by CJ Carver
Cross-legged on her bed, back against the wall, she studied Jamie’s photograph. Young, energetic, not bad-looking. Dreadlocks, tattoos. Something was vaguely familiar about him but she couldn’t think what. His hoodie, maybe. She saw enough of those in her job.
Mac met her at the hotel reception and drove them to Jamie’s, which was a cutesy cottage with a vegetable patch and roses around the front door. Inside it wasn’t tidy, but it wasn’t a complete disaster. No dirt or grime, just a comfortable sort of messiness that Lucy rather liked; wellies toppled over in the porch, socks and gardener’s gloves jumbled with handfuls of junk mail on the hall table, old TV guides stacked in corners and every windowsill covered with a general detritus of used envelopes, seed packets, Sellotape and screwdrivers.
Jamie’s girlfriend sat on a saggy, homely sofa alongside her mother. Gemma was pale, her face blotchy from crying. She wore Ugg boots beneath a suede skirt and flowery top. Lots of bangles and earrings. A silver nose ring. Long brown hair. The poor girl looked as though she hadn’t stopped crying since she’d heard the news.
‘Please, have a seat,’ her mother told them. ‘I’ll get us some tea. OK, Gemma?’
Gemma gave a nod.
Lucy settled herself on a tattered and squashy leather footstool opposite Gemma while Mac took an armchair next to the fireplace. Leaning forward a little, resting his hands on his knees, he said, ‘I’m sorry, Gemma, but we’re going to have to ask you some questions.’ He reiterated the fact that Jamie and Bella could have been killed by the same person, which is why they were there, but Gemma didn’t say anything or ask any questions.
‘When did you last see Jamie?’
The girl stuffed her knuckles against her mouth. Tears fell. ‘S-sorry,’ she managed.
‘That’s OK,’ Lucy assured her. ‘Take your time.’
Gemma struggled to regain control. Her mother came in with a tray of mugs and a plate of chocolate Hobnob biscuits which normally Lucy loved, but she’d lost her appetite the second she stepped into this room steeped in sorrow and pain. Mac obviously didn’t feel like eating either – they both stuck to tea.
‘A-at the pub,’ Gemma said. ‘Last Thursday.’
‘What time did you leave the pub?’ Mac asked gently.
‘J-just after nine.’
He nodded. They already knew the answers to these questions but they’d agreed to start with the easy ones. ‘Who else was in the pub with you?’
Mac led Gemma through the evening but they didn’t learn anything new. Jamie had left the pub after Gemma, around ten o’clock, but he never came home. Eventually Lucy shifted forward slightly, glancing at Mac to confirm it was OK for her to ask a question. He gave her a small nod.
‘Was there anything that had bothered him more than usual recently?’ Lucy asked. ‘Especially during the days leading up to his disappearance?’
Gemma frowned, taking her time answering. ‘The only thing was that he started getting headaches. Otherwise, I can’t think of anything.’
Since headaches could be related to stress, Lucy asked, ‘When did his headaches start?’
‘Oh, a few weeks back, but they had got better recently.’
Lucy said, ‘Can you think of anything that might have triggered them? A particular event that might have made him feel stressed?’
Gemma shook her head. ‘No. Sorry.’
Not like Lucy’s headaches, which had started almost the day Baz had fired her. She was obviously less stressed now since they’d virtually vanished over the last few days.
Mac took over, asking whether Gemma had heard of RFC or had any contact with Weald Logistics or the shipping industry, but they had no luck. Finally, Mac stood up. He asked, ‘Would you mind if we had a look around the cottage, checked Jamie’s things?’
Gemma scrunched her tissue between her fingers and shook her head. Mac said to Lucy, ‘I’ll check upstairs if you do down here.’
Lucy left Gemma and her mother in the sitting room and walked into the kitchen. Pale winter sunshine filtered through the windows and lit up more junk mail and various items that hadn’t been put away. The washing up was done, the tea towels hung over the oven door handle. A computer sat on the kitchen table. Lucy grinned. Mac had taken upstairs because he’d guessed that’s where Jamie would have kept his computer but he’d guessed wrong.
She checked the cupboards which were surprisingly neat inside. Lots of cereal packets and cans of baked beans. Rice and pasta. Some miso soup and tofu, yuck.
Quietly, Lucy picked up the phone and dialled 1471. Made a note of the last number called in her notebook. She searched the kitchen drawers, again finding nothing out of place until she came across what she considered the junk drawer, which was a clutter of receipts, shopping lists and old phone messages scribbled on an assortment of pieces of paper. She pocketed all the phone numbers to check later, pausing at a note written on a lined piece of paper, torn from an A5 pad.
Talk to Dr Grace about this?
Dr Grace Reavey, Lucy assumed. The woman who’d asked to be contacted should any information surface about Jamie’s disappearance. Lucy turned the piece of paper over to see a list of names scribbled messily on the other side.
Justin Millebar-Cole
Alan Densley
Mary Perkins
Me
The ‘Me’ she took to mean Jamie but then all thought stopped as she read the fifth name.
Bella Frances
Her mind was still trying to absorb the words as she read the next name.
Tim Atherton
But it was the last name on the list that made her heart stop.
PC Lucy Davies.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Friday 30 November, 9.20 a.m.
Lucy still had the list in her hand when Mac came into the kitchen.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She looked at him, feeling numb with shock.
‘Nothing,’ she said. She stuck her hand with the list behind her back.
He stared at her.
She stood there for barely ten seconds, but it could have been an hour.
Her brain was burning.
What was her name doing on a list containing two people who’d been brutally assaulted? The only link she could think of was between herself and Bella – the Zidazapine. But Lucy wasn’t bipolar. Was she? Was that the link? If it was, how could she stop it coming out, becoming public knowledge? She couldn’t. She would have to leave the police.
Her thoughts whistled past like the wind. Dark blue, blue, flashes of silver, blue, blue, blue. The colours of her uniform.
If she pocketed the list and went off-grid, investigated on her own and the drug wasn’t the link and the killer tracked her down – murdered her . . . not a great result. And if the police found out she’d withheld a potential lead, she could be fired. Not great either.
However, if she shared the list there was every chance they’d find the killer and even though she may lose her job, she’d still be alive.
Her thoughts focused on a pinpoint.
Alive, or dead?
‘Lucy?’ Mac’s eyes went to her hand still behind her back, then returned to her. ‘What is it?’ he repeated.
Alive or dead alive or dead alive or dead?
She pictured her mother at her funeral (black suit borrowed from her friend Jodie whose father had died recently, big fake pearl earrings, black court shoes), her father, freshly flown in from Australia (short-sleeved shirt, weird tan-coloured trousers), her friends (lots of deep black along with a lot of bling) and her work colleagues. She could see Baz shaking his head at her stupidity.
Even though she’d decided to share the information and hopefully find the killer before he found her, it still took an immense amount of willpower to answer Mac. She had to work her mouth before speaking. ‘I found this.’ She brought out the list. Her voice was hoarse. ‘In there.’ She gestured at the junk drawer. Delicately she held up the list, between her forefinger and thumb. It woul
d have to be bagged and checked for fingerprints.
Mac bent forward and read it.
‘You’re kidding,’ he said. His eyes flew to hers. ‘What the hell’s your name doing there?’
‘I have no idea.’
Her first lie.
He brought an evidence bag from his pocket. Carefully, she dropped the piece of paper inside and watched him seal it. His expression was dark as he looked at her. He said, ‘Are you OK?’
No, she thought, but she gave a nod. ‘We should get . . .’ Her throat rasped, forcing her to clear it. She tried again. ‘We should get these names checked against the bodies from India.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He peered at the list through the transparent plastic. ‘Do you know any of these people?’
‘Just Bella and Jamie. And Dr Grace Reavey, whose name is on the other side. And only because of the case.’ She gestured at the baggie. ‘May I?’
He passed it over. She took it next door and showed it to Gemma and her mum. ‘Whose handwriting is this?’
‘Jamie’s,’ Gemma said.
It was the first time she’d seen the list, Gemma added. She didn’t know anyone on it. Yes, she’d heard of Bella Frances because of the TV and radio appeals but she’d never met her and, as far as she knew, neither had Jamie. Gemma assumed – like Lucy and Mac – that the ‘me’ on the list was Jamie. The childlike loops were definitely his writing. The list had been relatively near the top of the junk drawer, meaning it had been written fairly recently.
Lucy returned to the kitchen and handed the bagged list back to Mac. ‘Christ.’ He ran a hand down his face. ‘I don’t suppose there’s another PC Lucy Davies in the UK, is there?’
‘I’ll check.’ But as she brought out her phone Mac held up a hand.
He said, ‘I’ll do it.’
She listened as he spoke to his deputy DS back in Stockton, and asked her to call him as soon as she had the information. After he’d hung up, they stood silently in the kitchen for a moment. Then Mac said, ‘We’re going to have to take this place apart.’
*
It didn’t take long before Mac let the CSI team loose on the cottage. It was going to be a tortuous job bagging and labelling every piece of paper, every list and receipt, but Lucy didn’t hesitate to get stuck in with the team. Common sense told her she couldn’t be the only PC Lucy Davies in the UK since her name was fairly common, but when Mac told her the only other Lucy Davies in the police force was a DI in Northern Ireland, who spelled her name Davis, Lucy still felt a small piece of hope inside her shatter.
‘Sorry,’ Mac said.
Lucy rang Dr Grace Reavey. She wanted to know if the GP had anything to do with the list of names or whether Jamie’s note about her could be dismissed.
‘Hello?’ Dr Reavey sounded hesitant, almost nervous.
‘Hi. It’s PC Davies here. About Jamie Hudson?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The woman exhaled as though relieved. ‘I’m seeing you on Monday.’
‘Things have changed.’ Lucy was curt. ‘I need to see you today.’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.’
‘It can’t wait.’ Aware that phones could be hacked and that most electronic equipment was less than secure, Lucy didn’t want to say any more.
‘I’m not his GP,’ Grace Reavey snapped. ‘How many times do I have to say it to you people? You need to see Dr Smith.’
Lucy’s instincts quivered at the doctor’s switch in mood. Her mother had recently died which meant she was probably under immense stress, but even so. Was there something else going on here? Something to do with Jamie?
‘I’ll do that,’ Lucy said. ‘But I still need to see you.’
She heard the woman murmur something that sounded like God, give me strength, but wearily, as though Lucy’s request was the final straw.
‘I can come to Tring,’ said Lucy, forcing the issue.
‘No.’ The word was bitten out. ‘I’ll see you at the surgery tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock.’
Lucy was opening her mouth to say she would have preferred to see her sooner but Dr Reavey hung up.
*
Towards the end of the day, freezing fog descended. Lucy stood outside watching the team disperse, her breath steaming and forming great clouds in front of her face. Mac came to stand beside her. He said, ‘The coroner has confirmed the IDs of the bodies repatriated from India. He used dental records, so there’s no doubt. All three victims were British. All were reported missing.’
She latched on to the words dental records.
‘They still had their teeth?’
‘Two victims had their top row of teeth pulled out. The other had their bottom teeth removed.’
She wasn’t sure what to think about that right now and filed it for later.
Mac added, ‘All three vanished in the third week of October.’
The same week she’d started at Stockton Police.
She looked into his face, his sombre expression. ‘Oh, God.’ Her knees suddenly felt weak.
His voice was steady as he spoke. ‘They are: Justin Millebar-Cole, Alan Densley and Mary Perkins.’
The first three names on the list.
‘Fuck,’ she said.
She felt oddly shivery and strange. Her mind was filled with purple and red. What the hell was going on?
‘I’m not sure if you can stay on the investigation,’ Mac said.
The colours in her mind were abruptly drowned in tidal waves of sheer white. The shivery sensation abruptly vanished. Her mind cleared. She swung round to face him, her fists balled at her sides.
‘Wait, wait.’ His hands shot into the air as though she’d pointed a gun at him. ‘Don’t overreact, I’m just thinking –’
‘Don’t think,’ she snapped. ‘OK? You need me on this. There’s a reason I’m on the list, we just have to find what it is, and then we’ll find the killer and . . . ’ She halted abruptly. She said, ‘Tim Atherton. He’s the only person on the list we don’t know about. Where is he?’
‘There are over two hundred Tim Athertons in the UK,’ Mac said. ‘We’ve already begun tracing each one. We have to find the right guy before the killer does.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘I’m going to head back to base later tonight.’
‘Can I stay?’ Lucy asked. ‘Just for a day or so. I have some ideas I want to follow up.’
‘Keep the local SIO informed,’ he told her. ‘And try not to go anywhere alone, OK?’
She nodded.
‘Before I go, however . . .’ His voice was grave.
Alarm speared her. ‘What?’
‘I need to question you.’
For a moment her brain stalled, unable to think what he meant, but then she remembered she was on the same list as Bella and four murder victims. She was the only person on the list that wasn’t dead, comatose or unknown.
‘You might be able to give us the link,’ he said.
*
They used one of the interview rooms in the Basingstoke Police Station. Whitewashed walls, no window, a single Formica table and three plastic chairs bolted to the floor. A camera was set high in one corner. With a feeling of disbelief, she watched Mac pull out his notebook and a pen. She shouldn’t be here.
Mac looked at her. ‘You OK?’
‘Sure,’ she lied.
He looked at her.
She swallowed. ‘I’ll be fine once we get started. It’s just a bit . . . weird. That’s all.’
He looked at her a moment longer, then said, ‘There’s a pub opposite. Shall we do this over a drink? They can come and grab us if they need to.’
She’d promised not to mix Mac and alcohol, but since it wasn’t every day she found herself on a list of murder victims, she said, ‘Good idea.’
On their way out, they ducked into the major incident room to tell the SIO where they were going. The place was bustling, everyone running at full tilt with a serial killer having struck in their jurisdiction. The frenetic atmosph
ere lifted Lucy’s spirits and by the time she was settled in one of the corners of the White Hart Inn, a pint of Doom Bar for Mac and half a pint of Thatcher’s cider for her, she thought she was ready. However, when Mac started to take her through her recent and somewhat stormy history, she realised she’d made a mistake.
‘So it was Magellan who fired you,’ he said. ‘For making him look stupid.’
‘Unofficially,’ she confirmed. ‘But it was Baz who did his dirty work.’
‘Anyone else who resents you?’
She sighed. ‘Sergeant Paul Logan.’
‘Why?’ Mac asked.
‘I made him look a little stupid too.’
Mac raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
She said, ‘I was called to a shoplifting incident at a department store. When I walked into the back room where the shoplifter was being held, I came face to face with Paul. He was in civvies, and for a moment I was confused . . . but then I realised he was the shoplifter.’
Silence.
‘I take it you didn’t drop the charges,’ Mac said.
‘I couldn’t.’
Mac waited.
She said, ‘If he’d lashed out at someone, say, lost his temper for a good reason, I might have turned a blind eye. But shoplifting is dishonest. He made a choice to steal.’
Mac took a sip of beer. ‘Anyone else?’
She raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Commander Duckham.’
‘Yes?’
‘One night, we arrested two boys stealing a car. Me and another officer. One of the boys was the son of the Commander. I went to the Commander’s house and woke him up to tell him what had happened. He thought I was telling him I’d let his son off, but I wasn’t. I was telling him his son was in the lock-up and that he’d better get his arse down there.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Mac. ‘Any more?’
She twisted her hands in her lap. ‘I upset Karen Milton.’
‘What happened?’
‘I told her that her baby reminded me of a Shar Pei dog.’
‘Not one of those hideously wrinkly ones?’
‘I thought I was being nice,’ she said glumly. ‘I mean Shar Peis are cute, aren’t they?’