What You Left Behind

by Samantha Hayes

  “So, your nephew’s bike,” Burnley began with a smug grin.

  “Freddie’s bicycle is significant in the ‘suicide,’ is it?” Lorraine put her phone in her jeans pocket and folded her arms. Between them, she and Adam were blocking the corridor.

  “Happy to share opinions, as ever, although I’m still waiting for forensics on that one,” he said. “You seem to be making yourselves right at home. Mi casa and all that.”

  He stepped forward, clearly expecting them to move.

  “Good, then you won’t mind if I share a little titbit with you.” Lorraine wafted the envelope in his face. “Dean Watts’ suicide note was not written by him. An expert says it’s a fake.”

  Burnley’s shoulders dropped an inch or two and his expression instantly changed—eyebrows raised, a pulled-back chin emphasizing the stubbly flesh that hung beneath.

  He ushered them through to his office, where Lorraine continued. “We can take this through the proper channels, though that’s such a drag and I’m more interested in finding my nephew rather than clearing up after your ineptitude. Again. Your full cooperation in all areas, therefore”—she lingered here—“would really be appreciated.”

  Burnley was back in his chair. He spread his hands out on his desk.

  “And you might want to take a look at this,” Lorraine said, pulling a CD in a slipcase from her bag and dropping it on his desk. “It’s CCTV footage of the stolen motorbike leaving the pub in Radcote. I thought you might be interested to know that there were two people on the bike. Just like Gil said.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER Lorraine and Adam were alone, sifting through the case files from the six suicides that had occurred in the Wellesbury area. Burnley had swept them off into a private room. Even though many of the officers and staff were already leaving for the weekend, the department was always open.

  “I still think it’s distraction therapy for you,” Adam said, pulling Lorraine close. “By the way, they’re continuing to ping Freddie’s phone periodically and there’s been nothing so far.” He’d taken a call from their West Midlands office while Lorraine was waiting for the files to be gathered. “And no movement on his bank account, either, cash machines or debit cards. It’s eighteen pounds twenty-four in credit with no overdraft protection, so he’s not going very far on that.”

  Lorraine nodded. “I know you think I’m mad.” She looked up at the ceiling, a file open between her hands. “If it wasn’t Burnley … if it was anyone else …”

  “I know,” Adam replied. “You do what you need to do.”

  Lorraine was grateful he understood. More often than not it was she who’d humor him when he veered off on tangents in an investigation, latched onto seemingly unrelated threads, trying to tie them up, to make sense of glimpses and morsels of information that others would have overlooked. It was what made them both good detectives.

  “Dean’s death was not a clear-cut suicide, I’m convinced of that. Even if Lana wasn’t involved and she’s covering up for someone, I’m certain there’s some truth to Gil’s claims.”

  “Maybe she is telling the truth,” Adam said.

  Lorraine rubbed her eyes and nodded. “But you know what else has really got to me? That message between Freddie and Lana, the one on his computer joking about being half brother and sister.” She sipped on a bottle of water, remembering how Jo had overreacted to her questions.

  Between them they scanned through the paperwork, which, Lorraine had to admit, was complete and thorough in most cases. Either Burnley had learned a few lessons or he had an exemplary team behind him. She suspected the latter. It was only when they came to Simon Hawkeswell’s file that her stomach tightened.

  “Oh God, he looked just like his dad.”

  She stared, almost mesmerized, at the dead boy’s face—livid and bluey-purple, a snapshot of his last moments. The hemorrhaging was spotted about on his cheeks and eyelids like a disease. She plucked out a few of the scene photographs and looked at them, before sliding them across to Adam. Then she pulled one back again, studied it closely.

  “Where’s the pathologist’s report?”

  Adam drew it from the file and flipped through it. Lorraine lined up a few photographs of Simon. There were dozens of the scene.

  “Do you see it too?” she said, running her finger along the ligature mark.

  “Ray, leave it.” Adam clasped her wrist and Lorraine sensed that if they hadn’t been where they were he’d have drawn her in for a tender kiss. It was what she needed. In fact, she ached for him. “It’s impossible to tell anything from photographs, love, and you know it.”

  “You haven’t even looked properly.”

  She searched the document for the pathologist’s name and nodded when she saw it, feeling slightly irrational at the way her thoughts were going.

  “Didn’t we hear something about him? Wasn’t he hauled up for—”

  “Ray …”

  Lorraine noticed her hands were shaking. “And look, here’s the file of that boy Sonia mentioned at the barbecue. Jason Rees.”

  More photographs were laid out on the table. Jason had also hanged himself.

  “Adam, look at this, will you?”

  “Why don’t we call it a day?” he said. “Get back to Jo, see how she’s doing.”

  Lorraine was already shaking her head. “No,” she said, positioning her phone over the first file to photograph it. “I’ve not even started.”

  LORRAINE FELT A sudden chill as they walked to the car. By the time they got back to Radcote, sheets of low swirling cloud had collected, forming a claustrophobic creamy-gray canopy over the village. Soon large drops of rain were pelting the car. A strange musty smell accompanied the early evening storm, along with an eerie glow reflecting off the ginger stone of the houses. They sat in the car on the front drive with lightning flashing above them. It reflected in the paned windows of Glebe House. A couple of seconds later, thunder rumbled above.

  “Let’s make a dash for it,” Lorraine said, opening the car door. A sudden gust of wind wrenched it from her grip. Adam got out too, hitching up the collar of his lightweight jacket, and they dashed toward the door. There was another flash of lightning and crack of thunder as they went inside.

  Lorraine stood on the back doormat, dripping, her hair stuck to her face. “It’s crazy out there!” she said. “I can’t believe the weather changed so—”

  Her breath caught in her lungs when she saw Jo’s face.

  “DI Burnley just phoned. They’re sending round a family liaison officer. He said there’d been a development.”

  “But we’ve only just come from the station.”

  Lorraine grabbed a couple of towels from the utility room, tossing one at Adam. She rubbed her hair and shoulders, then pulled Jo into her arms. The light was fading, in part due to the storm. It heralded the start of a third night without Freddie.

  “Did he give details?”

  Jo shook her head.

  “Look, it’s going to be OK. The FLO is just routine. Freddie will be fine.”

  Lorraine felt a wave of nausea and glanced at Adam over Jo’s back. He stared straight at her, somber-faced.

  “You read about things like this,” Jo said shakily. “But you always think they’re other people’s nightmares.” She pulled away from Lorraine, looking lost in her own kitchen. “People will be reading about my nightmare soon, wondering how I let my son get so depressed, how I never noticed, how he ran away to end—”

  “Stop!” The voice filled the room.

  Lorraine swung round, startled but then relieved when she saw Malc standing in the doorway.

  “I won’t have you talking like that, Jo,” he said, moving toward her. “Freddie needs us to stay strong.” He took her in his arms and held her as if he’d never been away.

  “I’M ALISON BLACK,” the young woman said to Lorraine. She shook out her umbrella and left it on the mat. It was still raining but not with the same tropical force. “I’ll be keeping you up to d
ate on the investigation and can answer any questions you might have.”

  Lorraine did the introductions, thinking that Alison seemed too young. Nice, well-mannered, sympathetic, and clearly chosen so her middle-class background melded with that of Jo and Malc’s, but she looked barely out of her twenties.

  They all sat round the kitchen table, except Malc, who hovered uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Are you working alone?” Adam asked.

  “There’s another officer assigned to this case and I’ll be briefing him later.” She turned to look at Jo. “Hopefully your son will be found soon enough and you won’t be needing either of us.”

  Her tone was light and jovial, and it caused an awkward silence.

  A rushed risk assessment, Lorraine thought, probably drawn up that afternoon, informing Alison that she was safe to visit alone, that, as no body had been found, her presence would be welcomed rather than blamed. She noticed her large black shoulder bag, the contents of which she could predict: various liaison officer logs and information-gathering sheets to be delivered to the incident room if and when one was set up; packs from the Home Office explaining in bland yet still somehow confusing English the various stages of the legal system should the case progress to that level; information about appearing in court; witness protection leaflets; compensation claim details. She prayed they’d stay inside the bag and never become relevant for her sister.

  Alison unbuckled the flap of her bag. She reached inside, took out a sheet of paper, and looked over at Malc. “It’s important you join us, Mr. Curzon. Your input is valuable.”

  “What are you implying?” His eyes had narrowed to incredulous slits. He was clearly upset.

  “I just want to ask you about your son. Any little thing could be helpful to the investigating officers.”

  “It’s normal,” Lorraine assured him, beckoning him over. “Alison’s trained. She’ll circulate anything useful on the Police National Computer and local information systems. It could really help. She’s used to working with families who’ve had a loss and—”

  “So Freddie’s lost to us already, is he?” Malc’s voice wavered.

  Alison took over. “It’s really just a routine visit so we can keep you informed, give you all our phone numbers, plan some future meetings depending on where and how Freddie is found.”

  “You mean if he’s found dead,” Malc said, moving into the room to stand behind Jo’s chair.

  “We all want to find him safe and well, Mr. Curzon,” Alison countered, shaking her head. Some of her mousy brown hair fell out of its clip. “I’d like to start by asking you a bit about Freddie and his routine. What he likes to do. Who his friends are, that kind of thing. Then I’ll take a look in his room, if I may.”

  “I was told something had happened,” Jo said meekly. “That there’d been a development.”

  Alison smiled and pulled the cap off her pen. “Let’s just cover this first,” she said.

  Lorraine listened as, between them, Jo and Malc did their best to convey their son’s life to Alison. Jo’s head hung forward, her shoulders rounded and her knees drawn up. Malc stood behind her, tentatively stroking her back as she spoke. Once or twice she flinched under his touch.

  “So it’s been very hard for him,” Jo said, finally, after explaining about the separation.

  “For all of us,” Malc added.

  “And given the time again, I wouldn’t have … Well, I’d have been here more for Freddie.”

  After Alison had taken down two pages of notes about what they knew about the bullying, Freddie’s last year at school, who his friends were, his hobbies, his daily routines—everything from the names of his teachers to the address of his family doctor—she placed her pen on the table and took off her glasses.

  “You’re right about the development, Mrs. Curzon. An item of significance has just been found in Blackdown Woods.”

  “We already know about the bicycle,” Malc said.

  “This is different,” Alison said. “The bike’s being sent for testing and will be preserved as evidence.”

  Jo stood and paced the kitchen. “Evidence of what? Who found it? What is it?”

  “We’ve had a team conducting a thorough search of the woods. I don’t have details of the officer who found the item, I’m afraid. And until the lab sends through results, we won’t know what it may be evidence of.”

  Alison had been careful to keep to a comforting tone, but now she flushed a little—red peaks on her pale, young, freckled cheeks.

  Jo’s face crumpled. “Just tell us,” she implored.

  “They found a hooded top near where they believe a scuffle took place,” Alison said. “There was a considerable amount of blood on it.”

  “Blood?” Jo said. Her eyes grew wide as the implications sank in.

  “There was a student railcard in the pocket,” Alison continued, glancing at her notes. “I’m afraid it had Freddie’s name on it.”

  30

  Freddie stared up at Gil, his shoulder smarting from where he’d been shoved down into the sofa as he’d tried yet again to escape. “You’re crazy,” he said. “You can’t keep me locked up in here any longer. I’ll call the police.”

  Gil paced about, his right hand shoved in his back pocket, fingering the key. Freddie forced himself not to stare at it.

  Another night had passed—he’d barely slept, while Gil had guarded the door—and it was now early on Saturday morning. He tried to keep his voice level, not knowing how far Gil would go. All he could think of were those disgusting drawings he’d seen yesterday, and what he’d found on the laptop. It didn’t make sense—or did it? Was that why they kept Gil out here? He would have to play this very carefully.

  “Don’t call me crazy,” Gil responded. “I am your friend I want to be your friend.”

  He suddenly bent forward, wrapping his arms around his body. Freddie thought he was going to cry.

  “Gil, look, I’m sorry, right? I didn’t mean to upset you, mate.” He eased the pack onto his shoulder and slowly stood up. He didn’t want to make any sudden moves. “I am your friend, Gil. But friends don’t lock each other up, do they? Why don’t you give me the key and I can let us out?”

  He moved closer to Gil.

  “No, because then you would leave and I won’t have a friend anymore. Apart from Smudge the cat. He is my friend.”

  Freddie stared into Gil’s eyes. They were an unremarkable shade of pale blue. They looked just like anyone else’s—but there was something else about them. Something dangerous.

  “Lana is your friend too. Don’t forget that.”

  Freddie wondered where she was, if she was OK. He desperately needed to get a message to her. He wasn’t sure if his phone had held on to enough charge from yesterday to send her a text. It had only been plugged in a few minutes.

  “She is going away to university soon then I will be all alone.”

  Gil picked up a tea towel and wound it around the knuckles of each hand. His fingers swelled and bulged purple from the pressure, reminding Freddie of what was on the computer.

  “She’ll visit you during the holidays, Gil.”

  Freddie slowly eased himself back toward the sofa, trying not to seem threatening. Gil was rocking from one foot to the other, a slow sideways motion, the tea towel still a taut band between his hands.

  Freddie reached for his backpack and slowly opened the flap.

  “No!” Gil cried out.

  Freddie retracted and folded his arms.

  “No, she will make new friends and forget about me.”

  Freddie breathed out and tried again, this time managing to get his hand into the pack, feeling around for his phone. He wondered if he could text from inside the bag. He pressed the power button, coughing several times to mask the beep.

  “Simon was my friend and he is dead. Dean was my friend and he is dead. Lenny was your friend and he is dead.” Gil’s voice was monotonous.

  Freddie’s heart kicked up. He
could see the glow of his phone’s screen inside the bag. His thumb was hovering over the keys and, with another cough, he managed to turn off the keypad sounds without Gil noticing.

  “You will be dead too if I don’t keep you safe and locked up. You don’t understand. No one does.”

  Gil’s shoulders jerked up and down, and he began to move away from the door. The key was still in his pocket.

  “But those pictures …” Freddie said, hoping to distract him.

  Gil turned slowly to face Freddie. His nose and cheeks were an angry red.

  “Those ones in the barn … why did you draw them?”

  Gil dragged a chair over to the door and sat down, blocking the only exit. Freddie took the opportunity to glance into the pack and toggle through his texts until he came to the last one from Lana. He hit reply.

  Gil pummeled the side of his head. “No one knows how much it hurts,” he said. The tea towel was still wrapped around his knuckles, snapping tightly between his fists. “If I don’t draw my pictures it will get really, really bad.”

  Freddie knew he had to get help—Lana, maybe Aunty Lorraine, anyone. But it was all such a mess with the computer, with Lenny. He’d be arrested for sure and end up in prison. But maybe that was the best place for him anyway. Locked up again, but away from all this shit.

  He fumbled with the touchscreen on his phone inside his pack while Gil went on repeating himself.

  saw them togthr. u wre rite. nd got me hear llocked up send smne helpgil

  He hit Send, stealing a glimpse at the screen. Damn, did it make enough sense? He prayed Lana would figure it out.

  “It wasn’t my fault that Simon died it was that other man’s fault but then he died too.” A couple of tears dribbled down Gil’s cheeks, curling around the soft flesh of his stubbly jowls. For a moment, Freddie felt sorry for him.

  Christ, he hadn’t put where he was in the text. How would she know where to send help?