The Death of Jessica Ripley

by Andrew Barrett

  “Only I was nothing like him. I could never be like him. I like freedom, I like things that aren’t perfectly symmetrical, you know? There’s something almost magical about flaking paint. Just like there’s something almost magical about clouds messing up a perfectly blue sky, or a cow turd in a lush green field.” He chuckled. “Does that make any sense at all? Everything in his life has to be perfect; he couldn’t tolerate imperfection, even in his own body – his own face! He was obsessive about it. He’s had loads of plastic surgery – all kinds, not just face lifts. He had plastic surgery to stop him sweating! Did you hear that? He had plastic surgery under his arms and on his top lip and on his forehead to stop him fucking sweating!”

  Eddie thumbed the leather and chrome armrest. “I get it, Troy.”

  Troy huffed. “Good. Now imagine living under that kind of pressure. Imagine coming home with anything less than an ‘A’ in your exams. Imagine shitting yourself on the walk home. Imagine the pain when he found out.”

  Eddie watched the torment twisting Troy’s face. He said nothing; just listened.

  “When I turned sixteen, I told him to fuck off. He told the doctors that a car had knocked me off my bike. I remember him looking at me as he told them that. I remember him saying, ‘Didn’t it, Troy?’

  “At eighteen I was gone; he didn’t see me for dust – that was the year my mum ended it all. But I didn’t really have any place to go so I slept rough, took whatever jobs I could get. He found me, dragged me back home, and enrolled me at Leeds University. He wanted me to be a doctor; had some grand idea about me studying plastic surgery and making a fortune. Can you fucking believe it? I rebelled in the purest way I could think of: I went out and I bought some cannabis. When he came home I lit a spliff right in front of him, right in his own lounge.

  “He went straight back out, and didn’t come back for almost an hour. By which time I was wasted. I woke up as he smashed my big toes with the brand new hammer he’d gone out to buy.”

  Troy dragged a sleeve under his nose. “I gave in. But I told him I’d had enough of medicine and wanted to study forensic science instead. That was the only time he compromised in my entire life. He figured if it kept me off the drugs and kept me straight, he’d allow it. He also made the decision to continue having plastic surgery rather than wait for his incompetent son to do it on the cheap. Prick. Can you imagine what I’d have done if I took a scalpel near his face?” He laughed. “I’d have taken his eyes out. He’d never see perfection again. I often wonder if he thought that too – maybe that’s why he allowed me to change my degree.

  “Anyway, I got a job with West Yorkshire Police and I was the best CSI they’d ever had – got the highest grades they’d ever seen. My father acknowledged my success with a nod. No champagne. Just a nod.

  “The hours were long – well, you know – there was always lots of overtime to be had. The pressure at work was almost unbearable too, the procedures and the policies ground me down and I needed something to help me keep afloat.”

  “Amphet.”

  He nodded. “It was great at first, like being given an additional twenty-four hours in every day, like being given an extra set of hands, two brains… you get the idea. Life was easy. And then it wasn’t; it began to feel like everyone else was dragging me down, holding me back with how slowly they did things, you know? I got annoyed easily, and I started picking fights. I felt like I was unravelling.

  “But instead of taking less of the drugs or coming off them altogether, I took more. Stupid. I went on and did coke and pretty soon I couldn’t get out of bed without doing a line.”

  Eddie uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “So how did you manage to come off them when you knew there was a random drugs test coming along?”

  “I didn’t. I got a sample of piss from a blocked urinal the day you told me about it, and I just carried it around in my jacket the whole time until it was needed. And I took downers for a while.”

  “And you stole my challenge. I told you to get your own challenge!”

  “Sorry.” Troy shrugged. “I found out that Benzo doesn’t really mix with Courvoisier. Sorry again. I wanted some booze, and I’d never tried it before.”

  “Nicki found out, too, huh?”

  “Yep. But that was only partly the drugs’ doing. I mean I was fucking angry with her. I was furious, and I thought throwing her off the balcony was just fine. I kept saying how the mighty fall, how the mighty fall. And she did. Bitch nearly took me with her!”

  “And her dad?”

  “Third floor window at Killingbeck.” He clapped his hands once, hard. “Splat onto a metal box,” he grinned. “But do you know why he had to go?

  Eddie leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I can read you like a Ladybird book. You killed him so that no one else in authority could stand in the way of you getting your job back?”

  Troy’s grin flourished. “Wow, you’ve really thought this through, old man. That’s right. I know the others in the office sort of know about it, and I know you do too – but you’re alright, Eddie. You were all for giving me another shot. And now they’re gone… So, if you’re offering the job back…

  “It really was my last chance. If I failed at something again, I think he’d slice me up. Dad, I mean. So do we have a deal? I can start back tomorrow. What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Eddie stood up. “I think you had a bad childhood. But then so did a lot of other people. You grew up being very good at shifting blame onto others and creeping through life feeling like you deserved special treatment. I wouldn’t give you a job cleaning my fucking shoes.”

  Troy’s mouth fell open. “I thought—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you thought, you moron.” Eddie closed in on Troy, and he whispered, “If Benson wasn’t in the next room, I’d rip your fucking head off.”

  In a panic, Troy almost made it to his feet before Eddie landed a punch in his guts.

  Benson barged into the room, followed by Khan and two other plain-clothed officers. “Whoa! Eddie, leave him alone, leave him. He’s not worth it.”

  Eddie stood over Troy, fists ready to turn his face red and runny.

  Khan hoisted Troy to his feet and said, “Troy Ainsley, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Nicki Murphy and Lloyd Crawford…”

  Benson pulled Eddie into the kitchen.

  Eddie asked, “Did you get it?”

  “Course we did. All on tape.”

  He expected Benson to be all smiles, but he was sullen.

  “What did Weismann say to you?”

  Eddie’s gaze dropped to the floor, and a sigh shuddered free. “I wasn’t listening. Just blah, blah, blah. He didn’t have to say anything anyway. I fucked up; I know I fucked up. She pulled a blinder, and I fell for it.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Eddie.”

  “For Jeffery’s murder? Who else is to blame? I steered you wrong.”

  “She steered us both wrong.”

  “Bitch worked it out so well.”

  “Yep.” There was a long pause. “The hospital has been in touch. She stopped breathing and died two hours ago.”

  Author’s Note

  I write crime thrillers, and have done since 1996, the same time I became a CSI here in Yorkshire. All of my books are set in or around our biggest city of Leeds. I don’t write formulaic crime thrillers; each one is hand-crafted to give you a flavour of what CSIs encounter in real life. Every book is rich with forensic insight to enhance your enjoyment.

  Get in touch.

  For more information, or to sign up for my Reader’s Club, visit AndrewBarrett.co.uk. I’d be delighted to hear your comments on Facebook (and so would Eddie Collins) and Twitter. Email me and say hello at andrew@andrewbarrett.co.uk

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  Thanks!

  The idea for this book came originally from one of my best friends; also a CSI, Graeme Bottomley. Thanks, Botts.

  Together we wrote some fantastic scripts for television. The scripts got to the top at the BBC and at YTV, they also made waves at Sky and other places the names of which have become blurred by time. Those short-sighted people back then, ten or twelve years ago, wouldn’t take a punt on something new, and something I believe is still fresh and innovative today, killed the desire to write in one of the most talented and passionate screenwriters I’ve ever read. Botts is the absolute master of dialogue and humour. He’s one of the few writers I envy, and I wish that he’d pick up his pen and write some more.

  To Kath Middleton, and Alison Birch, the editor from re:Written, a huge thank you for making sure the first draft wasn’t the final draft – you will always be the first people to read my books, and consequently always the first to point and laugh at my errors. It’s because of you that this book has turned out as well as it has, and it’s because of me that you had so much work to do to get it there.

  A special thanks to Noelle Holten for the advice she kindly gave concerning the probation service. Any errors are wholly my own – sometimes I just don’t listen. And to the tireless Sarah Hardy of Book on the Bright Side Publicity and Promo who probably had a hand in bringing this book to you – thanks to you, and to the wonderful world of bloggers who are the lifeblood of the book universe.

  Thanks to Patti for reading this thing and putting my mind at rest. And to Nicki Murphy – the real Nicki Murphy – for offering herself to this crazy writer come what may. I think you performed with elegance!

  Thanks also to Helen Boyce in THE Book Club on Facebook, to my friends in the UK Crime Book Club, my Andrew Barrett page, and Rudi, Patti, and the gang in my Exclusive Readers Group for their constant encouragement – who knew readers could be so assertive, demanding… and kind. To those who suffer my newsletter (sign in at andrewbarrett.co.uk), a big thank you for helping me shape this book, and for all your encouragement – you haven’t a clue how valuable that is.

  The Death of Jessica Ripley

  Is dedicated to Sarah Barrett. Thank you, dear, for being there.

  © Copyright 2019

  The rights of Andrew Barrett to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

  Published in the United Kingdom by The Ink Foundry.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

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