For a moment they went back to their work, but Sonia was restless.
“I had a visit from Jo Curzon and her sister earlier,” she said with her fingers hovering over the keys. “It was a bit embarrassing, to be honest.”
“How come?” Lana began sorting the receipts again. She couldn’t be sure she’d got them in the correct order.
“Gil did one of his drawings and gave it to Jo’s sister. She’s a detective.” Sonia turned, stretching her neck because she’d been at the computer too long. “It was of Dean’s crashed motorcycle. It was really gruesome.”
“Oh dear,” Lana said, imagining what Gil would have drawn. She knew his pictures were exceptional and accurate. “But how did he know what to draw? He wasn’t at the crash.”
“You’re right, he was with me that evening,” Sonia said quickly. “And I could have done without them coming round implying things that aren’t true. Gil coped in a similar way after Simon died, if you remember.”
Lana didn’t. The aftermath of her brother’s suicide had gone on around her as if she didn’t exist. Of course she recalled the police and the relatives and the doctors and journalists and several weeks off school as if it had all happened yesterday. But she also felt she’d been shielded and protected from the truth, the intricate details, the whys and the hows and the process that had, over the months, turned her parents into strangers.
But she nodded in agreement, knowing from experience that this was easier.
“Poor Gil,” she said. “He’ll be suffering no end.”
“I tried to explain to the detective but I’m not sure she understood.” Sonia’s hands were shaking now as they hovered over the keyboard. “If you see Freddie, perhaps you could reiterate what I said about Gil. It might filter back to his aunt.”
“Sure,” Lana said. “Freddie says she handled a really important murder case last year. I remember it from the news.”
She waited for her mum’s reaction. She knew that on the one hand she was in complete awe of people with jobs like Lorraine’s (she was surprised they hadn’t had Jo and her sister round for dinner yet), but on the other she was now petrified by the sight of a police car, a uniform, an ambulance with its lights flashing. It was no wonder, she thought. The day they lost Simon was filled with all that and more.
They worked silently side by side for another five minutes; then Sonia shut down the laptop.
“I think I’ll go to the cemetery,” she announced. “Would you like to come?”
Lana stared up at her. Her mum had no idea how much she hated going there. She couldn’t bear gathering up the rotten flowers or standing talking to the plaque they’d had carved out of expensive marble as if Simon were still alive, as if he might burst up through the earth, shake himself down, and carry on as if nothing had happened.
“You go,” she said. “I’ll finish up here and do the shopping on the way home. I’ll take care of the horses too.”
“Are you sure?” Sonia sounded disappointed.
“I’m certain,” she replied.
Then, as her mother collected her bag and keys and put her sunglasses on her head, Lana reached out and took her hand.
“Mum?”
“What is it, love?”
There was a bang followed by swearing as Frank emerged from the shower room.
Lana took a breath to force out the words she’d been desperate to ask for months and months: “Why did Simon do it?”
Her words rang through the hall, stopping even Frank in his tracks, his bucket clattering. Her mum’s hand stiffened within hers.
“Love …” Sonia began. “I …” She stopped, her mouth open, her eyes closed. A moment later she was gone, mumbling an apology, promising they’d talk later.
Lana knew they wouldn’t.
FRANK HAD THE kind of arms that could sweep up a young child effortlessly, haul a catering-sized sack of potatoes onto his shoulder without a thought, break up a pub fight with ease, or, it turned out, offer a tight and comforting hug just at the right moment.
“You don’t want to go getting all upset now, do you?” he said.
Lana’s cheek was pressed against his chest. She wasn’t sure if she should be terrified or grateful. In all the time she’d known him, Frank had never touched her. Certainly not pulled her this close, or rested his mouth against her hair as he was doing now.
She moved her head. He didn’t let go. Only when his hands traveled down her back and back up again, his fingers reaching too far around her sides for comfort, did she attempt to pull away. For a second he gripped her, making her catch her breath; then he let go and she could breathe again.
“Thanks, Frank,” she said. But he’d made her heart pound.
“Your brother was a good lad and what happened was terrible. No one’s seen anything like it around here before. All those kids killing themselves.”
Lana nodded, watching as Frank filled the kettle. His tattoos rippled over his strong, sinewy forearms.
“But asking your mother questions she can’t answer isn’t going to do anyone any good, is it? You need to move on. Surely that’s what your brother would want.”
He stared at her, those silver-blue eyes softening just a little.
“More tea?”
Lana swished her hair back. “Only if you don’t put sugar in this time,” she said with a grin.
They decided to sort out the bags of clothes together. Lana wondered if she’d misread Frank over the last couple of years. Maybe he was one of those gentle giants, the kind of man who would silence even the roughest of pubs when he walked in but turn out to be as tender as a lamb. Looks could be deceiving, she told herself.
They put the clothes into piles—winter and summer, male, female, different sizes. There were shoes too, belts, hats, CDs and books, a portable radio, and even a couple of old cell phones.
Frank was incredulous. “You sure your mum doesn’t want these things?”
“I’m pretty certain. She hates hoarding stuff. The only reason we haven’t got rid of Simon’s things before now is … well, you know.”
Lana turned to fetch another bag of clothes from the back hall, taking the opportunity to blow her nose as she did so.
“I’ll have to go recruiting again to fill all these clothes,” Frank said when she returned. He was holding up one of her father’s sweaters, and smiling.
Lana had to look away from his rotten teeth. “Recruiting?”
“You know, go and find me some more homeless lads. The rate they keep dropping off, we’ll have spare beds.”
Lana didn’t like the throaty laugh that followed, which ended in a clogged-up smoker’s cough.
“Where do you find them?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t. She should go home. Since her mum left half an hour ago it had been just her and Frank at New Hope, apart from Abby, who was still sleeping.
“Everywhere and anywhere,” he replied. He stood and carried a pile of coats over to a large table. When he’d dumped them, he ran his hands down the front of his grimy jeans. Lana hadn’t noticed how strong his legs looked until now. “Parks, public toilets, shop doorways, you name it. Come dusk, there are plenty who appreciate a warm bed for the night.”
“I see,” Lana said, trying not to imagine Frank herding up young lads from public toilets. She couldn’t help glancing at his right hand. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, showing her his grazed and scabbed knuckles. “You should see the other bloke,” he joked. Then the rotten grin again.
“I’d better go,” Lana said, hunting around anxiously for her bag and keys.
Frank was suddenly close again, dangling her bag by its strap.
“Of course, not all of them deserve a bed, you know. Some of them don’t appreciate the work your mum and I do here.” His voice was slow and deep.
“Oh?” Lana said, wishing Frank would hand over her bag. Her hand was on the strap but he wasn’t letting go.
“Some of them would steal from
their grandmother’s grave, given half the chance.”
Finally, Frank let go. She hooked the strap over her shoulder and started to walk off, but he caught her by the arm and pulled her close, making her gasp with fright.
“Between you and me,” he growled, “one or two of them deserve everything they get.”
His laugh followed her all the way out to her car.
13
The rain had washed them out of the castle grounds before they’d even started their picnic. The sky had quickly yellowed and grayed, transforming the ancient and crumbling buildings into a color not normally visible to the human eye.
The café was packed with lunchtime trade, so Lorraine and Jo drank cups of tea and hot chocolate, and surreptitiously ate the sandwiches they’d brought, passing them under the table. Stella was reading the Kenilworth Castle guidebook, while Freddie stared at his phone, his knee jiggling beneath the table.
“Why don’t we just go home?” Jo said when it was clear the weather had set in.
“How about the cinema instead, kids?” Lorraine suggested.
Kids seemed a ridiculous fit for Freddie these days. He reluctantly agreed, not wanting to upset his younger cousin.
“This gives us a chance to pay a visit,” Lorraine said to Jo on the drive to the cinema.
“A visit? Where? Aren’t we watching the film too?”
“I thought we could drop into the local police station and find out how things are progressing with Sonia’s stolen computer.”
Jo pulled an incredulous face. “That computer will be long gone by now and no one apart from you cares. Not even Sonia gives a hoot about the damn thing anymore.”
Lorraine grinned. “OK, I admit I want to mention Gil’s drawing and give the visor to the officer in charge.”
Jo sighed. “Don’t, Ray. If the police go to see Gil, it’ll upset him no end. Not to mention what it’ll do to Sonia.” She stared out the passenger-side window, shaking her head.
“Actually, I have no choice,” Lorraine said. “It seems to me that Gil may have witnessed something very important. Besides, there are special procedures in place for dealing with people like him.”
THE WARWICKSHIRE JUSTICE Center was a five-minute walk from the cinema, where they’d left Freddie in charge of Stella. They went up the front steps of the modern white building and entered the police department.
“I won’t be long,” Lorraine said, guiding Jo to a row of seats.
She went up to the desk to explain who she was and why she was there, and was then taken through the security door and led up several flights of stairs. Moments later she was standing in the office of the detective who’d been in charge of the Dean Watts case. He was sitting at his desk, facing a window that looked out onto the back of a row of terraced houses and drainpipes. Raindrops wiggled down the small square of glass. All Lorraine could see of the detective was the curve of his shoulders and a balding mottled patch on the back of his head. When she knocked lightly on his open door, he swung round, an expectant look on his plum-shaped face.
Lorraine froze, but it was too late to back out.
Fuck.
“Good grief,” he said slowly, heaving himself out of his desk chair. “If it isn’t Lorraine Fisher.” The smirk thinned his lips, as if her name had left a bitter taste on them.
Greg Burnley. His accent was certainly the same, flecked with phlegm and smudged-together words. He had less hair now, and he’d lost weight, though not a lot, Lorraine thought grudgingly.
“Detective Inspector Fisher, in case you’ve forgotten,” she shot back. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” Or ever again, she thought, forcing a smile to hide her shock.
“Apologies, ma’am,” Burnley replied sarcastically. His face turned red, the creeping capillaries on his cheeks plumping up as he hitched his trousers higher on his hips. He came out from behind his desk. “Funny you should say that though.” He edged his backside onto the corner of the desk. “Me too. Passed my exams. Got the T-shirt. You know.”
Lorraine nodded, trying to hide her incredulity.
“Please, sit down.” He pulled across a chair with his foot.
The main office space was large and open-plan but they were in one of a series of smaller offices that had been partitioned off. On one of Burnley’s walls there was a corkboard on which were pinned several photographs of overweight children, a German shepherd dog, and a plump woman in pink running gear. His family, Lorraine presumed, rather than anything crime-related. Scattered across his small desk were case files and more photographs—this time of crime scenes—three empty coffee mugs and a half-eaten meat pie.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’ve come about the Dean Watts suicide a month ago. You were in charge of the case?” Her tone was businesslike and cool, though not so much that he could accuse her of being unfriendly.
DI Burnley nodded. “It’s put away now, you understand.”
“I have new evidence that may change that.”
Lorraine swiftly explained her connection with the Hawkeswell family, told him about Gil, and mentioned how she’d come to be in possession of the drawing and the visor.
“And that’s new evidence?” Burnley said with a discernibly mocking tone.
Lorraine nodded, pulled the rolled-up paper from the plastic bag, and unfurled it. She noticed his eyebrows flicker when he saw the drawing.
“Gil says he saw another passenger on the motorbike. And there’s a female hand drawn in there.” She pointed to the spread of fingers wearing the ring in the bottom right-hand corner of the drawing. The paper kept rolling up, so Lorraine used two of the mugs on the desk to keep it open.
“I think it’s worth looking into,” she continued. “Gil is autistic but you shouldn’t discount what he’s saying. He’s upset and no doubt concerned he’ll get into trouble for not speaking up sooner.”
“You think I should reopen the case even though the coroner has ruled suicide just because some autistic chap has drawn a picture?” He scratched his temple.
“I do, yes.”
“There was a suicide note, Detective. The case is closed.”
“Then unclose it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Burnley slipped on his jacket, stuffed his wallet into the inside pocket, and gathered his keys from the clutter on the desk.
“Why not?”
“Lorraine … ma’am,” he said in a fake voice, “if you’d come to me with a painting by Leonardo da bloody Vinci showing a homeless lad being murdered by my own grandmother I wouldn’t do anything about it.”
Let’s get real, Lorraine thought he’d said after this, although she couldn’t quite tell because he was holding his car keys in his mouth while gathering up a pile of papers.
“I’m sorry, love.”
That she did hear. He’d called her “love.” He’d fucking well called her love. The moment she’d walked in and recognized him she’d decided not to pull rank, but now she couldn’t do that even if she chose. He was, by some bizarre machinations of their superiors, the same as her.
“Look,” she said, struggling to hold on to her businesslike tone, “I’m presenting you with potentially case-changing evidence. I suggest you take it seriously.” She was tempted to add “given your track record,” but decided against it. “Do you remember what you said when you left Birmingham?” she asked instead.
Burnley sighed loudly and folded his arms.
“You said, ‘You can’t make an omelette without cracking eggs’ when you let those scumbags get off scot-free. Do you not think you should crack a few eggs now?”
“That’s irrelevant,” Burnley said. He forced a cough. It sounded as if he still smoked heavily. “The intel the scumbags traded saved me a load of trouble. Besides, that kid was dead anyway.”
Lorraine felt her neck tense as she shook her head. “I am on leave,” she stated tersely, pointlessly. She was never on leave. None of them were. “But I am prepared
to pursue this.”
Then he dropped his bombshell.
BURNLEY’S CAR WAS dirty inside and reeked of meat pies and cigarette smoke, and he was driving too fast. Lorraine opened the window. He pressed the button and put it up again, turning the heater on full blast. “Doctor’s orders,” he stated. “My back mustn’t get cold.”
“Hurt in action?” Lorraine said sourly. When he’d worked for West Midlands, before his enforced transfer, he’d barely left his desk if he could help it. Burnley’s style of policing was conducted with a cake in one hand and a pen in the other. He’d probably strained his back reaching across his desk for his coffee.
He ignored her. “Some parts of the body have been photographed and bagged already. We’re tented up because of the earlier rain. I need to get the railway track open again, although they’ve rerouted where they can. You know what it’s like, pressure from Transport.”
Lorraine remained silent as they drove on, heading southeast out of the spa town. Back in his office Burnley had told her there was a note, had asked if she’d wanted to come along, throw in her two cents. He made some quip about her disproving another suicide. But that wasn’t what had dragged her out with Burnley. It was the homeless bit that had got her. Another lad from New Hope. She wouldn’t have wasted a moment of her time with him otherwise.
Before they’d left the Justice Center, Lorraine had told Jo where she was going, that she’d get a taxi back later. Jo said she’d go and do some shopping and wait for the kids.
As they slowed down, Lorraine’s BlackBerry located them at a place called Blackdown Woods. Unnervingly, it wasn’t far from Radcote, and equidistant from Wellesbury. Burnley pulled into a rest area and yanked on the hand brake. He folded his arms and stared across at her. “What’s left isn’t nice,” he remarked before they got out of the car.
It was a peaceful and warm spot, the brewing heat hanging over the surrounding fields like a shroud now that the rain had finally stopped. A couple of wood pigeons hoo-hooed overhead as they crossed the lane and headed down the narrowing track that led into the woods. If someone had particularly wanted death by high-speed train, this was the place to do it, Lorraine thought—private, remote, a serene resting place, even if the aftermath was horrific for those left to clean up.
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