusual. When you spent most of your day behind a desk or behind the wheel, it made for a pleasant change.
Noel didn’t ask the reason for her dropping in on him unannounced, and Joanne didn’t offer one. He seemed to assume this was a social call, and took it upon himself to feed her while she was there: lightly toasting the bread as though he were making her a club sandwich. He appeared to take pleasure in providing her with a meal and, as she watched him work, whistling a little, she thought the kids should do okay with him. ‘I would have thought you doctors were against all this cholesterol,’ she remarked as she chewed.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
Joanne bit into the second half of her sandwich and felt the welcome sensation of yolk bursting inside her mouth. ‘This is good,’ she said.
Noel nodded in agreement. ‘I was going to call you today.’
‘Oh?’
‘See if you fancied going out for dinner.’
‘Again?’ She smiled.
‘Or if not dinner,’ he said, ‘something else maybe? Whatever you want to do.’
‘So, another date, then?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s what I was thinking. Of course, I can’t be out all night…’ And he gestured towards the hallway, where Joanne could hear the sound of the TV piping through from the living room.