She edged closer, forcing herself to look, to see if there was any sign of life. Erin retched again and her knees gave way. She scrabbled around on the floor, reaching for her mobile in her bag, her hands quivering as she tried to punch in Adam’s number.
‘Erin,’ said Adam, his voice sounding irritated. ‘I’m at dinner, can I call you or Karin in half an hour?’
‘Please come quickly,’ whispered Erin, barely able to say the words. ‘I’m at the house. Karin’s here. I think she’s dead.’
The police got there quicker than Adam. Before Erin had time to process what was happening, the house had been cordoned off, red and blue lights swirled on the street, while officers were milling around with notepads and radios, barking orders and being deliberately vague about what they were doing.
Detective Chief Inspector Michael Wright from Scotland Yard’s murder squad did not look as if he belonged in Karin Cavendish’s drawing room. In fact, he didn’t look as it he belonged in any drawing room. Michael Wright was a cop cliché, at home in the pub and the bookies, lived and breathed the job for twenty years which had cost him his marriage and his health. He smoked forty Lambert & Butler a day and his drinking problem had escalated after his wife Lynn had kicked him out of the house three years earlier.
Sitting in the exquisitely decorated room, staring absently at the Colefax & Fowler wallpaper, DCI Wright wondered how he had failed to raise himself to this level. What choices had he made. He glanced over at Adam Gold, mentally comparing their take-home pay, and suppressed a snort. He had failed in the rat race and he had also failed in his calling, he thought grimly, watching Karin’s body wheeled out of the house. He had failed to clean up the streets and keep this woman safe. But, by God, he would catch the culprit, he thought. The monster who took a life. He ran his hands through his hair and took stock of the scene. Some facts had already been established. The pathologist had estimated the time of death between 8 and 10 p.m. the previous evening. Cause of death was a severing of the carotid artery. She had been smashed over the head with a glass object that lay shattered on the carpet.
‘Can we go over what you know one more time, Mr Gold?’ said Detective Chief Inspector Michael Wright, looking at the smartly dressed man sitting opposite him.
Adam nodded, his head bowed. Michael didn’t like the CEO of the Midas Corporation; there was something dirty about him. Experience and police statistics also gave him more solid reasons to be suspicious of a victim’s partner; and nobody made as much money as Adam Gold without being a ruthless bastard. But he wasn’t about to mention that right now. Men like Gold were connected and could stir up a whole lot of trouble with his superiors if he put a foot wrong.
‘We’d just come back from our engagement party in Italy,’ said Adam flatly. His eyes looked blank. ‘I flew to Paris on business and came back on Monday evening when I went out with my vice president for dinner. Karin and I did not spend every evening together – we’re both extremely busy business people – although we do usually speak. When I hadn’t heard from her by this morning I was a little worried, so I sent my assistant round to her house. And she found her.’
On the face of it, it looked as if Adam’s young assistant had disturbed an intruder. Both the back and side kitchen windows were slightly ajar, although there was no sign of a struggle.
‘So, who were you with between eight and midnight yesterday evening, sir? I just have to establish who was where,’ said Chief Inspector Wright, pen poised over his notebook.
‘My colleague Marcus Blackwell. My assistant can give you his number to confirm it.’ Adam took a business card out of his pocket and gave it to Michael. ‘This is my private number. The number for Erin, my assistant, is on there too.’ He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands and exhaled.
‘I realize this is very difficult, Mr Gold,’ said Wright with practised sympathy. ‘If we can just establish a few more things about last night, I can leave you alone. I’m sure that’s what you want.’
‘Haven’t I given you enough yet?’ snapped Adam.
‘I’m afraid the investigation will be quite intrusive,’ continued Wright. ‘We need to build up as big a picture as we can about Karin’s life. Friends. Enemies. And are you sure Ms Cavendish had no enemies?’
‘Enemies, no,’ said Adam, shaking his head. ‘But I assume you will be checking out that wacko who was harassing her over the summer?’
Michael Wright looked up quickly. ‘A wacko? Who was this?’
‘Some kid named Evan Harris. Parents live in a house that overlooks the back of Karin’s. He was caught peeping and following her over the summer. We got out a harassment order eventually.’
‘And has he given her any trouble since?’
Adam shrugged. ‘No, but he’s a little weirdo. If you don’t investigate him thoroughly then I will arrange for some other people to do so.’
Wright closed his notebook. ‘Don’t throw your money around, Mr Gold. I can assure you we’ll do our job properly.’
He glanced in the hallway. He could see the girl Erin Devereux, who had found the body, still waiting. As he was looking, his sergeant Jim Beswick pushed past her, clearly in a hurry.
‘Anything, Beswick?’ asked Wright.
‘Evan Harris, sir. Some kid that lives close by.’
Adam and Wright flashed a look at each other.
‘He harassed Miss Cavendish over the summer,’ continued Beswick in a lower voice, wary of being overheard by suspects.
‘His fingerprints are already on file and they match prints on the window ledge by the kitchen window.’
‘What are you waiting for?’ growled Michael Wright. ‘Let’s bring him in.’
Erin arrived home just as it was getting dark, never more thankful to see her apartment. She had been questioned by the gruff Chief Inspector for forty minutes and had felt guilty for every one of them. She was sure she must have looked it, too.
Just as she was putting her key in the lock, she heard the noise of a door opening. She turned round.
‘Hey Erin,’ said Chris with a look of concern.
‘Hi,’ she said quietly, silently willing him to be nice. The thing she needed right now was a friend, not a reminder of how things had soured between them.
‘I was about to come and see if you’re okay. I heard about Karin from the newsroom at work.’
She nodded, feeling a tear slide down her cheek, the events of the past month suddenly becoming too much to bear.
He moved towards her and folded his arms around her. She stayed very still, inhaling the smell of the jumper, feeling momentarily protected.
‘Let’s go inside,’ he said, pushing her front door open and leading her to the sofa.
Erin curled up on the sofa, hugging herself, while Chris went straight over to the kettle.
‘Did you know I found her?’ said Erin quietly after Chris had returned and sat down opposite her.
Chris shook his head and handed her a cup of coffee. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
She wanted to trust Chris. Had to trust him. She was too scared, lonely and anxious to carry the burden alone. Chris moved across to the sofa and she swung her legs around, tucking her feet under him.
‘I’m scared the police are going to think I did it,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be daft. Just because you found the body, it doesn’t mean the police will be suspicious,’ he said, his voice upbeat and reassuring.
Erin looked at him, hesitating. ‘If I tell you something, do you promise you’re not going to think I killed her?’
‘Of course not,’ he said evenly, his curiosity prickling.
‘I had a fight with Karin in Como,’ she said, and began to tell Chris the story Jilly had told her days earlier and Karin’s response when she had confronted her. As she did so, she began to see just how bad, just how guilty she looked, and she became scared.
‘Chris, if the police find out about our families, I’m screwed, aren’t I?’ she said, a feeling
of dread growing in her stomach. ‘If they find out that my dad committed suicide because Karin’s father ruined his business – well, it doesn’t look good does it? It could look like a motive for murder, look as if I want revenge.’
Chris remained silent and Erin felt a chill. ‘I didn’t do it,’ she whispered.
‘I know that,’ said Chris, moving closer and stroking her hair. He looked awkward and then stopped. She surprised herself by wishing he would do it again.
‘But you’re right, it doesn’t look good. If you’re interviewed again you should tell the police what you’ve just told me. Better you tell them than they find out on their own.’
‘Well, let’s hope they find who did it quickly. Do you have any friends at the newspaper who might know if they have any suspects?’
‘I could give my mate Mark on the crime desk a ring. He’s bound to be involved in the story.’
Erin felt a glimmer of hope. ‘Oh can you do it? Please?’
Chris nodded and reached for the phone.
65
If Summer Sinclair had watched the six o’clock news she would have seen that Karin Cavendish’s death was the dominant story. Instead she had run a hot bubble bath and switched off her mobile, lowering herself into the hot water, oblivious to everything happening outside her bathroom door. In fact, at that moment, oblivion seemed like a desirable option to Summer; a little voice in her head kept telling her to slip under the suds and not resurface. But, as she lay there letting the water cool around her body, she forced herself to consider her situation in a more optimistic light. There has to be an upside to all this, she thought, popping bubbles between her fingertips. It was such early days with her pregnancy she could possibly still take the role in Krakatoa. More importantly, the situation concerning Adam could be a lot worse. Although he seemed to be in a state of denial about Summer’s pregnancy, Adam had not mentioned the dreaded word ‘abortion’ – there was a little sparkle of hope there at least. A baby meant that Summer would always have him in her life, even if eventually their child became just a reminder of their time together. And there was still the chance that, as Summer’s pregnancy progressed, Adam might have a change of heart and want to raise their child together. It was a slim hope, but a hope nevertheless.
She felt a sudden surge of anger that James Bailey, her father, had been denied that opportunity. While Summer wanted to get some distance between herself and Molly after their latest row, she was desperate to find out more about James – who he was, where he lived. The funny thing was that, throughout all those years that Summer had believed Jeff Bryant was her natural father, she had never had any real desire to meet him; stubbornly rejecting him for turning his back on Molly and herself. But James Bailey had had no idea that Summer even existed. He’d been duped, and they both deserved the chance to get to know one another. If he wanted to, of course. If he was even still alive.
She climbed out of the bath feeling more positive but slightly headachy, which she put down to the humidity in the bathroom. An hour later, however, the dull thud in her head had spread down her body, with sharp cramps in her stomach. She rubbed her palm lightly against her tummy, hoping that it would pass, but as the minutes ticked by and the pains began to get more frequent, she began to become frightened. Any pregnant woman in her first trimester was always haunted by the idea of miscarriage, and Summer was no exception. Heart in her throat, she crawled into bed and curled tight in the fetal position, finally managing to drift into a light sleep. But when she woke, just as the light was creeping through her curtains, she was sweating and nauseous and, with a rising sense of panic, she realized the pains had become stronger. She staggered to the kitchen to make herself breakfast, but she couldn’t face it; besides, the cramps were coming every few minutes now. Adam had insisted she see a top Harley Street obstetrician and an appointment had been pencilled in for the following Monday, but Summer knew it wouldn’t wait that long. She looked upwards. Despite the row, she needed Molly’s help now more than ever. She climbed the stairs, her head swirling, and knocked on the door. Her heart sank as she realized there was no one home. The ache was really gaining pace now, like a boulder that was beginning to roll down a steep slope, picking up dust and sharp shards of rock as it went. There was also a nagging sensation around her shoulder, as if she had pulled a muscle. She knew her local GP often saw patients without an appointment if they turned up at the surgery, so Summer pulled on some jogging bottoms and a sweater to leave the house. She had only just set foot on the pavement when a pain seared through her abdomen, so sharp and severe it was as if she was being sawn in two. She wondered if she could make it back into the flat, but her legs felt too weak. She clutched onto the front garden wall and vomited onto the pavement. She tried to breathe but could feel no oxygen reaching her lungs; her head was so dizzy it was as if a ball bearing was whirling maniacally around her brain. The pain was almost unbearable now and her sight was blurring, until the houses and trees on the street were just a series of muted colours and shapes in front of her eyes. She tried to reach for her mobile phone but all strength had abandoned her body. The last thing she felt was a soft thud against the side of her head.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’ asked a soft female voice as Summer opened her eyes a fraction. She was disorientated and frightened, but she could tell she was in an ambulance. Two paramedics were staring at her, one male, one female, their faces fixed in concerned expressions. The sounds around her were distant and distorted, as if she was listening to them through water.
‘A neighbour found you on the street but couldn’t really tell us anything. Are you suffering from any known condition?’ asked the female paramedic as the siren screamed in the background. A tear trickled down her cheek. ‘I’m pregnant,’ whispered Summer as she began to lose consciousness once more. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Summer opened her eyes, squinting in the bright fluorescent light. She could see the dirty, peeling paint of a ceiling and faces staring down at her, at least five or six. Doctors in white coats, and nurses.
‘Where am I? What’s happening?’ she croaked.
A female doctor spoke. ‘I’m Doctor Shaw, Summer. Your pregnancy is ectopic, which means that the fetus is growing outside of your womb.’
‘My baby. Is it okay?’ whispered Summer.
‘Your Fallopian tube has ruptured. You’ve had morphine to ease the pain, but we’re going to have to take you into surgery immediately.’
Summer was conscious enough to know that this was not good news. And the pain was still there, consuming her whole body like fire. A nurse had picked up her hand and was checking her pulse. Summer did not miss the urgent, concerned glance she gave to the doctor.
‘The pulse is very low,’ said the nurse.
Doctor Shaw pointed towards the door, ordering everybody into action. ‘We need to get her to theatre now,’ she said urgently. ‘Has anyone been called, is anybody with you?’ asked the doctor as Summer could feel her bed being pushed along. She was scared, so scared, she could feel the life beginning to drain out of her body,
‘Am I going to die?’ whispered Summer, trying to lift her hand off the bed.
Dr Shaw put her hand over Summer’s. It felt warm and strong. ‘Who should we call?’ she said kindly. Summer could read the older woman’s face. A flash of pity, concern and sadness that the doctor could not disguise.
‘My phone,’ whispered Summer, ‘my phone is in my bag. Molly Sinclair.’ Their disagreements were suddenly irrelevant. She wanted her mother to be there.
Her bed was being wheeled faster now, through some swinging doors, the bright lights of the hospital almost blinding her. Summer’s hands were trembling. If she was going to die, she didn’t want to die alone. It was becoming too difficult, too draining to speak. She lifted her hand off the bed to motion to the doctor, but drifted into unconsciousness once more.
Detective Chief Inspector Michael Wright sat in the semidarkness of his two-bedroom flat in Putney. It was a cramp
ed space, sold to him as ‘a bijou apartment in the best part of London’. He snorted to himself as he took a cold beer from the fridge, thinking about Karin Cavendish’s palatial home. Not that all her money did her a great deal of good, he thought, lifting the beer to his lips. He rubbed his temples and groaned. What a day. He’d spent three hours interviewing Evan Harris, but had still not been able to charge him. His solicitor had been particularly sharp and aggressive; it appeared that the boy’s parents had money and had instructed some expensive hotshot to help their son. Michael knew he should be at the station, but he was so tired he couldn’t even think straight any more, and the cold beer sliding down his dry throat was the only pleasurable experience he’d had in days.
He sat in a frayed armchair, not bothering to turn on the light. The glow from the street cast a dim light that suited his mood. It was moments like this when Michael Wright found he could think most clearly, when his mind was relaxed by alcohol and he sat alone with no distractions, slotting the pieces of his case together, like a jigsaw, until it all made sense and the picture became clear. As he turned the pieces over in his mind, Wright felt a sense of unease; something in the investigation didn’t seem right. All the signs pointed to Harris: the boy’s bedroom had been full of newspaper cuttings about Cavendish, he had a harassment order against him and, mostly importantly of all, when the prints of Karin’s windowsill had matched those in the file, Harris had finally admitted to being in Karin’s garden the night of her death. He was an obsessive, an eighteen-year-old loner who clearly had abandonment issues. Whilst he still lived with his parents, it was obvious Evan saw little of them; from what Michael could sense he was desperate to love and be loved by somebody. But that didn’t make him a murderer.
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