“Answer the door. And then go to work, I don’t want to look at you.”
Eddie went to the door, calling back over his shoulder, “Better get used to me being around. I walked out yesterday.” He opened the door just as Weismann was about to knock again. Eddie growled, “What the fuck do you want?”
“I want—”
Charles pulled Eddie back into the lounge. “What do you mean, you walked out? Are you crazy?”
“I was being pushed out.”
“No one pushed you out, Eddie,” Weismann said.
“Why do you do it, eh? Soon as life gets a bit tough, you just walk away without a care in the world.”
“What the hell would you know? You abandoned ship when I was sixteen!”
“Shall I come back at another time?”
Eddie looked back to Weismann. “How about you don’t come back at all?” He slammed the door.
Charles rushed to open it. “Come in. Ignore him.”
“Don’t let him in; he’s one of them who wanted me out!”
“I didn’t want you out, Eddie. I was one—”
“See,” said Charles, tears still spilling down his face, “how you take everything so personally, Eddie. You’ve got to curb your sensibilities, boy. Toughen up a bit.”
Eddie turned to Weismann. “What do you want? You can see we’re in the middle of a discussion here.”
“I want—”
“If you’ve come to ask me back, then you’ve wasted your time; I’ve had enough of that daft cow and her father.”
Something approaching disgust settled on Weismann’s face. He held out his hand. “Van keys.”
“What?”
“You walked out with the van keys in your pocket. Or were they tucked inside your bottom lip, the one you were about trip over?”
“That’s you all over,” said Charles, pointing.
“Shut up.” Eddie walked past Charles and headed for his bedroom. He was back moments later and tossed the keys to Weismann. “That it? That all you came round for?”
Weismann nodded. “What else?” He nodded at Charles, “I’ll let myself out. Good luck.”
“What do you think happened in the office yesterday?” Eddie glared at Weismann. “That we all collectively got fed up and left, and Nicki volunteered to pick up the pieces and create a new team? Wow, she really is a martyr. And you’re a fool.”
Weismann gently closed the door behind him, leaving Eddie looking at Charles. For a moment, neither moved and neither spoke. And then Charles said, “I’m sorry. For what I said. Your women.”
Eddie looked away and sighed. “I’m sorry, too. I was just trying to look out for you. I stepped over the mark, Dad.” He reached out and embraced his father.
“It’s okay, son. I know you’re a bit concerned; new woman on the scene, and all that. You’re worried for me, I get that. But don’t be. I can look after myself.”
“You sure?”
Charles nodded. “You know she’ll never replace your mum, don’t you?”
Eddie nodded, and they pulled apart. Charles went to the kitchen. “Do you want a fresh coffee?”
“Please.”
“And then you’d better go and try and get your job back.”
“Nope. They barged in, Dad. That Nicki lass I told you about – her dad landed a couple of days ago. He’s the new head of Major Crime, a Detective Chief Super, no less. Don’t stand a chance against him and all his fucking stripes and all her snooping, undermining me at every—”
“You don’t know till you try. You just going to stand back and watch them ruin what you’ve built up? You going to let them walk all over you and your staff? What about Sid? He won’t take it well, Eddie. You have to think of your staff.”
Eddie wandered off. “I’m going for a shower.”
“Good lad.”
Eddie whispered, “But Wendy still has a face like a warthog’s ballbag.”
“I heard that, you bastard!”
Chapter Forty-Two
Benson swung through the double doors into CSI, clutching a slim wad of papers. He stopped short and squinted to the far end of the office, but it was empty. The lights were on, but no one was home. He nudged open Eddie’s office door, and the squeaking hinges roused Nicki, who was sitting at his desk.
“Hi,” Benson said. “You seen Eddie?”
“He doesn’t work here any more. I’m in charge now.” She stood, swivelled towards him, and smiled. “So how can I help you, Tom?”
Benson looked at the office, how neat the filing system had become. Each of the files had a place in the ceiling-high cabinet, and there was room to spare. The nicotine stains on the window were gone, the carpet had been cleaned too. The desk… it was tidy! “Just ‘Benson’ will do.”
She nodded.
“Where is he?”
“He resigned, actually. But I want you to know that you’ll hardly notice a ripple in the quality of the forensic support this office provides.”
“I need someone to accompany me on a house visit. I’m chasing a suspect and I want a forensic input on footwear.”
She smacked her lips. “Would tomorrow be okay? I’m trying to arrange cover while we recruit new staff…”
Benson nearly fell over. “You mean everyone resigned? Everyone?”
“Like I said, you’ll barely notice a ripple.”
“Then I want you to come with me now. If Eddie were still in charge, he’d—”
“But he’s not.”
Benson turned and almost bumped into Crawford standing in the doorway.
Crawford smiled. “We’ll certainly do our best to maintain our excellent customer service record. But we do ask that you bear with us during this transitional phase. Nothing to worry about.”
“She said I wouldn’t notice a ripple. I’m noticing.”
“Barely a ripple.”
Benson continued, “Nothing to worry about? Boss, this is the police, not Marks & Spencer’s. I don’t want platitudes; I want someone to verify a suspect’s footwear. And I want it now.”
“Careful, Tom.”
Benson nodded his understanding. “Or I’ll be next, right?” He took a small step closer to Crawford’s ever-present smile. “First Jeffery Walker went, and Weismann filled his boots. Now Eddie Collins has gone – and his entire team.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Nicki. “And this young lady is suddenly in charge of a whole – and very empty – forensic department? A forensic department with no staff.”
“We’re working—”
“Not good enough. We’re live on air right now! This isn’t a fucking rehearsal. Boss.” Benson brushed past Crawford as though he wasn’t there. “Never mind. I’ll sort out my own forensic support.” He stopped on the other side of the door, and turned to face Crawford and Nicki again. “You’ve got until this afternoon to fill those chairs with competent CSIs, or I take this upstairs.”
Crawford bent slightly until he was eye to eye with Benson. The smile never left his face as he whispered, “This young lady is my daughter. Her name is Nicki. She has a degree in management, and has been a CSI for almost three years. She’s top drawer, Tom.” His smile widened as Benson’s mouth fell open.
“Your daughter?”
“And we have the blessing of ‘them upstairs’. Tom.”
“Seriously?”
Crawford nodded. “Amazing what you can achieve if you promise to save money along the way.”
Nicki spoke up. “Collins broke so many rules in his efforts to run this office, Mr Benson. They’re all documented. I want to run things correctly. And with the support of my co-workers in CID, I can run it well. Actually, this place could be a beacon of excellence.”
“Nice words, love.” Benson paused, then turned back to Crawford. “As the head of the Major Crime Unit, how could you allow this to happen? CSI is crucial – crucial – to our operation. And you’ve let them all walk so your daughter gets to wear a tiara that she isn’t entitled to wear, and gets to si
t in Eddie’s seat? You’d sacrifice the department and Major Crime’s ability to investigate homicides just so your little girl gets to live out her fantasy?”
Crawford’s face darkened. He looked at Benson with contempt, and said, “Consider yourself on a written warning. Do not tell me how to run my department.”
Benson looked past him to Nicki. “Your degree in management,” he said, “is laudable. But it’ll only take you so far. You need a team who will work with you when they really want to go home, and when they really can’t stand the sight of another dead body at three in the morning. Collins might have a wonky outlook on life, but everyone in here trusted him implicitly.” Benson looked up at Crawford and nodded his respect. “I’ll leave you with that thought. Sir.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Her mind wasn’t here. It was screwing itself up into a ball as Sidmouth made another move on her. It shuddered, and it closed its eyes against him and what he was about to do to her.
In reality, she was closing the external door and walking towards her bedsit. Her mind agonising over what would happen to her tomorrow when Sidmouth called around.
She dug in her pocket for the key to her bedsit, opened the door and screamed.
“Sorry,” Tony said, hands out. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Just who the fuck do you think you are, showing up whenever you please? This is my home, Tony!”
He climbed out of the chair, picked up his overcoats and made for the door. “I am sorry. You’re right.” As he went to pass her in the doorway, he stopped; concern cloaked his face. “Why the tears?”
She shook her head.
“Michael?”
“No…”
Tony thought for a moment. “Sidmouth.”
Jess collapsed on the bed, burying her face in the mouldy quilt until she could barely breathe. She became aware of Tony stroking her hair.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
A shiver pinged up her back, and she opened her eyes. What the hell was he doing? “I’m okay,” she said, pulling away. “Go make a drink, eh?”
As he got up, Tony said, “He’s holding you to ransom.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders rounded, her feet twitching against the floor.
He had his back to her, seemingly watching the kettle. “He’s holding something you value more than your own body. More than your pride.” Tony turned around, steam rising over his shoulder, and he said, “He’s going to win every time, Jess.”
She sighed.
“Don’t ever lose your pride, lass. It’s all you’ve got. Once it’s gone…”
She looked up; there was a distant smile on his face, his eyes focused on nothing.
“…Once it’s gone, there really is nothing left to fight for.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
He turned back to the kettle and made the tea. As he brought hers over, he said, “Look at me. Do I look like someone who’s got any fucking pride left?”
“Why don’t you clean yourself up, then?”
He pointed a finger. “Ah. No. You see, this is my camouflage. It’s my invisibility suit. While ever I wear this, no one takes any notice of me. They might get nervous with the homeless guy watching them, but they don’t do anything, see?” He nodded his mug at her and then took up his seat, slurped tea and reached for his tobacco. “I’ll always remember seeing you in that courtroom.”
Jessica’s feet became still.
“You had pride then. You were a proud English lady in your suit. Your hair. I always remember your hair, all fastened up, all neat. Head held high.”
She watched him as he drifted back in time to recall her trial. For her, they’d been horrible weeks; each day the dread becoming heavier and darker, the smell of it more and more rank, until the very end when the judge passed his sentence. All that weight, all that darkness, all that smell of desolation, how it all crushed her until she was nothing but a shell, a husk, a dead body with a heartbeat. Breathing death.
“I was proud of you.” He smiled at her, almost shyly.
The mug in her hand shook. She remembered that day as though she were reliving it; the horror of it all having gone so wrong, and the long walk back into the bridewell, and then into the back of an SSS van. Next stop, HMP Whealston.
“That day in court was bad enough,” he said. “But I still think of the day that put you there.”
Her vision cleared, and she stared at him, through him; she was back in the kitchen among the chaos, fighting it, swimming through it as it dragged her under, drowning. She hitched a breath and pictured the blood running down her arm, felt the pain in her hand. The slash wound right across the palm, down to the tendons – a defence wound, they’d said. We understand, they’d said. Just tell us, Jess. What happened next?
Did you wrestle the knife from him? Did you pick another from the block? What was happening, Jess, tell us. Self-defence, they’d said, nodding to each other. Manslaughter instead of murder. You’d be out in three years, maybe less.
“It was horrible,” she whispered, unblinking. “Michael was screaming his lungs out. And the smoke from the oven was making my eyes sting, and my hand was throbbing, and there was blood splashing on the floor. And he was standing there with a fucking knife against his chest, and that wicked smirk on his face. As though all he had to do was threaten me and I’d melt into his arms.”
Jess’s teeth were bared, her lips drawn back in a snarl. “I’ve never hated anyone so much. I watched him twist the blade, and I saw blood on his white shirt, and I thought, my God, he’s going to do it, he’s really going to do it, and I shivered, and I remember holding my breath, wondering what would happen next. And I didn’t know what to do. Should I call his bluff and tell him to fuck off, see what he did? Or should I relent, should I say ‘okay, let’s go, just take the fucking knife away, Sebastian, you’re scaring me’?
“But I didn’t say anything. I watched his black eyes, I saw the smirk on his face, and I wanted to push that blade all the way home, and then push another one in for good measure. I wanted to kill the bastard; I wanted him fucking dead so he could never come back and threaten me, or try to steal my child. I wanted him dead so that I could sleep well for the first time since we split.
“The room was spinning, the pain throbbing, the smell was vile, burning food and fear. I was being crushed like they crushed me in the courtroom later. And all I could see was him sneering, and all I could hear was Michael screaming—”
“And the smoke alarm—”
The cup slipped from her hand and she screamed.
Chapter Forty-Four
She was desperate not to let him see her face. She was desperate not to look at him.
Tony almost fell out of his chair. “What?”
She stood, swiping her hands across her wet jeans. “Fucking hot. Get me a cloth.”
Tony patted her legs with a wrung-out tea towel while she held an arm below her nose and wept hot tears, waving her hand to cool the scald.
“It’s okay,” he whispered again.
“I’m okay, I’m okay.” She pushed him away.
Panic over, he tossed the cloth into the sink and refilled the kettle. “Frightened the shit out of me then.”
Jessica’s eyes were wide, unseeing, full of the past and full of tears.
He turned, arms folded again. “And then?”
She didn’t see him; she was still seeing the past. He coughed, and she blinked awake. “What?”
“And what happened then?”
“I left him. I just turned around and went into the bedroom. I went because I didn’t want him to corner me again; I couldn’t stand the thought of being responsible for my own future – back with him and his fists, or alone with Michael and the ghosts of him and his sneer. So I left it in the lap of the gods. In the end it turned out I was responsible for my own future. For all our futures.”
Tony made fresh drinks, but he could have been wa
lking around naked for all Jess knew. She stared blindly at nothing, her mind bringing her back out of the bedroom, holding Michael in her arms, one injured hand dripping blood down her jeans.
Stopping right in front of Sebastian.
He was three-quarters of the way onto his back, the blade that he’d held at his chest lying on the floor next to his right hand, and a growing red wave of blood ruining his beautiful white shirt. It turned the stitching around the breast pocket red as it crept across his chest and dripped onto the floor, soaking into the torn lino, unstoppable. It was completely unstoppable. Like time.
His eyes were half closed, but still they laughed at her, still his sneer tormented her.
Michael screamed in her face and the smoke alarm shredded her thoughts, and there was her ex-husband on the floor. “Good riddance,” she whispered as the smoke alarm stopped. Her ears buzzed.
She became aware of Michael struggling in her arms, and she had no choice but to put him down back in his room. He went stratospheric. But Jess peered through the noise and somehow managed to dial three-nines.
“Police,” she’d said. The last free word she’d ever utter. Where’s the knife? the operator asked. Keep your son away from the knife, keep him safe.
“Worst advice I was ever given,” she said.
Tony was enraptured; he hadn’t moved in ten minutes as he lived it all with her.
“My fingerprints in blood on the murder weapon.”
“You’d think they’d take that into consideration.”
She smiled, free of the past for the time being, back here in the shitty little bedsit with a tramp for company. “You’d think so. They played the tape back. The operator never told me to move the knife.” She shrugged. “She didn’t. I brought that upon myself. She told me to put distance between it and my son, to keep him safe, and I did that by putting the knife out of his reach. I grabbed it and moved it.” Tears ran into the creases of her dry lips. “I never was any good at following instructions.
Tony threw her mug into the bin; the handle had broken off when it hit the floor. He mopped up the rest of her cold tea using the cloth he’d dabbed on her leg. He had probably been talking to her, she realised later, but she’d not heard anything other than that smoke alarm from twelve years ago. It had been a shrill, piercing sound that drove away all reason. Just how was anyone supposed to think straight with that thing going off?
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 16