by Alex Clare
Lorraine slammed the car door. ‘She threw herself off a balcony.’
‘When he was nowhere near her.’ Robyn put the bag on the back seat and settled into the front. ‘We should check the wedding pictures and confirm his story but it sounds like when she jumped, he was in the perfect place to make sure he was seen and remembered.’
‘Which is exactly what you’d do if you’d done something wrong. That bag really smells.’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t think things are so simple.’ Robyn heard part of the car creak as they went over a speed hump. ‘This time, we do things in reverse. We know who did it, now we do the investigation and in his bin bag, which he was happy for me to take, I think we’ll find some DNA we can match.’
‘And I bet he thought he was being so clever refusing to give a sample. Nice one, Guv.’ Lorraine laughed. ‘And then we can press some charges?’
‘And if we can, yes, we will press some charges.’ She glanced across. ‘It’s frustrating so we have to be better than that. Finding other ways to get results is a big part of moving up to sergeant. It’s only in films where a cop hands in his badge and then catches the bad guy.’
‘Or bad woman. Should we tell the family that we know what happened?’
‘Not yet.’ Robyn hadn’t considered it but the reaction was automatic. ‘We can’t prove anything yet. I don’t want to get their hopes up then for something to go wrong, even though I know it looks clear cut.’
‘When are you going to talk to Fell about me going for promotion?’
‘I wasn’t planning to do it this week.’ She could feel the force of Lorraine’s glare without looking around. ‘I should have said. With this sort of thing, you’ve got to pick your moment and now just isn’t the time to mention anything like this to Fell. He’s so stressed without Tracey organising everything for him, anything that caused more paperwork, he would veto right away.’ Lorraine braked too hard for a junction. ‘Don’t worry, it’s a week’s delay, no more.’ As soon as she was back, she would write a note to remind herself to speak to Fell: what Robyn had done recently to jeopardise her own career was one thing but she couldn’t justify stopping anyone else’s. She searched for a safer topic. ‘Did you get the impression Bartholomew and Lyndsey are a couple?’
‘No. Or at least not a regular one. Are you sure there isn’t another dead body in the bag?’ Lorraine coughed and opened the window. ‘Although it’s a one-bedroom flat, there’s a mattress in the corner of the bedroom. I think Lyndsey sleeps there.’
‘So if they’re not a couple, what do you think they are? I would have thought if he’s so dominant, they’d be sleeping together.’
‘Things have moved on a bit, Guv. I know there’s a lot of concern about porn and stuff but for most people, they just have friends, doesn’t matter if they’re male or female. It isn’t all about, well, sex, any more.’
‘What do you mean?’ This was one of the times when Robyn wondered if her team were embarrassed talking to her about certain subjects.
‘What I mean is, well, it’s like when my band goes away for a gig and has to stay over.’ Lorraine was talking faster than usual. ‘To save money, we just get a couple of family rooms and all muck in together. There’s nothing rude about it.’ Lorraine slowed for the roundabout. ‘I guess it’s because girls and boys mix much more when they’re young, there isn’t this sense of, oh I don’t know, of the opposite sex being something exotic and special, they’re just your friends.’ She drove the car into the police station, reaching for her pass. ‘The irony of all this is parents still see contact with the opposite sex as being scary, when in fact it seems to be the other way around. The more time boys and girls spend together, the more relaxed they become. And modern boys and girls aren’t so different anyway.’
‘Right.’ Robyn didn’t like where this conversation had gone. One way of interpreting Lorraine’s comment was that everything she had done was unnecessary. ‘Is there anything else relevant to the investigation?’
‘The bathroom was incredible. As well as being a fitness freak, Bartholomew must be a complete hypochondriac.’ Lorraine shoved the pass back into her bag. ‘The medicine cabinet is crammed with things for any sort of sniffle or pain then stacked against the wall are loads of big tubs of those supplement things body-builders use and there are also a whole load of pill boxes. When you look inside, they’re drugs of some sort though they can’t be from the UK because they don’t have proper labels and all the writing’s in some language with lots of consonants in it. I got a picture.’
‘Interesting. I wonder how he affords everything? Those pills and potions are expensive.’
‘Dunno. What do you think Graham’s up to?’
Robyn took her seatbelt off. ‘I don’t know. I wish he’d check in: we could have used him yesterday.’
‘He’ll turn up.’ Lorraine kept the engine running. ‘He tells these amazing stories about when DI Prentiss was in charge, how they used to go out on these benders when they caught someone. They’d be in the pub and send the youngest officer into the office to keep moving stuff around about every half hour and make cups of tea for everyone so it looked as if they were all working.’
‘It wasn’t so funny when you were the officer that had to face the Superintendent.’ She had a memory of having to come up with a series of excuses for where Prentiss was: the bathroom; the canteen; getting something from his car. ‘It’s one of the reasons why I left Meresbourne and went to Bristol. One time, and I am not making this up, a bloke holding a bloodied baseball bat was caught standing over an unconscious man. Prentiss questions the guy, lets him go because he was “provoked” and when I go over to the pub later, there were the two of them playing darts together.’
‘The way Graham describes it, it sounded like the Wild West and they were all that was standing between the townsfolk and pesky bandits.’
‘Surely you don’t believe everything Graham tells you? After all, he does like a joke.’ Robyn opened her door. ‘OK. We’ve moved things on. Enjoy playing your gig then get some sleep. We’ll build the case tomorrow then finalise things with the forensic evidence.’
It looked like Lorraine was trying to muster arguments, then she nodded once. ‘OK. I know I’m going to play really badly when I’m wound up like this.’ She moved the car into gear.
‘Forget about everything until tomorrow.’ Robyn tried to smile. ‘Otherwise you end up carrying so much around with you, it will wear you down.’ She shut the door.
14
Robyn considered opening the rubbish bag in the incident room, decided not to risk it and bagged the whole thing up for analysis. Through the thin plastic, she could feel the outline of drinks bottles, which she was certain would contain DNA from saliva in the residue. Trying to stifle yawns, she filled in the necessary forms to allow the lab to match the DNA to Bartholomew’s record. Although she searched the computer, she could not identify Lyndsey. Her plan had been to spend the afternoon reviewing the rest of the Lady Ann statements; when she found herself trying to read a sheet upside-down, she decided to call it a day at two o’clock.
The clouds had thinned enough to allow a pale sun to break through by the time Robyn got home to a cold, dark house. Aimless, she cast around for a task to occupy herself and decided on the ironing. Setting up the board in her bedroom, the bed looked very inviting. A few minutes of rest would be fine. She undressed, pulled the duvet around herself and tried to force the ugly thoughts out into the pillow.
When Robyn opened her eyes, the patch of sky she could see from her window was already darkening. She checked the clock – she had slept through the afternoon. Tempting though it was to stay in the warm cocoon, she knew she would have to get up if she wanted to sleep tonight. Making an effort she pushed the duvet aside and headed for the bathroom.
At the top of the stairs, she could see into what was now Becky’s room. The relentless co-ordination and its overall newness made it look like a hotel room rather than a real place wh
ere someone would stay. The effort she’d put into the room seemed greater than the effort she’d put into trying to communicate with her daughter. She needed to call Becky immediately and understand what it would take to bring her down so that they could talk, face to face, father and daughter.
Pulling on a jumper, she grabbed her mobile from the bedside cabinet and started scrolling to Becky’s number. Frustrated by the jerky process, she changed her mind and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, she reached for the whisky. The bottle almost slipped through her hands, the heavy base thudding on the counter. She stopped: she should not be a coward. If there was something to celebrate after the call, she would allow herself a proper drink. For now, she would make do with water. In the lounge, with her thumb over the green button, she took a sip. The ring tone began in her ear as the liquid caught at the back of her mouth.
‘Hello?’
Her throat constricted as she tried to swallow. A gasp of breath met the remaining water, causing some of it to go up her nose.
‘What is going on there?’
Robyn coughed because not enough air was reaching her lungs. She held the phone away as another cough turned into a hiccough. ‘Becky, sorry, something caught in my throat.’
‘Dad, is that you? I thought it was a dirty phone call, all the heavy breathing.’
Robyn hiccoughed again, a small noise escaping. There was a possible giggle from the other end. ‘No, just I’ve got hiccups.’
There was a proper laugh this time. ‘Do you want to call me back when you’re in one piece?’
Part of Robyn did. The other part said now she had her daughter on the phone she should not let her go. ‘Now’s fine. Becky, everything’s ready for you here. Are you coming down tomorrow?’
There was a pause. ‘No, Dad, I’m not.’
Robyn tried to suppress another hiccup. ‘Will you tell me why?’
‘Because, I’d rather be on my own. Can you imagine what it’s like when I don’t know who either of my parents are at the moment?’ Becky drew a shuddering breath. ‘Mum’s just been lashing out over the least little thing and you, well, where do we start?’
Robyn waited in case she went on. The pause got too long. ‘You’re right, of course, I can’t imagine. It just feels like the best way for you to find out who I am is to come here and see me.’ She left another gap for an answer although there was no acknowledgement. ‘I am worried about your mother though. I don’t remember her being so angry before.’
There was a loud sniff from the other end. ‘She’s been like this for a while now. I didn’t go home for the summer because I didn’t want to be in the middle of it all.’
‘Becky, I’ve got to tell you because you need to understand. Your mother was very close to being charged with assault.’ Now she had started, Robyn wanted to make sure she finished. ‘When you said you wouldn’t visit unless I released Julie, there was no way I could agree to that because she was involved in a crime.’
‘I don’t think she means any of it.’
‘Whether she meant it or not, she was involved and people got hurt.’
‘She’s having a really hard time of it at the moment. Apparently, the university isn’t even sure whether it’s going to be running Women’s Studies courses next year.’ Becky sniffed again. ‘I think she’s been joining all these movements to try and prove she’s still relevant.’
Robyn had to fight back an urge to laugh. ‘I don’t think she’d be happy to have you doubting her motivations. There was this author she used to quote all the time. Something like the only thing worse than not doing something was doing something you didn’t fully believe in?’
‘Oh, give over.’ The line was cut.
Robyn stared at the phone, not able to accept the call had ended. She replayed the conversation, now thinking about how brittle Becky had sounded. Her complaint that nobody was there for her seemed unfair – there was a new room upstairs waiting to welcome her until she realised Becky didn’t know about it. Driven to her feet, Robyn stamped upstairs. Pulling out her phone, she stood in the doorway of the spare room and took a picture. On the screen, the room looked even more impersonal. She hurried back downstairs and looked around. All her parents’ old ornaments had gone to the tip and she had not replaced them, enjoying the lack of clutter. Over the fireplace was a framed picture: of all the photos she’d taken, this was her favourite and it had been commended in the Kent Print Cup. She marched upstairs and set the frame on the mantelpiece – she’d need to put a proper hook up. She looked around again – there was still something missing.
From the top shelf of her wardrobe, she retrieved Puppy, the soft toy dog with half an ear and bare patches in the purple fur, and set him on the bookcase. She hoped Becky would remember him from visits to her grandparents and would realise this was a room for her. Taking another photo, she kept the message short:
Hello sweetheart, your room is all ready for you. Dad.
With the evening stretching ahead, Robyn faced the chores needed to be ready for another week. Because she hadn’t bought any new clothes, she spread out the two suits she’d bought at the beginning of her transition. It seemed very unfair: one of Roger’s suits had been fifteen years old and never attracted a comment, then the second time she had worn a particular blouse, someone had remarked on it. The decision was made when she found a seam unravelling on the grey suit. She ironed the black one, hoping no one would notice the strains in the jacket where the shoulders were a little too tight.
Neither would last much longer, so in an attempt to give more purpose to the day, Robyn switched on her laptop. At least this time when she bought online, she knew to look out for some of the ways purchases could be wrong, like finding the sleeves were too short, exposing inches of forearm. The browser opened up at the local news site, which was covering the Lady Ann case. She was surprised by the number of reader comments on the story: as she watched, the number clicked up. The latest comment was by someone calling themselves Woodsman.
Medway Mike got it bang on. Women gotta make up there minds whether wannt it or not. Cant be tits hanging out 1 minit an then cry as somewon raped them. Anway Meresbourne gals like it ruff.
Somewhere, nearby, there was someone who had just insulted all the women in Meresbourne. She scanned to the bottom of the comments; the messages had started with women leaving messages of shock and sympathy for Shazia.
She scrolled through a series of posts and found the tone hardening.
Once again women trampled beneath the twin oppression of religion and culture. Real women should fight back.
Gaia-Girl2 compared marriage to slavery and Feminicki described the arrests as police oppression. Then she found MedwayMike’s comment.
Can someone explain this to me? If I left my valuables on display and my front door open, police would say it was my fault when they were stolen and wouldn’t investigate. Why is it different for a woman who wears almost nothing, gets really drunk and then complains because she gets attacked?
From there, the messages became angry, everyone trying to shout louder. For comparison, she looked at the story of the riot. There was only one comment on here, a ‘wouldn’t happen in my day’ rant from someone who had capitalised every word. Despite her revulsion, Robyn went back and read the thread again. There was a common theme of women being viewed just as pieces of meat.
Revolted, she pushed the chair back and stood up, grabbing her handbag. She didn’t bother with a coat, welcoming the fresh, damp air as she stepped outside. She didn’t have a destination, just intended to walk around the block, to clear her mind. The streets were deserted, the only sound was music just audible from the Moon and Rainbow pub on the corner: a poster with running ink was advertising ‘Elvis night’.
At the corner, she turned left, the only figure on the street of nose-to-tail parked cars. She had to admit to herself, she would never agree with some of the views on what it meant to be female. Potentially, Julie was right and someone who had spent most of thei
r life in a man’s body would never understand fully what it meant to be a real woman. Car noise intruded on her thoughts as she turned onto the main road. She was sure none of the women in her team had thoughts like this: Lorraine and Chloe just got on with being women without thinking about what it meant because they had done it all their lives, whereas she had to conform to society’s ideas of what a woman was supposed to be.
She carried on around the block by taking the next street on the left, now walking between pools of white light and the dark gaps between the smaller streetlamps. There were lights in the upstairs windows of houses though many were already dark – people went to bed early in Barton. An engine sounded behind her. Robyn glanced over her shoulder, then shut her eyes, dazzled by the headlights. She found her pace quickening, taking her into a patch of shadow. The car seemed to be taking a long time to pass and she had a sudden thought of what Khalid had said about street attacks. They had all started like this, a woman walking on her own, late at night. She was halfway down the street: if she needed to run, home was ahead but to get away from the car it would be better to go back towards the main road, forcing the driver to leave the car or reverse. She risked another glance: the car was drawing level. The windows were shiny blocks: her reflected face looked yellow and ghostly. Her image was erased by the window sliding down.
‘Excuse me. Could you help us? We’re looking for a petrol station and the sat-nav sent us down here, which doesn’t look right.’
The woman’s voice was plummy; she was probably from Gaddesford or Upper Markham. Robyn took a deep breath and squeezed through the gap between two parked cars so she didn’t have to raise her voice in case it gave away her nerves. ‘Of course. There’s one a couple of minutes away. At the bottom of this road, turn right. You get to a T junction and if you turn left, you’re on the Maidstone Road and there’s a petrol station on the right.’