by Jo Fenton
My phone rings, but I don’t want to answer it in the car. My car media system is not sophisticated enough to show who’s calling, and my phone is in my handbag, so I can’t check. I ignore the call, hoping I can call back. It rings again two minutes later.
“You should answer it, Mum.” As Cheryl says it, the sign for Rivington Services appears. Half a mile to go.
I pull in to the Services, drive into the car park and turn off the engine. I take my phone out of my bag and check the screen for the missed call details. Joanna. Twice.
“Dad and I can get some chocolate while you call back. Come on, Dad.”
Matt rests his hand briefly on my shoulder before he gets out of the car. I wait until they’re halfway across the car park. I’m not sure why, but I have a bad feeling about this call. I get a grip of my fears and press Connect on the screen.
“Becky? Are you okay?”
“Yes, are you? Is Will there?”
“Yeah, he’s here. He came to tell me that his dad’s out of prison and wants to kill me.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Despite the fresh air and exercise, I didn’t sleep well. After finally dozing off sometime around 4am, I wake up at quarter past seven. I promised to take Cheryl into school today. She’s nervous about what will happen this week, and worrying if Wendy will be in time to prevent repercussions.
I’m nervous too. Obviously I’m worried about her, but I’ve spent half the night gnawing at my other fears: Joanna’s ex, Troy, Penny, and my own stalker fears. I still don’t know if they’re justified, or if I’m being paranoid.
The drive into school is quiet except for the radio – and the interminable, inane banter of the morning presenters. I tolerate it for the music, but as soon as Cheryl’s out of the car (with a brief interchange wishing her luck), I switch to one of my CDs: the soundtrack of Evita. I feel stress flowing out of my shoulders almost immediately, and focus for the brief journey home purely on the road ahead and the story of Eva Peron.
At home, I toy with the temptation to go back to bed and get another couple of hours’ sleep, but my phone vibrates. I check it and notice an email has come in from Penny.
‘These are the photos I found. I’ve zipped them to make it easier to send, but there’s no password on the file. There’s nothing particularly private about them. See if you can find anyone in the crowds that could be relevant. I had a quick look, but didn’t notice anyone. Thanks.’
Curiosity wins out against sleep, and I put the kettle on to make myself a strong coffee before turning on the laptop. I leave the study to Matt in case he has any more interactions with Roger today, and take my coffee and laptop, and a spiral-bound notebook and pen, into the lounge.
The photos are easy enough to extract from the zip file, and I have a quick skim through first. Penny has sent me thirty-eight pictures, and the initial surf through is sufficient for me to see that she’s only sent the audience ones. The reason for this could be purely convenience for me. It’s bulky to send lots of photos, even by zip file, and some email servers have limits on the size of file that can be attached, although it’s easy enough these days to send files and folders through file-sharing apps. She might also have tried to save me time, by removing the photos that are just of Troy and his band.
I examine my increasing irritation. Am I annoyed because I wanted to get the full picture (pardon the pun), or is there something else? Is Penny hiding something on purpose?
Nearly thirty years in the police force taught me that everyone has secrets. People hide information for the most trivial and mundane of reasons. Often nothing to do with the crime or investigation, and they muddy the waters just because they don’t want to reveal their sordid and unimportant thoughts. I spent many years chasing red herrings until I developed some intuition about which were important, even if only to shed some light on the bigger picture. That same instinct is telling me I need to see the pictures that Penny hasn’t sent.
But for the moment, I settle down to view in more detail the photos she’s sent me. She labelled the folder Band On The Wall, Troy, September to January. Each photo is named with the date and a number. The pictures would have originally been numbered sequentially, but I only have a few from each date – another clue that she’s only provided some of the images.
All the photos were taken inside the club, in the gig area. I recognise the walls and layout from my visit, even though I was only in that room for a short time. I scribble a few observations in the notebook:
-dark-haired girl – mid twenties – tall and slim – every gig
-short, balding guy – maybe early thirties – every gig except October
-short fair-haired girl with wavy bob – appears to be alone – all gigs
There are a few other people who crop up at more than one gig, but never more than two gigs each, and they all seem to be part of a group – whether three or four friends, or a larger group or party. None of them ring any alarm bells.
I isolate the photos with my three ‘persons of interest’ (I’m reluctant to call them suspects at this stage). Each photo needs some editing to make the relevant person the only face in the picture. Online face-matching software provides me with names. The entire process takes over three hours, and when Matt brings me a tuna sandwich at quarter past twelve, I’m just about ready to turn off the laptop.
I eat quickly, keen to tell Joanna of my developments, but then I remember that she has her own problems today. I slow down and force myself to chew my food.
“That’s better.” Matt’s watching me across the table as he eats his own sandwich. “You’ll make yourself ill if you keep downing your food like that. Why don’t you talk to me about it?”
“About what?” I stall for time. I know exactly what he’s asking me, but I’m not used to discussing my cases with him.
“Come on, Becks. I know you. We’ve been married long enough for me to see when you’re stressing about things. And Cheryl’s not here now, so you wouldn’t be upsetting her if she overheard.”
“There’s so much going on at the moment. It’s hard to get my head around it all, but this morning I whittled down some of Troy’s fans into three… call them super-fans. They were at all, or nearly all, his Manchester gigs for the last few months, and they may be of some use in identifying either Penny’s stalker or even Troy’s wife’s killer – although that’s probably a bit of a stretch.”
“Have you talked to Joanna about it yet?”
“No, that’s the problem. I told you last night about her ex coming out of prison.”
“Yeah – I got the feeling there was something you weren’t telling me about that.”
“I didn’t want to worry Cheryl any further, but Joanna’s ex apparently wants to find her and kill her.”
“Shit! That’s… I don’t know what to say. Anything would be pretty inadequate. But I think she needs to talk to Roger. He might help.”
“I guess that’s not a bad idea.” I finish my lunch and make the call.
“Joanna?”
“Hi Becky.” Her voice sounds as if she either has a cold or has been crying.
“Are you okay? Is Will still with you?”
“I’m fine, and yes, Will’s still here.”
“Would it be okay if I come round? I’d like to meet him, and also, I think we have a lot to discuss.”
“Sure. I want you to meet him. You need to hear the full story for yourself. Come round about two o’clock. We’re just having lunch.”
“Thanks. See you then.” I end the call.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Matt asks. He looks concerned.
“Maybe not this time. Perhaps tomorrow. But if you want to help, you can check out the local press and the internet to see if there’s any information about prisoner releases in Edinburgh.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Shit, no. Not yet anyway. I’ll message you discreetly as soon as I know it. Meanwhile, it might take you a while to find out how
to get the information, so you can work on that.”
“Do you want me to contact Roger?”
“I think that should come from Joanna, but if she wants you to do it, I’ll let you know.”
***
Half an hour later, I pull up outside Joanna’s house. Parked in front of me is a silver Audi with the latest registration plate. I’ve not seen it before, and I reckon it’s Will’s car. Nice car for a divorcee with maintenance payments to keep up. My curiosity about my friend’s son rises several notches.
I get out of the car and knock on the door. The man who lets me in is instantly recognisable as Joanna’s son, having the same-shaped eyes, albeit green instead of brown, and similar features. He’s taller than I would have expected though. Joanna’s petite at five foot one; her son tops six foot at a rough guess. More important is the delightful smile that greets me.
“Becky!” He holds out a hand to me once I’ve stepped inside. “Lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” The skin around his eyes crinkles as he grins at me, and I can’t help but warm to him.
“That’s a nice car outside. Is that yours?”
“What, the Audi? I wish. My car blew up last week. It was the final straw after a long line of mechanical faults, but I needed to come and see Mum, so I hired this for the trip – it was only two hundred and fifty for the week. I need to get myself a new car when I get back, but I’ll check out some lease deals. This is a gorgeous drive though.” His enthusiasm is infectious, and I laugh as I follow him into the lounge.
Joanna emerges from the kitchen with a plate of chocolate biscuits – the posh type that comes from the expensive tins. I figure she’s splashed out for her visitor.
“I see you’ve met Will. Sorry I couldn’t come to the door.” She hangs her head as though embarrassed.
I take the plate from her, and put it on the coffee table, then wrap my arms around her slight frame. She breaks down in sobs immediately. I hold her, rubbing her back gently, and murmuring soothing nothings into her ear. “Shh, it’s okay, don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine.” All probably untrue, but appropriate while she’s mid-meltdown.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” says Will, and disappears quickly into the kitchen.
After a few minutes, Joanna sniffs and moves back. I let her go, but reach into my handbag, which is still over my shoulder. A minute’s delving results in the locating of a packet of tissues. I hand them to my friend, who’s now sitting on the sofa, and I plonk myself in the place next to her. I think she needs to be within huggable reach.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“When Will comes back.” Her voice sounds even thicker than it did when I called. She blows her nose. “First, though, I just want to say, although I’m shit-scared, I feel better with him here, and now that you’ve turned up as well, I guess it makes me feel a bit safer.”
“Matt wants to help too. And he suggested talking to Roger. I don’t know what you think about that, but maybe it’s something to discuss.”
“Definitely happy for Matt to help – I trust him. Not sure about Roger yet.”
Will comes in, carrying a tray with a teapot, three mugs, a jug of milk, a jar of coffee, some sugar sachets and a packet of tea bags.
“I didn’t know what everyone would want. The teapot just has boiling water, so everyone can help themselves.”
“Great idea. Thanks Will.”
I make Joanna a cup of tea and add sugar.
“You know I don’t take sugar.”
“You need it right now. Frankly, if I had some brandy to add, I’d give you that too. For now, sweet tea and biscuits will have to suffice.” I hand her the mug. “Drink it!”
She obeys, which scares me more than anything else. I’m not used to seeing her upset. She’s usually the calm one, helping me to keep it together.
I make myself a coffee, and after a quick question to Will, make him one too.
“Okay. Will, this is your shout. Please tell me what’s happened, and, well, pretty much everything I need to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
There have been developments. A woman is dead. And it’s because of me. I felt a surge of energy as I stuck the knife in for the first time. A thrill as she screamed. But then panic struck. I’d stabbed so many times, and it was only when I was sure she was dead that I noticed the blood on my clothes. Thank God for a cloudy night – pitch black away from the street lamps.
Urgent measures were needed. I removed my shoes, before returning home unseen. I then stripped, bagging my clothes carefully in a compostable bag. The cleansing shower was exhilarating. I will incorporate this in any future activities. It will become part of my ritual.
Dressed in clean dark clothes, a short walk to the bins behind my flat enabled me to bury the evidence deep. Bin collection is in two days. I pray that no one will come looking before then.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I don’t know how much you know, Becky?” says Will.
“I remember that your dad was in prison for beating up a bailiff at his girlfriend’s house after walking out on your mum when she had cancer. That’s about it though.”
“Yeah. Dad was a right bastard. I wish I could say he had a good side, but he was a crap father as well as being a shitty husband to Mum.”
“In what way, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Joanna takes her tea and goes to the stairs. “I’m going for a lie down. Will, tell Becky everything she wants to know.”
There’s a moment silence until constraint is released by the sound of the bedroom door closing.
“Sorry. It’s hard for Mum to hear all this. She feels like she’s failed as a mother. She hasn’t, of course. Mum’s great, and she always protected me, even when it meant her getting hit instead.”
I don’t ask why Joanna stayed with her abusive husband. I’ve interviewed a lot of abuse victims over the years, and the reasons become obvious after a while. The abusers (and women can be culprits and victims) gradually remove all confidence from their prey, depriving them of the ability to leave. I met so many women and men over the years who’d plucked up the courage to leave but were terrified that they wouldn’t cope alone.
“Your mum did well to escape then.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not often that cancer is a godsend, but Dad couldn’t cope with illness unless he’d inflicted it. Cancer was well out of his comfort zone. He packed his bags and left. The only downside was it was after he’d gambled away Mum’s inheritance, and it left Mum penniless and ill. She came to live with me for a while, but it was just after my marriage breakdown. I don’t think I looked after her as well as I should have done. As soon as they gave Mum the all-clear, she left to come down here and find you.”
“So when did your dad walk out, and when did he go to prison? I’m just trying to get a sense of the timelines.”
“He left Mum about eighteen months ago, and six months later he was sentenced for assaulting the bailiff that came round to his new girlfriend’s house. I’d hazard a guess that the old git gambled away her savings and wages as well.”
“It sounds probable, doesn’t it?”
“Dad had a pattern. I mean, I don’t really remember him ever being nice to Mum, but I guess he must have been at one time. But then, by the time I came along, he’d be going to the bookies every afternoon, and placing bets on the horses. If he won, everything would be great. He’d treat us to fish and chips, and play games and watch TV with us in the evenings…” Will tails off, lost in the past.
I give him a moment, but then prompt him. “And when he lost?”
“When he lost, he’d get roaring drunk. Sometimes at the pub; other times he’d come home, raid Mum’s purse and grab some booze from the off-licence. Either way, a few drinks in, he’d start having a go at Mum. Criticising her for everything – the house wasn’t clean enough, she wasn’t making any effort with her appearance, all sorts of shit. Then if she answered back, he’d start hitti
ng her. Mum worked full-time and looked after me. I mean, this went on from as long as I can remember. I guess back to when I started at school, so I’d have been about five. But then it carried on, throughout primary school, and secondary school, and college. He’d hit me too if Mum wasn’t around, but I learnt fast to stay out of his way. The problem was, Mum didn’t have any family to go to. There felt like no escape. I don’t know how she survived it. But his violence was always within boundaries, even when he was really pissed. He’d go from being sober enough to know just how hard he was hitting, to falling asleep when the alcohol levels got too high. I guess that little trick saved our lives. He probably realised he couldn’t explain away a dead wife and kid.”
“I’m sorry, Will. That sounds like a hellish way to grow up.”
“It was bloody awful. I left home at sixteen, as soon as I could get out of there, but I rang Mum most days. I had to check she was okay. I was twenty-five when she told me she had cancer. In all the years of living with Dad, I’ve never been so terrified in my life. I thought I was going to lose her.”
“Your mum’s a survivor. She’s the strongest woman I know. You can be very proud of her.” I remind myself that I need to ask Joanna about when she got involved with Roger. I can’t quite get my head around the timings. “So tell me about your dad, and prison. When did he get out, and how did you find out?”
“That’s an easy one. He got out on Friday. And he was at my flat yesterday, threatening to kill me if I didn’t tell him where Mum was.”
“You’re still alive, so did you tell him?”
“The prick threatened me from outside my front door. I was inside with the chain on. I stood well back and threatened to call the police if he didn’t back off. He’d have been back inside faster than a computer can add two and two. He left, but not until he said he’d kill Mum if he found her.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“Not a coherent one. He blethered on about Mum tipping off the bailiffs, but it’s a pile of crap. I think there’s something else going on his head. He muttered about working with drugs, and that he needed to sort everything out, or ‘those bastards inside’d be after him’. I don’t know what he meant. As soon as he’d gone, I called Mum and arranged to come here. I didn’t want to tell her why until I got here. I sorted the hire car. I mean, I was supposed to come on Monday anyway. Mum said she needed some help with something on the computer. Computers are my job. I’m a security geek. I set up anti-hacking, anti-virus, anti-phishing, all sorts of defences that people might need.”