by Helen Phifer
‘I didn’t bother with the paramedics, even I could see she’s sustained an injury which is incompatible with life. I mean her fucking head is hanging on by a thread. Who does this to an old woman?’
Lucy nodded, inhaling through her nose and out through her mouth. ‘You said you were speaking to her about her cat. It’s Tom’s mum, isn’t it?’
Browning nodded. ‘Who is going to tell him?’
They heard the brisk footsteps coming towards them that signalled the DCI’s arrival. Browning turned, moving as fast as he could to block him from getting any closer. Lucy followed.
‘Sir, you need to go back. Leave this one to us.’
‘Lucy, while I appreciate the offer I’ve already been dragged away from my warm bed. I know you’re both very capable, but I’m here now. Can’t hurt to take a gander at whatever poor bugger has come to a sticky end this time. You know it’s a shame people don’t get murdered in more sociable hours, it’s always a bloody awkward time or place. Two nights on the trot, it’s unheard of. Is it a full moon or something?’
Lucy was shaking her head, wishing she could find the words to stop him before he said anything else. Browning’s eyes were so wide she thought they might actually pop out from their sockets. She didn’t know who to look at or what to say.
‘Move out of the way then, Lucy, come on. It’s too late to be messing around. The quicker we get this over with the quicker we can get back to bed.’ He went to sidestep her, and she slammed the palm of her hand into his chest.
‘You need to stop right there. I’m so sorry, Tom. We think it might be your mum.’
He began to laugh.
‘Nice one, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. She’ll be tucked up in bed fast asleep. Why the hell would you think it’s her? She wouldn’t be out at this time of night. Stop messing around and let me past, Lucy.’ He went to walk around her, and Browning grabbed his arm.
‘Tom, I’m really sorry. You can’t go back there. It’s bad.’
Tom pulled his arm away from Browning’s grasp and made a run for it. Lucy dashed after him, muttering Oh fuck. They stopped behind him as he was shining his torch at the grotesque sight in front of him, the light wavering in his trembling hands. Lucy put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently.
‘Is it your mum?’
His head moved up and down slowly. He turned to look at her, his eyes full of tears.
‘Why, I don’t understand? She’s an old woman, for Christ’s sake; she lives at the fucking church, she volunteers there so much. Who would want to do this? I only spoke to her this afternoon when she rang me, she was fine. Why would someone want to kill her?’
Lucy was processing all the information he was telling her for later, because at some point, she would have to question him about his movements today. She needed to rule him out as a suspect. She looked at Browning, who turned and walked away, speaking into his radio. They needed him out of here now; he was in the scene and, as ridiculous as she knew it was, they couldn’t rule out his involvement. She didn’t think that he was involved in any way, shape or form. But she had a job to do and sometimes it called for harsh decisions to get to the right solution. She could not have this scene jeopardised further regardless of who the victim was, and Tom would understand this, eventually.
‘Sir, I need you to leave the scene now. You have to let me do my job and I can’t while you’re here, I’ll keep you updated. You know that I will.’
He glared at Lucy, and she took a step back, the animosity in his eyes taking her by surprise. She understood, though – because if it was her mum, she’d want to punch the nearest person to her for telling her to leave.
‘Yes, I do know that you will because I’m not about to be pushed out in the cold with no information. I need to be kept in the loop, you realise that don’t you, Lucy.’
He turned and began walking away, his pace slow, his shoulders stooped. She didn’t know this man, he wasn’t the one from a few moments ago, and she had to ignore the churning in her stomach. This was one big headache. She pulled out her phone and rang Mattie.
‘I need you to take a statement for me.’
‘Lucy, I’m not on call and neither are you. Is this some kind of joke? Let that lazy arse Browning sort out whatever it is.’
‘No, I wish to Christ it was. Can you go to the station and update yourself with this log? I’m at the scene for a body behind Basterfield House? Tom’s mum has been found murdered. I need his first account of where he’s been tonight since he left work and then he’ll need taking home. I don’t want someone who doesn’t know him questioning him. He needs a familiar face.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Chapter Twelve
He stripped his clothes off in the rear yard – they were beyond messy. She’d bled a hell of a lot more than he’d expected. Stuffing them into a cardboard box to take to the council refuse site tomorrow, he planned how he’d throw the box into one of the huge skips where it would be crushed with all the tonnes of other crap. He’d panicked a bit more than he should have, he knew; although the back of the empty home wasn’t overlooked by any neighbouring properties it was still all a bit too daring. The possibility of being caught had played on his mind, and made him rush more than he would have liked to. He hadn’t had time to make the cross, but it didn’t matter. He’d made use of what he had available. The rusted metal fire escape had been almost as good. The rope he’d found dumped behind the skip where he’d parked his car had come in very handy. His car would have to be deep cleaned, although he’d left the plastic cover on the seat from the garage, so it shouldn’t be too bad. He slid the key in the lock and opened the door – going inside it was silent. There was no one here now; he liked it when everyone had left and he had the place to himself. He could hear himself think and relive the last twenty-four hours. It had been intense to say the least, but what a ride.
He went into the bathroom to scrub at his hands and arms with the antibacterial handwash. It smelt of Fizzy Cola Laces and transported him back to his childhood. He’d lived off ten pence bags of penny sweets and pickled onion Monster Munch; every time he got pocket money he’d go to the shop to buy them. If he hadn’t been good enough to earn his pocket money he would steal it from the loose change that his dad kept in the bowl on the kitchen counter. He’d always been scrupulous and had stooped at nothing over the years to reach his goals.
He pictured the look on the old woman’s face, it had been priceless. The fear and shock would keep him smiling on his darkest days. He’d got her good. If she hadn’t been such a do-gooder she’d still be alive; any normal person would have carried on walking past the deserted building. He had known she wouldn’t be able to resist, just like she rushed to help all the drunks on a Saturday night or the homeless people at the soup kitchen. People really were gullible. She could have scurried past and phoned the police. Where had it got her trying to help a stranger? Dead was where it had got her. Although he’d have been in trouble if they’d turned up instead of her. He would have blagged his way out of it though, he could talk himself out of anything, and he’d had enough experience over the years. His public persona was a lot different to his private one – only those close to him ever got a glimpse of that. He smiled at his reflection; with his dark hair and good looks he could have been an actor – he had the skill that was for sure.
He looked around; this job was almost the same. Being nice to people you wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire any other time. Listening to their mindless conversations, the rubbish and lies they told each other. He could pick a liar out from a room full of people; instead he greeted them all as if they were his long-lost friends. Shaking hands, hugging, chatting, giving them the attention they so badly craved. No wonder he liked to go home, kick off his shoes and drink copious amounts of red wine. If he didn’t use something to relax he’d lose his mind, end up in the mental health unit at the hospital and he didn’t want to end up back there. Switching off had always
been a huge problem for him, though not so much when he was younger and could lose himself in a comic. Now he was older he didn’t find they did the trick quite as much, not like a quality bottle of full-bodied red.
Splashing the tepid water over his face, he decided he would have a shower when he got home. Drying himself on the rough paper towels he put them into the bin and removed the liner, tying it into a knot. He then slipped on the spare clothes he’d left earlier: a similar outfit to the one he was wearing so his wife wouldn’t notice.
Grabbing the bag he let himself back out of the back door, pushed the bin liner into the box and stuffed it into the boot of the car. His first port of call tomorrow would be the tip; it would be shut now. It was time to go home and play the doting husband.
Chapter Thirteen
Mattie walked into the deserted police station rubbing his eyes, glad he’d stayed in to play his Xbox tonight instead of going to the pub with his mates. He was saving money; he was going on holiday in two days, and he didn’t need this. Another major case when he wasn’t going to be here to help. He hated leaving Lucy to run it on her own, because she would be thinking she had the world to impress. He’d warned her going for the DI position would bring her more work-related stress than she needed. Especially now that idiot George had upped and left her for another woman; she was going to make herself ill. Although it was Browning who was the on-call DS tonight, technically he should be the one to run it, but Lucy would be overseeing it and as usual she would get too involved. Too hands-on, especially if it was the boss’s mum. What a mess. He went to the kitchen where he made two strong mugs of coffee.
As he carried them upstairs to the open-plan CID office, the motion sensor lights flickered on. It was eerily quiet this time of night. They’d only pulled a couple of all-nighters before, but he’d never been here on his own. He sat at his desk and got his notebook out. Then pulled a couple of statement forms out of the filing cabinet from behind him. Although he should be using the hand-held device they’d all been issued with, it was a pain in the arse – he’d stick with good old pen and paper. He heard voices carry up from downstairs, then heavy footsteps as they came up the spiral staircase. The boss, who was flanked by one of the new officers, looked whiter than the sheet of paper he was holding.
Mattie jumped up.
‘Sir, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say, there are no words.’
‘No sir crap, it’s Tom.’
He walked to the chair opposite Mattie’s and flopped down into it so hard it made a loud cracking noise. Mattie pushed the mug towards him, and he took it from him, wrapping both hands around it. Mattie noted how clean his fingernails were. There were no bloodstains or dirt under them, which was a good sign, and he immediately felt guilty for even checking. His dad, who was Brooklyn Bay’s equivalent to Derek Trotter, disliked the fact that his only son had become a police officer and had a saying that he liked to bring up at every opportunity: Once a cop, always a cop.
‘I’m so cold, I can’t stop shivering.’
‘It’s the shock, sir, I mean Tom. I can’t begin to understand how you’re feeling. I’ve got a spare fleece jacket in my locker, should I go and get it for you?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t know how I’m feeling if I’m honest. My stomach is churning so much I feel as if I might throw up my supper. I can’t get that horrific image of her out of my mind. It’s not the kind of picture you want to remember your mother by, is it? All these years and all the memories of the happy times we’ve spent together and that’s what I’m left with. It’s there in my mind, burning a bloody big hole in the front of my eyeballs. There was so much blood, it was everywhere. And her head. I always imagined her dying peacefully in her sleep, isn’t that what old people are supposed to do?’ He sucked in gulps of air and lifted the mug to his lips to take a sip; though his hands were trembling that much Mattie was amazed he didn’t end up wearing the hot drink.
‘No, it’s not. I’m so very sorry. If you can give me a first account of where you’ve been tonight after you left work I can get you home and back to your family.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, let me see. I left here at six and went to Sainsbury’s to pick up some groceries, and I was home by seven thirty. Alison was watching Coronation Street and it had just started. I had a shower, ate my tea and put my boys to bed. Then I argued with Alison over the television; it was a stupid argument. She loves watching soap operas and I don’t. I went to bed sulking to watch the television up there. I must have been tired because the next thing I know I got a call from Control asking me to attend the scene.’
Mattie finished writing and looked up at him. ‘That must have been a terrible shock? Did they tell you who the victim was before you got there?’
Tom shook his head, taking a huge sip from the mug.
‘No, they weren’t to know, were they? I think it was Browning who recognised her. When I rang her this afternoon, Mum said he’d been to take her dead cat away. Look, for what it’s worth I didn’t kill my mother. I know this is standard procedure, but I want to go home to my wife and boys now. So if you don’t mind can you give me a lift back; my car’s at the scene and I don’t want to go back there.’
Mattie nodded. ‘Of course, come on.’
Tom put the mug down, and he stood up. ‘Some days I fucking hate my job. There have been some very dark days over the years. None as dark as this though.’
* * *
Lucy waited for the on-call CSI; they were coming from the opposite end of Brooklyn Bay. So was Doctor Maxwell; she spied Tom’s Land Rover parked down the street and walked over to it, peering through the windows. Tugging at the handle she was surprised it opened. The interior light came on, and she saw the keys dangling from the ignition. Pulling them out she pushed them into her pocket – that’s all she needed, some idiot stealing the boss’s car and, in this town, it was quite possible. Shining the torch around she checked the interior; the feeling she was betraying him was overwhelming and she felt like a complete bitch. But it had to be done. She couldn’t see any signs of blood splatter or anything of evidential value. She checked the back seat which was a sea of coats, school bags, football boots and empty crisp packets. She paused at the boot before opening it, afraid that she would find a wet, bloody patch betraying him. Lifting it up she breathed out a sigh of relief to see a couple of cardboard boxes, a Sainsbury’s shopping bag, and a black, heavy-duty kit bag with various pieces of uniform hanging out of it. There was a football, two tennis rackets, and a pair of gym trainers. She slammed the boot down and locked the car.
Browning was watching her, a look of disgust on his face. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, she knew he was still pissed off that she got the promotion over him. Tom might be their boss, but she wouldn’t be doing her job properly if she didn’t check him out. And she owed it to Margaret Crowe to find who had killed her and left her dangling like a life-sized marionette, bleeding to death all over the overgrown car park of a boarded-up retirement home. Was this some kind of statement? An old woman at the back of an old people’s home? Lucy sighed to herself. At this stage nothing could be discounted. She hoped Mattie wouldn’t be too pissed with her for calling him in to deal with Tom. If it had been the other way around she couldn’t say that she’d have been ecstatic about it. This was definitely up there on the list of shittiest jobs she’d ever asked him to do and there had been a few; but at least Mattie would be out of it in two days. The lucky sod was flying to Greece. What she’d give to be going with him. Her phone began to ring and she answered it without looking at the display.
‘Well if that wasn’t the most awkward thing I’ve ever done I don’t know what was?’
‘Yeah, I realise that, thank you. Where is he?’
‘I’ve dropped him off at home. Boss he looks like shit. You know it wasn’t him, right?’
She counted to five. Whether she knew it or not she couldn’t let her loyalty to Tom get in the way of the investigation.
‘Yes, I
’d like to think that was the case. However, you and I both know that the pool of suspects for the murder of a seventy-year-old woman isn’t going to be huge. Regardless of who he is, we have to follow protocol and do this the right way. The quicker we establish his whereabouts the quicker we can focus on catching the killer.’
He didn’t answer, so she continued. ‘It might not seem that way now, but the boss wouldn’t want it any other way. Once he’s come to terms with what’s happened he’s going to want to see whoever did this in custody. If it means ruling him out first, then so be it. He might not thank us for it now, he will later though. I want this bastard caught.’
‘Do you want me there?’
‘No, there’s nothing you can do. Browning is here. I’m waiting for the doctor and CSI; you can go home. Thank you.’
‘Bye, Lucy.’
‘’Night.’
She hung up; there wasn’t anything he could do. One of them might as well get some beauty sleep because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her.
Chapter Fourteen
October 1989
He sat staring at his mum; she was asleep. He wanted to shake her and wake her up, but the medicine wouldn’t let her open her eyes. It sucked her down into a world of blackness that he couldn’t penetrate. Instead he stroked her pale face, wiping away the droplet of water that had appeared on her cheek. He hadn’t even realised he was crying until another fell immediately, replacing the first. She’d been in hospital for three days: three long days, and she hadn’t looked at him once. The searing pain which ripped through his heart was almost too much to bear; he wanted to sob until he had no voice left and then he wanted to punch everything in sight. Was this why his dad cried all those times after he’d hit her again and again? Was she in here because of him hitting her? He needed to know, because if she was, then he would kill his dad. He didn’t care if he went to prison for the rest of his life. If that Bible-quoting freak was the reason why his mum couldn’t open her eyes, then God help him – because once he started to hit him he wouldn’t be able to stop. He might only be ten years old, but he didn’t care. He would take the biggest knife from the kitchen drawer and slice his throat open with it when he was asleep.