by Karina Evans
“Right. But I don’t like it. I have nothing to do with Olivia Marchant’s death and you know it. Talk to the owner of the B&B — Cara — to see if she saw me go back up that night. Get the CCTV from Market Square. And hurry, or I will.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“You’d bloody better.”
Dominic took Isobel downstairs to introduce herself to the burglary team, returning to the office, where Heather was standing, talking on the phone, with a grin on her face.
“New lover?” Dominic joked.
“No, it’ll always be you,” Heather returned, covering the phone’s microphone. “Just got some results back from Olivia’s post mortem, that’s all.”
“Ha, very flattering. Ok, come find me when you’ve got everything.” Dominic walked over to his desk and took a swig of cold coffee. He knew Isobel had nothing to do with Olivia’s death, but he wasn’t sure how to prove it. He decided to start with the CCTV, and just as he picked up his keys and phone to head to the council offices, Heather approached him.
“Sit down,” she ordered. “This is a shocker.” The colour had drained from her face, but mirth played around her mouth; almost as though she was enjoying the sequence of revelations she was about to disclose to Dominic.
“Initial post-mortem shows that Olivia Marchant died from asphyxiation, strangulation, as with the other victims. However, she also has scratches on her lower arms and bruise marks on her upper arms. So I asked for her fingernails to be checked for debris — if someone scratched her the chances are she may have scratched back. And she did. Olivia Marchant scratched her attacker, and her attacker is on our system.”
“Go on.”
“I expected it to be that Damon guy again; you know, the one in for attacking Violet prior to her death? That would be nice and tidy, right? But it’s not. The DNA… the skin… under Olivia Marchant’s fingernails is on our system as elimination forensics, in other words, taken from an officer to eliminate them from crime scenes —”
Dominic rolled his eyes. “I know what that means.”
“Of course you do, but I just want to be clear here. The DNA belongs to no other than the inimitable golden girl… Isobel Hester. Isobel Hester killed Olivia Marchant.”
Dominic thudded his fist on the desk in front of him. “But we know Isobel wouldn’t have killed her!”
“We do? I certainly don’t.”
Dominic stood up quickly. It was more important than ever to find proof Isobel had remained at home that evening. He felt rage bubbling under as he realised how pleased Heather had been to break this news to him, but he knew he needed to keep her on-side; he might need her to help him gather evidence that would clear Isobel and lead them all to the Shorestone Killer.
“But the scratches — the Shorestone Killer doesn’t scratch, does he? Olivia has injuries that aren’t compatible with the MO of the Shorestone Killer — could it be that she sustained these scratches during her altercation with Isobel?”
“Isobel didn’t disclose them.”
“She might not have known about them.”
“She didn’t disclose the physicality of the altercation — she made it sound as though it was verbal.”
“She was worried how it would look.”
“Rightly so. It looks to me as though Isobel killed Olivia Marchant and we need to nick her.”
“I think we need more.”
“No, I have more than enough to arrest her.”
“Let me do it.”
“Ok.”
“And, Heather?”
“Yes.”
“Stop being so bloody smug.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Isobel sat at the table, biting her fingernails. She had contacted a solicitor she knew from Hamhill, and he had dropped his caseload to drive over to Shorestone for her. Francis Chambers, a 68-year-old man very close to retirement, now sat opposite Isobel in interview room four.
“Can I call my daughter? I need to know that she’s ok. I usually check in with her every day.”
“I’ll ask in a minute. Tell me about the scratches, Isobel. That’s what they’ve got on you.”
“We both lost control — we were so angry with each other. I don’t remember much; I saw red, literally. The blood was pounding through my head and behind my eyes. I couldn’t see. We sort of flew at each other, scratching and pulling at clothes… see —?” Isobel rolled up her sleeve to reveal a long scratch extending from her wrist to her elbow. “There’s also another here.” She opened the top three buttons of her shirt, pulling it down and to the side, revealing a longer scratch, running from the front of her shoulder diagonally across her chest. “That’s what they’ve got on me. That’s ALL they’ve got on me. The rest of her injuries, presumably, are the same MO as the Shorestone’s Killer’s other victims.”
“I don’t know that, but I’ll get full disclosure before the interview — I’ll go and find DI White straight away. I’ll ask DS Fraser to return to sit with you.”
“There’s no need for me to be accompanied, Francis. Seriously? And by Heather? She hates me.”
“You know the score, Isobel. A rule’s a rule. They’ve taken photographs of your injuries, haven’t they?” Isobel nodded. “Good. And as soon as they’ve swabbed you, you can move out of the dry cell into a normal one — it doesn’t make things any more pleasant when you don’t have a toilet or sink in your cell. I’ll be back soon.” Francis opened the door and nodded to Heather, who was standing chatting with the custody sergeant at the bridge. “DI Dominic White will disclose,” she called over to Francis. “I’ll sit with Isobel.”
Heather took a seat over from Isobel. “I’ve brought swab and nail clipping kits with me,” she said. “Let’s get this over and done with, then you can piss without me watching you.”
“Yes, because I would definitely piss on my own hands to get rid of evidence. Can I call my kid?” Isobel replied.
“Not yet. Surely you can see how it looks? You omitted some very important details when you gave your statement.”
“Those details were likely to make you think I had murdered people. I used a little creative omission, that’s all.”
Heather raised her eyebrows. “You’re a police officer, Isobel. A seemingly successful one at that,” she added, cuttingly. “Why you would think that omission is a good statement strategy is beyond the realms of belief.”
Isobel opened her mouth as though to retort, but thought better of it. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
Heather swabbed Isobel’s hands, clipped her nails and sealed the samples in evidence bags. Isobel sat silently throughout the process, contemplating what this might mean for her. She had always had faith in the justice system, which was why she became a police officer — following evidence and using science to solve crimes sat well with her, and the advancement of forensics techniques over the past few decades excited her. But today, for the first time in years, Isobel could see how science could turn against her; how that, as the only DNA found on Olivia’s body, she might be the person who went to prison for murder when, at worst, she was guilty of an ABH. It didn’t help that she had Heather sitting opposite her, the one woman who would delight in Isobel being sent down for a long time. Neither woman spoke until Heather had finished taking the samples. “I’m going to put you in a cell for a bit,” Heather said, gesturing for Isobel to follow her. “I’m happy to take you to a different police station, if you’d feel more comfortable?”
“That would mean a sixty-mile trip,” Isobel replied. “I certainly couldn’t go to Hamhill, so you’d have to head east to Hurstwind. Not sure what the point of that would be.” Isobel shrugged. “You know I didn’t murder Olivia, so all I ask is that you work on finding out who did.”
“It certainly looks like you did,” Heather replied. “And I can’t say I’m surprised; you’ve never been one to abide by any sort of rule or etiquette, have you?”
“I thought we had sorted this? I can see how you’
re enjoying this. Just take me to the cell.”
Isobel followed Heather in silence, walking down the corridor of the 1970s custody block towards cell F8. They made the short walk in silence, other than Heather directing Isobel to remove her plimsolls and leave them outside the door of the cell. Isobel walked in, standing in the middle of the small room, her back to the door. “Heather,” she said. “Don’t let your past kill your future. I know there’s someone kind lurking underneath. I’ve seen how fond you are of Dominic. Let him see you are a good person.”
Heather stood still for a few seconds before closing the door and silently padding back down the corridor, trying to ignore the truth of what Isobel had just said. As Isobel listened for Heather’s footsteps to die away, she felt her eyes prickle with tears; not much made her feel emotional these days, but on this day, this sunny day in July, Isobel Hester fell to her knees on the concrete floor, curled herself into a ball, and cried.
Isobel laid on the thin mattress on the bench in cell F8, wincing as she felt the hard bench underneath it. Now she understood why the detainees complained at every opportunity — innocent until proven guilty didn’t feel so good when the privilege of comfort had been removed. She had avoided using the toilet so far, but eight hours into her time in custody, she knew she couldn’t last much longer. Suddenly her small room and tiny bathroom in the B&B felt like luxury.
Isobel was just considering getting up to use the toilet when she heard footsteps coming down the corridor, stopping outside her cell. The hatch dropped, and Dominic’s familiar face appeared. Isobel’s stomach flipped and, for the first time in hours, she felt that perhaps everything would be ok.
“Dominic! Please tell me you have some news?”
“Yes, well, kind of. The DNA under your nails came back as Olivia’s, as you would know, and the DNA under Olivia’s nails matched yours, so that’s expected. We have fully disclosed to your solicitor and can now interview you. However, it can’t be me and Heather, for obvious reasons, so we’ve handed over to a DI and DS from another section. They have the Shorestone Killer files and I’ve briefed them. I’ll pop down later and see how you are.”
“What? Dominic, help me. It wasn’t me. You KNOW it wasn’t!”
“I know it wasn’t you, Isobel, and that just isn’t enough right now. I can’t prove it. I’m doing everything I can, within the limits of the law.”
“At least Heather’s off the case — she wasn’t doing me any favours at all. Can I call someone? I’m meant to be meeting him tonight.”
“Who?”
“Scarlett’s dad — my ex from a long-time ago and we had arranged to meet for a chat.”
“Sure. Someone will monitor though the call, though.”
“No problem, thank you.”
Dominic led Isobel to the bridge in the middle of the custody centre and passed her the phone handset before walking off to grab a coffee. The coffee in custody was even grimmer than that in the CID office, and he vowed to remember to bring his own for the next shift.
The Sergeant Robbins looked thoughtful while scrolling through Isobel’s contacts to find Robert’s details. “Edwards-Walsh, that rings a bell. Posh name for these parts — can’t think how I know that name. Never mind.” He tapped the number into the phone and Isobel leaned on the perspex screen on the custody bridge, listening to the phone ring. Finally, Robert answered.
“Hello?”
“Hey… erm… I can’t come and meet you at the Inn. Something’s come up.”
“What?”
“Just work stuff. I’ll.. we’d better catch up when work isn’t so busy. I’ll call you.”
Robert paused. “That doesn’t work for me. I would quite like to see you.”
“Yes, but I’m busy. I’ll call you.”
“That’s not great for me, Isobel. I need to talk to you. Just pop in to have a quick drink, maybe? Scarlett might be here.”
“I really can’t. And I don’t like the way you are speaking to me.”
Robert’s voice was taut, as though he were thinly veiling a hysteria. “Your choice. You’ll regret this. I’ll let Scarlett know.”
Isobel felt a chill run down her spine; Robert had sounded so cold and vaguely threatening. Suddenly, she felt as though she needed to protect Scarlett.
She handed the phone back to the sergeant, who still had a quizzical look on his face. “It’ll come to me, you know,” he said. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“I need to go back to my cell.”
“Hey, Dom. Take her back down, would you?”
“Are you ok, Isobel? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I need help, Dominic. I need you to find Scarlett — check that she’s ok. She’s with my ex — The Shorestone Trader Inn, 7 pm. There’s a photo of her on the lock screen of my phone.”
Dominic led a shaking Isobel back to her cell, assuring her he would check on Scarlett straight after he had spoken to Cara at the B&B. Isobel had never looked so vulnerable — black smudges clouded the pale skin under her eyes, and the weight of worry had softened her usually perfect posture, leaving her looking older than her years. They had given her an oversized custody-issue paper-suit, which swamped Isobel’s frame and had torn at the bottom where she had trodden on the hems. Dominic wanted to hold her, to tell her it would all be ok, that he had faith in her and knew that she wasn’t capable of murder, but he held back. The best he could do for Isobel was to clear her name. Giving her shoulder a squeeze, he left her in the cell, closing the door behind him. He leant his forehead on the cold wall next to Isobel’s cell before taking a deep breath, straightening himself and walking out of the custody block to clear his colleague’s name.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dominic stood dripping in the doorway of the B&B, trying to convince Cara to let him in. He was ill-prepared for the rain and the sudden July downpour had taken him by surprise.
“I don’t know if there’s much I can do to help, you know,” Cara said. “I didn’t realise it was THAT Isobel when I booked her in. Not sure I’d have taken her in, you know, not with her abandoning her baby and all. Abandoning. Like she was an old handbag or an unwanted pair of shoes. Disgusting, isn’t it?”
Dominic took a deep breath. “Cara, this is really important. People… young women are dying in Shorestone and we need to stop it happening again. Besides, you could at least lend me a towel.”
Cara sighed. “You know, I’ve always thought I was a fair person, but there are many things I can’t understand. Abandoning your child being one —”
“I’m not sure judgement helps in these situations; we don’t know what was happening back then. This was years ago, and surely you recognised her name when you booked Isobel in?”
“No, the kid’s got her dad’s surname. Posh.”
“Double-barrelled? That’s ringing a bell.” Dominic shook his head. “Never mind, totally irrelevant. Anyway, we need your help. Isobel is guilty of a lot of things, but murder isn’t one of them. What did you hear and see that night?”
Cara looked at Dominic’s face as though searching for a reason to want to help him. She seemed to find what she was looking for and gestured for him to follow him into the office, where she ushered him to a worn office chair, before plonking a weak cup of coffee in front of him.
“Any chance of another spoonful of coffee in here, please? And a towel?”
Cara looked at Dominic as though he had lost the plot, tutting as she went to retrieve a towel from the linen cupboard. She passed it to him and went to a cabinet in the corner of the room to grab a jar of instant coffee.
“Thank you, Cara,” said Dominic as he rubbed his hair dry with the frayed towel. “It’s very kind of you to be so obliging.” He watched as Cara silently heaped another spoonful of coffee into his cup, stirring the light beige liquid until it darkened slightly, leaving granules of instant coffee floating and spinning on the top of the coffee. She seemed mesmerised by the movement of the granules, resting h
er head in her hands as she watched them swirling clockwise before attempting to fish them out with the tip of her finger. Dominic put his hand on the top of the cup. “No need, Cara.” She looked up, startled at his snappiness. “But, thank you, anyway. Now, start at the beginning. What happened? Tell me everything.”
Cara stared thoughtfully at Dominic, beginning her monologue about the evening in question.
She had been cleaning the top floor hallway when Isobel had run out of her room, thundering past her as though the place was on fire. She hadn’t even noticed Cara in her hurry and, even if she had, Cara thought she would have run over her, through her, whatever it took to get her where she needed to be.
Cara had followed her down, intrigued as to what had unsettled her hard-nosed guest so much that she had run from her room so quickly that she hadn’t even had time to close the door. Reaching the stairs leading down to the first floor, Cara heard insistent knocking on a door on the bottom floor. She assumed it was Room One, seeing as she still had no other booked-in guests. She crept quietly down the first floor stairs and stood on the landing above Room One, hoping to catch snippets of conversation. She could hear raised voices but they were muffled, so she didn’t know what they were talking about. She descended the final flight of stairs, standing behind the small reception desk close to Room One where snatches of a heated discussion reached her, and she was able to make out that Isobel was confronting Olivia about a death that had happened a long time ago. Cara heard what she supposed was a scuffle, but couldn’t tell who started it. The screeches, she said, were like dogs fighting and she was just about to come out from behind reception to break up whatever was happening when the door to Room One opened. Cara had ducked behind the desk so as to not be seen and from there she heard the front door slam. She sat down on the floor, realising that she was in for the long haul as, to fulfil her own curiosity, she needed to know who had stomped off and who had remained. She was just coming to the assumption that Isobel had stormed off and Olivia had remained in her room when Room One’s door creaked open and footsteps ascended the stairs next to her. She didn’t see who they belonged to, she said, but she did tiptoe up the stairs twenty minutes later and found Isobel’s door shut, presumably by Isobel herself, clarifying that it was most likely it had been Olivia who had left the B&B and Isobel who had remained inside.