He didn’t wait for an answer, and instead jabbed his finger at Kay. ’You do realise your hunch placed suspicion on an innocent man, and cost us two forensic teams to chase their tails in pursuit of zero evidence?’
He turned away from Kay, and directed his glare at Sharp. ‘I told you she should’ve been dismissed. She’s a bloody embarrassment.’
Sharp held up his hands to pacify the other man. ‘It was my decision to bring in Eli Matthews for questioning, and to search his property,’ he said. ‘From a due diligence perspective, and procedurally, it makes sense to check all lines of enquiry.’ His eyes hardened. ‘And with all due respect, Angus, if one of my officers needs to be disciplined, I’ll deal with it myself.’
DCI Larch snorted, wrenched open the door, then spun back to face them, his face flushed with anger.
‘I’d be very careful if I were you, Sharp,’ he said, barely keeping his voice under control. ‘I’d hate to see you risk your career to save hers.’
FORTY-NINE
Kay rested her hands on the side of the sink, and peered out the window into the soaked garden beyond.
The path from the back door to the shed that housed a lawn mower and little else had become a quagmire, rivulets of water that had escaped the gutters now tearing across the patio and under the fence towards the neighbouring garden.
She pulled down the blinds.
A rumble of thunder sounded a couple of miles away, and the lights flickered.
Her eyes fell on Sid’s glass case, and she shivered, then sprang into action and pulled candles and matches from the bottom drawer she and Adam reserved for emergency supplies – an assortment of batteries, and the candles and a box of matches.
Kay pulled out an old candleholder from another cupboard, took her supplies through to the living room, and set everything out on the coffee table before retrieving the glass of wine she’d left there.
With any luck, they’d miss the worst of the storm, but with the amount of rain they’d been having, there were plenty of places that would be starting to flood.
She didn’t envy her uniformed colleagues who had to work tonight.
She glanced up at the sound of a key in the front door, and then Adam peered into the living room.
‘You’re home,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll go and have a shower, and then I’ll come and join you for one of those,’ he said, pointing at the wineglass.
‘See you in a bit.’
She sank back into the sofa, and jabbed the mute button on the remote control.
The screen fell silent, the presenter of the home renovation programme reduced to a silent mime as he showed a couple in their fifties around a dilapidated barn.
She took a sip of her wine, then leaned forward and placed the glass on the low table in front of the sofa before rubbing her eyes.
She dropped her hand, and tried to ignore the stinging sensation at the corner of her eyelids.
She knew it was just the myriad of emotions that were wracking her mind of late, but the knowledge didn’t help.
Despite Sharp’s best efforts, it seemed that every action of hers was being judged, weighed and considered, as if she couldn’t be trusted any more.
Then, there was Eli Matthews.
She couldn’t leave it alone.
She realised her jaw was clenched, and forced herself to try to relax.
The man was guilty, she was sure of that. He knew something about Melanie’s disappearance and murder.
Yet he had outwitted her, and Sharp. His mannerisms seemed rehearsed, as if he fully expected to be arrested and had practised.
And he’d been too good for them.
She let out a groan. Her assertions about his guilt weren’t helped by the fact that nothing had been found at the lock-up garage, or at his mother’s house.
Frustration overwhelmed her, DCI Larch’s final words going round and round in her head.
She’d had moments of doubt about her abilities before – it was natural in her line of work, especially with a case that wasn’t straightforward, but this was different.
Now, she felt as if she was being singled out – set up. But, for what?
And why?
She’d known she’d have to fight her way back after the embarrassment of the Professional Standards investigation, but now she felt naïve – she’d completely underestimated the effect it would have on her integrity, despite being absolved of any wrongdoing.
She sniffed. If that wasn’t bad enough, her application to become a detective inspector was now probably at the bottom of the pile.
Or in the shredder.
She sat back and wiped at her cheeks as Adam appeared.
He stopped in the doorway. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey.’
She pulled a paper tissue from the box on the coffee table, and blew her nose as he sat beside her.
He reached over and squeezed her leg. ‘Shit day?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It happens.’
‘I know.’ She snuggled into his arms. ‘It’s still shit.’
‘What did Sharp say?’
Adam had met Sharp at a few social functions, often trading stories over pints of real ale at the local pub frequented by the police.
‘I’m more worried about what they’ll do to him if he keeps trying to protect me,’ said Kay.
Adam chuckled, and kissed the top of her head. ‘He can look after himself.’ He edged away until his eyes met hers. ‘Which is why he believes in you. I get the impression he wouldn’t do this otherwise.’
Kay bit her lip.
Adam was right, of course. He’d been as shocked as she was about the allegations, but he trusted her. Trusted her integrity.
She reached out, and squeezed his hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘Making me feel better.’
‘Really? I was just here wondering where my dinner is. I’m starving.’
She swatted his arm. ‘Come on. I’ll fix something.’
She picked up her wineglass, and followed him out to the kitchen.
Soon, the aromas of fresh onion and garlic sizzling in a pan filled the space.
Kay pointed her wine glass at the snake’s glass enclosure on the worktop. ‘How much longer is he with us for?’
Adam turned from the hob. ‘Another few days.’ He smiled. ‘It’s good. He seems to be on the mend – certainly getting his appetite back.’
Kay shuddered, and held up her hand. ‘Too much information.’
FIFTY
Eli stood with his hands clasped over his head, his feet planted hip-width apart, and stared at the empty garage space.
The moment he’d been released by the custody sergeant, he’d been informed that his van had been taken by the crime scene investigators, and that he’d be able to collect it by noon tomorrow.
‘Tomorrow?’
He’d tried to keep his voice calm, but the uniformed officer standing next to the water cooler had raised an eyebrow in his direction, and Eli had held up a hand to pacify him before lowering his voice.
‘Why?’
‘Well, sir, as you can appreciate, there’s no one around at the moment to sign the release paperwork, and with forensic investigations there’s often residual cleaning up to do, to ensure your vehicle is returned to you as we found it,’ said the sergeant.
Eli’s eyes narrowed at the glee that flitted across the man’s face.
‘“Residual cleaning up”?’
‘Yes, sir. So, if you’d like to go to the vehicle recovery centre from about eleven o’clock tomorrow, your vehicle should be ready for collection.’
Eli had resisted the urge to snatch the paperwork from the custody sergeant, and instead had pushed his way past a thickset man with tattoos standing behind him in the queue and hurried out through the door.
Now, Eli reached out and pulled a string next to the doorframe, and a single light bulb hanging from a thin cord in the ceiling flickered to life.
&nbs
p; He surveyed the space before him.
His space. His things.
That they had touched.
He knew they had to wear gloves, but it didn’t help the feeling of being violated that made him shiver.
Eli ran his hand over the workbench. The thin layer of dust had been disturbed by the police search team, and his fingers followed in the wake of others.
He stopped, and stared into space for a moment, all his senses alert.
Then it hit him.
Where were the registration plates?
He’d removed them the afternoon he’d learned of Neil Abrahams being taken away for questioning, when he realised they were of no use to him any longer.
He frowned, and then his hand shot out and wrenched open the plastic drawers on the back of the bench.
His things were gone.
He tried to swallow, but his tongue rasped within a dry mouth.
His mobile phone blared out from his back pocket, startling him from his thoughts.
There was only one person who had the number.
He stumbled away from the bench, his hand fumbling for the phone before it stopped ringing.
‘Hello?’
He cringed at the anger in the man’s voice, but agreed with everything he said.
Finally, mercifully, the caller hung up, and Eli replaced the phone into his back pocket once more.
Hands shaking, he wracked his mind, and tried to think what to do next.
His throat constricted, and he fought down the urge to cry. He hadn’t cried in several years, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Instead, he clenched his fists until the tears turned to frustration, and then anger.
Even his mother hadn’t known about the lock-up garage, though no doubt she would do now. The female detective who had interviewed him had informed him that his mother’s house was also being searched at the same time as the garage.
He flapped his hand at an errant bluebottle fly that buzzed too close, and contemplated his options.
He’d have to find another vehicle, and quickly. The drugs would have worn off by now, and he wouldn’t get the desired result.
His moped was no good, it would be locked behind the security gate at the courier depot by now, and he couldn’t reach the building where he’d hidden the girl using public transport – a taxi was out of the question.
It was simply too risky.
Pain shot through the palm of his hand, and he glanced down to see that his fingernails had dug into the skin, leaving crescent-moon shaped dents.
He didn’t have enough money to buy another van. In any event, the moment any paperwork was submitted to transfer the vehicle into his name, the police would probably be informed.
He groaned.
She was there, waiting for him.
It was only a few miles away, but it could have been another country – without a vehicle to get back there, without the insulin, it wouldn’t happen. It wouldn’t be perfect.
He had to get there, somehow.
He paced the floor, strode across to the worktop that he’d built along one side of the narrow wall. Dusty jars filled with old nails and screws jangled as he pulled out the drawers underneath one by one, his mood darkening as he pawed through the contents, trying to work out if anything was missing, whether the police had found anything.
He didn’t think so. The man who had phoned him had been thorough. Otherwise, the female detective, DS Hunter, wouldn’t have let him go.
Eli slammed the drawer shut, his eyes roaming over the power extension lead that hung on a nail he’d bashed into the wall. He ran his hand over it, and then turned away.
He swallowed as a thought occurred to him.
His mother had a vehicle. Given, it was a small car, but it would do.
And it was in her name, so he wouldn’t be stopped by any police if he drove past them. They knew he didn’t have a vehicle until tomorrow lunchtime at least.
There was no other choice. He’d have to walk to his mother’s house in the morning – early, before she woke up, then fetch his meagre belongings from there, and take her car.
His stomach clenched painfully at the thought of having to return to the house and face her.
For now, he’d try to create a makeshift bed and get his head down for a few hours. He was too strung out, and the police might be watching.
He’d wait until the morning.
As it was, he’d have to find somewhere else to keep the van when he got it back. He’d get no privacy from the other owners in the garage block now the police had been here. For a start, they’d want to know why it had happened, and then they’d wonder if it would happen again.
He ran a hand over his weary eyes.
No, he’d have to sell the van, or dump it, and find a new place to base himself.
He sighed, and made his way across the bare concrete to the boxes that lined the back wall. He ran his hand over the lid of the nearest one, and then pulled it back, the scraping sound of the cardboard flaps pulling apart making him flinch.
He peered in.
Although the contents had been repacked with care, it wasn’t the same.
They’d torn his life apart.
He picked up the box and threw it across the garage, the contents tumbling over the oil-specked floor.
FIFTY-ONE
Emma’s head rocked forwards once, jerking her awake.
She blinked, for a moment confused by the unfamiliar surroundings, and then she remembered.
She choked back a sob, and wondered how she could have fallen asleep.
Exhaustion swept through her body, and she realised the fear that had permeated every cell of her being had also sapped her energy.
She raised her head, and squinted at the bindings that still held her hands above her head. Her pink nail varnish glistened in the beam from the lamp, the skin of her hands and wrists a deathly white from the lack of circulation.
The cloth gag bit at the sides of her mouth where her captor had tied it too tight, and the coppery taste of blood filled the back of her throat.
She wondered what time it was, whether it was day or night, and how long it had been since she’d lost consciousness.
She had changed, though, she realised.
Whether it was because of her exhausted sleep, or the drugs the man had used to render her unconscious when he taken her had worn off, but she felt strangely refreshed.
Her vision had cleared, every detail around her was sharper, and her recollection had returned.
She knew her attacker.
She knew who had killed Melanie.
Emma bit back a scream. The camera’s red light wavered above the lens, and she was determined not to let him have the pleasure of seeing her fear.
She shivered at the realisation that her heart rate no longer pounded painfully through her body, and her temperature had fallen. She frowned – was that the effect of being knocked out, or something else?
Her feet sloshed in the cold water that covered the floor of the tunnel, and she frowned, confused as the sensation of water lapping at her calves reached her brain.
She looked down.
The water that had once covered her feet had risen.
She cried out, the sound muffled by the gag, and raised her eyes to the white post set into the opposite wall, and the realisation hit her of its significance.
The lines were markings; old ones, in feet rather than metres, of the water levels recorded in the tunnel over the years.
And the water level had risen since she had first been brought here.
She realised then what she was standing in.
A drainage culvert.
Not simply a tunnel under a building, but a drain.
She tried to focus on calming her breathing, and strained her ears to hear the familiar rush of water further up the tunnel to her left.
It had been raining when he’d grabbed her, a hard, steady deluge that was already causing the storm drains along the si
des of the road to overflow.
How long had it rained for?
Was it still raining?
She whimpered, and turned her attention to the steel pipe she’d been tied to. Bolted to the wall next to it was an old, iron ladder. She lifted her head once more, and tried to see how far up the ladder reached.
There were several rungs above her, but as her eyes adjusted away from the dull light of the lamp, she thought she could see where it ended. There seemed to be a metal cover at the top, but a glint of pale light encircled it, and she guessed it was a manhole cover.
She gritted her teeth, and tugged at the rope that wound through the rungs and around her wrists.
It failed to move.
She tried leaning her weight away from the ladder, then cried out as the tension on her shoulders became too much.
A faint plop sounded from the darkness and she held her breath.
Something squeaked.
The beam of the camping lamp wavered, the bulb dimming before returning to its sickly yellow colour. At the same time, a large rat paddled from her left, riding the water current.
Its nose twitched as it drew near, and then to Emma’s horror, it altered course and crossed the stream to where she stood, helpless as its front paws scratched against her bare leg.
She screamed and kicked out.
The gag sucked into her mouth with every breath, and she started to cough, her chest muscles contracting as she tried to force air through her nostrils and into her lungs.
The stench of rotten vegetation – and worse – filled her senses, and she fought down the urge to vomit.
The rat powered away, scared by her movement, and she watched it, her breathing laboured, as its wake disappeared along the culvert.
Her eyes fell on the water level once more.
At first, she tried to convince herself that the water lapping at it was simply caused by the movement from her kicking out at the rat. Her unease increased as the minutes passed, and she realised the water was rising faster.
She was running out of time.
FIFTY-TWO
By the time Eli reached his mother’s house, he was soaked through to the skin.
His thin T-shirt clung to his back and chest, and he slicked back his hair to stop the water running into his eyes.
Scared to Death (A Detective Kay Hunter novel) Page 19