by CJ Carver
Bully for him, Lucy thought, feeling sulky, but she knew Mac was right. She’d behaved in a totally unprofessional manner and although she kept her head raised and didn’t let her gaze waver, inside she was squirming at her behaviour.
He looked at her a long time. She tried not to fidget.
Finally, he let out a sigh, ran a hand over his face. ‘I suggest I get you on an interview skills course. The sooner the better.’
‘Great,’ she said. She looked at him warily, wondering why he wasn’t chewing her out.
‘Fancy a drink later?’ he asked.
‘What, tonight?’ She blinked. No way would he have time for anything but the case.
‘Is that a yes?’
He’d laid a trap and she’d nearly fallen for it.
‘No,’ she said. Before he could ask why or press any further, she told him about Calder’s tell, which seemed to distract him nicely.
‘I didn’t see anything.’ He looked sceptical.
‘It’s minuscule. But believe me, it’s there.’ She didn’t tell him about her father. She didn’t want to get personal.
‘I’ll look out for it,’ he said. ‘Meantime, I guess we’d better go over his accounts again.’
‘Any luck on the footprints I followed through the woods?’ she asked.
‘We’re pretty sure they weren’t Calder’s. He’s size eleven, and these were around nine. They can’t tell us much more apart from the fact they were made by a pair of boots.’
Calder had been wearing leather shoes.
‘Were they made the same day?’ she said.
‘Difficult to say.’
She tried not to cringe at the possibility she’d followed an old set of prints that belonged to a trespasser, someone walking their dog, the gardener. God, she’d been a shambles yesterday. Thank heavens she’d brought Calder in or she’d be a laughing stock.
‘Can I go now?’ she asked.
‘Any clue as to what you might be doing next?’ he asked. He was being ironic because he knew she liked working odd angles on a case, alone. And because she appreciated the long leash he gave her – something her old boss refused to do – she paused to answer.
‘I’m going to interview Polina’s mother to see if he’s telling porkies,’ she told him. ‘Assuming she’s not in Moscow or anything.’
‘Scarborough.’
Nice one, she thought. She quite fancied a trip to the seaside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mac watched Lucy go, wishing he could call her back, wishing he could get over his idiotic obsession with her.
But how to do that when he saw her practically every day?
It had been OK when she’d been working out of the beat office. They could go for days without seeing one another. But now she was going to be a detective, how the hell was he going to get her out of his mind?
They’d first met on a team-building exercise in Wales, for new recruits. He remembered meeting her in the car park and trying not to stare. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her and, at the time, it seemed she felt the same way as they’d spent most of the week bunking off before they’d made passionate love beneath the hot September sun. It had been thrilling and intense, and when she’d vanished towards the end of the week – her mother had fallen ill, apparently – he hadn’t thought too much of it until she ghosted him: abruptly stopped taking his calls and answering his texts.
He asked a friend at the Met about her and everything became clear when he learned she had a boyfriend – Nathan Beamish – who she lived with. Which was a shame, because Mac thought they’d had something really good together, but if she was taken, well, she was taken.
And then he’d been transferred to Stockton Police, and there she’d been, as gorgeous as ever and, more importantly, single. At least that’s what he’d thought, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Was she seeing someone?
Without realising it, he entered the major incident room with a huge scowl on his face. Twenty computer screens were crammed on the single long table in the middle of the room. Twenty screens for twenty cops. Dozens of things needed doing, involving media liaison, SOCO, pathologists, coroners, witnesses, relatives and the world and his dog, and Mac had to ensure he was at the hub of all this information, being kept abreast of everything, checking that nobody was getting pissed off with anyone else and that the team was working closely together and as much in harmony as a bunch of angels playing the harp because a detective inspector wasn’t just a cop. He was a manager.
He poured himself a coffee and took it to the whiteboard. Studied the chart. One adult and four kids, all dead.
Polina, the mother. Jessie, Felix, Sofia and little two-year-old Tasha.
One horse, three ponies, two dogs and an elderly marmalade cat, all shot to death as well.
Mac had worked several murder cases, but this was his first family annihilation. What had Calder been thinking of when he’d loaded his weapons? Had he already worked out who to kill first? Which child to kill last?
He turned his wrist and checked his watch. The psych was interviewing Calder at the moment. He’d be interested to see what she had to say, but if she even started to intimate that it was all Mummy’s fault that Little Adrian murdered his family, then Mac would leave the room. He didn’t buy the idea that you could blame your childhood for your adult actions. He had issues from his own childhood and he hadn’t turned into a smackhead or a murderer. Mac had spent some time seeing a counsellor, to make sure something from his subconscious wouldn’t trip him up, and then he’d got on with his life, because he was a mature man who could make his own decisions and they didn’t include killing people just because his childhood sucked.
Yeah, he was mature all right. As crazy as a hormonal teenager held enthralled by his first infatuation.
What to do about Lucy?
He thought of her bright brown eyes, always so expressive. Her temper, always volatile. He thought of the way she held herself, confidently, always alert and active, her body small and lithe and quick. He thought of the way she felt in his arms, the little whimper she made when she came, and at that moment Mac realised the only way he’d stop obsessing over her was if she went out with him. He had to persuade her, somehow, and if it worked, great, and if not, fine. They were both adults, right? And once they were going out, he’d be able to relax.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Polina Calder’s mother lived in a red-brick house on the eastern extremity of Scarborough, slap bang in the middle of the headland that separated North and South Bay. Partial views to the south showed the harbour and the steely North Sea. To the north stood a perpendicular rock face topped with castle ruins.
Lucy didn’t bother looking for anywhere to park. The streets were narrow, single track, and she didn’t want to waste time driving around the town waiting for someone to vacate their space. Instead she parked on a double yellow line outside the house and next to a panel van, hoping she’d be able to keep an eye out for parking wardens. She already had three parking tickets outstanding and didn’t want another.
She climbed out into a stiff northerly breeze that rang with the sound of seagulls, boat engines and the distant clank of halyards. The air smelled of the sea and from somewhere came the faint aroma of hot oil. Chips, she thought, salivating. She’d have fish and chips for lunch.
Irene Cavendish greeted her at the front door, a formidable woman, tall and handsome, her cable sweater tight across her wide shoulders. She was in her eighties and although her hands were curled into claws from arthritis, she appeared pretty fit for her age. No walking frames or wall rails that Lucy could see. The only indication her life had been devastated by the murder of her daughter and grandchildren was her eyes. Red-veined and puffy and full of anguish.
Lucy offered her condolences. Irene nodded. Then she announced, ‘You will have tea.’ Her tone was thick and gravelly with tears but brooked no refusal.
Lucy allowed herself to be shown into a room filled with dark, heav
y furniture graced with copious quantities of lace doilies. Through the double window she saw a wind-blasted balcony with a view of the harbour. Her car was just visible. No parking wardens that she could see.
‘Sit,’ Irene said.
Lucy sat. The tea came from a copper samovar and when Lucy asked for some sugar, she was offered a spoonful of raspberry jam.
‘You like it?’ Irene watched Lucy closely as she sipped.
‘Yes,’ Lucy said, surprised. The brew was thick and strong and the jam worked well. ‘Thank you.’
‘So. You have questions.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Lucy, ‘I spoke with –’
‘I also have questions.’ Irene rode straight over Lucy. ‘Why is my son-in-law in a cell? Why am I not allowed to see him? He is innocent. He did not kill Polina.’ Irene was fierce. ‘Or his children. He loves his family! Absolutely!’
‘Adrian will remain at the station until we have finished our inquiries,’ Lucy said impassively.
‘Yes, yes.’ Irene was impatient. ‘But you will find the person who did this, yes? Then he can come home and I will look after him. If you have an easy life, then you can’t be good. Adrian is a very good, very hard worker. His family are all very calm and he is wonderful with his lovely children. He is a good father and husband. He has done nothing wrong.’ For a moment her face collapsed and Lucy thought she was going to cry, but she quickly squared her shoulders. Fixed Lucy with a steely brown gaze.
Lucy gazed back, feeling nothing but admiration for the woman’s strength.
‘What are the police doing?’ Irene demanded. ‘To find the person who killed my beautiful Polina and her babies?’
Wanting to divert Irene away from the police investigation, Lucy said, ‘Tell me about Adrian’s business.’
‘Ah, his restaurants! They are fantastic!’ She flung up her hands in a gesture of approbation. ‘He has dozens all over the country. He is a big success. Look at how he lives. How he cares for his family.’
The way she spoke made Lucy think Adrian’s mother-in-law might not be up to speed with the company’s catastrophic downfall since Melted’s Manchester health scare. Wanting to keep to the subject of Adrian’s company, she said, ‘Tell me how he got started. How he became such a success.’
Irene detailed a classic tale of a man starting with one shop, and building on its success exponentially. He’d taken loans along the way but never missed a repayment. He was a model employer who cared for his workers, paying them more than the minimum wage and treating them with respect. From Irene’s account her son-in-law was an exemplary businessman, a mathematical genius and consummate entrepreneur.
‘Tell me about his debts,’ Lucy said.
Irene looked baffled. ‘He has a loan from the bank. For his house and business. I have told you this, yes?’
‘I’m talking about a different loan.’
‘Different?’ She appeared genuinely perplexed. Lucy decided to go out on a limb and shake the tree a bit.
‘Not from the bank, but someone else.’
Irene shook her head. ‘I know nothing about this.’
‘Did any of his friends loan him money?’
Again the shake of her head. ‘I don’t know this.’
‘Did Polina ever say anything about another loan?’
‘Never.’
Lucy asked about loan sharks and unlicensed lenders before asking whether Polina had ever had any debts – none – but every question produced the same responses: No, or don’t know.
Surreptitiously Lucy glanced outside. Several seagulls stood on the sea wall. A man walked a West Highland terrier. Still no traffic wardens.
‘Did Adrian or Polina mention the business was in trouble?’ Lucy asked.
Irene sat without moving a millimetre. Not a blink. She could have been a Russian matryoshka doll for all the expression on her face.
‘He franchised nearly half of his restaurants,’ Lucy said. ‘He told us about the health scares. The bad publicity. Even he admits his business is in serious trouble.’
Irene flicked a glance to the window as she thought but then her nostrils flared and she gave a nod. ‘Adrian, he tells Polina his difficulties. He was worried she’d be upset, be angry with him. But she is a strong woman. She loves her husband very much.’
‘Did she know they were probably going to lose everything? The house, the horses?’
The lines on Irene’s face deepened. ‘Yes, she knows this. She cried a little bit. But she is made of steel, like me. Adrian says they have to move children’s school: she says OK. He says they might be poor: she says OK.’
‘She sounds very understanding,’ Lucy said. ‘Not every wife would be so accommodating.’
Irene pulled back as though she’d smelled something bad. ‘Understanding?’ Her voice was scathing. ‘She is a wife who loves her husband. Loves her family. What do you think she would do? Run away? You silly girl, you know nothing!’
She rose to her feet and walked across the room to a side table. Opened a drawer and brought out two black-and-white photographs. Gave one to Lucy. Lucy stared.
It showed a pile of corpses. Fifty, maybe sixty, all carelessly heaped on top of one another in the snow.
‘This was life for us,’ Irene said. ‘Fear. Lies. Terror. Death camps.’ She jerked her chin scornfully at Lucy. ‘You are a child in such things. Polina is twenty times the woman of you. She knows the value of her life.’
Lucy let the woman’s derision wash over her. ‘Who are they?’ she asked. She was still looking at the photograph.
‘They are all part of me.’ Her voice broke. ‘And I am . . .’
When Lucy looked up, she seemed to pull herself together. ‘It was a terrible time. People saw enemies in every room. People betrayed neighbours. Children betrayed parents. But when you chop wood, the chips fly.’
Irene passed over the second photograph. Lucy’s breath caught. Five children lined up and staring into the camera. No expression. It was hard to tell their sex because they were so thin. Bones and rags. Distended stomachs, their heads appearing huge, their skulls fleshless.
‘Kazimir made this,’ Irene said. ‘He made famine. Made the army raid villages. His men stole the harvest and all the food. Many people died in the street, in their home. Women ate their own children.’
Jesus Christ. Lucy tried not to look appalled.
‘Who is Kazimir?’ Lucy asked.
‘Kazimir,’ Irene repeated. Her gaze grew distant. ‘He is a general in the army. Much decorated. He and Joseph Stalin were like this.’ She twisted her index fingers together. ‘Kazimir implemented Stalin’s purges.’
She walked to Lucy and took back the photographs. ‘You know nothing of suffering.’
Lucy didn’t argue.
‘But Polina . . .’ Irene chewed her lower lip. ‘She knows she has much luck. Of course she has an understanding of her husband’s problems. She stands with him. She knows what’s important. She can see the situation in its correct place. She has . . . How do you say it?’ She looked expectantly at Lucy.
‘Perspective?’ she guessed.
‘Yes,’ Irene said, nodding. ‘Polina has perspective. She knows the value of life. She knows her family will not starve in this country. She will not be sent to a camp to die because her husband has a bad business. She would not run away. She loves her family. Absolutely.’
Irene’s eyes remained on Lucy. ‘You understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I understand.’
She recalled Adrian Calder’s anger and fear, the way his eyes burned with grief, the way he refused to say no comment to every question. He hadn’t acted like a guilty man, and now it appeared he’d told his wife about his problems. He may have been losing his ability to keep up his family’s lifestyle, but he didn’t seem to see the problem as insurmountable. Things were not as clear-cut as she’d first thought.
Lucy said, ‘Who’s Zama?’
There was the tiniest movement – a
flicker, no more – in Irene’s dark brown eyes. She’s heard the name before, thought Lucy, she knows who they are.
‘Who?’ Irene frowned, ostensibly perfectly puzzled.
‘Adrian was worried about him.’
Irene’s mouth downturned as she shrugged in a seemingly genuine who cares? attitude. She said, ‘When can Adrian come home? Be with his family?’
‘Is Zama a relative?’ Lucy pressed.
‘I don’t know any Zama.’ Irene looked irritated. ‘Now, please. Tell me what you are doing for Adrian . . .’
Although Lucy would have loved to have pushed the subject of Zama further she decided it would be prudent to do it another time; she didn’t want to be reported for traumatising a newly bereaved relative. Lucy told Irene she’d keep in touch and at the same time she glanced outside to see a traffic warden approaching her car. She jackknifed upright. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and practically galloped outside.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Using every ounce of self-control she possessed, Irene watched the young policewoman run down the stairs and along the pavement. She felt like falling to her knees and wailing, rending her hair with grief but she refused to collapse, show how distraught she was. She was stronger than that, a woman made from steel.
She watched PC Davies approach the traffic warden. Even through her wrenching grief she felt a surge of contempt for the police officer, that she thought it more important not to get a ticket than to spend time with the victim of a catastrophe. She might as well be back in Siberia for all the help the policewoman had offered. Not a word about when Adrian might come home. Nothing about what they were doing to catch the killer of her beloved daughter, her darling grandchildren.
She felt a cold breeze on her neck, laced with the smell of snow.
Your babies will never live.
Unbidden, her father’s voice snaked through her head.
They’ll sicken and die.
She tried to push him away, but as she stood there in the cold wintry air his voice increased in volume.