by Jane Adams
Part Two first published as “Final Frame” in 1999
Revised edition 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
Part One first published as “Fade to Grey” in 1998
Part Two first published as “Final Frame” in 1999
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Jane Adams to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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©Jane Adams
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
DEDICATION
For Kerry. Blessings.
PART ONE
1998
Right now: I do not want to be told truth.
I want lies. Sweetly spoken:
Courteously deformed,
Deferring to my need for compliment.
Right now, I need . . .
No. Not even words.
I want the lies the body tells,
The caress of flesh
Warm arms curved tight
And a soft touch — though not so soft,
My soul
Cannot feel it burn.
Right now:
I do not want the demon lover:
Or the secret longings
Which call my name from the deepest shadows,
I want only . . . lies
Sweet and sensual lies . . .
Easing me into peace.
Or make them truths
If you so desire
But tell me nothing,
That . . .
I do not need . . .
To hear.
Prologue
She took a good photograph, anyone would say so. She had that look about her, that little bit of self-doubt, or not quite innocence, that men found so appealing. Some men.
She’d always resisted Jake’s attempts to make her look even younger than she was. The schoolgirl look or the baby doll just wasn’t her style, she said. Though it was amazing what you could do with the right software package these days.
In the end he’d turned her out pretty much any way he wanted and she hadn’t said a word about it.
He turned the pages of the latest magazine. Computer porn might be the newest thing, but personally he preferred the finished article to be one he could roll up and carry in his pocket.
Which he did now, tucking the magazine into the inside pocket of his coat.
It would be a collector’s item before long, this edition. In certain circles anyway. Those that were in the know . . .
Not because it was anything harder than you could pick up from the top shelf of any news-stand. Nothing more than soft porn in this edition. The other stuff, the stuff he could have been arrested for if he’d been caught prancing round town with it, that was elsewhere. Already distributed on the multimedia wave.
No, it wasn’t the content that made this little package rare, but the scarcity of the commodity.
There would be no more centrefolds of this little lady. Not unless, of course, you liked your meat well done . . .
Chapter One
Thursday, 15 December
Norwich 6.05 p.m.
Stacey hesitated before squeezing through the gap next to the park gates. It was dark in there but it was also the quickest way of getting home. Besides, turning around and walking back the way she’d come would mean running into Richard again and she just knew he’d be standing around, waiting for her to come back to him. Well, sod that! Stacey wasn’t going to apologize for anything. Let him stew for a while.
Once inside the park she stopped and groped in her bag for the little penlight torch she had attached to her key-ring. The thin beam of light showed her only a few yards of the muddy path before it was swallowed by the thick darkness. She slid her finger through the ring, posting the key in between her fingers the way that guy in the self-defence class had told them to. Nervous now, her mind niggling about those reports in the papers.
Maybe after all she should go back and find Richard. Not apologize exactly, just open the discussion enough for him to give her a ride home.
She glanced back over her shoulder one more time, startled by what sounded like a footstep.
‘Richard? Is that you?’ No reply. ‘Richard. Oh for Christ’s sake, if that’s you . . .’
She shone the torch back through the wrought-iron gates but could see nothing, no one at all walking along the lonely street.
Stacey moved swiftly down what she could see of the slimy, leaf-covered path. The silence seemed to close in all around her, only the heels of her boots clacking with a reassuringly steady beat as she walked and the jingle of loose change in her pocket breaking the quiet.
Stacey shivered. It had begun to rain and the air was damp and clammy against her skin. Thinking she would be driven home, she had worn her denim jacket and left her umbrella on the table in the hall. She quickened her pace now as the rain fell more heavily.
And then it happened, footsteps, the sound of someone running making her look back. Richard’s name half spoken before one hand was clamped around her mouth and a second hand grabbing at her breasts, the man’s body pressed tight against her back. Then he shifted sideways and she was on the floor even before she realized that she was falling. The hand gone from her mouth now, Stacey screamed in fear, then in pain as the fist came crashing down at the side of her head.
Only half-conscious, she still tried to wriggle away from him. Felt the sudden chill of air on her legs and stomach as he wrenched her skirt up above her waist. Hard fingers bruising as they grabbed between her legs.
Stacey tried to scream again, but he was on top of her, his body heavy on her chest and his breath hot in her face. He was saying something but Stacey was too stunned to understand the words.
The torch, the keys, somehow she had managed to keep hold of them, the ring still tight around her finger.
She brought her right hand up, striking into the man’s face. Her left hand reaching and grabbing at his hair, winding her fingers tight and pulling as hard as she could. Adrenalin and fear had overcome the pain of her bruised and bleeding head and half-closed eye.
The man was yelling now, loosening his grip on her just for an instant. Stacey hit out at him again, fighting for her life as he came back at her, his hands tightening on her throat.
Norwich 7 p.m.
Mike sat uneasily between Maria and her sister Josie, watching as three wise men, bearing gold-wrapped boxes, slow-marched across the stage. Enthusiastic music, played on a slightly off-key piano, helped to keep them in time, left feet, right feet, lifted in unison like an odd, dissociated caterpillar making its way towards the manger.
He tried desperately not to fidget. The hard plastic of the chair was digging into his back and there was no room to stretch out his long legs. A tall man who liked space to move around, Mike felt over-large and over conspicuous wedged in between proud parents and grandparents. His body cramped and his mind overwhelmed by remembrance of another time when his son Stevie had been one of the three kings. Wearing his father’s old plaid dressing-gown and holding his gift high as he presented it to the little girl cuddling the baby doll.
‘Doesn’t she look lovely?’
It was Maria, smiling happily at her niece
. Little Essie was grinning so much she almost forgot her words. Her thick black hair, braided tightly and threaded with blue and yellow beads, swung around her face as she strutted forward with her arms outstretched to take the presents from the kings. Mike didn’t have to look sideways to know that Josie dabbed at tears watching her little girl up on the stage.
He tried hard to smile, knowing he should feel grateful to be included in such a family time, but it brought back so many morbid thoughts; since Stevie had died, he’d always found it hard to cope with this pre-Christmas rush of emotion.
The angels were just about to break into a new song when the beeping started, breaking into the giggling hush of children too small to be really quiet. Mike grabbed at his pocket to silence it, aware of Maria’s glare as he peeked a look at the number on the LCD screen. He unfolded himself awkwardly from the little plastic chair, trying hard not to catch her eye as he headed for the door, apologizing as he went and horribly conscious of every inch of his six-foot-two frame.
Maria caught up with him at the outer door.
‘I thought I told you to leave that bloody thing behind.’
‘Well, no, actually it was the phone you told me to leave behind . . .’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘It’s work,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it always?’
‘Um, I need the car keys, the phone . . .’
She sighed in exasperation and dug into her pocket for the keys. ‘You’d better take the car,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a lift back with Josie.’
‘Thanks.’ He paused, wondering if he should risk a kiss goodbye. He reached out and caught her hand instead.
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘You’re always really sorry.’ Maria shook her head. ‘God! Never get yourself involved with a policeman.’
He watched her as she stalked away, shoulders set, irritation flowing from every pore. This was the third time in as many already scarce evenings off that he’d been called away. He could understand her getting mad at him. Mike was relieved when she glanced back from the door, not quite smiling, but her expression softening enough to let him know he was off the hook . . . almost.
Then he got into the car, rummaged in the glove compartment for the phone and called the office. ‘DI Mike Croft.’ He listened in silence as they told him about the latest attack.
‘They’ve taken her to the Royal and District, Mike. Price is interviewing the boyfriend.’
‘Is she badly hurt?’
‘Bruising, shock. They’ll be keeping her overnight though. You’ll want to speak to the boyfriend?’
Mike signed off and turned the ignition key, listening to the low purr of the engine for a moment or two before pulling away. His mind already cataloguing the new information, he turned the car towards the hospital.
Chapter Two
West Kennet, Wiltshire 7 p.m.
The light drizzle had begun when the old man left the house, walking the dogs out of Avebury village and across on the straight route to the Devizes road. It was already dark, and the mist and rain cut visibility even further. To his left the ridge of West Kennet long barrow rose from the downs, and the cone of Silbury Hill loomed out of the mist in front of him. He could barely make out either familiar landmark through the dark and rain that fell more determinedly minute by minute. And it was turning uncomfortably cold. He decided that he and the dogs were getting too old to be traipsing about in this kind of weather. That he should cut the evening walk short and head for home.
As he turned, a red glow caught his eye. He peered through the grey murk trying to make sense of it and as he did the redness grew larger flowering more brightly against the backdrop of grey.
‘What the . . .’ He took a few steps across the road and started along the path that led up the ridge towards the barrow. The blaze had full hold now and as he drew closer he realized that what he was seeing was a car, flames and thick black smoke billowing out of a part-open window.
‘Bloody joy-riders.’ He watched enough television to know the latest trends in crime.
But he was curious about the car and, thinking about it, more than a little confused. Surely if joy-riders had set the vehicle alight he should have seen them running away. Seen something, even through the filthy rain doing its best to penetrate his topcoat. It would have made most sense for them to have run back towards the road, towards him and the dogs and away from the fire. Go the other way and they’d have to scramble over fences into the fields beyond.
Leaning heavily on his stick, not certain whether he should beat a hasty retreat — who could tell what kind of young hooligan stole cars and then set fire to them? — or go further up the track and see if he could make out which way the miscreants had run, the old man took a few hesitant steps forward. He circled wide of the burning car, knowing that the petrol tank could blow at any time.
‘Oh my sweet Lord,’ he whispered, ‘Oh my Lord,’ as the black plumes of smoke parted just for an instant and he could see through the open window a slumped figure in the driver’s seat of the blazing car.
Chapter Three
Hoton, Norwich 8.15 p.m.
John Tynan sipped his tea and stared absently at the television set. He often wondered why he watched television police dramas. They were usually so far removed from anything he’d ever been involved with while he was on the force, and their ignorance of procedure often made him cringe. Still, he enjoyed them all the same.
This was better than most, he thought. Good characters, so he could forgive the inaccuracy. And he was pretty certain he knew who’d done it.
Tynan leaned forward to get himself more tea, watching the screen as he eased the blue and yellow knitted cosy from the brown pot, following the two major characters as they poked around in the aftermath of a house fire.
‘Damn and blast!’ The insistent ringing of the doorbell broke across his concentration. ‘Who the hell . . . at this time of night?’
Reluctantly, John Tynan made his way across the overcrowded little room and out into the hall, wrenching the front door open with an impatient tug.
‘Hello, John.’
‘Maria!’ He stared in surprise at the tall black woman standing on his doorstep. ‘Come in, come in.’
Maria turned to wave her hand towards a waiting car, then stepped into Tynan’s hallway. ‘Oh, but it’s cold out there. Josie just dropped me off,’ she said, explaining the car. ‘I had to let Mike take my car, only realized after he’d gone that his flat key was on the ring and it’s too far to get back to Oaklands tonight.’ She turned to kiss John swiftly on the cheek. ‘Hope you don’t mind?’
‘Mind? No. Welcome as spring, my dear. But hurry in, I’m watching that police thing on TV and he’s just about to get it all wrong again.’
Maria laughed and followed John through to the living-room, unbuttoning her coat and unknotting the green silk scarf she wore at her throat.
‘Are you cold? Pull the chair close to the fire, that’s it.’ John took her coat and laid it on the ottoman that stood near the window, then resumed his place on the two-seater sofa. ‘I’ll make you some tea in a minute.’
‘No hurry, John.’ She nodded towards the television. ‘Know who did it yet?’
‘I’ll put money on the husband.’ He smiled across at her. ‘Mike get called in again?’
‘That’s right. It’s getting to be normal. I don’t know, but my guess is it’s another assault.’
John nodded in agreement, glancing back at the television to keep up with the plot. ‘They seem to be getting nowhere about as fast as this lot do,’ he said.
Maria stretched, then got up again. ‘Mind if I use your phone?’ she asked. ‘I’d better leave him a message. Tell him where I am or he’ll think I’m really mad with him.’
‘Well, help yourself, my dear. I’ll see about getting some more tea.’
9 p.m.
Mike had spent only a short time at the hospital. Stacey had been able to tell him very little. Concussion and shock, her doctor had s
aid. It would be better to try again in the morning. Mike had agreed. Stacey’s mother had arrived by the time he’d left; the parents had been out at a party and it had taken a bit of time to find them. They’d been horrified, devastated that this had happened to their child. At first furious with Stacey’s boyfriend, for letting her storm off alone, then, in the same breath, grateful that he’d decided to follow and had saved their daughter.
The front office was empty but for the desk sergeant who buzzed him through. Mike mooched towards his own office, wondering what Maria was doing and if she’d recovered her good mood yet. Used to being on call herself, she was tolerant of the strange hours he often kept but just lately the interruptions had seemed constant.
Sergeant Price was already there, seated behind Mike’s desk and sorting through some papers. He looked up with a quick smile as Mike came in.
‘Oh, hello there, guv. It’s not typed up yet, but I thought you’d want a look first thing. By the way, Maria phoned. Said she’s at John Tynan’s. Apparently you took her keys.’
‘Blast it.’ Mike felt in his pocket. ‘One more thing wrong tonight.’
He plonked himself down in the chair opposite, eyeing the paperwork Price had been shuffling. ‘What’s that?’
‘Statement of one Richard Mattheson. Boyfriend of Stacey Holmes, the girl who was attacked.’
‘Oh. I’ve just come from the hospital. Big waste of time that was. Too shocked and too well sedated to get anywhere tonight.’
‘I’ve sent the boyfriend back to the hospital.’
‘Oh, so he’s already gone?’ Mike was a little put out. ‘I came in intending to talk to him.’
‘Sorry, guv, but he’d already made a full statement and he wanted to get back to his girl. We dragged him over here while forensics did their bit, but it didn’t seem right to hang on to him longer than we had to.’