Night Vision

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘Sort of. I mean, that was one part of it. That was what we actually got him on in the end, and on that basis he should have been out of jail any time now, but we knew he was something of a con artist – some kind of Ponzi scheme, you know, stock market stuff. I’d started to make inroads there, but it’d lost me and I handed over to the experts. We prepared a case based on what we knew about the insurance scam, got him to court and sent down for two years, and that’s the last I heard. There was talk about filing other charges later.’

  ‘So the prison sentence allowed them time to prepare another case against him.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Seems they did, and I was right: Robinson was part of something much bigger.’

  ‘You said he should have been out of prison by now?’

  ‘This month, yes. He’d served most of his sentence in a category C open prison down South. All seemed fine, so he got time off for good behaviour and because we can’t keep anyone for too long, not with the waiting list we’ve got. Anyway. Last week Robinson was found dead in his cell. He’d been complaining of chest pains, and the medic had been called. By the time he got there it was too late. They did a PM and found someone had poisoned him.’

  ‘Poisoned? No chance it was suicide?’

  ‘Apparently not. He was about to be released, so the assumption is—’

  ‘Someone on the outside didn’t want him around?’

  ‘Someone didn’t want him talking. Turns out he, or someone on his behalf, had made three phone calls to Jamie Dale, in the past month.’

  ‘The Jamie Dale? Our Jamie Dale? Wasn’t she—?’

  ‘Killed in a car crash just over a week ago.’

  ‘So, what had he told her?’

  ‘Or what was he about to tell her? And what was she about to write about it? Whatever it was, she can’t tell us now, but we can’t rule out the possibility it had something to do with him getting killed, so the pressure is well and truly on.’

  When Alec had left, Naomi felt flat and very out of sorts. She had looked forward to an evening with Alec, probably not doing anything very much – a walk, maybe, down beside the river, a bit of television later on. And she hated sleeping alone.

  When she had moved into her flat she had relished the idea of her own space and her own bed. Of being independent of anyone else’s wishes. Since marrying Alec and moving here, into what had once been just Alec’s house and, more particularly, since the events of the winter, when at one point Naomi had been certain she was going to die – and a meaningless, pointless death at that – she had grown more and more to dislike being on her own at night. Night-time was when the world and all its memories crowded in upon her and when bed was not a sanctuary unless that space was shared. Not even Napoleon’s comforting presence could really sooth her.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and took it, and the phone, outside into the garden and settled in the swing seat beside the pond. She heard Napoleon bend to lap the water and then dip a paw to splash at the fish. Birds sang out to mark their evening territory, and something rustled in the flower beds. Peace, she told herself. Quiet and calm and warm evening sun. All was fine.

  She remained unconvinced.

  Naomi sipped wine and listened to the night-time sounds gathering around her and breathed in the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle and the thornless rose – the name of which she could never remember – that Alec had planted next to the swing seat. And she tried to remember what, if anything else, she knew about the Robinson case that had now called Alec away or about the dead journalist, Jamie Dale. Professionally, she and Alec had run into Jamie Dale on a number of occasions. She’d started out working for one of the free newspapers, covering school fêtes and consumer issues, and Naomi and Alec had inevitably met with her when, as young, uniformed officers, they had been present at some of the same events. For a while, Jamie and Naomi and a group of other young women had met regularly for nights out. As, one by one, they had begun serious relationships or got more demanding jobs, those regular nights had become occasional and then diminished altogether.

  Alec and Naomi had gained promotion, and Jamie had become a stringer for a couple of national papers. Apart from the odd Christmas card, and occasionally remarking upon her name when they happened to spot her by-line, Naomi had largely lost touch with her. Naomi vaguely recalled that Jamie had moved away; she had turned to filmmaking as a way of reaching broader swathes of the public, and so far as Naomi could remember Jamie now lived in London or wherever it was they produced such things. Pinsent had certainly never been big enough to contain the likes of Jamie Dale, anyway.

  Naomi closed her eyes as she still always did when trying to recall something more sharply and tried to remember Jamie the last time they had met. Small, slightly built, coffee-coloured skin and intense brown eyes. Hair that was always either braided or embellished or extended or dyed some unlikely hue; that last time it had been adorned with sky-blue streaks. But she had been young then. They had all been young then. A smart jacket or blazer worn with faded jeans; that had been Jamie’s uniform. She had once told Naomi that she carried a coordinating skirt in her bag, just in case, along with a decent pair of shoes. Back then, Naomi recalled, it was a standing joke that it was always the same skirt and shoes; Jamie had once confided that her jackets were all bought in sales or were her sister’s cast-offs and The Skirt went with any of them. She was, she had joked, mistress of the capsule wardrobe.

  ‘I liked her,’ Naomi told Napoleon, slightly surprised to remember how much. The dog came over and nuzzled at her hand, and she stroked the silky ears and smooth head.

  And now she was dead. Accident? Coincidence? Or was there really a link to Neil Robinson – and if so, what?

  Naomi sighed. It must be getting dark by now, she thought, wondering if Alec had arrived at wherever it was he was going. He’d promised to call, and she knew he would, when he got a minute, but Naomi knew from experience that might not be until much later – earlier, even; he’d let her know all was well, even if that meant a text at two in the morning. She picked up the phone and wine glass and, Napoleon pressed against her leg so she didn’t slip into the pond, turned back towards the house, almost wishing herself back in her little flat again, an almost overwhelming sense of isolation crashing around her.

  TWO

  It had taken three attempts to program the satnav. They’d been given directions and an address, but no postcode, just a building name and road. Travers had no patience with technology.

  Finally, Alec had taken over, assuring his boss that they could always phone when they were within striking distance, make certain they were heading for the right place. He sensed that Travers’ impatience and bad mood had little to do with the mini computer suckered to the windscreen.

  ‘Maureen isn’t pleased at you being called away?’ he ventured at last.

  Travers grimaced. ‘We had plans for this weekend,’ he said tightly. ‘I kept telling her I’d do my best to be back, but she kept reminding me that I’m Detective Chief Inspector now and that I’d promised her promotion would mean less time on the job and more time at home.’

  Alec said nothing; there didn’t seem much point in remarking that this was the first weekend Travers had come close to working in the past year. He’d become very apt at being elsewhere, out of reach, if a call came in. Alec could sympathize. He, like Travers, had endured a long career of interrupted plans, lost weekends off and unscheduled – often unpaid – overtime. Time off in lieu never really panned out.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ Travers grumbled. ‘Naomi understands these things.’

  ‘Naomi gets impatient with it too,’ Alec said mildly. ‘After what happened last year, she’s not so keen to be at home alone at night,’ he added pointedly.

  Travers was momentarily contrite. ‘No, I don’t suppose she is.’ He paused. ‘Likely, I’ll come back to the decorators or some new three-piece suite Maureen’s taken a fancy to. Credit cards are weapons in her hands.’


  Alec laughed, then wondered if he should have done. Maureen’s spending habits had long been a touchy subject. ‘So,’ he said, by way of diversion. ‘Know anything about this DI Eddison we’re meant to be meeting?’ The truth was, Alec was curious too about Travers’ involvement. Why did they need Alec and his DCI if all Alec was going to do was refresh a few memories of an old case, give his perspective on it? Travers had only just got his promotion at the time, and Alec couldn’t recall that he’d been all that active on the Robinson business. He’d been off on some management course somewhere when everything came to a head and the arrest was made.

  ‘I’ve met Eddison,’ Travers said. ‘He was a speaker on a conference I went to, if I remember right. He delivered a paper on steganography.’ Travers laughed. ‘Until then, I thought that was a type of dinosaur.’ He paused again, waiting for Alec to say he still thought it was. Politically, Alec probably should have done, but as it happened—

  ‘Hiding things in plain sight,’ he said.

  ‘Give that man a peanut.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s become the “go to guy” for anything technical.’ Travers shrugged, but Alec could see he was reluctantly impressed.

  They were out in the country now, driving a twisting road too fast for Alec’s taste. Travers had always driven like a maniac. Alec remembered when they’d both taken the advance driving course and Travers had set out with the intention of proving just how good he was behind the wheel, only to be told at the end of the first day that he’d be thrown off the course if he didn’t quiet down and focus.

  Alec found himself switching attention between the now darkening road ahead and the little brown squiggle on the satnav map. ‘What time are we expected?’

  ‘When we get there. Why?’

  Alec shrugged. From past experience he knew that any comment on the speed of Travers driving, any mild suggestion that he might like to slow down, would have the opposite effect. Silently, he cursed his failing car and hoped that Naomi would be taking the credit card for a walk and getting them a nice reliable one before he returned home. Harry could be trusted to ask the practical questions about insurance and petrol consumption, and Patrick and Naomi between them could be relied upon to make sure the purchase wasn’t too dull.

  ‘So, do we know what killed Robinson?’

  ‘Not yet. Tox reports still aren’t back. I understand you were familiar with that journalist woman?’

  ‘Journalist? Oh, Jamie Dale. Yes, Naomi and I started in the force around the same time she started at the local paper. We got to know her quite well back then, but lost touch rather when she moved down south, as you do. Why?’

  ‘Well, Eddison seems to think it may be helpful. That you knew her.’

  ‘Very much past tense,’ Alec told him. ‘We liked her. She was funny and clever and very good at what she did. Committed, too. Even back then you’d have made a bet on her making it, whatever field she decided to go into.’

  ‘Bet no one took odds on her burning up in a smashed-up car.’

  ‘Burning?’ Alec went cold. ‘The news reports said nothing about a fire.’

  ‘No, they didn’t. The news reported it as an accident. Sad, but these things happen. The evidence says it was murder.’

  ‘Murder?’

  Travers nodded. ‘So now we’ve got two bodies. It seems that your funny, clever reporter friend burned to death in her car. The keys had been taken, the child locks activated. She was locked in and left to die.’

  THREE

  It was funny, Gregory thought, the way some people were able to compartmentalize their lives. He doubted anyone in Jamie’s circle knew about her friendship with Neil Robinson or many in his that he had a connection with her.

  ‘We started chatting in a pub one night,’ she’d said. ‘I was supposed to meet a friend, and she was late and then she texted to say she’d been held up at work and probably wouldn’t make it. Neil was there too, looking equally fed up, and we got talking.’

  She had not, Gregory remembered, been in London all that long at the time and was probably just glad of the company. Neil could be engaging company. Smooth and charming and seemingly open: just the personality traits that made him such a good conman.

  Not, so far as Gregory knew – and he knew a great deal – that Neil had ever tried anything with Jamie.

  The two had become casual friends. The odd coffee, a film, an evening in the pub. It had been easy and appealing to a woman like Jamie, whose life otherwise was so intense.

  Gregory, not an expert in personal relationships, had always been interested when people spoke about theirs, and Jamie had been very easy to listen to. Like Neil she, too, was charming, smooth and open – though in Jamie’s case she really was – and it made her pleasant company.

  And Christopher had been right, Gregory thought. He had allowed himself to grow fond, to believe that the girl could be deflected from the dangerous path she had been taking. And so she had been, for a while.

  He turned the little silver device in his hands. A digital recorder, quite high end and very pretty and compact. Then he looked at the number scribbled on the pad on his desk. Not that he needed to look; numbers he needed to know were committed quickly and retained, Christopher always joked, for elephant’s years.

  Reaching for the phone, and with his finger poised to play, he dialled the number.

  Harry called around midnight. He apologized for the lateness, but said Patrick had told him it would be a good idea. Naomi smiled, amused at the parental buck-passing. The Harry–Patrick dynamic had certainly shifted in the past year. Harry would have missed him terribly if his son had decided to pick a distant university, but Patrick, despite offers of finance from his mother and stepfather, had elected to go to a local art college, which meant he could still live at home.

  ‘Patrick was right,’ Naomi said.

  ‘No word from Alec?’

  ‘Nothing yet. They should have arrived by now, but he probably won’t get much time to call until later. You know how it is.’

  ‘And you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she lied.

  ‘Because I can come over, you know I would.’

  ‘Bless you, Harry. But I’m going to bed now, and I’ll be OK. I’ve locked up everywhere.’

  ‘If you’re sure? Right then, we’ll pick you up at half five tomorrow, if that’s OK. The private view starts at six, and Patrick wants to meet up with his friends.’

  Naomi smiled again. Friends hadn’t really been dominant in Patrick’s life when she first knew him and had definitely not been without their tragedy. They had both worried for Patrick for a while, but he seemed happy in his own skin these days, and she knew how relieved Harry was about that. ‘Looking forward to it,’ she said.

  She had just put the phone back on its cradle when it rang again. Not Alec, she thought; he’d have rung her mobile just in case she’d already gone to bed. Had Harry forgotten something?

  ‘Hello. Did you—?’

  She knew at once that this was not Harry. The emptiness that greeted her words echoed as though she had connected with some vast space. No one spoke.

  ‘Hello,’ she said again. ‘Who is this?’

  A sudden click as though someone had flicked a switch. The sound of a voice, tight and panicked and speaking her name. Her unmarried name. ‘Naomi? Naomi Blake? Do you remember me? This is Jamie, Jamie Dale.’ The sound broke off, words becoming sobs so desperate that Naomi felt herself grow cold.

  ‘Who is this?’ she said again, trying hard to keep her own voice steady. You’re dead, she thought. How can you be speaking to me?

  Another click; she recognized it now, a tape machine being switched off. The voice had been recorded, but by whom? When?

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Angry now. Fearful too.

  Silence. Then the phone was hung up and the line went dead.

  She stood for a moment, clutching the receiver in her hand, then slowly laid it back on the cradle. Light-headed and
chilled, she felt as though all the blood and warmth had drained out of her. Jamie was dead. What the hell . . .? Briefly, she stood stock still, telling herself that whoever was doing this was just trying to frighten her, that she wasn’t going to let that happen. Her resolve lasted only scant seconds. Whoever was trying to frighten her had damn well succeeded.

  ‘Napoleon! Napoleon, come!’ In a frenzy of activity she stormed around the house, barking her shins on furniture she knew was there but could not seem to avoid. She checked the locks on the windows, unfastened and then refastened the doors while the big black dog, thinking this was some new game, beat his heavy tail enthusiastically against her legs.

  Finally, she stumbled up the stairs to her bedroom and locked that door too. Then stood, staring at a key she could no longer see and listening hard, as though any minute she might hear footsteps on the stairs and know that her carefully erected barricades had just been breached.

  Down in the hall the phone rang out again, and Naomi jumped. Napoleon whined softly in sympathy, realizing belatedly that Naomi wasn’t having fun. She counted. Five rings and then it stopped, as though whoever was calling merely wanted to make a point: I know who you are; I know where you live. She had her mobile in the pocket of her cardigan, and she almost gave in to the impulse to call Harry, ask him to come and get her and beg the use of his spare room for the night. She had the phone in her hand before she dismissed the thought. She wasn’t going to drag Harry and Patrick into this, not unless she had to. Someone was trying to scare her. Someone was doing a bloody good job of it, and when Alec phoned she’d tell him what had happened and they’d figure out what she ought to do. One thing was certain. Neither Naomi nor Alec believed in coincidence. Alec had been called in to investigate a murder. The victim, Neil Robinson, had been in contact with Jamie Dale. Just what was going on here?

  ‘Right, deep breaths, just stay calm. Doors are locked, everything is fine.’

  Napoleon whined again, and she bent to stroke the smooth fur. She was still listening for any unusual sound, any little creak or groan that might not be the familiar noises of the house settling down for the night. After a while, she realized that she could hear nothing out of the ordinary. All was quiet, peaceful. Safe. She kicked off her slippers and curled up on the bed, shrinking back against the headboard, instinctively retreating from the bedroom door, and she listened again, then shook herself angrily.