Her Final Hour: An absolutely unputdownable mystery thriller

by Carla Kovach

  ‘Do you remember who else was in the bar?’

  ‘Not really. I haven’t been working here long so I’m not that familiar with the regulars.’

  ‘Going back to last Thursday, do you remember Robert Dixon and Darrel Sanderson being in here?’

  ‘Yes. I told the other detectives everything I know. They were just sitting at the bar, drinking. I don’t remember much more. It’s terrible what happened to that man’s wife, while he was here. I tell you something. I not only lock all my doors and windows, I’ve been pushing a bookcase against my bedroom door. That really freaked me out. I hope you catch the person who did it so we call all sleep better at night.’

  ‘We do too. Thank you for your time. Here’s my card, should you remember anything else or should she turn up, give me a call straight away.’

  ‘I will do.’ The woman sat on the broken bench, enjoying the last few minutes of her break.

  Gina shuddered as they re-entered the pub. ‘Let’s grab the CCTV and get back to the station. There has to be something we’re missing. What is it with this place? It seems to entice trouble. A woman is murdered while her husband is here and, in such a short space of time, a missing woman is last seen here. I hate this pub.’

  Forty

  Darrel darted across the kitchen and grabbed his mobile off the side. ‘Rob, you all right mate?’

  ‘I’ve had a copper at my door asking if I was acquainted with a Lee, a Ben and a Dan. Why would she ask that?’

  He kicked the kitchen door and stared into his garden. His daughter’s trike was upside down on the grass. ‘It wasn’t me, Rob. I’ve said nothing. We’ve all been to the pub together, maybe it was someone at the pub or the landlord, or that Charlene, the gossipy witch behind the bar.’

  ‘Maybe. Just be cautious.’ Rob ended the call.

  Darrel threw his mobile down and slammed his open palm onto the worktop. He grabbed the chopping board and hurled it across the room, marking the door. Not only had they taken Mia, they were prying into his life, finding out who he was acquainted with. He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the island and poured himself a large one, necking it back. Had his cheating wife told her lover more than he thought? He hadn’t banked on her being a gossip and sharing private things about him with other people. She’d have known what she’d have got if she did. It didn’t matter. He didn’t kill her. He was at the pub, with Rob.

  He shivered. The house was cold and empty. This isn’t how he imagined it would be. Where were the neighbours with home-cooked casseroles? Where were his sympathisers? He couldn’t even go and see his brother, Alan, while Mia was living there and being assessed. He kicked the kitchen door and poured another brandy. Maybe he’d just get wasted while he toiled over that bitch of a detective. If she dared to watch his house again, interfere in his affairs or generally make a nuisance of herself, he’d get her. She wasn’t going to ruin everything.

  Insurance was about calculating risk. He calculated risk for a living. How much ‘at risk’ did he think applied to his current situation? He hadn’t told Rob about the bruising on Mia. There was a risk that Rob might find out and what then? He knew what they were capable of, he was part of it. They wouldn’t want him to talk. His friends were on his side at the moment. It was Melissa’s fault he took his anger out on Mia. While she lay in a stupor, he’d had to deal with a screaming two-year-old. She’d become incapable. He went to pour another drink, then stopped. Even if the police knew the name of all who were part of their little exclusive club, what could they do? They all had alibis: low risk. Other risks: lover boy. What had she told him? That was a question he couldn’t answer. He was unable to calculate that risk. He hated being unable. It wasn’t in his vocabulary. What did Phipps know and what did he tell the police while trying to save his own skin? There was the unknown variable.

  Someone hammered at his door. His heart pounded. The police. They were back. He ran to the door and looked through the spyhole. Rage travelled through his whole body.

  ‘Open the door! I know you’re in,’ the man slurred.

  He’d open the door. He’d let the bastard spill in. Intrusion, that’s what it would be and he’d show him what he’d get for sleeping with his wife.

  ‘She wanted to be with me. She wanted me!’ the man yelled as he opened the door. So this was Jimmy. Poor drunken Jimmy slipped on the step. Darrel kneeled and aimed a punch at Jimmy’s face but the man shifted to the left as his fist hit the floor.

  ‘She was never going to be with you. Look at you. You think she’d leave all this for a loser like you?’

  Jimmy punched him, catching the side of his chin. There was no power coming from his punches. Darrel tussled with the man on the floor, eventually grabbing both of his arms with one firm hand and landing a punch on the man’s chin. ‘That’s for shagging my wife. Now get out of here. The next time you come back, I won’t just land one on your chin. You’ll wish you were never born.’ He grabbed the man by the coat and flung him out of the door. Her feeble lover was no match for his strength even though he had let himself go. Underneath his beer belly was a six-pack waiting to be freed.

  For now, he hoped the loser would just crawl back under his rock. His analysis. High risk: lover boy.

  Forty-One

  ‘Right, Wyre. I spoke to Samuel Avery earlier and he didn’t give me much. How are we getting on with tracking the men that James Phipps mentioned? Did you speak to Robert Dixon again?’ Gina sucked air in as she rubbed her aching wrist. The painkillers were wearing off quickly. She popped a couple into her hand and swallowed them down with coffee. Her stomach was beginning to rumble. The thought of food made her mouth water.

  Wyre flicked through her notes. ‘I caught up with Dixon earlier today at his house and asked him if his circle of friends included a Lee, Dan and Ben. He just kept asking why I’d want to know that and seemed a bit cagey. He said he had lots of friends.’

  ‘Did you get surnames?’

  She turned the page on her notebook. ‘Yes. It didn’t take long. We have a Lee Munro, Ben Woodward and Dan Timmons. Munro is a carpentry sub-contractor, works for himself; Woodward actually works for Dixon’s electrical wholesale company as head of sales; Timmons is in a supervisory admin role at the local council.’

  ‘We need to speak to them in turn. Can I leave that with you? See what they know. Where they’ve been. How well they know Darrel.’ Gina held her hand to her head and fell into a chair. She needed food and her injured head was stinging.

  Wyre nodded. ‘There was something at the Dixon house that made me almost laugh out loud. Mrs Dixon.’

  ‘What about Mrs Dixon?’ Gina massaged her temples.

  ‘Are you all right, guv?’

  ‘No. I need to get home, but not before you tell me about Mrs Dixon. I need cheering up.’

  Wyre smiled. ‘She looked like a “Stepford Wife” with this silly looking frilly apron and neatly pinned hair. She rubbed Mr Dixon’s arm and gazed at him, like she worshipped him. She offered me the most perfectly made home-made cookie I’ve ever seen and she served tea from a pot. I know I’m sounding critical and I know Mrs O likes a bit of baking—’

  O’Connor swung from side to side on his chair wheels. ‘She doesn’t worship me though and frilly aprons, no way. That sounds so antiquated.’

  ‘Something didn’t sit right but who am I to judge the relationship of others. They are totally weird though. I stand by that comment.’

  Gina let out a small laugh. ‘And we come across the weirdest of them. Make sure you put that in your notes. It may tell us more about Robert Dixon. Did you manage to garner how often the group of friends met up?’

  ‘I did. They play cards together at Rob’s house most weeks. There are no set days. On the night of Melissa Sanderson’s murder we already know Rob was with Darrel at the Angel. I need to check the whereabouts of the others.’

  ‘Lastly, any further results from forensics?’

  ‘Not as yet. We are chasing, but they’re overloade
d and understaffed, as usual.’

  Briggs walked in with Annie. ‘We’ve just been talking about the missing woman. We thought, given that you suspect there may be a link, it would be best to issue a press release, appealing for her to make contact. At the moment we only have circumstantial evidence that connects Melissa Sanderson’s murder with missing Ellie Redfern. Even the MO is different making it less likely.’ The method of murder for Melissa Sanderson involved coming to her home, tying her to a chair and strangling her. With Ellie, she’d just gone missing. The common denominator was still the Angel.

  ‘I agree.’ Gina watched as Briggs sat next to Annie. Her tight wrap-dress enhanced her voluptuous bosoms. The newly-divorced woman had grown in confidence over the past few months and she oozed appeal. Her wavy hair almost reached her lap, looking like something from a shampoo advert. Briggs smiled as Annie delivered her recommendations on how they should deliver the missing woman’s information to the press. Gina hoped Briggs would see that Annie liked him. It was time for him to move on.

  ‘Did we have any luck confirming if Ellie had been in the Angel last Friday, any CCTV?’ Briggs asked.

  Gina swallowed. ‘I’ve just finished watching it. She went into the pub at 11.50 a.m. The CCTV shows everything. From 11.15 a.m. she was standing in the corner of the pub car park before it opened, not by the door as if waiting, but in the corner by the shrubbery. What’s disturbing is it shows her kicking a bush several times as if she was really angry. When they opened, she entered the pub, bought an orange juice, had a bit of interaction with Samuel Avery, then sat near the window, cowering. The image is really grainy so we can’t see exactly what she was looking at. She seemed to be transfixed with the bar. A man arrived, had a drink, then left. She left soon after, taking a right onto the main road. We lose her there.’

  Wyre looked up. ‘I checked, there is no further operational CCTV to track her movements further.’

  ‘As we know, she went home that night, but what was upsetting her?’ Briggs questioned.

  ‘I questioned Jill Keller, the bar server. She said that Ellie had said something to Samuel about a gesture or comment he’d made and that was all she had to add,’ Gina said. ‘I asked Samuel, he said he’d only looked at Jill and Ellie flew off the handle. Again, he gave us full access to the CCTV without arguing. Said he’s always happy to help the pigs.’

  She leaned back and stared at the board. Nothing had changed with Avery. He was the same Avery that treated women like meat but they still flung themselves at him after he plied them with free drinks. The same Avery that had been involved in spats with husbands after affairs with their wives. The police were on record as visiting on several occasions over the past few years after husbands had tried to assault him. He’d never been caught breaking the law though. ‘He’s full of charm – not. I flicked through the CCTV after that and the next day. It appears she just went there the once but it needs a closer look. So what happened on Saturday? People don’t just disappear. Her partner, Rebecca Greene, showed us a text message she sent on the Sunday morning saying she was staying at a friend’s place. She’s convinced Ellie wouldn’t have sent that message.’

  ‘Maybe Ellie had felt guilty after turning back to drink,’ Briggs added.

  ‘Maybe. I hope so, for her sake, but Rebecca Greene was so sure Ellie would never have sent that message.’ Gina yelped as she stood and began hobbling towards her coat. Her muscles seemed to be seizing up. Adrenalin had kept her going during the day but she needed to give her body a rest. ‘Right, I think I’ll carry on working from home. Any volunteers available to give me a lift?’

  Wyre held her car keys up. ‘I’ll drop you off, guv. Just coming up to the end of my shift. Don’t worry though, I’m taking the rest of my notes home and I’ll get them on the system.’

  ‘Take care. I’ll call you later when we’ve finalised the press statement,’ Briggs called from across the room before quickly getting back to his conversation with Annie.

  Forty-Two

  Shaking, Natalie opened the new diary. Write down your feelings the self-help book had said. She remembered when she used to write song lyrics for what Bruce had termed, her ‘stupid little band’. She used to love writing songs. As she reread her entry, she couldn’t forget the woman who her husband had left in their spare room. She trembled as she heard the woman stirring. She could pop in there when she started to yell, release her, and face Bruce when he got home. That would be the right thing to do. Tears fell as she finished reading her passage. Her inner feelings stared back at her from the crisp white sheet.

  I am the crack that runs through the mirror, and I’m scared of reaching the edge. One wrong step, one wrong word, one wrong look, and I’ll shatter. All that will remain are fragments, fragments of me that can no longer be fixed. A carpet of chaos spread across the floor. Unrecognisable reflections of a shattered face will stare back. I am the crack that runs through the mirror and that crack is ever stretching, further and further, towards that edge. When will I shatter? Or will that crack remain forever within its confines, never quite reaching the edge, petrified of what lies beyond. Will I remain a crack, ever running through a mirror?

  ‘Shit!’ It was all a load of shit. As tears mingled with the ink on the page, she tore it up and flung it in the waste bin. Her stupid little band days were over, Bruce had been right. She grabbed the stupid self-help book and threw that to the back of the wardrobe. She’d just work on mindfulness. The woman screamed at the same time the front door slammed. He was back and she was awake.

  She ran downstairs and watched as Bruce placed a piece of paper on the kitchen worktop. It contained the personal address and mobile phone number of a DI Harte. Where had he got that information? He’d been out with friends, that’s all he’d told her. They’d only been in Cleevesford a couple of days. She heard him on the phone talking to someone but she’d never heard any names mentioned. He rubbed the back of his head and walked with a slight limp. She daren’t ask. Natalie poured him a coffee and passed it to him.

  ‘It’s too milky,’ he said as he passed it back to her. She held back the tears as she made him another. Nothing was ever right. How could she forget how her husband liked his coffee?

  As she passed him another, tears began to well up in her eyes. There was the matter of the woman her husband was keeping in their house. This was much bigger than coffee. ‘I don’t know what to do. We can’t keep her here. We have to let her go.’

  ‘Don’t you even think about it!’ He cupped her chin with his other hand and stared into her eyes. ‘You’ll ruin me, us, our life, the business, our lovely house and for that I’d never forgive you – never.’ He dropped his hand and took a swig of the drink. She wiped her face. ‘That’s much better. See you can do it. Imagine having to leave here and start afresh all on your own, without me to do all the things you can’t do because you won’t leave the house?’

  She began to shake and her skin prickled. He was right. A weal began to form on her neck and she gasped as she held back her sobs.

  ‘She hasn’t eaten and she’s started screaming again. I’m worried. What if she needs a doctor?’ She almost hyperventilated as she wiped her eyes on the sleeves of her jumper, her wild hair falling over her face.

  ‘I’ll check on her and don’t worry, the tablets I gave her, they’re just some of your sleeping tablets. They won’t harm her. She’s up there in the spare room having a lovely sleep. That’s all. I just don’t need her screaming all day while I decide what to do with her.’

  As she slumped in the chair, she turned on the television in an attempt to mask the sound of her rapid breathing. A photo of a missing woman, Ellie Redfern, filled their screen. Bursting into tears, Natalie turned away from the television and stared at him.

  He checked his watch. ‘What are you staring at? Go and get little Ellie another one of your lovely pills. Grab the whisky too.’

  Tears soaked her face as she followed his orders. She couldn’t bear to anger him a
ny more.

  * * *

  Bruce ripped all the sockets out of the back of the television and the room went silent. Natalie had seen enough television. He’d tell her it was broken. She had no idea where all the leads went. He took a swig of the coffee and almost spat. She couldn’t do anything right. He’d show her again how to make coffee exactly as he liked it – milky. After that, he’d start preparing for what he had to do next.

  He rubbed his groin. Pain still radiated from where the detective had grabbed him. He grinned as he opened his briefcase looking at the contents. ‘I’m coming for you,’ he said aloud.

  Forty-Three

  The figure watched from the back of the garden as the DI placed a takeaway bag on the kitchen table and poured a glass of water. As she unlocked the back door, the watcher shifted into the corner, hidden by a clump of shrubbery. ‘Ebony,’ she called as she rattled a box of cat food. The cat was going nowhere while it was being gripped this tightly. Just as she gave up and slammed and locked the door the cat began to wail. The figure let the panicked animal go and it scurried off, over the fence, into the wilderness beyond.

  A gentle breeze whipped past the watcher’s ears as they zipped up the forensic suit, covering their whole body. The waiting game had come to an end. It was just past eleven, she’d have to go to bed eventually. The watcher grinned. She’d left the key in the door. She had to have left the key in the door. She wasn’t holding it and she hadn’t placed anything down. Getting into DI Harte’s house was being made even easier. As the kitchen light went off, the figure darted across the unruly lawn, ready in wait. After all, there was no rush to be home.