Prima Facie

by Netta Newbound

  He knew she was concerned about Mary. Who wouldn't be? The poor girl had been through a lot in the past year beginning with the death of her mum to acute multiple sclerosis. That in itself was too much for a girl to cope with who, at that stage, hadn't even reached her teens. The disappearance of her dad, resulted in her being left with Amanda, the aunt she'd only just met. As if finding out about his arrest and the murder charges weren't enough, he escaped and returned to kidnap her.

  Not in his right mind by then, Andrew locked Mary in a small closet for hours while he went out to plan the next stage of their escape. However, he had an accident and was killed outright.

  They found Mary just in time.

  So, if the girl had been playing up a bit, he couldn't blame her.

  He checked his phone, almost 5.30am. There'd be no point going back to bed. He needed to be up in an hour anyway. He made himself a strong coffee and curled up on the sofa to ponder the case.

  Muldoon was clearly angry at Sally Kemp for destroying his relationship with Lana. But mad enough to kill her old neighbour in cold blood? Something didn't ring true. There had to be some other reason. He’d ransacked her apartment, left his fingerprints on the crowbar, probably his DNA all over the wall. So, to kill a man, knowing he would be in the frame from the get go, he must have been pretty pissed off at something. But what?

  The most likely explanation was Michael caught him trashing the apartment, but there didn't seem to be any signs of a scuffle. In fact, it appeared that Michael had fallen backwards after opening his front door and was butchered on the spot.

  And where the hell could Muldoon be without his car and phone? Since withdrawing five hundred quid on Tuesday, his bank balance was also left untouched.

  He turned as the door opened, and Amanda padded in holding a full coffee pot.

  "Want a top-up?" she said, sitting beside him.

  He held out his empty cup and smiled as she poured. "What are you doing up so early?" he asked.

  "Couldn't sleep without you."

  "I'm sorry, Mand. I've got a lot going on at work."

  She snuggled in to him. "Anything I can help you with?"

  "Not really. It’s early days for the case I'm working on, but the problem isn't who the culprit is this time. It's why, and where the hell is he?"

  "You already know who killed that old man?"

  "Prima facie, as they say in court."

  "Prima what?"

  "Facie. It means we have enough evidence to prove he did it."

  "Does it matter why? Who knows why anybody does anything?"

  He rubbed his chin, nodding. "But you know me. I like things as tidy as possible."

  "Once you find him, I'm sure he'll tell you why, especially if you can prove he did it."

  He kissed the tip of her nose and sat forward. "You're right, as usual. Thanks, Mand. I'll get a quick shower and shoot off. It won't do me any harm to get in early for a change."

  Chapter 8

  He found Calvin already ensconced behind his computer when he walked in the office.

  "Oh, my. Did you piss the bed or something?" Adam asked.

  "Ha, ha. No, actually. I'm behind with paperwork and thought I'd catch up before the troops arrive."

  "Good thinking. Anything you need me to do?"

  "Denise Foley rang. She wants to know if you've got anywhere with her husband's murder."

  Adam exhaled noisily. "We've got nothing to report. She's not being entirely truthful with me, and, until she does, we'll get no further."

  William Foley, a two-bit drug dealer, was attacked in the park at a supposed drug meet. His wife Denise knew who he'd arranged to meet but refused to tell, so Adam’s hands were tied.

  "Can you call her, boss?"

  "Leave it with me." He sighed.

  He closed himself in his office, and, after replying to several emails, he called Denise for his weekly ear chewing.

  As he hung up, Frances knocked on his door.

  "Can I have a word, boss?"

  He gestured with a nod she take a seat. "Are you alright, Holly?" He rarely used her Christian name at work as she tried to maintain a kick-ass persona, but Adam could tell she was far from alright—far from kick-ass for that matter.

  Tears filled her eyes and she didn't even try to hide them.

  He made to stand up to comfort her somehow. But she held a hand out to stop him.

  "No. Please. This is hard enough as it is."

  "What is? What's happened?"

  "I told you yesterday I needed to show you. Are you free for half an hour?"

  "Of course." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. "Come on. Let's go."

  She got to her feet and dabbed at her eyes, then smiled.

  They were almost blown across the car park to his car. “When will this bloody wind die down?” he complained, as he slammed the door.

  “Soon, I hope.”

  He pulled out of the car park. "Where to?"

  "My house."

  He nodded, not knowing what the hell to expect from this much-awaited visit to her home.

  They parked up on the street outside her house, and she placed a hand on his arm.

  "Before we go in, I want to tell you something."

  He swallowed hard.

  "I need to explain why I've kept this from you for so long."

  He shook his head. "What? I don't understand.”

  "I needed my work life to be a complete contrast to my home life. I wanted to be accepted and judged on my own merit as a good detective."

  "You’re a great detective," he said, totally confused.

  "Thank you." She smiled, but her lips were turned down in the corners. "I want you to meet my husband, Steve."

  "Okay."

  "Just be yourself, and if you have any questions save them until we're back in the car."

  "Frances, you're worrying me now. Can't you tell me what I'm to expect in there?"

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. "It will all make sense soon."

  She led the way down the path and in through the front door of the plain semi.

  A terrible stench he didn't recognise hit his nostrils as he crossed the threshold.

  "Excuse the smell. It happens twice a day," she whispered.

  A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, her arms filled with sheets.

  "Oh, it's you, Holly, love. I was just changing the beds." She threw the sheets down in a heap and made a tidying motion with her hands over her permed mousey-brown hair and down her pink T-shirt and blue tracksuit bottoms.

  "Val, this is Adam, my boss."

  Smiling, the woman rushed down the stairs holding her hand out to him. "How nice to finally put a face to the name."

  He shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you too, Mrs...?" He glanced at Frances for help.

  "Call me Val, lovey." She patted his arm. "Come on through. Are you staying for a cuppa?"

  "I'm not sure." Once again, Adam glanced at Frances to make the decision.

  "No, I don't think so, Val. We've not got much time."

  "Then I won't keep you. It was lovely to meet you at long last, Adam."

  "And you, Val."

  "Come on." Frances paused at the first door on the right. "Ready?"

  He nodded and braced himself as she turned the handle.

  The stink was worse inside the room, and his eyes began to smart.

  "Hi, love. I finally managed to drag Adam in to meet you," she said, as she entered. "I'll open a window, shall I?"

  "Yeah, it stinks in here."

  Adam glanced in the direction of the slow drawl.

  A man, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, was sitting up in bed. He was clean-shaven and his hair was the same mousy shade as the woman in the hall. He presumed they were mother and son.

  "Hi, Adam," Steve said, with a twisted smile.

  "Steve, how nice to meet you." Adam held his hand out towards Steve, but Steve didn't move.

  Frances, suddenly back
behind him, shook her head and shoved in between them. She lifted Steve's hand into hers.

  "So, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Steve asked, his eyes still on Adam.

  "We were passing, and I've been meaning to introduce you both for ages," Frances said.

  Steve smiled at his wife. "Are you investigating an exciting murder?”

  She gave him a stern look. "We're not allowed to discuss my work, as you’re well aware."

  "Spoilsport." His mouth opened in a soundless laugh.

  Frances wiped his mouth with a tissue before bending to kiss him. "We can't stop, honey, but I didn't want to pass the street without popping in."

  Steve nodded. "Don’t worry. I know how important your job is."

  Adam smiled, totally at a loss for words. He’d had no clue what Frances had to deal with and felt terrible for piling all the extra work on her over the past few months.

  They said their goodbyes and she shouted to Val they were leaving. Val came to the door and waved them off.

  "Well?" Frances said as they got in the car.

  "I feel like a lousy shit." He shook his head. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Don't. Don't pity me, Adam. I’m serious."

  "But I could've helped. All this time, instead of piling more and more on you, I could have helped."

  "I didn't want your help. I wanted to be treated equally. I still do.”

  "What's wrong with Steve?"

  "He had a car accident six years ago, three months after our wedding."

  "Fuck! And they could do nothing for him?"

  She shook her head. "He broke his neck. He was lucky he didn't die. Not that he agrees. He wishes he'd died instantly."

  "I can understand that. He won’t want to be a burden to you."

  "You sound just like him. He's not a burden to me. He's the love of my life." Silent tears rolled down her face.

  "I know, but he probably feels like he's a burden. Look at him. A young man in the prime of his life, and he's stuck in his bed."

  "He wasn't always stuck in bed. He used to come into the lounge and into the garden. But lately, he's been too sick."

  "When I spoke to him on the phone, I had no idea."

  "You wouldn't have. He sounded normal. But now his pressure sores are infected with MRSA."

  "MRSA? The hospital bug?"

  "Yes, although his wasn’t contracted from the hospital."

  "Isn't it highly contagious?"

  She smiled and nodded. "It is, but Steve's sores are cleaned and redressed twice a day. That awful smell is his rotting flesh. They can't treat him. He’ll die soon."

  "Why not? I mean, there must be something they can do."

  She shook her head, sadly. "No. None of the antibiotics will touch it. He's on morphine for the pain. I won't go into too much detail, but there's nothing they can do."

  "So how long? Weeks, months?"

  "Could be days. Weeks at the most."

  Adam felt as though he'd been slammed into a brick wall. He couldn't think straight. "How the hell have you kept this to yourself for so long?" he eventually said.

  "It was easier at first. After the accident, I came in to work too numb to discuss it and found focusing on my work helped. But the past year or so, working with you and Calvin, I felt as though I was betraying you somehow, and wanted to tell you so badly. But there was never a right time. That's how it is with lies or omissions. The longer the gap, the harder it is to come clean."

  "I'll take you back to the station to pick up your car, and then take as long as you like. I'll cover you."

  "I don't intend to go home and wait for him to die. He has his mum and the care staff coming and going all day. We have a murder to investigate. Call me selfish, but it's the only way I can cope."

  "Shit, Frances. You're far from selfish. But don't you want to spend time with him now, while you can? You might regret it if you don't."

  "I hate the daytime. All the doctors and nurses parading through, treat him like he's just a number. I get angry with them which is why he's not going into hospital. He will die at home, and when the time comes that I'm needed there, I'll take time off."

  "If you need me to do anything..."

  "I'll ask. Now, if you don't mind, can we get back to work?"

  "One last question. What about Cal and the team?"

  "Can you tell them for me?"

  Chapter 9

  Adam felt gutted for what Frances had been dealing with—was still dealing with. He admired her strength and devotion to her job, and couldn't help but feel she was making a huge mistake by not being at her husband's side. Shit! The mere thought of losing Amanda made him want to run home and hold her tight.

  His first wife had been killed by a hit-and-run driver. She died instantly, and he didn't get the chance to say goodbye. But if he had, nothing would have convinced him to leave her side.

  They made the trip back to the station in silence. He had no choice but to carry on as normal, and, like she said, they had a murder to investigate.

  He put a hand on Frances' shoulder and gave her a reassuring smile before they reached the office.

  She nodded and gripped his fingers as she opened the door and entered.

  "Ah, there you are," Cal said. "I was about to call you. Lana Davis didn't turn up for work this morning."

  Adam screwed his face up. "Why is that a matter for us?"

  "Well, she isn't answering her phone and she's never had a sick day since she's been working there. Shall I get uniform to check the house out?"

  Adam glanced at Frances, his eyebrows raised in question.

  She nodded.

  "No, it's okay, Cal. We'll check it out."

  Within minutes, they pulled up outside a row of terraced houses a few streets from the station.

  When their knocks went unanswered, Adam peered through the lace-covered front window into the tidy lounge.

  "Can I help you, mate?"

  The deep voice startled Adam, and he turned to find a burly man wearing a beanie and khaki-coloured jumper with holes in the sleeves, standing behind him. The man held a large, vicious looking Rottweiler by the collar.

  "I'm looking for Lana Davis." Adam flashed his ID. "Do you know where she is?"

  "Not today. Why? What's she done?"

  "She's not done anything. We just need to locate her."

  The dog growled at Adam, and the man pulled it’s choker-chain tighter. "I've not seen her since yesterday."

  "And you are?"

  "Bruce. Bruce Campbell. I live next door."

  "Have you seen or heard anything unusual from your neighbours?"

  "No." He shook his head. "Although Lana's car is still here, which is unusual." He shoved the dog inside his house and pulled the door shut.

  Adam glanced up and down the street. "Which one’s her car?"

  "The red Fiesta over the road."

  Adam and Frances walked across the road to the car. The back seat and the foot-well were full of junk, crisp packets, takeaway burger boxes and all sorts of other stuff.

  "You know what an untidy car says about the owner, don't you?" Frances said, under her breath.

  "My guess is scruffy bitch."

  "Well, in this case, yeah, I agree with you.”

  "Anything untoward, detective?" Bruce shouted from his doorstep.

  "Nope. I don't think so.” Adam walked back towards the house.

  Frances tried the car doors before following.

  "Shall I call the house phone? See if she answers?" Bruce pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  "You can do." Adam nodded. "You don't happen to have a key, do you?"

  Bruce held a finger up as the phone began ringing.

  Adam could hear it from inside the house.

  "No answer," he said, ending the call. "Hey, Dean's car’s parked over there too."

  "Who's Dean?" Frances joined them on the pavement.

  "Lana's dad."

  "I'll check around the back of the house," Adam sai
d.

  "Here you are, mate. Come on through. Much faster than going all the way around.” He shut the dog in the first room on the left.

  They followed him down the hallway and through the dining room into the kitchen. The houses went further back than Adam expected.

  Lana’s back gate swung open.

  “Strange. That’s always locked.” Bruce followed close behind.

  “And that?” Adam pointed to the kitchen window.

  Bruce gasped. “No way would they go out and leave the house unlocked.”

  Adam hammered on the back door.

  “Call for back-up, Frances. I’m going in.”

  He took a step backwards and kicked the door, groaning as the impact caused his testicles to throb.

  The door didn’t budge.

  “You could climb through the window, you know?” Frances said, shaking her head.

  “Here you go, mate. Let me have a turn.” Bruce slammed his shoulder into the door several times before it shot open and banged into the wall behind it.

  “Wait here,” Adam told them both, before stepping inside. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  A familiar stench reached his nostrils. Oh no, he thought. He made his way through the house. Frances appeared behind him as he reached the stairs.

  “Is that what I think it is?” she asked, pinching her nose.

  He shrugged. “I hope not.”

  They reached the first closed door, and Adam braced himself taking a deep breath.

  Lana lay on the bed, her head almost severed from her neck.

  Frances cried out and staggered back from the room, leaning against the wall in shock.

  “Frances. Go downstairs.”

  “I told you already. Don’t mollycoddle me.” She straightened up in defiance.

  A similar scene awaited them in the room opposite—a middle-aged man with his throat cut. Adam doubted he’d even woken before the attack as the bedding was all in place.

  On the wall above the bed, scrawled in shit, just like before, were the words YOU DESERVED IT.

  Adam accompanied Frances downstairs and out the front door, taking several deep, nostril-cleansing breaths.

  Bruce appeared on his front doorstep again. “What’s happened? Did you find them?”

  Adam nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Bruce made as if to run inside.