A violent murder – without the usual tiresome hallmarks of drugs, gangs or deprivation – and it had fallen to him. Deep inside, he felt a quiet euphoria that he didn’t like.
The call, when it came, was as unwelcome as it was predictable. The momentum and energy of a developing case was like the warming glow that came from physical exercise – an endorphin rush that masked all former pains while it lasted. Interrupting this state made the summons even more frustrating, but Harland faced it with a resigned stillness. Dealing with superiors was like holding your breath underwater – struggling only made it worse. Wearily, he stood up and made his way out into the corridor.
Superintendent Alasdair Blake was a small, fastidious man, with prematurely white hair and rimless glasses. His usual expression was one of mild disapproval, etched deep into his face over the years, and he sat stiffly as he studied the report.
‘Yes,’ he called in answer to the knock on the door, and looked up to greet Harland with a doubtful smile. ‘Come in, Graham. Take a chair.’
Blake had never felt quite at ease with Harland. Even now, watching him enter the room and sit down, something just didn’t seem right about the man. Nothing wrong with his work, certainly. He was diligent and clever, a good combination in any career officer. Well presented and well spoken. But why had he, of all people, stopped chasing promotion? Maybe the death of his wife had somehow robbed him of ambition, but that was a year ago now . . . Whatever it was, Blake didn’t want it getting in the way of this case.
‘I’ve read your report,’ he began, indicating the pages in front of him. ‘Sounds like we were fortunate to find the body when we did.’
‘That’s right,’ Harland nodded. ‘The consensus is that she was either killed there or dumped there. We’re almost certain that she wasn’t washed-up or moved by the tides – the condition of the body looks too good for that. And if we’re lucky, it means we might even have a small area of the crime scene that wasn’t disturbed by the water.’
‘Really?’ Blake looked up. ‘I thought the whole area was submerged.’
‘It was, but not underneath the body,’ Harland explained. ‘She was lying face down, and the tide seems to have washed right over her. The ground directly below her might be very significant.’
‘Where you found the fragments from a watch?’
‘Exactly. And Forensics think they might get something off the front of her clothing where it was protected by the mud.’
Blake sat back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully as he reread the report. The wall behind him, like the rest of his office, was bare and impersonal, save for three large certificates in matching cheap plastic frames.
‘Strangulation,’ he noted after a moment. ‘I assume you’re checking for boyfriends?’
‘Yes, and we’re going through the database to see if there are any locals with a profile that fits.’
Blake studied him for a moment.
‘I’m glad you’re on this, Graham,’ he said. ‘It’s a nasty business, and practically on our doorstep. We really need to get a result on this one.’
Harland recognised the tone of voice and sat quietly, knowing what was coming. His face remained impassive as he withdrew into himself, away from the meaningless pep talk.
‘I mean,’ Blake was saying, ‘a brutal murder, just a couple of miles down the road from headquarters . . .’
He placed the report on his desk and tapped it meaningfully.
‘This will attract a lot of interest from upstairs, so we have to resolve it quickly and cleanly.’
For a moment, Harland’s distaste flickered across his face, but he got hold of it. Too close to headquarters. Pity the tide hadn’t dragged her corpse a bit further along the damned coast.
‘Of course,’ he said, then added, ‘sir.’
Blake caught his eye, misreading the expression. Had this woman’s death stirred up painful memories? Hopefully not. He didn’t want someone who wouldn’t be able to see the job through . . .
‘Everything all right?’ he asked, reluctantly adding, ‘Personally, that is?’
An empty smile creased Harland’s mouth.
‘Everything’s fine, sir.’
‘Good,’ Blake said quickly, relieved not to have to explore any awkward territory. ‘Well, I’ll be expecting regular updates on this. And do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help move things along.’
Harland got to his feet.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I will.’
He opened the door to leave. Behind him, Blake tapped the report again.
‘Quickly and cleanly, Graham.’
8
Wednesday, 30 May
Mendel was waiting for him outside the interview room. Harland looked up at the flickering fluorescent light that disturbed the stillness of the empty corridor.
‘So who is she?’ he asked, nodding towards the door.
‘Claire Downing, victim’s best friend,’ Mendel replied. ‘I’ve been over the basics with her but when I heard you were here I thought you might want to sit in for a few minutes.’
‘Thanks,’ said Harland. ‘How’s she doing?’
Mendel shrugged. ‘A bit emotional, but nothing serious.’
‘Did you ask about boyfriends?’
‘I thought you might want to do that.’
‘Fine.’
Harland opened the door and walked into the cramped little room. Claire was sitting at the small table – late twenties, red hair in a bob, a blue jacket that looked a size too tight for her build. He made himself smile as she stared up at him, and extended his hand.
‘Good afternoon, Claire. I’m Detective Inspector Harland.’
‘Hi.’ She took his hand uncertainly and shook it.
‘We appreciate you taking the time to come over.’ He noticed the cup of tea, untouched, on the table in front of her. ‘Did you want another drink?’
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’
Harland sat down next to Mendel.
‘So, my sergeant tells me that you and Vicky knew each other well?’
Claire’s expression softened and she looked down.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ She was gently twisting the strap of her handbag around her fingers. ‘We used to share a house together in Montpelier.’
‘Really?’ There was no hurry. Allow her to settle into the conversation with something comfortable. The past was an easier place to begin.
‘It was in Purton Road. One of the old houses with massive high ceilings . . .’ A faint smile as she recalled it. ‘We were only there eighteen months but we’ve been mates for ages.’
‘When did you meet?’
‘Six or seven years ago. I’d signed up for this dance class and she started the same night as me. We got on really well right from the beginning.’
‘But it was a while before you actually shared a place together?’
‘Yeah. We talked about it loads of times before we actually did it.’
‘When did she move out of Purton Road?’
‘Oh, that was about . . .’ Claire considered for a moment, then shook her head in mild surprise. ‘It must be almost two years ago now. Doesn’t seem that long . . .’
Harland gave an understanding nod.
‘And then did she move in with a boyfriend or . . .?’ He left it hanging.
‘No, it was her mum.’ Claire raised her head. ‘The place in Severn Beach belonged to Vicky’s mum and she left it to her when she died. It was really sad. Cancer.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘Yeah, her mum wasn’t even that old. Vicky was ever so good with her, looking after her and all that . . . and she was doing the marathon this year, raising money for breast cancer . . .’
She trailed off, eyes focused on something far away. Harland steered her gently back from the edge.
‘So, there wasn’t a boyfriend?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Claire nodded. ‘She was seeing a guy called Simon. He was all right at first – Vicky
really liked him – but I don’t reckon he was all that supportive when her mum died. People need looking after when they lose someone, you know?’
Harland knew. For a moment he was in a different place, wrapped in a darkness too deep for tears, but he managed to keep his face steady as he struggled back to the surface.
‘So she ended it?’
‘Not sure. They just saw less and less of each other, and then after a while she said it was over.’ Claire frowned. ‘I don’t reckon she dumped him, though – she was really gutted about him for a while. He probably just couldn’t cope with all the upset after her mum died.’
Harland understood. He remembered the friends who became more and more insistent (‘If there’s anything we can do, Graham . . .’) but spent less and less time with him. When the numbness had gone, he found he was alone. Nobody wanted to endure the awkward atmosphere that clung to him, to the house where they’d lived. Sympathy was easier than support.
‘It must have been a difficult time,’ he said quietly. Then, gathering himself, ‘What was Simon’s last name?’
‘Matthews, I think . . .’ She looked thoughtful, then her eyes widened a little. ‘But you don’t think he did it, do you? Not Simon!’
Harland held up his hand in a calming gesture.
‘I simply want to know Vicky a bit better so I can find out what happened to her, that’s all. These are just the standard questions that we ask – right, Sergeant?’
Mendel looked up and agreed with an earnest nod. Claire looked wary but settled slowly back into her chair.
‘So, after Simon, did she see anyone else?’
‘No. Well, I think she quite liked one of the guys at work for a while, but he was married. And anyway, she was concentrating on fixing the house up, always painting and stuff. She wanted to sell it and move back into Bristol, but it needed a lot doing to it first.’
‘Did she enjoy her work?’
‘Oh yeah, she loved it. She joined them ages ago – before we moved in together – working her way up the ladder. I’ve had three different jobs in that time but she was happy where she was. A really nice bunch of people by the sound of things.’
Harland maintained an encouraging smile as he listened to her, slowly piecing together the picture, first of Vicky, then of Claire – work, friends, family – but nothing stood out. Eventually, with the room becoming claustrophobic, he decided to bring the session to an end.
‘And when did you last see Vicky?’
‘We had coffee together last Thursday.’ Claire began toying with her handbag again. ‘We’d often do that – meet up at Starbucks near the station, or go and sit in the park at lunchtime if the weather was nice . . .’
‘And how did she seem to you? Anything unusual?’
‘She just seemed really happy.’ Her voice was plaintive now. ‘Everything was going well for her at work, and we were making plans to go out this weekend.’
Her shoulders sagged and she sat, staring down into her lap, murmuring, ‘She was really looking forward to it . . .’
Harland caught Mendel’s eye, then deliberately pushed his chair back from the table.
‘You’ve been a great help, Claire,’ he said softly. ‘It’s been really useful for me to learn more about Vicky, and I appreciate it.’
Claire sniffed and smiled at him.
Mendel pulled the door closed and stood under the flickering light.
‘Well?’ he said after a moment. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘I think we’re further away now than when we started.’ Harland sighed.
‘What about the ex-boyfriend?’
‘Let’s track him down and see where he was at the relevant time, but he doesn’t seem too likely, does he?’
Mendel shrugged. ‘Who else is there?’
‘Speak to the people at her work,’ Harland replied. ‘Find out about this married guy she liked, and see if there’s anything that jumps out – you know what to look for.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ll see if there’s anything new from Forensics, and then I’m done for the day.’
‘Yeah.’ Mendel grinned. ‘Firth said you were in early this morning. Go home and put your feet up, eh?’
‘That’s the plan,’ Harland smiled. But it wasn’t. His smile faded as he turned and stalked away down the corridor.
Harland parked two streets away and walked. Dennel Road was mercifully quiet but he still hesitated as he approached the building. He checked his watch, but he wasn’t early – it was time. Taking one last look around, he mounted the steps quickly and pushed open the heavy door.
There was an oppressive stillness about the empty waiting room. He sifted through the pile of women’s magazines on the table until he found the token men’s car monthly, then retired to a chair to wait.
He thumbed through the dog-eared pages for a moment, vaguely taking in the same pictures he’d glanced at last time. One of the adverts mentioned a forthcoming motor show and he realised that it was three years out of date.
He tossed the magazine back onto the table in disgust. Posters on the opposite wall made accusing references to a range of mental illnesses. He was thinking of walking out – just for a cigarette perhaps – when the sound of footsteps brought him back to his surroundings.
Jean stood in the doorway, holding open the glass door.
‘Graham.’ The usual professional smile. ‘Would you like to come through?’
Just a rhetorical question to begin with, he thought as he rose to his feet, willing his body language to be calm. They hadn’t started yet. It didn’t start until they were in the room.
The sound of her heels echoed along the bare corridor as he followed her, silently admiring the movement of her hips. Any distraction was welcome, however brief. All too soon, she was pushing a brass key into a lock, opening the door marked ‘Private’.
He followed her into the small room. She sat down by the window, leaving him to close the door behind them.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, unnecessarily.
‘Thank you.’
He sat down carefully, trying to relax but unable to find a comfortable position. At least he’d avoided folding his arms or crossing his legs this time. There was a box of coloured tissues on the small table beside him. For other people.
He forced himself to meet her steady gaze, catching her assessing him from behind her dark-framed glasses for just a moment before she smiled again and asked the first question.
‘How have you been this week?’
Always that same opening gambit.
He shuffled slightly in his seat.
‘It’s been quite good.’
He knew that he was expected to say more, that she would sit patiently, quietly, until he did.
‘I’ve been keeping myself busy,’ he began. ‘Putting in some extra hours at work. We’re investigating a new case and that’s occupied my mind. I think that’s helped.’
‘Helped in what way?’ she asked.
He hesitated.
‘Well, it’s given me something to focus on, to distract myself . . . And I haven’t lost my temper with anyone this week . . .’ He smiled, looking up to find her staring at him impassively. How quickly she diverted him from what he’d planned to say.
‘I’ve been sleeping better too,’ he admitted.
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘No unwanted dreams?’
‘None.’ That, at least, was a relief. Long hours, enforced by the dread of an empty house, were taking their toll. He looked up again, found her gaze on him.
‘Really,’ he shrugged. ‘No dreams at all.’
She nodded and gave a slight smile.
Light from the window behind illuminated her hair. She was wearing it down this week. He preferred it down. She had to be in her late thirties, early forties – close enough to his own age – an age when too many women embraced the lie that shorter hair would make them look younger.
‘As your sleep pattern impro
ves, you’ll start to feel better, more in control,’ Jean assured him.
She was wearing the same tight sweater she’d had on the first time he’d come here. He remembered the disappointment when he’d initially noticed her wedding ring, the abstract resentment towards a husband he’d never met.
Someone for everyone . . . except him.
Still, it was probably better this way. He could hardly be honest with her if there was any possibility of them getting together . . . and if he couldn’t be honest with her, what was the point?
‘Have you been getting enough exercise?’ she asked.
‘Doesn’t it show?’ He made a joke out of it but they both knew she wouldn’t respond to questions, only answers. ‘I’ve been swimming. There’s a pool just down the road from the station. I went twice this week.’
In truth he’d enjoyed the water. Physically he was in good shape, not athletic but fit, with no excess weight on his six-foot-two frame. The exertion of lane swimming had helped to clear his head and leave him mentally calmer.
‘Very good,’ she nodded. ‘Regular exercise can be most beneficial to a person’s mood.’
‘It’s a good way to unwind after work,’ he agreed.
She sat back in her chair and regarded him thoughtfully.
‘So, you enjoyed work more this week?’ A leading question.
‘I’m not sure that “enjoyed” is the right word.’ Harland paused, remembering the eerie eagerness he’d felt as the case started to unfold in front of him. Nobody in their right mind would enjoy that. And yet . . .
‘It’s been a better week,’ he admitted.
She nodded very slightly. ‘How have you found things when dealing with your colleagues?’
‘That’s been fine.’
‘And what about . . .’ she glanced down at her notes ‘. . . what about Pope?’
He forced a thin smile.
‘No problems with DS Pope this week,’ he answered honestly.
No problems at all. The little shit was on holiday.
‘Okay.’ She studied him for a moment. He felt an uneasy sort of excitement, caught in her gaze, both worried and aroused by what she might see in his face.
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