‘Have you got the picture?’ Nell had two printouts of the still from the CCTV, the best they could get of the woman who had entered Connor’s flat, but she didn’t hold out much hope they would jog anyone’s memory.
Paul waved his copy at her. ‘I’ll take the right, you take the left.’
Outside the air was thick with heat; a shimmer covered the road, suggesting pools of water that weren’t there.
‘If this heat doesn’t end soon I’m going to die.’ Paul’s face was already glistening, and Nell held her hair up, glad of the smallest brush of air on the nape of her neck. Cars passed slowly, windows open, radio DJs unwittingly competing to give their week’s song a shout-out.
Paul crossed the road, leaving Nell to approach a peeling red wooden door, with its broken buzzer and sealed-up letter box. She knocked and waited before knocking again. When she heard footsteps she took out the CCTV picture and her warrant card and held them up.
A woman in a headscarf peered through the crack in the door, metal chain in place. ‘Yes?’
Nell shoved her warrant card through the gap. ‘DS Jackson, Thames Valley Police. Can I ask you a few questions?’
‘Yes?’
The woman didn’t move. Nell smiled.
‘Can you open the door for me?’
The woman hesitated, then shut the door and Nell heard the scraping of metal on metal.
‘You’re here about the dead man?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes. We’d like help identifying this woman.’ Nell held up the picture. ‘Do you recall seeing her in the days leading up to his death?’
The woman examined the picture, then said, ‘I can’t see her.’
‘I know it’s a poor image, but if you could think back to see if you remember a woman with long brown hair, it would be really helpful.’
The woman slowly shook her head. ‘No. I mean, I haven’t seen her.’
Nell looked at the carpeted staircase ingrained with the dirt of years. ‘Is there anyone else who lives here?’
The woman instinctively pulled the door towards her a little. ‘Why?’
‘Because maybe they saw this person?’ Nell could see her trying to judge whether it was a trap.
‘My husband and child. But he’s at work and my son is too young,’ the woman replied.
Nell nodded and pulled out a card. ‘Can you ask your husband to get in touch if he remembers anything?’
The woman looked unsure but took the card.
‘Will you do that?’ Nell asked.
The woman read it, glanced up at Nell, then back down. ‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. Have a good day.’
The woman had shut the door before Nell had finished speaking.
Nell saw Paul was further along the road, so she was playing catch-up. Four more doors with no answer and she was matching him.
‘Any joy?’ she called over, knowing he would have said if there was.
‘Not yet,’ he called back.
‘OK, let’s keep going to the end, then we’ll try the backstreets.’
Nell knocked on two more doors, feeling the case slipping away from her as each time she was met with silence. Two doors left and she checked on Paul, deep in conversation with a male occupant. She felt relief that at least someone was home and was about to knock on the last-but-one door when she heard her name being called.
‘DS Jackson?’
Nell turned to see the woman she’d spoken to earlier hurrying towards her, the gold flecks in her ankle-length dress catching in the sun.
‘DS Jackson, I think I remember something.’ The woman came to a breathless halt on the pavement beside Nell.
‘I forgot before – I remember the woman with the brown hair.’
Nell suspected she hadn’t. Rather she’d gone back into her flat and her husband had agreed she could remember the woman.
‘I only saw her once, across from our flat,’ the woman continued. ‘She was standing under a street light so that’s how I noticed her.’
‘And when was this?’ Nell took out her notepad and started to write.
‘The night before the man died. I remembered it when I saw the police the next day but didn’t think it could be important.’
‘But important enough for you to notice her?’ Nell got it, people didn’t like to speak to the police unless they had to, but it sure as hell didn’t help them do their job.
‘And what was she doing?’ Nell asked, when the woman didn’t reply.
‘She was standing for a while but then she went to that phone box.’ The woman pointed to a phone box opposite the flat. ‘She was looking around under the phone and then she made a call. Two maybe. I thought it was odd because no one ever uses the phone box, especially not so late at night, and also she was there for a while but I couldn’t see her speaking to anyone.’
That would fit with the fourteen-minute time lag between calls. ‘Can you describe her for me?’
‘I’m not sure. It was dark.’ The woman shrugged apologetically. ‘She was maybe, tall?’
‘How about her age, any sense of that?’
‘I would think about fifty, maybe older.’
It wasn’t much but it was something. Nell took down the woman’s name, thanked her, then called Paul over.
‘I’ve got confirmation the woman from the CCTV made the calls. Check the number so we can confirm that it’s the same as the one on the phone bill.’
‘Will do.’ Paul’s armpits were ringed with sweat as he jogged across the road to note the number. Nell watched him pull the pen lid off with his teeth before she turned to look up at the flat. Something was niggling her and it took a moment for her to identify what it was. Everything was so clean. So far the flat hadn’t revealed one bit of DNA, which, considering the amount of men traipsing in and out of it, was a surprise in itself, and now they knew the killer had used a phone box?
This was someone who knew police procedure. Someone who knew what traces could be made and what a call from a mobile phone could reveal. But then, thanks to the plethora of crime novels and TV dramas revealing every secret the police had, everyone was now an armchair expert in police procedure. So did this mean anything?
Paul ran back across the road, slightly out of breath. ‘Got it. It’s the same. Want me to ring it in to Carla?’
‘No, we’re done here. We can take it back with us.’
‘What’s up? I thought you’d be happy to finally have a lead.’
‘Doesn’t strike you as odd there’s so little forensics to go on? I bet you that phone box is as clean as a whistle too, yet we know she placed the £500 there for Gloria to find, so you’d think there’d be a trace.’
‘Maybe, but you can’t wipe out a phone call.’
‘Yes, but what does that tell us? We know she made the call because we have a witness who matches her to the CCTV printout. But that’s all we’ve got. We can’t do the usual checks on the call data because it’s a phone box, so it’s just random people making random calls.’
‘Possibly, but Carla can work wonders with phones. I wouldn’t give up hope yet.’
He was right, but she wasn’t sure even Carla was that good. ‘OK, let’s get back. We’re late for the meeting as it is.’ And with one last look at the phone box, she got in the car and jacked up the air conditioning.
Forty
Then
Aoife is on the ground, her body still. The cut from her head has started to bleed onto the floor. I scream and Alf slaps me, his face ashen.
‘Shut up.’
We stand there, staring at her, and my legs are shaking so much I think I’m going to fall down. Alf moves to the door and for a minute I think he’s going to leave me there alone with her and I panic. But then he turns the lock in the door and pulls down the blind, and I look back to Aoife.
I can’t see if she’s breathing. I try to go towards her but my body won’t move. ‘Aoife,’ I call.
‘I said, shut up. Let me think.’
I
wait.
‘Fuck.’ He’s rubbing the back of his head, hard, staring down at Aoife.
‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ I dare to say, then freeze as he glares at me.
‘No.’
No? Anger starts to push away at the edges of my panic. No? ‘We can’t just leave her – she needs help.’ I start to walk towards her, slowly, judging Alf’s reaction with each step.
I’m standing above her and looking down at her red hair, pale face. Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly open, and I notice her hand is cradling her stomach, fingers frozen in an attempt to protect her child.
I bend down and smooth her hair aside. ‘Aoife?’ I whisper. ‘Aoife, it’s all right, I’m going to help you.’
I lean in, aware of Alf’s stare on my back. Her face is so white I’m afraid to touch it. ‘Aoife,’ I whisper in her ear. ‘Aoife, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I love you – please wake up.’
I can’t see her chest move so I reach out to feel a pulse, pressing hard into her neck, desperate to feel her heartbeat against my fingers.
There is nothing. I pull my hand back and sit on my heels. The muscles in my body have gone to jelly and the room starts to spin.
‘You’ve killed her.’ I look at Alf. ‘You’ve killed Aoife.’ Why isn’t he doing something? Why isn’t he helping us?
He’s shaken and this makes me want to hit him – he did this, he took my only friend, it is all his fault. But something inside me whispers, ‘It’s yours.’
I feel the hysteria rise in me. ‘You’ve killed her!’ I repeat, before feeling the back of his hand on my neck, sending me crashing to the floor beside Aoife.
‘Shut up! Let me think.’
I stay lying down, staring at Aoife’s shut eyes. I remember her eyes shining, blue sparks of light dancing as she laughed. The idea of not seeing those again crushes my chest and forces a cry out into the room. I hear it as if it comes from someone else and I wish more than anything it came from Aoife. How can I live without her? What will I do?
I reach out and stroke her hair, pushing it away from the blood congealing on her scalp. ‘I love you,’ I say, and as I do, she flinches.
I hold my breath but there it is again. The slightest of movements to tell me she’s alive. ‘Aoife,’ I whisper, frantic now. ‘We have to get out of here. I’m going to get you out, OK?’
I look at Alf, who is pacing by the window, then look to the door. Can I get her there? I look back at Aoife, but there is no way I can get her to the door and even if I could, Alf would easily stop me.
Alf is walking towards us. He crouches down beside me and reaches to Aoife’s neck. I push his hand away.
‘Don’t touch her,’ I yell, ‘don’t you bloody touch her.’ He mustn’t feel her pulse, can’t know she’s alive or he’ll finish the job, I’m certain of it.
He pulls back and gives me a look of something I think is pity.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
I’m breathing heavily, thoughts running like scattered ants, trying to think how I can save her. But then Aoife makes a gurgling noise as if blood is rattling in her throat. I catch Alf’s eye. He heard it too.
I reach to put my arms around her but he pushes me away. I scramble up and grab at his back, trying to pull him off her but he yanks me away and I fly halfway across the floor.
‘Please,’ I shout, my shoulder throbbing from the fall. I grab it and wince in pain. ‘If you let us go I promise we’ll go away from here and you’ll never see us again. Please don’t kill her.’
‘Help me lift her,’ he barks, pulling at Aoife’s jumper so her stomach, in all its milky whiteness, is revealed. The baby. I could still save the baby.
I don’t move.
‘Help me,’ he barks and I crawl quickly towards them.
‘We’re taking her to the beach.’ He starts to pull her out of the room, blood smearing the floor as he does so. He gets to the door and reaches to unlock it, and while he does I run to the kitchen and grab the knife from the counter.
Tucking it in the waistband of my skirt, I run to the door. ‘Why are we going to the beach?’
‘To bury her.’
I stand stock-still. He can’t mean that. ‘But she’s alive!’ I go to pull Alf’s arm away from Aoife, but he shakes me off.
‘She won’t be by the time we get there.’
‘But the baby?’ As soon as I say it I wish I hadn’t because it reminds him it’s there.
Alf is holding Aoife’s legs mid-air. ‘We need to get rid of it.’
I look at her swollen stomach. For eight months that baby has grown and grown. We have spent months hiding its shape as Aoife grew its fingers and toes, scared the care-home staff would find out, more terrified Alf would. And we did it, we kept it safe for this long, and so even though I have no idea how I’m going to do it, or even if I can, I’m going to save that baby and I’ll kill Alf if he tries to stop me.
Forty-one
Finding nothing more of interest in O’Brian’s phone bill, Carla was relieved to see an email from the Telephone Unit arrive in her inbox: I got you a bit more historical data, hope it helps.
Attached was call data from all the phones, but from the weeks leading up to Connor’s death rather than the one week she had analysed already. Ordering them again by phone number, she methodically checked for every number she knew: Gloria, Kelly-Anne, Connor, Eve, Joanne and her husband, Ian. Then she checked to see if any number had called this group. Half an hour later she had determined one hadn’t.
Frustrated, she took a more general look at the calls, noting all calls and texts between Gloria and Connor, then those between him and Kelly-Anne. She pictured the messages – where r u? and come home – but call data didn’t give her words, just slowly built a picture in which every piece of the jigsaw remained blurred and uncertain. She double-checked the phone-box number against Gloria’s and Kelly-Anne’s call data, but found nothing.
Switching to Joanne’s call data, she was about to do the same when a number caught her eye. The last four digits were familiar, but after checking them against all the others she drew a blank.
Her heart started to thump. It couldn’t be? Carla pulled out her phone and scrolled down her list of contacts. And there it was. The number on Joanne’s call data was right there in her own phone.
She dropped the phone and gripped the edges of her chair, trying to ride out the wave of nausea crashing over her.
Gerry.
Carla only just made it to the toilet before she threw up. Gripping the toilet bowl, she waited until her stomach had nothing more to give, then rocked back on her heels and wiped her mouth with her hand. Why had Gerry called Joanne in the days leading up to Connor’s death? Hell, why was he calling her at all? Was he warning her off, telling her not to contact Eve? But surely he knew how dangerous that would be to any future case they might have against Joanne?
She stood, steadying herself against the cubicle wall, before going to the sink to wash her face. Her thoughts were a mess: should she ask Gerry about the call, confront him and ask for an explanation? But that would reveal they were looking at phone data, which would mean he’d know they were checking on Eve, and Bremer would kill her if she did that. But she could trust Gerry, couldn’t she?
The thud in her chest told her otherwise but she railed against it; surely she owed Gerry enough to tell him? A second thought pushed out the first. Maybe she could delete the call from the spreadsheet – who would ever know?
‘Jesus, Carla.’ She looked in the mirror. ‘You do that, you might as well quit the job.’ She felt ashamed. Start tampering with evidence, you lose any right to be in the job, she knew that.
She walked out of the toilet straight into Nell.
‘Hey!’ Nell looked annoyed, but then stared at Carla. ‘You OK?’
Should she tell her? ‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Not pregnant, are you?!’ Nell laughed. Carla felt vomit rise again. Nell put a hand on her arm. ‘I was kidding, you k
now?’
‘I know.’ She tried to paint on a smile. ‘Find anything at the scene?’
They started walking back to the office as Nell explained they’d got a confirmed sighting at the phone box.
‘Well, that’s brilliant!’
‘It’s a start.’
‘That’s what I love about you, Nell,’ Carla said as they reached the office for their briefing. ‘Your endless positivity.’
Bremer looked at Carla. ‘Go.’
Carla recounted the facts about the telephone number, the phone box and how it linked to Joanne and Connor, before giving a summary of the backgrounds of both Joanne and Eve. She then explained about the murder on Portsmouth beach around the time Eve had lived there.
‘And you’ve got nothing more on it than that?’
She wanted to reply, ‘Give me a chance,’ but instead said, ‘No. I need to get hold of the social worker and the senior investigating officer on the case first. See what they can tell us. There’s nothing more about the case on the Internet and police files weren’t computerised back then, so I can’t even request the case file from Hampshire Police. It’ll have to be someone who worked on it.’
Bremer looked at the clock. ‘We’re pushing it for time. Carla, see if you can get hold of social services. Nell, you contact Hampshire and get the SIO’s details. But on the understanding we’re probably going to have to leave it until tomorrow until we get them in.’
Nell wheeled her chair over to her desk and picked up the phone at the same time Carla picked up hers.
‘Social services, how may I help you?’
‘Hello, this is Carla Brown from Thames Valley Police and I’d like to speak to someone about a Portsmouth care home.’
‘Is that a complaint or an enquiry?’
‘Enquiry.’
‘Hold the line, please.’
Carla listened to the elevator music with increasing irritation. There was no way they were going to give her information over the phone; the most she could hope for was a snippet of information to take her forward, but how likely was that going to be?
When I Lost You Page 17