The Lost

by Mari Hannah

  Jumping out of the car at the Jet service station had been advantageous. She’d done it to get away from Stone, because she couldn’t bear to breathe the same air as someone so intrinsically perverse. As she stood rigid and seething on the forecourt, taking time out, she had suddenly become aware of the curiosity of an attendant at the payment desk who’d witnessed her anxiety through his viewing window, all this captured on CCTV.

  When the attendant’s eyes shifted to Stone, his enquiring expression morphed into one of concern. Fearful that he might misconstrue their odd behaviour as a probable threat to the contents of the till, she’d glanced at her vehicle. Her petrol tank was full, so she marched inside to put the guy’s mind at rest, bought a few provisions and apologised, telling him that she was having a serious domestic with her bloke. The half-truth seemed to satisfy him. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d witnessed a couple at each other’s throats.

  She cleared away a space on the kitchen bench big enough to cobble something together with what she’d managed to purchase at the petrol station to force down her boss. Cooking had never been her thing and her efforts tasted foul, a far cry from his nan’s home cooking, she imagined. Nevertheless, he ate the lot and didn’t complain.

  As she refilled her wine glass, she chanced her arm. ‘The issue of Ben is not going away, David. Mark my words, if you don’t deal with him now, as his trustee, it may come back and haunt you. He might try and drag you into court, attempt to change Luke’s will.’

  ‘He won’t win—’

  ‘Do you really want the hassle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why don’t you try working with him rather than against him—’

  ‘Why don’t you leave it out?’

  ‘You’ll thank me one day.’ She grinned.

  Her attempt to lighten his mood didn’t work. Stone got up, grabbed another beer from the fridge and slumped down on the sofa facing the fire. Frankie followed suit, choosing his nan’s rocker, hoping it might somehow add weight to her argument.

  ‘I’m really not trying to wind you up,’ she said.

  ‘Then don’t . . . please.’

  She remembered the mood swings and angry outbursts at home, the loss of self-control, her parents’ inability to intervene without causing their firstborn to bolt from the house. Without talking about her own experience, how could she explain how much support Ben needed to get him on track, why it was so important to be there for him, no matter how difficult a task it might prove to be.

  ‘Teenagers can be a pain but they’re also extremely vulnerable to the influences of others,’ she said. ‘Ben comes across as rude and hostile – I’m not denying that – but underneath that cocky exterior, he’s lost. A sullen teenager trying to make his way in difficult circumstances. He needs a guiding hand . . . Yours.’

  For a moment, Stone let his silence do the talking. ‘His problems are of his own making,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  If he thought she’d drop it, he was sadly mistaken. ‘David, he’s provoking you, can’t you see? He’s asking the earth, knowing or even expecting you to reject him, reinforcing the fact that he’s unworthy. I bet you a month’s pay that he wasn’t like that as a little boy.’ Frankie was trying to get him to see sense. If Ben had been a kid lacking discipline, she could understand his uncle’s attitude. If the opposite was true, she might gain some sympathy for a lad who, in her opinion, had experienced a disproportionate amount of sadness compared to his peers. Was it any wonder he’d gone off the rails? ‘Well?’ She tried lightening the mood. ‘Was he a difficult rug rat or a little angel?’

  Stone warmed a little. ‘He was OK.’

  ‘Then it stands to reason that something happened to make him lose it.’ Except Frankie knew that wasn’t always the case. Some kids got lost all by themselves with no apparent trigger. However, she had to try to hit the right note. ‘Losing his mum must’ve been very difficult for a start.’

  ‘It was for all of us.’

  ‘I’m sure it was, but he’s not much more than a kid! There is a difference. Don’t you think that might explain his reliance on dope?’ Frankie was convinced that Ben’s antisocial behaviour was a cry for help. She was worried that he might sink even lower, get into difficulty and end up in serious trouble, possibly on harder drugs, harming himself or even those around him.

  ‘You want him to end up in Durham jail? Think of Luke—’

  ‘I am! My brother is a pile of ashes because of him! He was racing to hospital to collect him! Want to know why? I’ll tell you, shall I? That little toerag had been on an all-night bender. Luke told Andrea that he’d received a call from one of Ben’s mates. He’d collapsed and was rushed to A & E after taking a cocktail of drugs and alcohol. Luke ended up in the same hospital and only one of them walked away. The wrong one.’

  Frankie didn’t know what to say. Quietly she said, ‘I understand but—’

  ‘Do you, really? I doubt that. Who have you ever lost?’

  Frankie looked away. He had absolutely no idea.

  45

  Frankie drove. Forensics were in and she couldn’t wait to get to Northern Command HQ. Stone was a mess, marginally better than when they’d passed each other on the way to the ‘torture chamber’ in his nan’s house. The goosebumps on her body were mammoth when she got out of the shower; they would have been less so had she bathed in an Alpine stream. The radio was full of the political fallout from Brexit, as it had been for days. The EU referendum had gone the wrong way. Both detectives had been stunned by it. Since then, the newspapers, radio and TV had been full of it. Brexit had divided the country and what was done could not be undone. This was democracy in action. Scotland and Northern Ireland had voted to remain, but overall the public had chosen to leave the European Union. The headlines were depressing. Cameron had resigned. Britain was in turmoil.

  Frankie sighed. ‘No matter how many times I hear it, I still can’t believe it. I hate to think what will happen further down the line.’

  Stone killed the radio.

  He was in no mood to go there.

  He crashed through the door to the incident room. Mitchell was on his feet, heading in their direction, a mug of coffee in his hand. Stone walked past him without so much as a by your leave. He wasn’t feeling particularly chatty this morning. The funeral was bad enough, his row with Frankie more than he could handle. He hadn’t budged an inch regarding his nephew – not yet anyway – although at the crematorium he’d gone some way to resolving their differences until Ben went off on one. For now, the subject was off limits.

  ‘Where is it?’ Frankie asked Mitchell.

  ‘On his desk.’

  ‘Anything else come in I should know about?’

  ‘No, Sarge. To be honest, we’re not getting very far.’ Mitchell glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Stone’s closed office door, the venetian blinds drawn. He might as well have written LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE and hung it on the door. The DC turned to face Frankie. ‘How did it go yesterday?’

  ‘As well as it ever can.’

  Mitch held up his mug. ‘You want me to fix you up with one of these, strong and black?’

  ‘Anyone would think you were a detective.’

  The DC smiled. ‘Want a bacon buttie to go with it?’

  ‘I’ll pass, thanks, but get one for the boss. In fact, make it two: brown sauce, not ketchup. He hates the stuff.’ She looked around the incident room and then at Mitchell. ‘Any sign of the SIO this morning?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘If you happen to bump into him, tell him we’re in conference. If the boss feels as bad as I think he might, he’ll want a couple of hours to get his head in gear before consulting with Sharpe. We don’t want him thinking we’re not up to the job.’

  ‘You can’t t
ell behind those.’ Mitch pointed at her sunglasses.

  ‘You did!’ Frankie said. ‘I’d better get going.’

  Stone was already reading the forensic report when she entered his office. His expression was enough of a hint that the findings were of interest. He passed it over his desk for her to get up to speed. Mitchell arrived with breakfast before she’d finished scanning the document. Stone wolfed his food down so quickly it hardly touched the sides. Only when he was done did they get down to business.

  ‘The first forensic report found Parker’s DNA in Justine’s bed,’ he said. ‘No semen. His prints were lifted from three separate locations in her room, even though he denies ever being in there, but this . . .’ he tapped the follow-up document, ‘is gold. Alex Parker identified the unwashed bed linen crime scene investigators took from the washing machine as her own and yet Justine’s DNA is all over it.’

  ‘She’s the au pair,’ Frankie said. ‘She makes the beds.’

  ‘Yes, and we’d expect to find it there, but this is not any old DNA, Frankie. It’s bodily fluids. Looks like I’m buying you dinner after all.’

  ‘Don’t get your credit card out yet. It’s not news that Justine liked to sleep around. Those samples only prove that she was there. She could have been screwing him, screwing Alex, or both together. You never know what goes on in rural Northumberland . . .’ She made a crazy face. ‘Except in Pauperhaugh, where absolutely nothing happens.’

  Stone laughed.

  She did too.

  ‘Maybe they’re a couple of swingers, she said. ‘Mind you, if that was the case, you’d expect them to do their laundry more often.’

  ‘Except Justine had the week off.’ Stone paused, considering the implications of the forensic report, a theory forming in his mind. ‘So, Justine and Parker have it off in the marital bed, which was supposed to be changed before Alex got home from Majorca. Justine shoves the linen in the washing machine before she goes to collect Daniel – at which point all hell breaks loose. She’s so distraught, she totally forgets about it. Once she’s off duty, nothing jogs her memory. We might have copped some good fortune here.’

  Frankie agreed. Tim Parker was back at the top of her list.

  46

  They briefed the Murder Investigation Team SIO at 11 a.m. Given Timothy Parker’s antipathy to Frankie, it made sense for her to conduct the interview. This time it would take place under caution at Northern Command HQ, not on the entrepreneur’s home turf. They finally had evidence. He’d lied about his association with the murder victim. Sharpe wanted him under pressure and talking. It was time to shake him up.

  ‘You OK with that, David?’ the SIO asked out of courtesy.

  Stone nodded, a wry smile. ‘Frankie has the ability to get a rise out of most people.’

  Her response was directed at Sharpe. ‘You should see what I can do with a baseball bat, sir.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I never heard that,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re happy to lead?’

  ‘Are you kidding? My dad would have had the cuffs on by now. My granddad would’ve had him in the dock.’

  Sharpe and Stone both knew there was some truth behind the joke.

  They met Parker off British Airways flight BA1335 from Heathrow. It landed right on schedule at 19:30 in the pouring rain. Stone intercepted him as he made his way to the arrivals hall, much as he had done to his wife at passport control a fortnight before. The entrepreneur made a song and dance about his car being in the short-term car park, the fact that it would be towed away if it ran over the maximum period, so Frankie had driven his vehicle back to base, Stone taking their suspect in his car.

  The interview was ten minutes in. Frankie had been chipping away at Parker, little by little. For every point she raised, he concocted a story to fit. He was well-schooled to answer only the questions put to him and never volunteered information. It was hard going.

  ‘Mr Parker, as I stated at the beginning of this interview, finding the person or persons responsible for Justine Segal’s murder is a top priority for us, so let’s go over it again, shall we? You have admitted entering her accommodation. Are you now willing to concede that you plugged your phone into the charger in her room, even though your study is closer?’

  He made no comment.

  Frustrated by his noncompliance, Frankie made a meal of examining the plan of his home, then looked up. ‘Your phone charger is here, in the hallway of your house.’ She pointed to the relevant spot. ‘Did it not occur to you to use that, rather than squeeze yourself around the side of Justine’s bed to reach her device?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Do you really expect us to believe that? It’s twice the distance. Isn’t it the case that you were planning to have sex with Justine and that’s why you used her charger. Your prints were found on it, man. And on the cabinet on which it stands. You must’ve expected to be there a while.’

  No response.

  ‘OK, what if I told you that we found your DNA on her bed.’

  ‘You would do. I sat down.’ Parker’s steely eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘Sitting on someone’s bed is a very personal thing to do,’ Frankie said. ‘I wouldn’t do it unless I was intimately involved with that person, yet you chose to do so and lied about it.’

  ‘You caught me out, DS Oliver. I’m embarrassed and I apologise unreservedly. I’m a married man. I’m sure you can appreciate why I didn’t come clean initially about entering her room. It doesn’t look good, does it?’

  Frankie never took her eyes off him. ‘You lied unnecessarily in my opinion. It’s your house. We’d expect to find your DNA in most rooms. On June twenty-second, I specifically asked you if you had ever been inside Justine’s annex—’

  ‘It’s actually my annex.’

  Frankie ignored the interruption. ‘You said, quote: “I’ve never so much as set foot inside the place,” unquote. That’s a fairly strenuous denial.’

  ‘It wasn’t semen then?’

  Cleverly worked out.

  Frankie thought of the positioning of the prints, particularly those found high up on the architrave of the door. She imagined him standing there, a hand on either side of the doorway before crossing the threshold, invited or not. ‘Why did you enter her room?’

  ‘I can’t recall.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon. Give it a go.’

  ‘I looked in. We had a chat.’

  ‘You did more than “look in” though, didn’t you, Mr Parker.’ She flipped open her file, eyes dropping to the notepad in front of her. ‘Can you outline to me exactly how you came to look in on her?’

  ‘I think her door was open. She spoke to me. It would have been impolite to ignore her.’

  ‘That’s not the truth and you know it.’ He failed to respond and Frankie carried on. ‘Mr Parker, people who tell lies about small things are usually prepared to lie about big things. I need your honesty now: a yes or no to a straightforward question. Have you ever had sex with Justine Segal . . . anywhere? Are you clear about what I’m asking?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Then I’d like an answer.’

  Parker rubbed at his forehead. ‘No.’

  ‘You are denying a sexual relationship with your au pair?’

  ‘Categorically.’

  He waited for the next question, knowing it would make her share what little evidence she had. He was making a good fist of the interview, giving away as little as possible. He knew he didn’t need to tell them anything at all. It was up to them to build a credible case. He was very astute and, so far, Frankie had nothing concrete to tie him to her murder case.

  ‘You will recall that forensic science officers entered your premises on Friday, twenty-second of June following Justine’s death. They processed her room, recovering several personal items. What you may not know is that they removed bed linen from her
bed and some found in the washing machine in the laundry room. The latter items had been stripped from your marital bed. Your wife has confirmed that.’

  Parker’s expression was inscrutable.

  ‘Your sheets. Your bed.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘We believe they were removed by Justine prior to your wife’s return from holiday. Did I mention they hadn’t been washed?’

  ‘You have now.’

  ‘Well, they have now been examined,’ Frankie said. ‘Traces of your semen and bodily fluids from Justine were found on them. Do you have anything to say about that?’

  If he did, Parker kept quiet about it.

  ‘The positioning of these samples would suggest sexual activity. Justine didn’t get the chance to wash them because everyone’s focus was on Daniel at the time. She was worried about his disappearance. If you recall, when he was returned home by Mr Price, she was given the week off by your wife. The dirty laundry must have slipped her mind. And yet you sit there telling lies like a bloody schoolboy.’

  ‘DS Oliver has a point,’ Stone said. ‘We’re not interested in where you put your semen, Mr Parker. Only that you continue to evade the truth. You have lied repeatedly. Every time we prove that to you, you change your story to fit. Fortunately for you, it is not a criminal offence to lie to us. Had it been so, your name would already be on a charge sheet. Perverting the course of justice or wasting police time is another matter entirely. Mark my words, if I feel at the end of this enquiry that you are guilty of either offence, you will be prosecuted.’

  Parker’s eyes were back on Frankie. ‘Did you find any other bodily fluids?’

  The interview was being recorded. She had to tell the truth. ‘Yes, we did. They belong to your wife.’

  ‘Then has it occurred to you that she may have been having a relationship with Justine in our marital bed?’

  Frankie came straight back at him. ‘I can assure you that we’ve examined all the angles, Mr Parker, including that one. Are you guessing or do you have reason to suspect Alex of impropriety? I think it an unlikely contrivance myself. I’m sure that a woman as classy as your wife would have washed the sheets before taking another woman into her bed.’