by Tania Carver
Rose had said nothing, just looked at Anni as if waiting for her to finish talking. She barely blinked.
‘It wasn’t my decision. He’s the boss.’ Anni sighed. ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, I’ve just had a big bust-up with him.’
A light came on in Rose’s eyes.
Anni sensed a breakthrough. She smiled. ‘He’s not the easiest of people to get on with. I know.’ Phil was probably the best boss Anni had ever had if she was honest but if it would bring Rose Martin onside she would say what the woman wanted to hear.
Rose seemed to snap out of it then. She shook her head, gave a small smile. ‘We had a bit of a . . . difference of opinion yesterday.’
‘First day?’ Anni laughed. ‘Good going. I waited at least a week.’
Rose’s turn to laugh then. Anni joined her. More out of relief than anything else. She hadn’t known her long, but already she found the DS hard to get along with.
‘So, I’m sorry, yeah? Apology accepted?’
Rose nodded, the hint of a smile playing at her lips.
‘So what happened last night? Anything I should know about?’
Rose shrugged. ‘He’s a bit of an odd one. Typical student, I thought. Dull and nerdy. Not much to him. I doubt he’s a serious contender.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing he’s got a girlfriend who he says can give him an alibi for when Suzanne Perry reckons the intruder was in her flat, and another thing . . .’ She tailed off.
‘Yes?’
Rose smiled. ‘He’s just not that into her.’
Anni laughed.
‘Really. Had to be prompted to see if she was OK or not. Sounds like he’d moved on. No great loss, she can do better than him.’
‘Let’s hope she gets the chance.’
Rose reddened. ‘Sorry. I meant . . .’
‘I know.’
‘We can talk to him again, if you think we should, but to be honest . . .’ She shrugged.
‘Not a priority.’
‘I doubt it.’
So, armed with that and the hope she had made a new ally, she had gone off to the Speech Therapy Department at Colchester General.
There were other officers and uniforms taking statements from other members of staff but Anni, being of senior rank, was interviewing Hazel Mills.
She was a small woman. Compact, Anni would have said. In her late forties with short, greying hair and wearing a striped, mannish blouse, linen trousers and little make-up, she was clear-eyed and sharp-featured. But not today. Those eyes were wide and threatening tears, her featured blurred and unfocused.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anni. She hated this part of the job. Seeing the carefully constructed worlds of ordinary people collapse. It always made her think of the Shakespeare she had studied at school. Macbeth. The death of Banquo, the spectre at the feast. The reminder that no matter how much people try and forget, go about their ordinary lives, follow their dreams, indulge their passions and make their wishes, it all, ultimately, stands for nothing. Because it can be taken away so easily, so arbitrarily. And where a work colleague or friend or lover should be there’s now just a void. An ache. And with it another reminder: That’ll be me one day. One day there’ll be a world without me in it.
If that hadn’t yet happened to Hazel Mills, if she hadn’t quite reached that stage, thought Anni, she soon would.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anni once more.
Hazel Mills nodded, barely hearing her. She reached for a box of tissues on the corner of her desk, pulled one out. Then another. Rubbed her eyes with them. Kept them there a long time.
Anni waited for her to look up, then continued. ‘It happened quite quickly,’ she said. ‘To Zoe. She wouldn’t have suffered.’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘Does . . . have you told her, her boyfriend yet?’
‘Someone’s there now.’
‘And, and . . . Suzanne?’
‘We don’t know. Yet.’ Anni leaned forward. ‘Obviously we’re doing all we can to find her.’
Hazel Mills nodded once more. Anni wasn’t sure she had heard her. She looked at her, trying to make eye contact.
‘But we need help. D’you mind if I ask you some questions, please . . .’ Anni checked the woman’s fingers for wedding rings, ‘. . . Ms Mills?’
‘Go ahead.’ She blew her nose, blinked the tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, sat stiff and erect, her body tensed as if ready to ward off blows.
Anni looked down at her notes. ‘Did you know Suzanne had a stalker?’
Hazel Mills leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. Anni got the impression she was a very serious person although she clearly wasn’t seeing her at her best. ‘I . . . yes.’
‘She told you?’
‘Word . . . got out. There was talk so I asked her outright. And she was honest with me. Told me it was something that had happened when she was at university. All over and done with. All in the past.’ She sighed and Anni thought she was about to start crying again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We’re a small unit here. We all have to work together. Get on. That’s one of the things I look for in staff when I employ them. I like to create a . . . nurturing environment. The two girls fitted in very well with that.’ Her bottom lip trembled. She bit it. ‘I take a personal interest in my staff ’s welfare.’ She sniffed, dabbed her nose. ‘I’m sorry.’
Anni nodded, said nothing. There was nothing she could say.
‘So this stalker problem Suzanne mentioned,’ said Anni, keeping the questions going, keeping Hazel Mills’ mind occupied, ‘it was all over and done with by the time she came to work here.’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘She hadn’t been here that long really. Just before Christmas. She wasn’t long out of university.’
‘I know. And she had no trouble here?’
Hazel Mills shook her head.
‘Did she mention the name Anthony Howe?’
Hazel Mills frowned. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell . . .’ She sighed again, dabbed away at her tears. ‘This is awful. Especially after what happened to that occupational therapist. Like we’re cursed, here . . .’
Anni’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Occupational therapist?’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘Julie.’
‘Julie Miller?’
Hazel Mills’ eyes widened. ‘You know her? You know what’s happened to her?’
‘Let’s talk some more.’
39
Rose Martin stood outside the house on Greenstead Road once more. Knocked. Waited.
She hadn’t been paying attention the previous evening. She knew that and wasn’t proud of the fact. If she had she would have listened to her gut instinct. She had during the night. Virtually all night. Playing back one aspect or another of the previous day. Some more times than others. Some things kept her awake longer than others. Like Mark Turner. The more she had thought about him, the more she thought there was something off about his manner. She couldn’t define it, couldn’t explain it. But it was there. And she should have noticed it.
But she wasn’t going to dwell on that. She was going to put it all behind her - along with most of the previous day - and work on it now.
Another knock. Another wait. At least there was no level crossing siren this time.
She heard Phil’s voice in her head. Julie Miller was your case and she still is . . . go through her background again.
Right. Again.
. . . anything that sticks out, anything that can be flagged up . . . She knew what he meant. It was just an exercise to see if she’d made a mistake, another slip-up. Find something else he could pick up on, beat her with. Like she was going to give him the chance.
Another knock, harder this time, more impatient.
Nothing.
And no mavericking.
Right. Ben would vouch for her. He was a DCI. His word mattered.
She waited. Nothing.
Then turned, walked away.
The level crossing sire
n just starting to ring out.
‘Tell me about Julie Miller, Ms Mills.’
‘She . . . worked as part of the department.’
‘Here? On your team?’
‘No. On this wing, though. We have a structure here in therapy management. Different branches under one heading. The OTs and the SALTs come under the same Therapy umbrella. As well as Nutrition and Dietetics, Neuro and Health Psychology—’
‘Sorry? SALTs? OTs?’
Hazel Mills gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Occupational therapists. Speech and language therapists. Every job has its jargon.’
Anni returned the smile. ‘Don’t I know it. So, would Suzanne and Zoe have worked with Julie Miller?’
‘They might have done. We’re a multi-disciplinary team. We use standardised assessments for our referrals. SALTs can overlap with OTs, psychologists, any AHP.’
Anni raised her eyebrow.
‘Allied health professionals.’
‘Jargon.’ She made another note. ‘What kind of work did Suzanne and Zoe do here, Ms Mills?’
‘In what way?’
‘Therapy-wise. What kind of people did they work with?’
‘Anyone who needed it,’ Hazel Mills said. ‘Some therapists specialise but Suzanne and Zoe hadn’t been here long enough to do that. They were still starting out.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘Starting out.’
‘Give me a for instance.’ Anni, keeping her on track.
‘Well, children, adults—’
‘What kind of adults?’
‘All stripes. Whoever was referred to us. Stroke victims. Cancer patients needing reconstructive surgery and learning how to communicate again. Paralysis cases. And with the garrison being nearby, a fair few soldiers suffering PTSD.’
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder?’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘But, as I say, that would all overlap. ’
‘Could you get me a list of patients that Suzanne and Zoe saw, please?’
Hazel Mills’ face darkened. She glanced quickly round the room as if being watched. ‘I don’t know . . .’
Anni nodded, kept her voice calm and reasonable. Hazel Mills didn’t strike her as the kind of person to respond to threats. And Anni wasn’t going to make them. At least not yet.
‘I know,’ Anni said, ‘patient confidentiality. Data protection, all that. This is a murder inquiry, Ms Mills. And Suzanne’s missing.’
She said nothing.
‘There was a body found yesterday,’ said Anni. ‘Just outside Julie Miller’s flat.’
Hazel Mills’ hand went to her throat. ‘Is it . . .’
‘We don’t know. But it answers her description. And now Suzanne’s missing . . .’
Hazel Mills nodded. She looked even paler. ‘I’ll go and get the files.’
She stood up, composed herself and left the room.
Anni waited.
Impatiently.
40
‘And you can see the lightship, just down there . . .’
Phil pointed through the window of Julie Miller’s flat. Fiona Welch followed his directions, looked down. She was thoughtful for a few seconds then nodded to herself, a slight smile troubling her lips, as if this confirmed something she had been thinking. She started making notes on her BlackBerry.
She was already irritating Phil. He couldn’t make her out. On first impression she seemed small and timid, almost afraid to speak up for herself, content to keep her opinions safely hidden behind her glasses. But when she had spoken he felt that, behind her passive/aggressive manner, was a steely resolve. An arrogance even, in the belief that her theories were correct, no matter how unsubstantiated. And that everyone else would eventually come round to see things her way.
The lightship was still cordoned off with CSIs combing the area once again for clues. They would be there, Phil knew from experience, for days.
‘So what d’you think?’ he said, turning into the room and leaning back against the window, studying Fiona, not the murder scene. ‘Any ideas you want to share?’
If she noticed the low-level sarcasm in his voice she didn’t acknowledge it. ‘It’s obviously sexual.’ Nodding as she said it, confirming in her own mind. ‘A sexually motivated killing.’
‘Obviously.’
‘The placing of the body with her legs apart on the deck, the tower of the lightship between them . . . he’s sending us a clear, unambiguous message that he is a sexual predator.’
‘Not to mention the mutilated genitals and the fact that he’d carved the word “whore” into her body.’
Again, she made no acknowledgement of his tone of voice. She nodded. ‘Quite.’
‘If this is Julie Miller, which is increasingly likely, would you say it’s significant that he placed her body on the lightship in view of her flat?’
Fiona seemed about to rush into saying something but stopped herself. She glanced at Phil before continuing. ‘I think so.’ She smiled. ‘You could also argue that the tower of the lightship is pointing towards Julie Miller’s flat. Like it’s accusing her in some way . . .’
‘Of what?’
Another shy smile. ‘I don’t know. We’ll see, won’t we?’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps we won’t . . .’
Phil felt anger rising inside him. He shouldn’t have to work with someone like her, some eager little upstart trying to make a name for herself, not on a case as important as this. He wanted a profiler whose opinions he could respect, whose reasoning was sound and conclusions were reached by clear and tested empirical thinking. He wanted—
Marina.
He sighed.
‘Are you OK?’
Fiona Welch was right in front of him, her hand hovering in front of his face, as if about to touch him but unsure what the reaction would be. She stared into his eyes, concerned.
‘I’m . . . I’m fine,’ he said and caught her eyes. Yes, there was concern there. But was there something more? Or was he imagining it?
He stepped away from her, aware that her eyes were still following him.
‘You sure?’ Her voice sounded lower, huskier.
‘Yeah.’ He turned, looked out of the window once more. ‘I’m sure.’
She was still looking at him, he could feel it.
‘You look tired.’ She moved next to him. He could feel the warmth from her skin, her bare arm against his jacket. She snaked out a hand. It rested on his. ‘Are you?’
‘Let’s look at the rest of the flat,’ he said, moving away from the window and crossing into the centre of the room. He knew she was still watching him, risked a glance at her.
Fiona Welch’s head was down. She quickly looked up, saw he was looking at her, then cast her eyes downwards once more.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice small once more. ‘I was just . . . we didn’t get off on the right foot. I was . . . trying to help.’
Phil looked at her standing against the window, seemingly unaware of the light streaming round her, how it turned her thin summer dress translucent, obscuring her features but heightening her shape; the swell of her hips, her small breasts, the pinch of her waist . . .
She sighed and moved forward towards him, her walk fluid, flowing. She reached him. He looked at her. She looked at her watch.
‘I’d better have a look around,’ she said, dropping her wrist, her eyes back on him. ‘See if there’s anything that stands out. Anything that’ll help with my report.’ She moved away from him. ‘This is her bedroom, through here, yes?’
‘Yeah, through there . . .’
She walked away. He watched her go. Wondered what had just happened there. Had she been concerned for him? Trying to build bridges? Or had she started to come on to him? And if she had, would he have responded? She had stirred something within him, even though what he’d seen of her so far he hadn’t taken to. Was it opposites attracting? Or something more? Or, if he was imagining things, less.
Phil sighed, looked at his own watch. Closed his eyes, forced himself to concentr
ate. The clock was ticking. He could hear it, feel it inside him. There were only two things standing between Suzanne Perry and the same fate that had befallen Julie Miller. Him. And his investigation.
But he could feel the investigation slipping away from him. In giving him Rose Martin and Fiona Welch and forcing him to work with them, Fenwick’s interference in the investigation bordered on sabotage. But Phil was used to his superior officer. Normally he would have been able to work with that, found ways round it. But this time was different.
His head wasn’t in the right place. Marina and Josephina were his world. And they were no longer there. Usually he compartmentalised, kept his work and personal lives separate. But not this time. One was bleeding into the other, making his head pound, his thoughts mix and swirl. He could barely think what to do next.
Fiona Welch emerged from the bedroom.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you lot have been thorough in there. There’s virtually nothing of Julie Miller left.’
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘No matter. My report will just have to reflect that. Shall we?’ She walked towards the door.
Phil followed her out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Thinking not of Suzanne Perry, but of Marina once more.
41
Marina knew she shouldn’t have come here. She didn’t know where she should have gone, but it wasn’t here.
Another beautiful day in another park. She had pushed Josephina’s baby buggy down to the play area where she now sat on one of the wooden benches, her hand resting on the handle. She knew the infant was too small to get out and join in - plus she was sleeping - but if she had gone to any other part of the park she would have felt guilty.
Something else to beat herself up over.
She closed her eyes, could still hear the sounds of children playing enthusiastically. Swings, slides, roundabouts. Children never tired of them. Backwards and forwards, in and out, up and down. Dizzy and out of breath, seconds to pause, then back in again. Shouting and laughing. The moment, everything.
Life in miniature. Or life how it should be.