The Death of Jessica Ripley

by Andrew Barrett

  “Come on. I want to know.”

  “Job first, pissing competition later. Get on with it.”

  Troy sighed and stood up. “Look, I’m not one of your trainees. I’m not fresh out of college; I’m your equal and I know what I’m doing. So if you wanna go and leave me to it, that’s fine.”

  Eddie stood, cringing at the pain in his knees but refusing to show it. “I don’t care who you think you are. You’re working a scene with my name at the top of the sheet, so I want to know that you’re thinking about it logically.”

  “You always said logic was—”

  “Never mind what I said. Run me through it.”

  Troy stood with his hands on his hips for what seemed like minutes, and Eddie grew steadily hotter and hotter with anger. And then Troy pulled up his mask, stepped closer, and said, “Male. White. Fully clothed, sitting in the driver’s seat of his Mercedes. Pickaxe sticking out of his neck. Glass everywhere. Blood everywhere. Briefcase on the back seat.”

  “Succinct. And your plan of action?”

  “Asphalt surface: no good for footwear, so we have a safe path around the body. I’d begin with photography.”

  “Back up a bit.”

  Troy sighed, folded his arms. “I’ve checked that there is a cordon across both entrances to the driveway; there is a scene guard on each entrance and another at the back of the house. So we’re free to examine the scene. There is no threat of rain, and no one overlooking us, so there is no need for a scene tent.”

  “Carry on.”

  “Happy so far?”

  “Carry on.”

  “Is this an exam? I mean– do you stand over all your CSIs like this? Why can’t you just fuck off and let me get on with my job?”

  “You’re two degrees from a disciplinary. One degree from a punch in the nuts. Okay?”

  Troy cocked his head and took a little step forward, chest out, just a few shades away from being threatening. “I’ve heard about you. I know you’re cocky, I know you don’t mind assaulting people, and I know you’ve got a shit attitude.” He smiled at Eddie, chewed the gum. “I don’t care. I don’t find you in the least intimidating.”

  Eddie tapped his foot, blew hot air into the mask, and watched closely as the boy grew ever more animated.

  “I was top in my class for all forensic studies and practical examinations. I’ve been a CSI in Bradford for two years, working my arse off to get a fucking job in Major Crime. I’m good at my job, and just because you’ve taken a dislike to me, doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Eddie reached out and grabbed Troy by the throat of his suit, and hauled him away from the body. And in a relaxed voice, with no pressure bubbling beneath the surface because he’d learned to disguise it, he said, “Get your suit off. Get in your van, and fuck off back to the office.”

  Troy knocked Eddie’s hand aside, straightened his suit and fronted up to Eddie. He opened his mouth.

  Eddie got there first. “Be very careful what you say to me next. You could end up back in Bradford.”

  Troy thought about it, then tempered his response. “I can do this shit in my sleep, Eddie. You know I can. You’ve seen my report, you’ve read my file—”

  “No,” Eddie said. “You’re very wrong. I haven’t read a word about you. I observe, I take note of what you do at scenes. I couldn’t give a flying shit what your record says; I want to know how you perform today. Now.”

  “But—”

  “Go back to the office. We’ll talk when I get back.”

  Troy’s mouth opened again and Eddie gave a warning look. That was enough for Troy to turn and walk back to the cordon, slap his way under the tape and slam his van door a minute later. The van screamed away from the scene, and Eddie was left staring at Benson. “He’s a cock.”

  “He’s you twenty years ago.”

  “I was never that arrogant.”

  Benson cocked an eyebrow.

  “I wasn’t!”

  “How many new CSIs have you got?”

  “They sent me two. But it was easier with just me and Kenny. Now I’ve got to babysit them.”

  “You mean you’ve got to… manage them?”

  “Yeah, that. I didn’t want this job in the first place, remember?”

  “I remember. But you’ve got it. You’re doing it, so you should do it properly.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do. But I’ve got that prick fighting me all the time.”

  “For a CSI you’re as blind as a bat.”

  Eddie looked at Benson sideways on.

  “He’s trying to impress you.”

  “Ha! My arse. All he’s doing is pissing me off. He’s got twenty-four hours before I transfer him back to Bradford.”

  “I think you’re being too harsh and too hasty.”

  “Firstly, no I’m not. Secondly, I don’t give a shit what you think.”

  Benson bit into the Mars bar and a string of toffee clung to his chin. He nodded at the body. “What you got?”

  “I haven’t started the exam yet, so I’ve got nothing.”

  “No. You haven’t. So now I have to wait till you get a CSI down here that you like and start from scratch. All because you had a tantrum.”

  “Up yours.” Eddie walked to the body. “I’ll do it myself.”

  “And what about your bulldog? Thought you were going to meet him back at the office.”

  Eddie stopped. His shoulders slumped. “I didn’t say when.”

  “Come on, Eddie. Get a grip; I want this wrapping up tout suite.”

  “Course you do. You got a wanking class on tonight?”

  “Oi!”

  Chapter Three

  How things had changed from her dream life with Sebastian – mixing with the other lawyers, the skiing-and-ponies set, living in a large detached house on the outskirts of Leeds, her Range Rover parked next to his Mercedes on the gravel drive… it had been nothing less than idyllic. Except for the fists. The fists put a dampener on things.

  After the bravery of running away, she’d found herself trembling in her new home; a miserable two-bedroom flat on the third floor of a tower block. It was damp; the buzzer didn’t work, the lift didn’t work. But the mild paranoia and the depression were always reliable.

  There was occasionally Tony. A bus driver. No more Range Rover – just a Day Rover, courtesy of First Bus. Using public transport had lanced the snobbery like popping a boil. He was a decent enough man, content rather than ambitious, meek rather than sharp, and at least he didn’t beat her for a laugh.

  Following the little visit from Sebastian, though, she was given a new place to stay.

  For twelve years.

  * * *

  It became easier to lie.

  At first there was a part of her mind that writhed in agony just at the thought of lying about it, and it went into meltdown when she actually had to do it. Taking the blame for something she had not done was unnatural, but actively admitting it was harder still.

  But admit it she had. And no doubt those on the outside would be patting each other on the back, with her guilt now verified by admission. They had forced her to. It was part of her rehabilitation, they had said, that she admitted her guilt, dealt with it, and began to move on.

  As soon as she had admitted killing him, life had got a whole lot easier – even if sleep still wouldn’t come. She was given counselling, all the understanding pats on the back she could ever want, all the tissues she could dampen. But most important of all, she was given a parole date.

  She’d had a picture taped to her cell wall, a six-by-four colour print of Michael. He was two years old, a toddler with a killer smile and a giggle that could melt ice. She would spend the hours after mealtimes lying on her bunk, staring at that picture, blinking away the tears, craving him again. She never stopped loving him.

  And when the cell doors had closed and the lights dimmed, she’d peel away Michael’s photograph and hold it to her chest, revealing a smaller one on the
wall where Michael’s had been. It showed a man in a smart grey suit; a receding ginger hairline caught the sun and made his head glow like it was on fire. He was looking directly at the camera, but there was no smile, no sparkle in his dark eyes; just contempt.

  His name was Thomas Marchant.

  As the man most responsible for putting her in prison in the first place, Jessica reserved a special hatred for him. He was her defence barrister. There were others, of course, but he was the worst offender. She’d never forget his face. And now she was out.

  But first she had more important things to attend to. Michael was the only thing in life that mattered right now. The only thing. He was the tether that held her to her past, and now that she was out on parole, he was also her future.

  She ascended the creaking wooden stairs to the first-floor office of the West Yorkshire Probation Service. Her probation officer – or, as they now termed themselves, Offender Manager – was John Sidmouth. She’d met him twice before, and he always came across as a man who’d rather be doing something else, anything else, than taking care of the shambles of an ex-prisoner’s life.

  She remembered his fingers: fat stumpy things that punched keys ungraciously, stabbing at them as though playing a game of whack-a-mole. Mr Sidmouth was portly, and wore greasy black-rimmed glasses. He made her feel nauseous; perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered on her a little longer than it should. Perhaps it was the way he sighed often, the way his eyes screwed up as though scrutinising her.

  Jessica knocked and Sidmouth called her in. He didn’t stand as she entered, just gestured towards the wooden seat and barked, “Sit, sit.”

  She pulled her jacket across her chest and sat, watching as his tongue glided across his lips, quick as a lizard’s scenting the air.

  For twenty minutes he recited the terms of her parole, and the licence conditions she had to live by for the next eighteen months. She nodded constantly, and when asked if she was abiding by those conditions, the nod was vigorous. And it was true. Mostly.

  “So when can I see Michael?” It came out quickly, like an urge that couldn’t be restrained.

  Sidmouth ran a finger under his collar and flushed slightly. “Soon.” He licked his lips again. “I have to liaise with Social Care. But… maybe next week.”

  “Next week?”

  “All the paperwork has gone through. Don’t worry about that. Social Care are supportive of your visit, so everything’s going in your favour. I am in consultation with Michael’s foster carers through Social Care, and I’m confident we’ll have a date very soon.” He folded his arms and sweat spilled out onto his brow.

  “I sense a ‘but’.”

  “So long as you stick rigidly to your conditions in the meantime, there’ll be no problem.” His tongue flicked again.

  She eyed him, and he looked away.

  He cleared his throat. “All that remains is for me to visit your home address, just to check everything’s in order.”

  “A visit?”

  He punched the keyboard, and she could see it bouncing on his desk. “You’re at 42 East Gate Walk. Flat Two. Yes?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Why do you need to visit?”

  “Routine. I have to make sure that you actually live there. This is one of the conditions of your licence.”

  “But—”

  “You are abiding by the conditions, Jessica, aren’t you? Because if you’re not—”

  “Yes, of course—”

  “…Because if you’re not, we cannot allow you to see Michael. And you will go back to prison.” Dead eyes looked at her.

  “But—”

  “I thought we’d made that perfectly clear. Wasn’t it clear?”

  Of course it was fucking clear! You don’t need to fucking remind me!

  “It was clear.”

  “Then there should be nothing to worry about.”

  When Jessica closed his office door, she let out a breath that seemed to last forever, and when she stepped out onto the street, she knew trouble was right behind her.

  Chapter Four

  Eddie took a photograph to show the illuminated dash lights and the key at position two in the ignition. It told him that it had been the beginning of a normal day: eat breakfast, ignore the wife, grab the briefcase, climb into the car, start it up; his mind had probably been an hour in front of where his body was. It was probably engrossed already by his first meeting, his first client, and how to get them off whatever charge they’d fallen foul of.

  That’s how this kind of lawyer worked. They took defence work, and they disregarded honour, revelling in getting clients off even if they were obviously guilty. And this guy looked like he was particularly successful at it. New Mercedes, large detached house in a select neighbourhood two miles from Harewood House, six hundred yards from Alwoodley Golf Club, in north Leeds.

  He wondered who had found the body. He wondered how the ignored wife was taking this: with sadness, or relief? Her life was now changed forever – for better or worse. Once the shock had worn away, would she be happy?

  Eddie reached through the smashed glass with a gloved hand and turned the motor off. He stood for a moment – the new silence deafening, a breeze tickling the hood of his scene suit – and listened to the hot exhaust clicking as it cooled.

  He’d get the photography out of the way, and when Kenny arrived, Eddie would leave him to it. He could trust Kenny; he’d do a thorough job, without any babysitting needed.

  Eddie took shots from all corners of the car, then closed in on the driver’s side, paying attention to the shattered window, the pickaxe handle poking out of it like a Cadbury’s Flake from a sundae. The business end of the pick, the chisel end, had gone through the lawyer’s throat, more or less dead centre. Eddie opened the rear door and peered in at the back view. It had travelled right through and was lodged between the top of the seat and the underside of the headrest, pinning the head in place. He photographed it.

  Back inside the front of the car, Eddie stared at him. His chin, bloodhound flab flanking it, rested on the rusty metal, specks of blood flecked over his cheeks. His eyes were still wide open, and he looked shocked – understandably, Eddie thought – as though he’d seen it coming but had no time to react. He was almost bald; just a fine stripe of ginger hair circled the back of his head from ear to ear, like his pet squirrel couldn’t bear to leave home.

  It must have been terrifying, for the ten seconds it took his mind to pack its belongings and leave the body behind.

  There was a rustling alongside him, and Eddie pulled his head back out into the sunlight to see Kenny.

  “Which coffee shop does he work at? Must pay well. That’s a brand new—”

  Eddie tutted. “He’s a barrister, Kenny. Barrister, not barista – justice grinder, not coffee grinder.”

  “Sure it said barista on the log.” He stared at the dead guy. “Looks like a big game of KerPlunk gone wrong.”

  “I think we can rule out suicide,” Eddie said, and turned away from the car.

  “You going now?”

  “I have to meet Troy.”

  Kenny’s demeanour changed; his mouth curled and his eyes became slits.

  “Not your favourite?”

  “He’s a tosser. Just make sure you put him in his place. I wanted this afternoon off, but because he’s a knobhead I’m stuck here doing his job.”

  “Sorry, mate.”

  Kenny took a breath, let it out slowly. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Photography’s done, but feel free to take your own. The pick is our main source of evidence: use DNA mini-tapes on the smooth parts of the handle, then wet and dry swabs for the rougher bits. See if you can find any fibres, too. Keep a look out for manufacturers’ or owners’ markings and photo as required. Take a swab of blood. Then pull the axe out and package it ready for chemical treatment.”

  “You sound like a fucking forensic manual.”

  Eddie closed his eyes. “Sorry. Sometimes I forget that a
t least you know what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah, well. That lass is supposed to be starting today too, so you got your hands full.”

  “Yay,” Eddie said. “Give me a shout when you’re done here, and I’ll arrange body snatchers and vehicle recovery.”

  “Go on, get yourself out of here; I’ll drop you a report when I’ve done. Want me to go along to the PM when we’re done here?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  Kenny shrugged. “My afternoon is shagged now, might as well get some overtime in.”

  “I’ll send the new girl down to help.”

  “Isn’t she going to need an orientation day with you first?”

  “It’ll take ten minutes to show her where the toilets are, where the kettle is, and where we keep the Valium. And Sid can always do that shit with her another day.”

  Chapter Five

  Jessica took a mouthful of coffee and stared at herself in the mirror on the wardrobe door, studying a single blurred blue dot where her eyes were meant to be. The doorbell rang out in the hall; the blurred blue dot blinked and both eyes came into focus.

  She went out to the communal corridor with its high ceiling and dirty matt paint that had once been white, and trudged to the front door. The bell chimed again, and through the frosted glass she could see the silhouette of a man standing on the step. His arm was extended, ready to push the bell again.

  The door of a bedsit on her right opened and a greasy-faced, long-haired man lurched out. He squinted at her and said, “What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and her shoulders hunched up as though she were protecting herself.

  He looked at the front door. “What’s up?”

  “I… I don’t know.” She looked at him; he was staring at her, so she looked away again. She heard the door close, and the greasy-faced man had gone back to whatever he was doing before.

  She swung the front door open. At first she didn’t recognise him, but when she did, the colour left her face like blood draining down a plughole. “Mr Sidmouth,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Ms Ripley.” And without invitation he was up the steps, and into the hallway, and Jessica found herself staring out at an empty street, wondering if she should step inside and close the door, or step outside and close the door. She felt cold, and now she felt vulnerable.