by A. J. Cross
Brophy gave a reluctant nod. ‘He still needs to get moving on it.’
‘He will. He’s aiming for maximum information from her without upsetting her or contaminating her recall. One of his research areas is eyewitness identification, its inherent weaknesses and risks. He doesn’t want to interfere with any information, any memories of the attack which she has. He’s taking the long view.’
‘Right now, I’d settle for something shorter.’ Brophy glared across his desk. ‘What I don’t need on a high-profile case is people being overcautious and pussy-footing about. Make sure he knows that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Watts, with no intention of doing so. The chief constable was evidently leaning on Brophy. Which was Brophy’s problem, not his or Traynor’s.
Listening to the Aston Martin’s soothing purr, Traynor was thinking about Molly Lawrence and trauma. He glanced at his own hands on the steering wheel. Both steady. In control. Some months ago, his psychiatrist had suggested he consider a new therapy which would require Traynor to ‘revisit’ what had happened to his family. The psychiatrist thought it might help his PTSD. Traynor’s response had been direct: ‘Ellis, if you had ever come home to find your kitchen an abattoir, your young daughter hysterical and your wife gone for ever, I might entertain the suggestion. As you haven’t, I won’t.’
He was fine. More than fine. He had found his own way of dealing with the triggers that caused flashbacks. Avoidance. Avoidance of thinking about the experience. Avoidance of feeling. Both were too costly. As was clinging to his wife’s memory. He had accepted that he had to move on. He had done so, loneliness replacing the ache for her. He had mentioned all of it to Ellis. It had elicited a slow headshake and the psychiatrist’s low opinion of avoidance as a solution. For Traynor, it was working. He felt like a different person, compared to four months ago when he’d last worked with Watts’ team. He was a different person.
His eyes fixed on the damp road ahead. He thought about his planned work with Molly Lawrence and felt a sudden surge of sympathy for this woman he hadn’t yet met. He took a deep breath then slowly released it. She had to be approached with considerable care …
His phone rang. It was Watts. Hospital staff had just confirmed that ‘they anticipate Molly Lawrence being physically well enough to talk to Dr Traynor today, from two o’clock onwards.’ Traynor thought through his university commitments for that afternoon, now requiring quick reorganization.
‘I’ll be there.’
THIRTEEN
Tuesday 11 December. 2.10 p.m.
Traynor followed the nurse into the hospital’s family room. It was empty but for a woman standing at the window, staring out at a bleak vista of bare trees, shopping centre and teeming roads. She turned to him. He thought she looked unwell. The nurse spoke.
‘Grace? This is Dr Traynor, the criminologist. He’s here to talk to Molly.’
The woman approached him as the nurse left, held out her hand. ‘Grace Monroe, Molly’s mother. I told staff I wanted to talk to you before you saw her.’
‘I understand. I’d like to add my condolences to those of my colleagues at headquarters.’
She turned from him, went and sat down. He sat opposite. This pleasant-looking woman had a lot on her mind.
‘You’re working with the police and you want Molly to tell you what happened to her and Mike. In my opinion, she’s not ready.’ She looked away, clearly agitated. ‘What’s happened to my daughter and her husband is unbelievably shocking and awful. No doubt you’re good at what you do, but right now no amount of talking is going to help her.’
‘My purpose in being here is not therapeutic, Mrs Monroe. Detective Inspector Watts, the senior investigative officer, and his whole team are very anxious to find the individual responsible for what has happened to your daughter and her husband. To do that, they need information only she has.’
‘And you think you can get it from her?’
‘I’ll support Molly in whatever way I can to talk about it.’
She gave him a direct look. ‘I’m fearful of her being put under pressure. I’ve looked you up online, Dr Traynor.’
He nodded, anticipating what was coming.
‘I know you’re very experienced, very good at what you do. I also know about your family’s personal experience – your name is a little unusual. I feel I should apologize for that intrusion into your life, but this is my daughter we’re talking about. I want to protect her. I want the best for her.’
‘I understand.’
She looked away from him. ‘Molly and I aren’t strangers to shock and grief. I had another daughter, two years older than Molly. She died when Molly was twelve. My husband died four years later. He was very ill.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I’m only telling you this so you know that Molly knows loss. What she has no experience of is something so … so indescribably violent as this.’
‘I appreciate the information you’ve just given me.’ He recognized the truth in what she had said. ‘Unexpected or untimely death is a universal experience which can be understood over time. Violent death is different. It makes us question everything we believe. Everything we take for granted.’
‘Exactly. We got through those experiences together. It wasn’t easy, but we gradually adjusted. Molly’s got a good job. She’s highly valued by her employers. She was so thrilled that her pregnancy was going well but, so far, she hasn’t even talked to me about what happened, and believe me, I’ve tried to get her to do that.’
‘Perhaps now isn’t the time for Molly to talk to you? She might find it easier to do so with someone she doesn’t know, has no connection with.’
‘Surely, she should be saying something?’ She leaned towards him. ‘When I try to encourage her to talk, she turns her face away. Not a word about what’s happened. About Mike. About the baby …’
He waited as she tried to regain her control. ‘I’m really worried about her, Dr Traynor. When I’m with her, I don’t refer to the baby, but the way I see it, by not doing so I’m actually helping her to store up even more problems for herself.’ Traynor waited as she searched for words. ‘It’s as though she’s thinking that if she doesn’t talk about it, it hasn’t happened. She cried when she lost her sister and then her father, of course she did, but I’ve seen very few tears since this happened. It’s like …’ She paused. ‘It’s like she’s a million miles away from me and I can’t reach her.’
‘From what you’ve told me, Mrs Monroe, I think you know a lot about the grieving process. That it isn’t straightforward.’
She got to her feet. ‘I’m just hoping that you’ve not had a wasted journey. I’ll tell her you’re here.’
He watched her go, looked down at a low table nearby, leant and straightened the magazines there. She was back.
‘Shall I introduce you to Molly?’
‘Yes. It might help her to relax.’
She looked at him. ‘You’re a kind, patient man, Dr Traynor.’
He followed her out of the room, across the open area to a door. She pushed it open and went inside, Traynor some distance behind her.
‘Molly?’ There was no response from the slight figure in the bed. ‘Dr Traynor is here. He’s hoping that you’ll talk to him.’
She went closer, reached down, gently moved aside the curtain of dark hair half-covering her daughter’s face.
‘Don’t!’
‘Come on, Molly,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll help you sit up.’
Not looking at him, Molly Lawrence raised herself, then winced as her mother fussed with pillows. She sank slowly back, her face tightening. ‘Mom, just go and … have some coffee or something.’
Traynor kept his voice low. ‘Mrs Lawrence, it’s fine for your mother to stay for a few minutes.’
She shook her head. Mrs Monroe turned away and left the room. The room fell silent.
‘You’re not a police officer. What are you?’
He moved his chair a little closer to the bed. ‘I’m a crimin
ologist. I’m part of the police investigation.’
She didn’t respond.
‘I study crime of all kinds, develop theories to assist our understanding as to why it happens, increase our ability to solve it. Hopefully find ways to predict and prevent it.’ He waited. ‘Is there anything else I can tell you?’
Still no response. Her face almost matched the pillows for whiteness.
Finally, she made eye contact, her voice shaking. ‘I know what you’re thinking. That I wasn’t very nice to my mother. Well, Dr Traynor, right now I don’t feel very “nice”. I feel angry. I can’t hold what’s happened in my head. Each time I wake up, and it’s like, “What’s happened? What am I doing here?” and it hits me again and I’m drowning.’ She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Traynor knew all too well the emotions she was expressing. He waited for the sobs to subside. ‘Everybody experiences grief in their own way, Mrs Lawrence. It changes over time, believe me. It doesn’t get better, exactly. It gets different.’
Not looking at him, she pulled a wad of tissues from a box next to her, pressed it against her face, whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need for an apology. My force colleagues and I are truly sympathetic to your situation. I’m here because we need to know as much about what happened as you are able to tell us. If you feel unable to do that today, I can come back. It’s not a problem, Mrs Lawrence.’
‘Stay, please. You have a job to do and I know I have to help you do it, but I’m really worried.’ She looked up at him. Her eyes were reddened, the pupils themselves a deep azure blue. ‘How can I help you and the police if I can’t make sense of it in my own head?’
‘Talking about it might give you that sense. Anything you are able to say to me has value.’
She looked down at her hands. ‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘Start wherever you wish.’
She pushed her hair from her face, her voice low, hesitant. ‘It, we … I had an appointment. Here at the hospital. Late afternoon, sometime, I can’t remember exactly. Then, we went to see Mike’s parents to tell them …’ She closed her eyes. ‘We left their house and went into town for dinner … to celebrate …’
Behind his neutral face, Traynor listened as she approached that part of the evening they needed to know about. He kept his voice low. ‘And then?’
‘We left the restaurant. Went to the car … Started our journey home.’
He wrote, sending her quick, monitoring glances, seeing changes to her face which had lost the small amount of colour it had gained in the previous minute or so and was now tight with tension. ‘And then … then, we were … lost and heading along a road.’ Her words and breathing quickened. ‘A narrow road. We got stuck in a diversion and we didn’t know what to do and we took a turning into a street and suddenly there were no lights, no people, no cars …’ She looked up at him, her eyes wide.
He leant towards her. ‘Mrs Lawrence? Mrs Lawrence, it’s OK. You don’t have to say any more.’
She slowly focused on him. ‘I can’t go any further.’
She saw Traynor close his notepad.
‘It’s no good. I can’t give you what you need.’
‘It’s early days, Mrs Lawrence, and I think it might help you to know that my aim is to support you as you talk about what happened.’
She gave him a tired smile. ‘I haven’t been much help, have I?’
‘You’ve made a start. Right now, your memory is protecting you, holding on to what it knows. That’s not unusual following trauma. Things could well change.’
He stood as the nurse came into the room. ‘I’ll check on how you are tomorrow. There’s no pressure,’ he added, knowing for many at headquarters it wasn’t true. ‘I can come back whenever you wish.’
Getting no response, he walked to the door, acutely aware of the urgent need for whatever information was locked inside Molly Lawrence’s memory, also knowing it had to be at her pace.
Mrs Monroe was waiting outside the room, looking anxious.
He nodded to her. ‘Molly has made a start.’
FOURTEEN
Wednesday 12 December. 9.30 a.m.
One hand gripping his phone, Watts raised the other to Traynor as he came inside the office. ‘Yeah, we appreciate it. You hear anything else, let me know.’
He ended the call, raised both arms, linking his fingers behind his head, his face creasing into a broad smile. ‘Traynor, I can assure you that there is somebody up there looking down on this investigation.’ Traynor grinned, glanced up at the ceiling and back at him. ‘And you’ll be saying the same when I tell you about the tip-off that’s just come in.’
‘From?’
‘Nigel. He’s in charge of security at the mini-market close to the scene. He knows the area well. According to him, a youngster by the name of Presley Henry has been bragging around the area about a family member being involved in the Lawrence shooting, saying that his uncle “did the Toyota job”. If you want to know why that’s got my interest, Presley’s uncle is Huey Whyte, a suspect in a shooting ten years back. I’ve checked the records. Guess which gun we’re talking about for that? It’s the same as the one used on the Lawrences. I’ve had no direct contact with Whyte during the last three or so years, but I know young Henry’s aunt so I’m going to see her.’ He reached for his coat and keys. ‘Did Mrs Lawrence talk?’
‘Yes, but it was very slow going. Her mind is resistant, but she made a start, talked about their afternoon hospital appointment, the restaurant, the traffic diversions and their arrival in Forge Street—’
‘She mentioned it by name?’
‘No. When I say “talked”, she gave very few actual details. I’m hoping to see her again soon. But before I do, I’ll go through what she said for anything which looks useful to us.’
‘“Useful” is what I’m after. You staying?’
‘I’m going up to the incident room to give Officer Miller details of the visit for logging, then back to the university.’ Watts was thinking that Officer Miller would be more than pleased to have anything Traynor was offering.
‘Judd’s up there. Tell her I’m off to follow up this kid, Presley Henry.’
After a journey that should have taken him fifteen minutes but took thirty-five due to heavy traffic, Watts parked and headed for a block of maisonettes close to the Bristol Road interchange. With a glance in the general direction of Forge Street, he located his destination on the ground floor and jabbed the doorbell. After some delay, the door was opened by a whippet-thin woman, black hair mixed with grey. She rolled her eyes, one hand on her hip.
‘And what do you want?’
‘Morning, Lettie.’ He got another eye-roll.
‘That’s Le-tishah to you.’ She sighed, stepped back. ‘In! The last thing I need is you hanging about out here, gettin’ my name dragged down.’
He went inside the spotless maisonette and on to the cramped lounge dominated by a massive wall-mounted television, a large sofa covered in plastic, and small tables supporting knick-knacks. He pointed at the television and its vividly coloured courtroom scene, the judge gesticulating at a hapless complainant, the studio audience grinning. ‘Mind putting that off?’
She searched for, then aimed the remote. ‘Like I said, what you wantin’?’
‘Your nephew, Presley.’
‘Presley? Why?’
‘I need to talk to him.’
‘About?’
‘That’s between me and young Presley.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘And me, as his guardian. He’s in the sixth form at his school and doing well so you’ve got no business with him. In fact, sod off now. I’m busy.’
‘You and me both, Lettie. I’m here for information and my understanding is that Presley has some.’
She glared at him. ‘Sounds like you got nothing better to do than listen to damn gossips round here.’ She left the room. Past experience of Lettie prompted him to close his eyes. She shou
ted upstairs from the hallway, ‘Pres-ley … Presley! You get down here, now.’ Watts picked up a distant, brief response. ‘I said, now.’ She came back inside the lounge, face averted from Watts.
‘I thought you said he was at school?’
‘If it’s any of your business, he’s got a late-morning start and whatever you’ve heard, it’s wrong.’
Watts picked up footfalls on the stairs. The door opened and a tall, neatly dressed youth came inside.
‘Hello, Presley.’ The youth made no response, his eyes moving between Watts and his aunt. ‘I’m here to check something I’ve heard which concerns you.’
‘I don’t have to talk to you.’
Watts regarded him. ‘You’re a bit misguided there, son but if you prefer, we can have a chat at headquarters. What’s your choice?’
Lettie gave Watts a furious look. ‘He’s going nowhere!’ She struck Presley on the shoulder with the back of her hand. ‘Talk to him and he’ll be gone!’
‘That’s good advice your aunt’s giving you,’ said Watts.
Presley sent him a quick glance. ‘How can I talk if I don’t have a clue what this is about?’
‘It’s about a man and his wife who’ve been shot—’
‘I knew it.’ Lettie stared at Watts. ‘As soon as I heard about it, I knew you lot would be crawling all over the neighbourhood, but you must be desperate to come here—’
‘It’s got nothing to do with me!’ Presley’s eyes darted from his aunt to Watts and back.
Watts shook his head. ‘My information says otherwise. It suggests that you know something about that shooting.’