by Gayle Curtis
Detective Inspector Rita Cannan knelt next to her.
‘Look at me, Kristen.’
That’s what the other detective had said when she’d found her on the green, Kristen remembered.
She looked at Rita – her friend since childhood, but now, in this terrible new world, a detective inspector. ‘Where’s Raymond?’ Kristen asked her.
‘The forensics team are outside now . . .’
‘I need to be with him.’ Kristen wiped the vomit from her mouth with the sleeve of her dressing gown. She was aware of the alcohol on her breath, both sweet and bitter, and was surprised at how much she’d drunk the night before.
‘Kristen, we need you to come with us. The quicker we do this the better.’
‘I know the drill; you don’t need to explain it to me.’ Kristen had been a criminal lawyer for several years and was well aware it wasn’t just evidence she might be carrying. Having been found at the centre of a crime scene, she would be a suspect.
Kristen pushed herself off the floor. Rita reached out to steady her and then quickly retreated; they were preserving evidence.
‘Do you want me to call your parents?’
Kristen shook her head. ‘Let’s just get this over with. Then I’ll go to my mum and dad’s – unless, of course, you keep me in.’ She swallowed down the stomach acid that had come up to greet her as she’d made herself vertical.
‘Listen.’ Rita pulled Kristen towards her. ‘It’s best you don’t mention we’re friends. I’ll be able to tell you more about what’s going on, that way.’
‘Okay,’ Kristen said, hearing the message but not taking it in.
Any resolve Kristen had possessed while she’d been indoors was lost when she stepped outside into the fresh air and saw the police tape and all the familiar faces standing on the other side of the green. People who were supposed to be her friends were now staring at her like she was a stranger.
‘There’s blood on her pyjamas,’ Kristen heard someone say as she reached the police car. She looked down at the dark stain. Her heart began to thud harder, making her feel sick again.
‘He had a nosebleed,’ Kristen whispered to no one in particular.
Just as the door to the police car was opened for her, she glanced across at the green again and among the sparse trees saw the white crime-scene tent, reminding her of the tent she’d erected with Raymond in the back garden just the day before. A couple of years ago he’d begged her to let him camp with his best friend until he’d worn her down, though she found it such a chore and never got a good night’s sleep, forcing herself to stay awake and watch over them. The first time she’d allowed camping in the garden, Kristen had called Cara’s parents – that had been when Howard was alive – and discussed it with them. The garden was completely enclosed, surrounded by a six-foot wall and the gate at the side, which she always kept locked but which she could see was wide open now. Rachel and Howard had agreed, and Kristen had made herself comfortable on the large sofa in the sitting room off the kitchen. And that became the routine. She would wake, having been unable to resist sleep, at some point in the early hours. The tent would be empty – its former occupants found fast asleep in the beds upstairs. Only this time, Kristen had woken around 4 a.m. and, finding the tent empty, had simply assumed they were both upstairs. Closing and locking the patio doors, she had gone to the toilet before collapsing on to the sofa, too queasy to take herself up to bed, she had fallen back asleep for a couple of hours.
Now, momentarily frozen to the spot in front of the police car’s open door, Kristen began to shiver uncontrollably – a terrible, sharp pain spreading through her stomach and making its way to her chest.
‘Where’s Cara? We need to find Cara.’
Rita stopped walking around the car. ‘Cara?’
‘Cara Fearon. She was camping here last night with Raymond, but I don’t know if she took herself home.’
‘Would she normally do that?’
‘No . . .’ Kristen saw the change in Rita’s face. A second child was missing, possibly murdered. ‘Her mum’s number is in my phone, under Rachel Fearon.’
‘I’ll send some officers round there.’ Rita went back into the house, leaving Kristen by the car with a uniformed officer. She was shivering with cold, even though it was warm outside.
‘I have to be with Raymond.’ The words seemed so small when they left Kristen’s mouth.
‘You need to get into the car.’ The officer tried to guide her in, his voice monotone and unsympathetic.
‘No!’ Kristen found herself shouting. She hit the officer in the face and shoved him to the ground, and before anyone could grab her, she was running across the narrow road to the green, lashing out at anyone who got in her way, desperate to be with Raymond, needing to hold her son one last time, the only person she lived for.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The phone, a notepad and a pen lay on the left-hand corner of the white kitchen table. Rachel moved the pen from the side of the notepad to the top, straightening everything for the hundredth time. 9 a.m. That’s when she’d make the call to Kristen asking where Cara was and then she’d phone the police. It was about the right time to report a child missing on a bank holiday Monday, or so she surmised. She had to give it enough time to be aware her daughter was missing, otherwise she’d have too much to explain.
She went over the story in her mind. Cara had gone to a sleepover with her friend, and it wasn’t unusual for her to leave early in the morning and walk home by herself because it was only a five-minute walk away.
She was rambling in her head, then she remembered what Jason had said about not talking too much.
Stepping outside into the already-warm air, Rachel went to light a cigarette but then dropped it on to the rickety old garden table and went back indoors. Suddenly wondering if yesterday’s clothes might look odd, she ran upstairs and changed into a pair of thin pyjama bottoms and a white T-shirt. She threw the dirty clothes in the bathroom and peered at her reflection in the mirror as she tied her dark hair up on top of her head. She noticed the black circles around her eyes, which seemed to have turned into two pieces of hard stone over the last few months. She looked rough, just as she should.
In the bedroom, she pulled back the duvet and squashed the pillows, so it looked like she’d slept on the sheets she’d only changed the day before and hadn’t yet slept in. In Cara’s room, she straightened the bedclothes and tidied her room. Somehow it was this activity that allowed the enormity of what they were doing to hit her properly, and she was suddenly nervous.
Downstairs, Rachel poured coffee from the pot and went outside to light her cigarette. She wandered across the grass and down to the rockery at the bottom of the garden, crouching low to look at the large stone Cara had painted in memory of their dog, Pepsi. It was decorated with his name in blue capitals, with a paw print and a red heart underneath. Rachel stood up, took a large gulp of her hot coffee, then with her bare foot she pressed the stone hard into the soft soil. Inhaling deeply through her nose and looking skywards, she closed her eyes before checking her watch and going indoors to find her phone to see if Jason had called or messaged her. She was anxious to know how it had all gone and if Cara was okay. Movement through the lounge window caught her eye and she looked up to see a police car parked outside and two plain-clothed officers making their way up her driveway.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE LESTER BARCLAY SHOW
FIVE YEARS LATER
The bright lights above the dressing-room mirrors gave an impression of certainty, of safety, that Rita hadn’t felt earlier, on her arrival at the television studios, when she’d visited the toilet and felt like throwing up.
She glanced at her watch; she could back out of this interview, but the alternative didn’t sit well with her. Nothing would change, and she would still be an insomniac. She would still rely on prescription drugs to get through the day while she scoured the tabloids to read the latest rubbish the media were printing. A
fter five years, the entire case was back in the spotlight on the grounds of new evidence. Fresh sets of eyes were learning it all for the first time, and now she wanted her say. Adrian Player was still in prison for child sex offences, but he’d been granted an appeal, mainly based on the fact that Rita had concealed information during the investigation of Raymond Hammond’s death and Cara Fearon’s disappearance. It had been a huge case with massive media coverage, as the nation got involved in the search to find Cara – the missing girl from the green – which was dubbed Operation Ladybird. Rita had been so convinced Adrian was involved in Raymond’s murder and the girl’s disappearance. She’d been completely obsessed with finding evidence to prove his guilt – so much so, she had lost all sense of her duty as a high-ranking police officer.
It had all started with the discovery of videotapes belonging to Adrian. Some of the footage was purported to show Rita as a young girl, though when she’d been questioned about it she’d denied it, knowing if she admitted she’d had any involvement with Adrian Player, she’d be removed from the case. Six months ago, a cold-case team had revisited Operation Ladybird, and some of the truth about Rita had been revealed.
‘Good to go?’
Rita looked in the mirror to see Lester Barclay standing in the doorway, a fistful of papers in his hand, causing her stomach to flip over.
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll walk with you when they’re done painting you,’ Lester said, smiling.
Rita waited for the make-up artist to finish. By the time she pushed the chair away and stood up, she felt like her whole body was buzzing from the inside out.
The studio wasn’t as hot as Rita had expected, but she could feel a red rash of nerves beginning to creep across her chest. Sitting in a chair opposite Lester, she suddenly felt like she’d taken a leap from a tall building. There was no turning back.
‘Before we start,’ Lester said, ‘I think we should explain to everyone that you were the Senior Investigating Officer on a high-profile investigation, which was referred to as Operation Ladybird.’
Rita cleared her throat, adrenalin spreading through her veins. ‘That was the official police term, yes.’
‘Right. First I’d like you to introduce yourself, in case some people don’t know who you are.’
She frowned at him. ‘I’m Rita Cannan.’ Surely everyone knew who she was – the newspapers had been flooded with scandal about her since Player’s appeal.
‘Right. And you were a detective inspector at the time of the murders and were appointed Senior Investigating Officer. You’ve recently been disciplined for perverting the course of justice, and you retired on ill-health grounds two months ago.’
‘That’s correct. Although, you should know that being disciplined has nothing to do with my retirement.’
There was a pause before Lester continued. He was watching Rita intently, seemingly waiting for her to speak. ‘Are you okay?’ he said. ‘Need a minute?’
‘No.’ Rita took a deep breath and picked up the glass of water on the table next to her.
‘The question everyone wants the answer to is: why did you lie?’
Rita had known he would go in for the kill – that was what he was known for – but it was still unexpected.
‘I think “lie” is a bit strong . . .’ Rita stopped herself, guarding her words, trying not to let her nerves rule her mouth.
‘What would you call it then? Adrian Player, the prime suspect, was known to you for some years outside of your work, and there was video evidence to prove it, but you didn’t admit any of that until there was an inquiry into your professional conduct. This information has led to Adrian Player being granted an appeal, which could lead to a retrial.’ Lester tilted his head to the side, the way she’d seen him do when he was interviewing controversial people on his other shows.
‘I withheld information,’ she said. ‘There’s a difference between that and an outright lie.’
‘But do you agree that the retention of that information could have been extremely detrimental to the case? That it could quite possibly be, in light of Adrian Player being granted an appeal?’
‘I made a small mistake, yes, but the only one in twenty-two years of exemplary police service. And no, Adrian Player is guilty, the right man is in prison. When Raymond Hammond was murdered, we were running an investigation on Adrian Player, and we had evidence that he was involved in several major paedophile rings and was also supplying club members with drugs for the sex parties he organised. We were right about all of that and he was convicted. Raymond Hammond, along with Cara Fearon, had been training at his private gym – not one of his many gyms across the country but situated in the grounds of his home, meaning he had direct contact with them. That immediately made him a suspect. The CCRC might have granted him an appeal, but I would suggest that’s more to do with his status and that of other high-profile people he might threaten to implicate.’
‘Clearly you’re not concerned he might sue you if his case is quashed?’
Rita gave an ironic laugh. ‘We’ll see.’
Lester’s expression didn’t change. ‘Can you understand how that might sound? How you come across to the public, to the victims’ families?’
Rita shifted in her seat. ‘In what way?’
‘Blunt. Unemotional.’
‘Look, Lester, you invited me on the show to explain what happened. I’m not going to sit here and lie.’ Rita could feel heat rising up her neck, sweat beading beneath her blouse.
Lester looked down at his notes. ‘Why don’t we start from the beginning? What happened that night, bank holiday weekend, on Blue Green Square?’
‘The only person who knows that, Lester, is the killer.’
‘Okay, just run through with us what you faced that morning when you arrived at the scene. Who put the call in? Explain to everyone why Kristen Hammond, who was found with her son’s body, hadn’t contacted the emergency services?’
Rita took a sip of the water from the glass she was still holding, giving herself time to contemplate all the questions Lester was firing at her.
‘I had just started an early shift when the call came in from Jan Bakker, landlord of the Drum and Monkey, one of two pubs surrounding Blue Green Square. He’d got up early, around 6.30 a.m., to clear up the glasses from the benches out the front. He became aware of some noise and looked up to see Kristen Hammond sitting on the grass holding her son Raymond. She had agreed for him and Cara to camp in the back garden. At some point during the night, it appears the children left the garden without Kristen’s knowledge and went out on to the green. Forensics found no sign of a struggle within the tent or in the garden, and the gate had been unlocked from the inside, so we could only assume it was voluntary. When we first arrived, we didn’t know that Cara Fearon was missing.’
‘So, you’ve got Kristen Hammond, first on the scene . . .’
‘Can I stop you there, Lester? That’s not factually correct. Amos Browne had been at the scene before Kristen Hammond.’
‘Amos Browne was arrested a few days later, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s correct. A witness came forward to say they’d seen him on or near the green very early that morning, but the witness didn’t want to be named. DNA from Amos was found at the scene. At the time, we were justified in our actions.’
‘And Amos Browne didn’t have the luxury of anonymity.’
‘Do I wish it were different? Yes, but I don’t control the law, Lester, that’s just the way it is.’
‘It led to the disgraceful condemnation of an innocent man though, didn’t it? Amos Browne was vilified by the press during questioning and after he was released, and this led to various assaults and threats on his life. Why wasn’t there some sort of police protection, as there had been for others who were wrongly persecuted in the past?’
‘Yes, ultimately it did have that result. I can’t control people’s choices, the same as how I don’t have the power to change the law.’ Rita sighed.
‘As I’m sure most people are aware, there is a shortage of police officers, and Amos Browne was adamant he wished to be left alone.’
Lester stared at Rita; there was movement from the crew in the background.
Rita knew she sounded cold, callous, but she wasn’t going to pretend to show emotion when, in her mind, it wasn’t necessary. She was there to deliver the facts about these crimes, and to impress the truth about Adrian Player upon anyone who would listen. How she felt about any of it was immaterial.
‘I think you’ve skirted the question about the damage done to Amos Browne,’ Lester said.
‘Ask the press. They inflicted it,’ Rita said, shrugging dismissively.
‘Do you think it’s comments like that which have led to some of the abuse you’ve received?’
Rita took another sip from her glass and shifted in her seat again. ‘You want me to lie? Of course I’m sorry about what happened, but ask yourself this: what would have happened if Amos Browne had been guilty? The police would most likely be criticised for that too. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. At the time, the public wanted his blood, they hated him. He was a recluse, his appearance was a little strange, and based on that, the majority of the population decided he deserved to be locked up. There was absolutely no evidence of any wrongdoing apart from his DNA being at the scene, and yet that made him guilty. No one wanted to know who he was, who he had been or the real reason for his DNA being present on Blue Green Square. If you want to point the finger, ask the public what the bloody hell they were doing, buying into the rubbish they were reading in the papers.’
There was silence for a few moments as Lester studied Rita’s face and she held her nerve, waiting for his next punch.
Lester nodded.