Never Forget

by Lisa Cutts

  Stan sat in an old-fashioned armchair, at an angle so that he could survey the evolving beauty of his garden but also see Samantha and me entering the room.

  ‘Hello, Nina,’ he said. ‘You look well. Have you been sleeping?’

  ‘I’ve not felt this good for a long time,’ I said as I went over to him. I was relieved to see that he didn’t try to get up. ‘How about you? Samantha’s gonna tell me what you can and can’t do, so that you don’t try to get one over on me while she’s gone.’ He was clearly knackered and couldn’t overdo it if he wanted to, but I didn’t want to dent his pride.

  He smiled and took his glasses off now that I was standing next to him. I bent to kiss him on the cheek and squeezed his hand. He squeezed mine in return.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said. ‘I think Samantha’s gone to put the kettle on.’ I hadn’t noticed she’d left us to it.

  The breeze from the garden touched my cheek. I fought an urge to wrap him in the blanket, shut the door and turn the heating up. I was clearly going to have to chill out or get on his nerves with my fussing. ‘Warm enough, Stan?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, thank you. It’s a beautiful day. Tell me about the murders,’ he said.

  My eyes darted to the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Not now, perhaps,’ he added. ‘Later, when you’ve unpacked. Tell me about your new boyfriend instead.’

  My mouth opened, but I failed to find the words for a second or two while his eyes twinkled. Wasn’t much that got past Stan, even after a hospital stay and copious medication.

  We continued to chat long after we’d had tea and Samantha had left us to our lunch. I told him about Bill, of course. Why wouldn’t I? Then we moved on to the business of murder. At this point, I made an excuse to shut the door in case we could be overheard. I was worried he was cold, but I was sure he knew the real reason. Sure he humoured me. Stan’s nearest neighbours, even if they had been standing at the fence with listening devices, would still have been about one hundred feet from where we were talking. The chances of them overhearing were minuscule.

  Over a fantastic crab and prawn salad, eaten on our laps, I told Stan the whole story, from murder one, Amanda Bell, prostitute, to murder two, our discovery of Jason Holland, missing person, through to murder three, Daphne Headingly. I filled him in on the photographs taken by Jake Lloyd and Lloyd’s confession to the murder of his cousin Scott who had also kidnapped two little girls. Stan put his knife and fork down at this point but continued to listen without comment. I outlined the encounters I’d had with Belinda, Birdsall and the ex-wife, Chloe. When I mentioned that I’d seen Birdsall in the nick with the caretaker, he put his knife and fork down once more. Still no comment. I ended with my upcoming trip to Birmingham and threw in that the caretaker’s son had been living in Birmingham as a child in a children’s home. I wanted to see how Stan reacted.

  Once more, I heard Stan place his cutlery on to his plate. This time he had finished eating. I was still only halfway through, I’d been so busy chattering. I watched him slowly chew the last morsel of his meal, pondering his first question or comment. Whatever it was, I would hang on every syllable.

  When he had swallowed the last mouthful, he said, ‘And you think the fact that Alf’s son – a friend of a potential suspect – was in Birmingham in a children’s home is more than just a coincidence? It doesn’t seem like much to go on.’

  ‘I know, I know, but Birmingham keeps coming up, and I wonder if there’s more to it…’

  ‘And you didn’t think to talk to anyone about this?’

  ‘How daft would that be? The trouble I’ve caused, if I told them, they’d put me in an office and send someone else.’

  He laughed, then he closed his eyes, resting his head back against the cream and blue upholstery of the chair-back. I took charge and said, ‘Samantha warned me that I wasn’t to let you sit there. I’ve a schedule for you to follow. Afternoon nap is next on the agenda.’

  ‘And what about you? Young woman like you is bound to have something to do this weekend. Especially with a young man on the scene.’

  ‘“On the scene”? You’re gonna use the term “courting” or “walking out together” in a minute. I haven’t even got a date with Bill arranged. People getting murdered keep holding up the romance. A couple of friends asked me out for a quick beer tonight, that’s all.’

  ‘Wingsy and Laura, I assume,’ he said. ‘I’ve an idea: ask them here. I’d love to meet them.’

  I was a bit surprised, but flattered and pleased to think that my friends would be under one roof. I allowed Stan to get himself up, and followed him upstairs at a distance, but not so far that I wouldn’t be able to spring into action if needed. Before I went about about making the necessary calls and arranging a small gathering at Stan’s in a few hours’ time, while he slept, I stole down to the hallway to read the newspaper I’d seen there earlier. All thoughts of whether I should invite Bill along too, and wondering if Stan would find it too much, were pushed from my mind as I picked up the paper and read the front page. It hollered its headline at me: ‘Crazy Knife Killer Claims Third Victim’. It went on to describe how seventy-seven-year-old Daphne Headingly had been savagely murdered. Reading through the article, I could only agree with what it said about the police: we were indeed ‘baffled’. At the part that described the second suspect’s detainment in a police cell while Daphne was being slaughtered, I could only nod my head in agreement. I was mulling over the crassness of the word ‘slaughtered’ when my eyes flitted to the article on the opposite page.

  This headline wasn’t hollering; it was screaming in both my ears. It read: ‘Arrest of Murder Victim’s Nephew for Stalking Detective’.

  I dropped down on to the bottom step of the staircase. Heart hammering, I read on. The article named me. It actually named me as ‘Detective Constable Nina Foster’ and went on to describe Jake Lloyd’s obsession with me spanning decades. His arrest had been made, it said, while I was at his house conducting an enquiry into his aunt’s murder.

  Clutching the paper to me, I sat on the stairs to regain my composure. His bail hearing following his arrest and charge had been reported from an open court. The press and members of the public were free to come and go; I could have done nothing to stop it. But it was my name for all to see.

  All I’d ever wanted to do was to keep a low profile and merge into the background. I had no idea who would read this. No one at work had warned me but then I should have seen this coming. I was angry with myself for not expecting it.

  I couldn’t let Stan see this – it would upset him. From the uncreased, immaculate fold of the pages I could tell that I was the first to read it. I ran upstairs and hid it in my suitcase. Then I got on with the job I had to do. I had a gathering to organise.

  As the evening passed I felt more and more mellow, shelving all thought of the article. My three friends hit it off. Despite Laura’s abstinence (she was driving), drinks were consumed and food disappeared as soon as it emerged from the kitchen. We all took it in turns knocking up snacks and dishes, some more successful than others.

  My turn came and I opted for a lazy dish of nachos with cheese and dip. As I came out of the kitchen with the tray, the conversation stopped and all three of them stared at me from their seats at the dining room table. I read Laura’s look as embarrassment, Stan’s as annoyance. Wingsy just looked awkward.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said, halting, allowing the melted cheese to solidify.

  ‘Laura was just talking about the bloodstained clothing found in Jake Lloyd’s house,’ said Stan. ‘You didn’t tell me about that.’ Even though he spoke with a calm and even voice, I knew he was angry with me.

  ‘I didn’t tell you because, if it’s the original clothes I and my sister were wearing, then I’m practically saying that someone on your enquiry team lost them or gave them away.’ Truth was, it wasn’t so much about criticising Stan, but I hadn’t wanted to worry him. ‘Come on, you lot, eat these nachos. I’ve excel
led myself with this signature dish.’

  As I put the cheese-topped snacks down, Stan leaned across, placing his hand on top of mine. I steeled myself for whatever he was going to say.

  ‘Nina,’ he said, forcing me to look away from the hardening cheddar to meet his eyes, ‘I destroyed the clothes myself. Process was a lot less sophisticated then, but I burned them. I wouldn’t lie to you.’

  That was good enough for me, and it confirmed what Catherine had told me about the likelihood that the clothes at Lloyd’s house were replicas. I let go of the dish and picked up my wine. Wingsy leaned across to help himself as Laura gave me an empty smile.

  Wingsy didn’t stay too late, as Mel was still giving him some grief. He alluded to her wanting another baby but then shied away from talking about it. Laura left a couple of hours after him. We were both looking forward to going to Birmingham on Monday for a trip neither of us knew much about. I feigned tiredness to get Stan to go to bed.

  I climbed into the cool sheets of the guest bed, feeling sleep reaching out and grabbing me, content to let it pull me towards an easy slumber. As I closed my eyes, my final thought was of the children’s clothes that had been plaguing me. I was relieved to finally put to rest the issue of their authenticity. Stan’s word sealed it for me.

  Chapter 50

  28th and 29th September

  Saturday and Sunday were as relaxing for me as they were for Stan. I made sure the television was turned off so that he didn’t see the local news, telling him it was distracting. Although I made sure that he rested, Samantha had been so diligent in taking care of all our housekeeping needs that, apart from cooking and clearing up, I had little to do. I read a novel for the first time in months, even called my parents. It was a quick call. I didn’t have much to say.

  Sunday afternoon came round soon enough. We ate a roast beef dinner, and I cleared away and then called Samantha as I’d promised. Packed and ready to leave, I prepared myself to part without a show of emotion. During the visit I’d felt useful, as if somehow I was making Stan better just by being there. Once I walked out of the door, I couldn’t help him, and I couldn’t wish the cancer to be gone with the same degree of success. I stood helplessly in the hallway, bag at my feet, thinking about placebos. They worked even when the patient knew they were placebos. Why couldn’t Stan just will the cancer away? My face was wet. I was crying again. ‘Please don’t leave me, Stan,’ I whispered.

  The rustle of a magazine from the garden room warned me of movement. I ran upstairs, shouting, ‘Just remembered, left something in the bathroom.’

  After ten minutes, I re-emerged from the bathroom, all indication of emotion and worry washed away.

  As I came down the stairs, Stan was letting Samantha into the house. After a quick hello to me, she headed towards the kitchen. I stepped over my bags to hug Stan goodbye. ‘Thanks for letting me stay, Stan,’ I said into his chest as we embraced. ‘Exactly what I needed. I’ll call you when I get back from Birmingham.’

  He held me at arm’s length, examined my face and said, ‘I’m worried about you. The photographs from Lloyd were upsetting. You and Laura take care in Birmingham. Do not take any risks. Serial killers don’t usually stop until they’re caught.’

  We hugged. I left. I cried all the way home.

  Chapter 51

  To begin with, I couldn’t get hold of Bill. When he answered, late in the day, he sounded tired.

  ‘How was work?’ I asked.

  ‘Another late one. Not been out of bed long.’ I heard him yawn. ‘We were kept on for a call to a rape. A fifteen-year-old girl was raped in her own bed, feet away from her parents in the next room. The offender had been released from prison three days ago.’

  ‘Was he inside for sexual offences?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. His rehabilitation is in doubt.’

  As I listened to him, I padded my way over to the fridge and took out a chilled bottle of beer, phone tucked against my shoulder. I had a bottle opener fixed to the counter for just such an emergency situation. In one swift move, the top was off. ‘I have to go in to the nick first thing and then me and Laura are going to Birmingham for a couple of days.’ I took a swig of beer.

  ‘Sounds like you’re drinking,’ Bill said. ‘Fancy some company?’

  ‘That would be good,’ I said. I opened the fridge again. ‘I have some sort of pasta thing in the fridge. Fancy dinner?’

  ‘I’ll see you in half an hour,’ said Bill.

  I slung the phone down on the side, putting the bottle down with a bit more care, before running upstairs for a shower. Not to mention some serious flossing and hair removal. I didn’t want to presume anything, but it was better to be prepared.

  Thirty minutes later, I wandered back into the kitchen and busied myself with cutlery and glasses at the kitchen table. As I picked up my beer bottle, I saw that I had a text on my phone. I didn’t recognise the number. The message was one single word: Spain.

  The knock at the front door focused me and I went to answer it. Bill stood at the doorstep, smiling. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said. ‘You look worried.’

  ‘Just had a text message,’ I said. ‘Come in, I’ll tell you all about it.’ And I did. The only part I left out was who had given me the information. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Bill, but we were police officers, supposed to pass everything on. I had a loyalty to Annie and Richard; Bill did not.

  The only question he raised in relation to the source was to ask me if I trusted the person. This was difficult to answer without giving too much away.

  Sitting at the table with a bottle of beer each, a bowl of crisps between us, I said, ‘I have no reason not to trust them and it’s not as though they’ve given me a name. I do have a phone number of someone who knew Daphne Headingly. I’ve passed that on to Eric Nottingham. If I had a suspect’s name, address or anything more solid, I’d have gone to see him by now. Oh, by the way, the pasta thing I promised you has gone out of date.’

  We both regarded the snack bowl on the table with equal indifference. ‘No matter how much I spend at the shops, I only ever seem to have wine and detergent. How about a takeaway?’ I suggested.

  ‘How about the pizza place in town? I did ask you out for a drink, and so far we’ve not made it within half a mile of a pub.’

  ‘I’d like that. I’ll get my bag.’ This cheered me up. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been out for a meal with anyone whose company I really enjoyed. I’d walked out on the loser Russian on our last dinner date. I couldn’t think of any reason why tonight wouldn’t be a total success.

  We walked from my house to the restaurant, chatting amiably on the way. It wasn’t a bad area to live in. I’d chosen my home very carefully; it was important for a police officer. The choice was trust your neighbours or keep yourself to yourself. I managed to keep a low profile and had chosen to live far enough out of town to avoid the problems that towns sometimes brought, though I still lived close enough to a couple of decent local bars and restaurants. All in all, I enjoyed living in my leafy suburb with its 1930s-built semis, mobile library at the local community centre on Saturday mornings and lack of teenagers hanging around. When the mood took me, I even ventured for a stroll into the woods at the back of my house.

  The walk to the restaurant took about twenty minutes, and the time passed very quickly. Bill had always seemed a bit of a shy bloke, but, apart from being easy to talk to, he seemed to be a gentleman. I hoped not too much of a gentleman.

  From the street, I could see that the restaurant only had a few customers. As Bill held the door open for me, the smell from the pizza oven wafted my way. A waiter hurried over to us, menus in hand, and we chose a table in the window and sat down. Running an eye down the food choices, I ruled half of them out because of their garlic content. Well, never assume but remain optimistic.

  Bill said, ‘Order a bottle of wine if you like. I’m driving and only having one glass.’

  That sentence spoke volumes: either he ha
d no intention of staying the night, or he wanted me to think he had no intention of staying the night; if he did stay, he intended to be sober; and, just as important as everything else, he was certain I could polish off the rest of the bottle and had no problem with it.

  The wine and pizzas were perfect, as was the company. The evening had already been drawing in by the time we’d got to the restaurant, but the atmosphere inside was relaxed, lights bright enough to see the food but soft enough to make us both very mellow. A double decker bus pulled up on the opposite side of the street, illuminating the pavement outside. Alf flitted through my mind. For a second I thought I had seen him again, walking past, but then I realised that it was someone else I knew. My mind had inexplicably linked them. It was Joe Bring.

  He didn’t see me. I probably wouldn’t have seen him if the glare from the bus hadn’t lit up the street just at that moment. He was walking past, talking on a mobile phone. Actually, it was more like shouting. I could pick out the swearing without any difficulty, plus the words ‘not enough. It’s out of order’, then he was gone.

  Bill’s attention was drawn in the same direction as mine and I just about heard him say, ‘Joe Bring. What a superstar.’ I looked back at Bill as he continued, ‘He was one of my first arrests. Sad story really. His dad used to inject him with heroin when he was a kid. Never stood a chance.’

  Going out with police officers could kill any romantic moment.

  ‘How come you ended up in CID?’ he asked, reaching for his glass of water.

  ‘Wasn’t ever really cut out for uniform,’ I answered. ‘Got fed up with chasing loose horses down dual carriageways and back into fields at three in the morning, going to nightclub fights in the early hours, that kind of thing. All seemed like a lot of grief and it wasn’t really what I wanted.’