The Lost

by Mari Hannah

  This news was gold to Stone, the kind of information that never came to light until wills were read and lawyers got involved. Every family had secrets. He made a mental note to look up the circumstances surrounding the death of the parents of these two sisters.

  ‘Parker said he couldn’t pay,’ Kyra added. ‘It didn’t go down well. I gather the family home is worth millions.’

  It was all beginning to make perfect sense to Stone. He and Frankie had been wondering why Kat was so poisonous on the phone. Maybe she wanted Parker out of her sister’s life and hers. Maybe she thought that, with him out of the way, it would let her back in. Maybe she resented the fact that he’d spent much of what she considered her own inheritance.

  Apologising for the interruption, Kyra sat down.

  Stone thanked her for her input. ‘Kyra’s information is very helpful to us. For now, if I may, I’d like to return to Daniel. The investigation into his disappearance was short-lived. It had hardly got going when he was returned home, safe and well, having been for a sleepover at a friend’s house. We put it down to a genuine mix-up. Lack of communication between Parker and the family’s French au pair, Justine Segal. The missing person’s case was wound up, written off as no further action.’ He paused. ‘However, and this is where it gets interesting, a week later, on June twenty-second, Justine was found dead in an isolated spot in Northumberland, having been attacked and then dragged alive into the middle of a country road, where she subsequently met her death having been run over by a motor vehicle approaching the blind summit of a humpback bridge.’

  Stone had the team in the palm of his hand.

  ‘Let me be clear,’ he said. ‘What happened to Justine was entirely deliberate. She didn’t collapse and crawl into the middle of the road. The Home Office pathologist has confirmed that she would not have been able to get there under her own steam due to a severe head injury. She’d been struck with an adjustable wrench and placed in mortal danger by some sick fuck who wanted her dead. We concluded that the offender was attempting to make it look like an accident, but her head injury was inconsistent with being run over. Our underwater search team recovered what we believe to be the weapon from a nearby lake yesterday.’

  Stone waited for detectives to catch up.

  Frankie’s attention strayed to the murder wall where the IP’s name was written above a series of crime scene photographs of her lying dead on her living room floor, blood pooling around her head, eyes open as if affronted by the barefaced cheek of her assailant.

  If only the dead could speak.

  David’s soft Geordie lilt brought her back into the room.

  ‘Last Wednesday, Kat Irwin called me out of the blue, that twenty-second call the guv’nor mentioned. I checked she was who she said she was and called her back. She told me that she and Parker didn’t get along. From what Kyra has said, that much was true. Kat told me that a third party had told her that he was a serial philanderer, after her sister’s money and probably screwing Justine before her death. She put forward no proof and yet she begged me to offer Alex Parker and her nephew police protection.’

  Stone glanced at Frankie, her cue to say a few words.

  She hadn’t expected it and was grateful for the chance to contribute. ‘The content of Kat’s call may only be hearsay but it rang true, given what we knew of Justine. She had a colourful sex life, multiple male suitors, for want of a better phrase, a diary crammed with the names of various men all requiring a TIE action.’ Her audience were all too familiar with the acronym for Trace, Interview and Eliminate. ‘We’ve narrowed the list down to three men we’re interested in, the most likely suspect being Kat Irwin’s brother-in-law, Timothy Parker.’

  Frankie handed back to Stone.

  ‘Despite his out and out denial of an intimate relationship with Justine, Parker’s DNA was all over her bedroom and Justine’s DNA was in his marital bed. Thanks to Kyra, we now know that our two victims had similar lifestyles, in as much as they were happy to sleep with married men, the same one in this case. Kat’s hearsay allegations didn’t really hit the mark. Frankie and I did wonder if it was an invention. Sounds very much like a woman scorned, cover story for her own affair with him. Guv, you’ve put Kat’s death at around midday on Friday last. We happen to know that Parker was in London then. He caught a nine a.m. flight to Heathrow, arriving at ten twenty. He flew home at six fifteen p.m. Frankie and I lifted him when it landed at Newcastle International at seven thirty. The slippery so-and-so can’t wriggle out of that one.’

  There was little doubt that the three incidents were somehow linked. Sinead Friel didn’t waste time. Given Stone’s insight and his recent involvement with the family, she thought it entirely appropriate that he should take the lead. In no way was she passing the buck. She’d render him every assistance. Intelligence would be shared north and south. Frankie glanced at Stone. In Sharpe’s absence on holiday, he was now running the show.

  59

  The crime scene was on the lower ground floor of a residential block, halfway between Hyde Park and Regent’s Park, a twenty-five-minute walk from West End Central, less than ten by car. As the briefing between Northumbria and Met detectives had covered only the main points of the investigation into the death of Kat Irwin, the SIO made sure that Stone and Oliver were driven there by Kyra Thakur. She was the DS assigned to all enquiries and actions relating to family and known associates of the victim. It was quite a responsibility. Statistically speaking, a high percentage of murderers turned out to be one or the other.

  Kyra got over her awkwardness the minute they left the incident room and made their way to the car park. The Met DS was a friendly sort, extremely fond of David. It was clear from their chat that they had a good relationship and enjoyed each other’s company. He climbed in the front of her car, Frankie in the back. She felt like a spare part, unable to contribute to a conversation about their mutual acquaintances and all that had gone on since he’d left the area, so she said nothing. She couldn’t help wondering if their relationship had gone beyond the professional.

  Kat Irwin had wanted for nothing. Her apartment was situated in Marylebone, a prestigious address in one of the most sought-after areas of London. It had a shared garden and the additional perk of access to the beautifully manicured Montagu Square. The building itself was impressive, one that a lot of people would love to live in. Not Frankie. She was already longing for her seaport town in Northumberland, the big skies – the peace and quiet of an empty beach.

  No amount of money could buy that.

  Stone stood in the doorway, fixing the crime scene in his mind in the same way that an artist might. Spatial awareness was key, the ability to view objects in relation to one another and himself in terms of space and distance – for example the positioning of windows, doors and items of furniture – the capacity to see them three-dimensionally and draw conclusions based on what he saw. In due course, when it came to interviewing a suspect, he’d need to know, with accuracy, what was where, how long it might take to cross a room, what the lighting was like and so on. Crime scene stills were one thing. Witnessing a scene for yourself was entirely different. No SIO would could afford to skimp on that.

  The interior of the apartment was as classy as it appeared from the outside, airy and light, a much larger space than Stone had expected from the stills Met Police had supplied, the reason it was imperative to view it personally. The light wood flooring was stained with Kat Irwin’s blood. She’d ended her days between a cream leather sofa and a marble coffee table, both of which bore the signs of blood spatter. One blow to the head with a blunt instrument – a hammer of some sort – was all it took to end her relatively short life.

  The detectives moved into the apartment.

  ‘There was no sign of a break-in or a fight,’ Kyra said. ‘We’re fairly certain she knew her attacker well enough to let them in here without a fuss. The caretaker said the door was o
pen when he arrived. He looked in, saw her lying here and called us in immediately.’

  ‘What time was that?’ Stone was asking.

  ‘Shortly after one.’

  Frankie turned to look at Kyra. ‘Your guv’nor said it was a false alarm.’

  The Met detective nodded. ‘Someone had set it off maliciously.’

  ‘Unless it was a fault,’ Frankie suggested.

  ‘No, it was deliberate. The glass was smashed.’

  Frankie met her gaze. She had something on her mind.

  ‘You have a theory?’ Kyra asked.

  ‘If Timothy Parker is the father of Kat’s child – and I think we can safely assume that he is – maybe he killed her and set the alarm off to ensure that Ali would be found. Which suggests he cares for her. We might use that to our advantage. Is there any suggestion that anyone else was paying Kat child support?’

  Kyra was shaking her head.

  ‘Where was the kid found?’ Stone asked.

  ‘Through there.’

  Kyra was pointing to a door leading off the living room. The three detectives moved through it into a spacious nursery. Like her mother, three-year-old Ali Irwin had everything money could buy. The room was beautifully done out with hand-painted Disney characters across one wall, a tiny table and chair, dozens of well-worn books and a bed stuffed with every soft toy imaginable.

  ‘She was sitting on the floor here, crying,’ Kyra said.

  Children were often a vital source of information. It was important not to frighten them, to take it slow and build rapport in the hope that they would put their trust in you. Frankie assumed this had all been done in the company of the registered childminder employed by her mother, a familiar face, the person with whom she was living temporarily with the support of social services.

  ‘Did Ali see what happened?’ Stone asked.

  ‘It’s too early to tell,’ Kyra said. ‘We don’t want to push her. She may be blocking it out. There was a big noise. That’s all we could get out of her before we put a stop to the interview. Her bed was as it is now, rumpled, as if she’d been taking a nap. We reckon she may have been asleep and either woke up naturally or suddenly when the fire alarm was triggered.’

  ‘Let’s hope it was the latter,’ Frankie said.

  Kyra was nodding. ‘She’ll be interviewed again tomorrow. If she’s up to it, I’ll ask if she saw her mummy on the floor—’

  Frankie cut her off. ‘What we want to know is: did she see Daddy?’

  Stone was delighted to see his two favourite coppers sharing the load. As people, they were very different. As detectives, Kyra and Frankie were similar, driven to investigate crimes without fear or favour, smart and intuitive, vociferous occasionally, with big hearts. Since he’d met Sinead Friel at training school, he’d been fortunate to have been paired with clever women, less egotistical than their male counterparts, often more hardworking if he were being perfectly honest.

  He went for his pocket as his mobile rang.

  ‘What’s up, Mitch?’

  ‘I have news.’

  ‘Hang on then. I’m at the crime scene with Frankie and an ex-colleague. They may as well hear it too. While you’re on, let Dick Abbott know that the incidents are linked. We’re now in the driving seat. DS Kyra Thakur is our liaison officer down here. She needs to be aware of what’s going on up north. She’s up to speed, so no need to repeat what she knows already. You’re on speaker.’

  ‘Kyra, hi. Welcome to my world,’ Mitch said.

  Kyra smiled. ‘Polite, isn’t he?’

  ‘His appraisal is due.’ Frankie was teasing him. ‘Quit stalling, Mitch. Give us what you’ve got.’

  ‘Mason is about to go on leave, so he asked to view the wrench we recovered yesterday before it went off for analysis. Kyra, he’s our Home Office pathologist in case you didn’t know, and he’s as sure as he can be that it’s the murder weapon. The jaws are open to the exact same aperture as the injuries he measured on Justine’s skull. I’ve put in an urgent request to the laboratory for forensic examination. They should get to it first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good,’ Stone said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, I got in touch with airport administration. Parker’s plane ticket was bought on his company credit card, one of two purchased independently . . .’ Mitchell paused. ‘It seems Curtis was also in London on Friday.’

  ‘James Curtis?’ Kyra asked.

  Stone looked at her. ‘How d’you know about him? He’s Timothy Parker’s business partner.’

  ‘He’s a damned sight more than that,’ Kyra said. ‘He’s Kat Irwin’s ex-husband.’

  60

  Kyra dropped them at Stone’s place in Pimlico. It felt strange, letting himself in. David had not been back since he’d left London. He’d bought the flat for three hundred and fifty grand in 2001 with a down-payment of half the asking price – money left in trust in his parents’ will until he reached the age of majority. His inheritance made owning a London home affordable, something not a lot of coppers his age could hope for.

  Losing his parents was a high price to pay.

  ‘It’s a bit dusty,’ he said.

  ‘David, it’s lovely . . . The furniture is divine.’ It was a far cry from his Northumberland home. Frankie’s eyes were all over what was essentially a modern kitchen at one end of the room, a retro lounge at the other. She scanned art deco prints, ran a finger over the blue and cream Dansette record player his nan had bought him as a moving-in present, then got down on her hands and knees, poring over his vinyl collection. She threw him a big smile. ‘I had no idea you were a collector.’

  ‘Just a bit of fun. Besides, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ The smile vanished.

  David knew what she meant and what was coming now that they were alone with no one party to their conversation. He’d ignored her for most of their journey south, burying his head in his work, knowing he’d have to face her at some point. She’d forgiven his reaction to Alex Parker once. She wouldn’t do it twice. The subject needed airing. He was painfully aware of that.

  She stood up. ‘David, are you OK?’

  It was an opener, an invitation for him to share his most guarded secret. Whatever trauma had befallen him in London, he’d faced worse in the north since: two harrowing and deeply disturbing reactions to Alex Parker; the shock of losing Luke in a fatal car crash; the unwanted attention of his nephew, Ben, who he blamed for his brother’s death, however indirectly it had come about. It was time he took centre-stage, to prove his worth to his ex-colleagues and his former SIO. David took a deep breath, heart in mouth. It was time to level with her. As his professional partner, Frankie deserved an explanation. If she didn’t get one, she might think he didn’t trust her, and that wasn’t the case. On the contrary, he trusted no one more. Never had. Not even Kyra.

  An intense moment followed.

  They were two coppers, standing eye to eye in the centre of a dusty throwback to the sixties, his home for fifteen years, the expectation of taking their relationship as colleagues and friends a step further only seconds away. Unable to hold her gaze, David felt a mixture of relief and frustration as his get-out-of-jail card arrived: his mobile phone vibrating in his pocket. The intrusion couldn’t have come at a worse moment.

  Pulling out the device, he checked the screen.

  ‘Don’t answer that!’ It was a plea almost from Frankie. ‘There will never be a better time, a better place. David, we need to talk and we need to do it now. Whatever is bothering you happened in this city. Let’s get it over with and leave it behind when we go.’

  Such good advice was hard to come by.

  He ignored the call, but his nephew persisted, redialling again and again, until it was obvious that he wouldn’t stop. ‘I’m sorry, Frankie. It’s Ben. . .
I’ll have to take it.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t care about him.’

  Ignoring her, David pressed to receive the call. ‘I’m in London, Ben. This is not a good time . . . No, that’s not going to happen . . . I told you before, you’re on your own.’ He hung up, aware that he’d already lost Frank.

  ‘Nice.’ She didn’t even try to hide her outrage. ‘Give the kid a break, why don’t you? He’s the only family you have.’

  ‘I’m better off without one.’

  ‘You don’t mean that—’

  ‘I do. And since when did my family become your business?’

  The doorbell rang.

  Frankie swore under her breath. David gave her the cold shoulder and went to answer it. Kyra knew instantly that she had walked in on something deeply personal. The stand-off between the Northumbria officers was dispelled when Stone grabbed his jacket, telling them he’d go out and get them something to eat.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Frankie blurted out.

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Kyra?’

  The Met detective smiled. ‘You know me. Always a pasty on the go.’

  Frankie turned away. She stared through the window at nothing that particularly interested her. The world it seemed was moving on without David Stone. She winced as the front door slammed shut behind her. Seconds later, he emerged on the pavement in the street below, hands in pockets. He seemed to take a breath before moving off and didn’t look up.

  ‘Well,’ Kyra said. ‘That was awkward.’

  Frankie rounded on her. ‘Will you tell me what the fuck is wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s in a strop. I would have thought that was obvious—’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ Frankie sat down, dropping her head in her hands. She’d had as much as she could take of the ‘Northern Rock’ and the feeling was probably mutual. She had to admit that this worried her slightly. Would he be tempted to move south again?