by Adam Croft
‘Sort of. I’m alright. I’m good.’
Mark nodded slowly. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it. Josh, go downstairs and see if you can speed things up with dinner, will you? I’m starting to get hungry here.’ Josh did as he was told — not without the slight grunt of a boy fast becoming a teenager — and Caroline watched as he walked through the bedroom door and onto the landing. ‘And really?’ Mark asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘How are you really?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look it.’
‘Oh wow. Thanks.’
‘Listen, we’ll come back Monday night, okay? It gives you a couple of days to sort your head out. But please, look after yourself, yeah? Have some long baths. Candles. Nice music. Get takeaways. Indulge. You probably need it.’
The last thing she needed was private indulgence, but she was in no mood to argue with him. ‘Yeah. I’ll do my best.’
‘Speak tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
Caroline disconnected the call and put the phone down on the floor. Before she could organise her thoughts, there was a knock at the door.
She stood up and walked through into the hallway. She could tell from the blurred figure on the other side of the glass it was Dexter. She was sorely tempted to walk away and pretend she hadn’t heard him knocking, but there was no way he was going to fall for that.
‘What do you want, Dex?’ she said, opening the door.
‘Can I come in?’
‘No.’
‘Look, I know you’re upset with me. I know you think I’ve been disloyal or whatever, but trust me, I haven’t. The only reason I’m sticking with this is out of sheer loyalty to you.’
‘And how do you figure that one out?’
‘Because I’m doing it to prove us right and get to the bottom of things. Fuck EMSOU. I’m doing this for us.’
‘Doing what?’ She looked down at the cardboard box between Dexter’s feet.
‘Look, you might want to let me in. I think I know what’s going on with the Clifton murders.’
46
Dexter emptied the box onto the coffee table in the living room as Caroline tried to get her head around what she was seeing.
‘Dex, these are confidential documents. I’m off the case. I’m suspended. I’m not allowed to see these.’
‘They’re not the originals.’
‘What, so you photocopied them to hide the fact you were breaking the law? That’s even worse.’
‘It’s not breaking the law. It’s circumventing procedure.’
As if her brain wasn’t confused and muddled enough as it was, Caroline was struggling to work out why Dexter was helping her now. If he’d wanted to do the right thing, why hadn’t he fought her corner? He’d had his chance to display his loyalty and he’d chosen not to. And now here he was, risking his career in order to prove a point.
‘Listen, I’ve been doing more research and digging.’
‘Is this a history thing?’
‘History is everything. Trust me on this. I’ve been looking into everything that happened when Rutland Water was formed. The flooding of the villages, the compulsory purchase of the land, the petitions and protests at the time. I’ve been living and breathing this to the point where I can’t see straight. The others think I’m mad. They’re not having any of it. EMSOU don’t even want to see my notes. But I really think I’ve got something.’
‘Go on.’
‘Alright. Here’s a list of the companies that worked on the construction. There’s colour coding to show which aspects they worked on. Some of them were involved in the demolition, some in the building of the dam, various things right up until the original project was deemed completed and signed off.’
‘Right. And?’
‘Notice any familiar names?’
Caroline scanned her eyes down the list. ‘Well yeah, Arthur Clifton Construction. But what’s that got to do with anything? They’re the biggest local construction company, and they’ve been going for decades. Hardly surprising they were involved.’
‘And what if I told you that every single other one of these companies no longer exists? They’ve all gone out of business or been sold off, closed down. Arthur Clifton Construction worked on the demolition and groundworks. They were involved in taking down people’s houses and preparing the ground for the flooding. And they’re the only company left. Anyone with a grudge would only have one company to target. One family. Roger Clifton, owner of the company? Murdered. The company passes down to his brother, who mysteriously appears back from Spain? Murdered. There’s enough here to make a link, I’m sure of it, but we’re missing something.’
‘A suspect?’
Dexter nodded. ‘Yeah. The biggest part of all.’
47
‘So what do we know?’ Dexter said, spreading a number of sheets of paper out over the table. ‘We know there are people who’re angry at what’s happened in Rutland over the years. There’s that Edward Picton guy who’s still going on about the flooding of the villages. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was our man, or if at the very least he could lead us to him. I’m still doing my best on that front, but I need to earn his trust. The fact that we can tie Arthur Clifton Construction in so heavily on this has got to be key. Roger and Arthur weren’t killed because they were brothers; they were killed because they were the owner of the only existing construction company involved.’
‘Okay, but let’s roll back. Why now? Why wait until there’s only one left?’
‘Maybe they didn’t.’
‘No. Makes no sense. These have to be the first murders. They were so blatant and obvious. Roger Clifton was laid out on the rocks and his brother was bludgeoned and strangled on his own sister-in-law’s driveway. It’s got to be a grudge against their company specifically. Shit. What about the original Arthur Clifton? How’d he die?’
‘I already checked it out. Meningococcal septicaemia and pneumonia. Not murder, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘So Roger and his brother are the first generation that’s been targeted, despite only being boys themselves when this all happened. How can we be so sure the link is with the creation of Rutland Water? It could be any business deal gone wrong, far more recently. There are plenty of people with grudges against construction companies.’
‘Then why Normanton Church? I agree with you. The timing’s weird. But there’s got to be a reason for that. We just need to work out what.’
‘If you’re right, we need to set up a meeting with this Edward Picton. Earn his trust. Arrange to meet him somewhere. As soon as possible. Who’s due to inherit Arthur Clifton Construction now?’
‘Yeah, Sara thought of that already.’
‘I bet she did.’
‘Situation unclear. In the hands of the lawyers.’
‘Right. This isn’t something I’d normally say, but tell them to slow the hell down. As soon as they determine someone as the rightful heir, that person’s a sitting duck. We can’t afford a third death on our hands. Not if we’re as close as we think we might be.’
‘On it. Shall I take these papers and things back with me, then? Seeing as you don’t want to break any rules or regulations.’
Caroline raised the corner of her mouth at Dexter’s subtext. ‘Y’know what, if you did accidentally leave them here I don’t suppose it’d be the biggest problem in the world.’
48
Shortly after Dexter left that evening, Caroline went to bed. She woke up late the next morning, having slept more soundly than she had in a long time. She had no idea why, but it felt like something within her had settled.
She spent Sunday afternoon looking through the research and history notes Dexter had left on the coffee table. She’d made good use of the Companies House website, double-checking none of the other businesses existed anymore — not that she doubted Dexter’s thoroughness — and made notes of the names of their directors. But no names stood out.
Nothing seemed to tie in with anything they already knew.
Dexter, on the other hand, had been more than busy. In a matter of hours he’d managed to move things on with Edward Picton and had arranged a rendezvous for that evening. Dexter, under his alter ego, had claimed to be a descendant of one of the families who’d lived in the Hambletons before the flooding. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to get hold of a list of those families — another document Caroline was yet to get round to — on the off-chance Picton managed to rumble him on that front. As far as Edward Picton was concerned, Dexter’s alter-ego Nick Connor was a descendant of the Locke family, who’d lived in Middle Hambleton.
They’d arranged to meet at the Wheatsheaf in Greetham. Caroline had, of course, taken the opportunity to point out that this backed up her theory that every other pub in Rutland was called the Wheatsheaf. Neither of them knew what Edward Picton looked like, but he’d told Dexter’s alter-ego Nick he’d turn up in a blue Ford Focus and would be wearing a black shirt and jeans. They’d arrived early, having planned to park up and wait for his arrival. It would be advantageous for them to get a good look at Picton before moving in, especially as they were without the necessary backup. With everything being done very much off the record, they couldn’t afford to take any personal risks.
Caroline looked at the clock on Dexter’s dashboard. There were still twenty minutes to go until the meeting time. She wound her window down a little to let some fresh air in, and listened to the trickle of the stream that ran down the side of the car park and the pub’s beer garden. It looked like a wonderful place to spend a sunny afternoon, and she made a mental note to come here with Mark and the boys — when they were back.
‘Is it wrong that I’m nervous?’ Dexter asked.
‘I think there’s plenty to be nervous about.’
‘I don’t even know what I’m going to say. I’ve got this whole back story about how my nan had an affair with a bloke from Antigua. I’ve spent more time worrying about how I’m gonna explain the colour of my skin than I have trying to figure out what I want to ask him.’
‘It’ll come. Don’t worry. The main thing is getting ID on who he is. Then it’s a case of finding out who else he’s in contact with and narrowing it down to a suspect.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just don’t want to fuck it up.’
‘You’re not going to fuck it up.’
‘I’ve always worried about letting people down.’
‘You’re not going to let anyone down.’
‘Yeah. I know. But I always worry about it. I always feel that pressure, y’know? I feel like I’ve let my mum and dad down by not being a doctor. I feel like I’m not doing enough for work, as if I should be at it twenty-four hours, constantly going over stuff.’
‘Alright. Firstly, you’re not far off. You spend far more time working over stuff than anyone else I know. And secondly, this is real-life policing. It’s not like the telly. It’s just a job. You leave it at the door.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t, do I? I always want to do everything the best I can.’
‘Yeah, well you’re lucky you’re able to get close. Try having kids and a husband running around. Plus… plus other stuff. You’re lucky you can do your best.’
‘I just don’t feel like I do, you know? I feel like I always come up short.’
‘You’re doing fine, Dex. More than fine. You have nothing to worry about. Trust me.’
‘That’s really kind and all that, but I dunno. I just feel like I have to—’
‘Dex, I’ve got cancer.’
In that moment, all sound stopped. The air no longer whistled past the window. The stream no longer trickled behind them. She’d waited so long to say those words, rolling them over her tongue for weeks and months, and now they were out. And they hung in the air with an atmosphere heavier than she’d ever expected.
49
‘How long?’ Dexter said, finally breaking the silence.
‘What, how long have I had it or how long have I got left?’
‘How long have you had it. Dick.’
Caroline laughed. In one word, Dexter had both settled the atmosphere and cemented their friendship. ‘It was diagnosed a week before we moved up here. Stage two, so you’re not getting rid of me just yet.’
‘What… I mean, where…’
‘Ovarian. The lady bits.’
‘I know what ovaries are. In a parallel universe I’m a doctor, don’t forget.’ Dexter was silent for a moment. ‘That’s ages. Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I didn’t think you were interested in my ovaries.’
‘I’m not, but I’m interested in you being okay.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine, you’ve got… You’re not well.’
‘It’s okay, Dex, you can say it. It’s cancer. I’ve got cancer. There you go. Said it. Done. It’s a perfectly normal thing, it’s being sorted, I’m going to be alright.’
‘Are they treating it?’
‘Paraplatin. Chemotherapy, basically. They did a few rounds of that to see if it’d shrink it enough to operate and remove the tumour, but it’s borderline apparently. They’re pushing for a bigger load of chemo and hoping that’ll do the trick.’
‘What about… I mean, I would’ve thought I’d notice the chemotherapy.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not a wig,’ Caroline said, noticing his eyes flicking up towards her hairline. ‘Paraplatin rarely causes hair loss. I guess that’s why I… Christ, where is he? Maybe we should go inside and wait for him there.’
‘You didn’t tell Mark either, did you?’
‘What? That’s a crazy thing to say. Is this definitely the right pub? I spotted another one further up the road. Maybe we should check that one, just in case.’
‘That’s where you were the other day, isn’t it? When Mark came to drop off your lunch but you weren’t there. You had the day off and he didn’t know. You forgot your lunch because you weren’t going to work. You were going to the hospital.’
‘Dex, I think we should probably focus on the job in hand. This guy could turn up any minute.’
‘And that’s why you collapsed. You’ve been trying to carry on as normal so no-one notices anything’s wrong, but it didn’t work. You didn’t want people to think you couldn’t cope.’
‘I’m coping fine, Dex. In fact I’m the only one of us who’s focusing on what we’ve come here for.’
‘Why haven’t you told him?’
Caroline stayed silent for a few moments. There were no words that seemed right.
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ she said eventually. ‘I didn’t want to hurt them.’
‘I think I’d probably be more hurt if my other half had kept something like that from me.’
‘Yeah, well, everyone’s different. We’ve all got our reasons.’
They sat in silence for a little while longer before Dexter finally sighed, then spoke.
‘He’s not turning up, is he?’
50
Dexter drove Caroline home in almost complete silence. She would’ve preferred to have driven herself, but Mark had taken the car. It was, of course, still absent when she returned home, and she felt strangely sad at seeing the car-less driveway. It was rare she came home to an empty house, and in the light of what had happened it felt even more depressing than usual.
She waved to Dexter and fumbled in her pocket for her house keys. As she did so, she noticed a plant pot had ended up on its side, smashed. The geraniums that’d been on glorious show inside it were scattered on the paving slabs. Must’ve been a fox or some cats fighting, she thought. She sighed and told herself she’d deal with it in the morning. But her relaxed attitude changed the moment she reached her front door.
Something didn’t feel right. She put her key in the lock and turned it, but the door was already unlocked.
She was sure she’d locked it before she left the house. She had, hadn’t she?
A sudden though
t crossed her mind that Mark might have come back with the boys and let himself in. His car was nowhere to be seen, so it was unlikely, but it was the option she most hoped would be true.
She pushed the door open and called out their names, but got no reply.
The house felt eerily quiet. Caroline flicked the switch on the wall, flooding the hallway with light. Almost immediately, she noticed the footprints.
They were large — definitely a man’s — and muddy, too. The length of the stride, leading to the living room and back to the front door again, displayed a clear confidence. Cautiously, she followed them to the living room doorway and peered inside.
Nothing seemed out of place on first sight. She flicked the light switch on and stepped inside, looking around much more carefully now. It was only when she reached the coffee table that she noticed it.
Lying on top of some magazines and bills was something she’d never seen before, but recognised instantly. It was a tourist information leaflet for Normanton Church. She picked it up and opened it, watching as a piece of paper slid out and fell onto the table.
51
Dear Detective Inspector Hills,
I need you to understand what happened — and why.
As far as I’m concerned, justice has been done, as best as it can be done. It doesn’t even come close to making up for what we lost — those valley communities — but knowing those vile bastards are dead and no longer living off the fruits of our misery is at least some consolation.
I need you to know what we went through. Houses are not just buildings. They’re homes. Everything our families had worked for. Gone. Some of those homes had been passed down through generations. My mother was born in our house. So was I. We knew nothing else. Can you imagine waking up one morning to someone telling you they were going to knock down your home and you’d have to move? No option. No appeal. Nothing.