by Gayle Curtis
Kristen had to be forced through the hallway, her mother ushering her along. The interior of the 1940s build hadn’t changed since she was a child, and as nostalgia mixed with memories of collecting Raymond after he’d spent the day there hit her in the face, she bent over and retched.
‘Oh God, I’ll go and get your father.’ Her mother pushed past her and, moments later, Kristen could hear her shouting for him in the garden.
Kristen sat down on the stairs and stared at the wall, seeing Raymond again. She knew she shouldn’t have picked him up off the ground, shouldn’t have moved him, but it was her first instinct, to check if there was anything she could do for him, if there was a chance he was still alive. That’s when she remembered the cable tie around his neck.
‘Love?’ Her father’s huge, soil-stained hand appeared on the newel post of the banister, but Kristen couldn’t bear to look him in the eye.
‘Raymond’s dead,’ she gasped, wanting to catch the words and stuff them back into her throat, make it not true. There was a brief silence.
‘Oh no, Kristen, no!’ Her mother stood behind her father, hand clamped over her mouth.
‘What?’ her father whispered.
‘Raymond’s dead.’ Kristen pushed herself up from the stairs, unable to sit there any longer, needing to move around, rather than play out this part she hadn’t auditioned for. She walked into the kitchen, dumped her bag on the worktop and began searching around for her cigarettes. Her father appeared, followed closely by her mother.
‘What happened?’ Her father was perplexed.
‘I don’t know what happened to him. I found him early this morning. I had to give a statement, and my clothes were taken for forensic testing.’ Kristen stepped out of the open kitchen door and lit a cigarette.
‘Clothes?’ Her mother dragged a metal-legged chair belonging to a small table across the tiled floor, making an awful screech. Kristen closed her eyes at the sound and tilted her head skywards.
‘I need to stay here for a while. The police will be at the house for a few days.’
‘Of course, love, whatever you need.’ Her father took his glasses off, something he did when he was upset or confused. ‘The police think it was murder?’
‘They don’t think, Dad. They know it was murder.’ Kristen stopped short of telling them he had a cable tie around his neck.
‘No, Kristen, no,’ her mother said again, then she put her head in her hands and began to cry. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, Mum. I don’t know what happened,’ Kristen whispered.
‘You should have called us, love,’ her father said in an automatic kind of way.
‘I can’t believe it,’ her mother sobbed. ‘Why have the police arrested you? Are you in some kind of trouble?’
Kristen frowned for a moment before it dawned on her what her mother was thinking.
‘They didn’t arrest me, Mother. I had to answer some questions because Cara was camping in the garden with Raymond. I found him out on the green.’ Kristen threw her cigarette on the ground but stayed where she was.
‘I wasn’t suggesting . . .’ Her mother looked at her father.
‘You think I’m capable of murdering my own son? You know how much I love that little boy, he’s my entire life. I stopped drinking and partying when I found out I was pregnant with him, and I’ve barely drunk since, although fuck knows I could do with a stiffener now. How dare you, how bloody dare you! I woke up this morning and found my boy dead out the front of my house . . . You have no idea.’ Kristen spat the words at her mother.
Her father stepped outside and grabbed hold of Kristen, trying to steady her as she cried out in pain. She pulled herself free, not wanting comfort. Condolences made it real, and she was determined that at some point she was going to find out this had all been a nightmare and Raymond would still be alive.
‘Please, Dad, I know you mean well but I just need to be left alone right now.’
The doorbell rang, and her father silently went to answer it. Moments later he was followed into the kitchen by two police officers, who introduced themselves as family liaison officers. Kristen knew one of them, Liz Rickman, a detective sergeant she’d come across many times in connection with prisoners she was representing at the police station, but she couldn’t place the other, a grave-looking young man who looked like an undertaker. He was introduced but she immediately forgot his name and didn’t particularly care to remember. As a criminal lawyer, her relationship with the police force wasn’t great.
This was real now – unbearably so. This situation existed and there was no way any of it was going to change.
‘We’ll be looking after you during the investigation,’ said Liz. ‘Just let us know if you have any questions.’
All four of them stared at her.
‘If I’m not here, you can call me on this number.’ Liz pushed a business card across the table. ‘Can you come inside for a minute, please, Kristen? Perhaps we can go somewhere we can all sit down?’
‘Well . . .’ Her mother started to say something, but her father interrupted her and led the police officers into the sitting room. Somehow, Kristen followed them in.
‘From the door-to-door enquiries,’ Liz began, ‘two people have claimed they saw a white van speeding off around 3.30 a.m. Unfortunately, they can’t remember the registration number, but our officers will visit them again, see if anything comes to mind.’ She glanced at her pocketbook. ‘A Mrs Mackenzie? Do you know her?’
‘Why are you telling me this shit?’ Kristen didn’t want to hear about pathetic sightings that wouldn’t lead anywhere. She liked Rita’s mother, but she was a notorious gossip. ‘There are thousands of white vans in this country. How are they going to find that without a number plate? Tell me.’
‘What’s that on your neck?’ Her mother had briefly stopped crying and was staring at the dried smudges where Kristen had held Raymond so tightly to her that his bloody nose had stained her skin.
‘I’ll tell you later.’ Kristen turned her attention back to the police officers.
‘We can check who was at the pub that night,’ Liz went on. ‘Someone may have been driving a white van. It’s worth a try. As you know, we need to do all we can to find Cara Fearon.’
‘What’s this about Cara?’ Her mother wiped her nose with the ragged tissue she’d been fiddling with.
‘Have you explained everything to your parents?’ Liz addressed Kristen, but it was a few moments before she replied.
‘No, I haven’t.’ Kristen got up. She needed some air.
A few moments later, Liz joined her in the garden.
‘Please don’t tell me you know it must be difficult,’ Kristen said, ‘or if I need anything you’re here for me, or how sorry you are.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’ Liz shoved her hands in her pockets.
‘I bet you never thought you’d be in this situation with me, did you?’
‘Obviously not. Look, Kristen, I know our professions clash – solicitors don’t like police officers, we have history – but let’s forget about that now. It’s not important.’
Kristen thought about the times she’d sat in the police interview rooms with clients – people who were possibly guilty – and how various officers had treated her with disdain. She couldn’t blame them really; some of her clients gave her the creeps.
‘Do you think Cara is still alive?’
‘We don’t know. At the moment, we have to explore everything.’
‘Do you think they’re connected? Maybe she got away and is just holed up somewhere?’
Liz nodded. ‘We’ve got some search dogs at your property now. They’re looking for a body.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Adrian had yet to return from the golf club, where he’d had a belated birthday lunch with some of his friends. Gloria was glad of it; the alcohol and bonhomie would put him in a better mood. Since the dramatics in the restaurant on Sunday, he’d been in a foul temper.
Toni
ght they were having a birthday dinner party with some close friends in the grounds of their vast home. Twelve guests would be arriving in less than an hour, but after the events at the restaurant, Gloria knew she wouldn’t be able to lift her spirits enough to enjoy any of it. She poured herself a large gin and tonic, swigging it back, just as she heard Adrian putting his key in the front door.
She’d tried to talk to him when they got home about what Emma had said, but he’d convinced her it was just Emma causing a scene, humiliating him in front of everyone. When she was sure he was fast asleep, she’d crept into his dressing room and found the clothes he’d been wearing that night slung over a chair. She’d pressed them to her face, breathing in the scent they carried. She could detect Emma’s unusual perfume, but only faintly, not enough for Gloria to think he was guilty of anything. She’d placed the clothes back where they were but something, a niggle, caused her to return and check the pockets of his suit jacket. Every nerve in her body was telling her not to do it. If they didn’t have trust, they had nothing left, and she’d promised herself a long time ago that she would not be that paranoid person.
There had been something at the bottom of the inside pocket; she’d pulled it out and found herself looking at an empty condom wrapper that she knew hadn’t been there before they’d gone to the restaurant because she had been the one who’d collected the suit from the dry-cleaners that afternoon.
Gloria had lain awake the rest of the night but decided not to say anything to him. It was his birthday and he’d just accuse her of ruining things like she always did, but she knew, had always known deep down, what was going on.
That evening there was a change in Gloria during the dinner – a significant alteration, as though she had been pushed to the forefront of her life, giving her a clearer view of it, but there was no explanation for her sudden mood. She just knew there was something wrong and she was struggling to concentrate on the conversations around the table. She wasn’t surprised when the police announced themselves on the intercom during the main course.
At first Gloria thought they’d come about the incident Adrian had relayed to everyone not half an hour before. Some road rage thing his driver had with a woman in the car park. It was Gloria’s fault, he said; she’d called and asked them to stop at the small Marks and Spencer Food Hall on the way home to pick up some olives the caterers had forgotten. Gloria couldn’t see what the problem was. They lived a few miles away from any amenities and he was already out, but it had caused a brief spat when he’d walked in earlier. Then she remembered the report she’d seen on the local news and wondered if the police wanted to question them about the murdered boy who’d been found on Blue Green Square. According to the news report – although unconfirmed – there was a second child missing. Both of them were members of one of Adrian’s many gymnastic clubs.
‘If this is a complaint about a road rage incident, you’re wasting your time, my husband won’t see you,’ Gloria boldly declared when she answered the door to two plain-clothed and several uniformed officers.
‘Excuse me?’ One of the detectives frowned, showing Gloria her warrant card. ‘Is Mr Adrian Player here?’
‘Sir Adrian Player. Yes. What of it?’ Gloria snapped, cross their evening had been interrupted, followed by panic about what their friends would think.
‘We need to speak to him. Are you his wife?’
Adrian came through to see what was going on before Gloria could answer.
‘Mr Player?’
‘Sir Adrian Player, actually,’ he said. Gloria watched him grin, even though there was a seriousness to the correction.
‘Can we come in, sir?’ one of the detectives said, giving him a false smile.
‘Oh, come on, it was just a little altercation!’ Adrian held his hands up. He’d had a lot to drink. ‘Okay, officers, I admit I might have called her a tight old bitch, but she was abusive to my driver. Listen, give me her details and I’ll have a fruit basket sent to her.’
The detective frowned. ‘Can we go somewhere private, Mr Player?’
‘There’s really no need. Guilty as charged, take me away.’ Adrian held his hands out jokingly. ‘Look, officers, just give me a slap on the wrist, a fine, whatever, and let us get on with our evening.’
‘There’s been an allegation made against you.’
‘Me?’ Adrian directed his thumb at his chest and began to laugh.
‘Emma Langley. I believe she’s your stepdaughter, Mr Player?’
Gloria was surprised to hear Emma’s name.
Adrian had stopped laughing. ‘Yes, she’s my stepdaughter.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What’s she been saying?’
‘Miss Langley has made some serious allegations against you, regarding sexual assault.’
‘This is preposterous!’ Adrian hissed. ‘I just stepped outside to have a cigarette with her. She was drunk, practically threw herself at me.’
‘When was this?’ the female detective said.
‘Sunday evening,’ Gloria chimed in.
‘The allegations are from between 1988 and 1996.’
Adrian and Gloria were silent for a few moments.
‘This is utterly ridiculous,’ Gloria finally scoffed. ‘She was just a young girl then.’
‘Can we help with anything?’ One of their friends had come through from the garden to use the toilet.
‘No, we’re dealing with it. Go back outside with the others,’ Gloria said forcefully. She didn’t need this. The expensive dinner she’d arranged was now growing cold on the table in the early-evening chill, and after the public scene in the restaurant the other night she’d gone to a lot of trouble to ignore it all and pretend in front of their friends that it hadn’t bothered them. Thankfully, even though the man she’d assaulted in the restaurant had sold his story, he’d decided, for whatever reason, against getting the police involved.
‘Do what you need to do, we’re all friends here,’ Adrian said, ‘but I’m not coming down the cop shop.’ He laughed nervously, trying to cover the seriousness of the situation in earshot of the staff who had been employed to serve that evening and were in the kitchen down the hall.
The female detective stepped towards him. ‘I’m afraid we need you to come to the station with us please, Mr Player.’
‘Come into my office where we can talk in private, clear up this silly matter.’
‘It’s better if we talk down at the station,’ she said. ‘You might want to call a legal representative, or we can arrange one for you. We will need to search the premises as well.’
‘You can’t do this!’ Gloria said, panicking. ‘What’s Emma been saying? Let me ring her.’
‘We have a search warrant, Mrs Player. The sooner you and your husband cooperate, the quicker this matter will be over.’
‘I don’t think you know who you’re dealing with, young lady.’ Adrian had changed his tone, and was now glaring, red-faced, at the detective. ‘I do not have to do anything.’
‘That’s fine. Adrian Player, I am arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ The detective reached for Adrian’s limp arm and cuffed him as he stared at her, his mouth wide open. ‘Can you tell us who else is on the premises, please?’
‘Let him go, he hasn’t done anything wrong.’ Gloria grabbed the detective’s arm; one of the uniformed officers quickly restrained her. ‘Get your hands off me!’
A low, deep rumble came from Adrian’s mouth: ‘Do you know who I am?’
There was a pause as the detective observed him. ‘Why, sir? Have you forgotten?’
The other detective, stoic to this point, grinned just perceptibly at this, then urged Adrian out of the front door.
The other detective turned to Gloria. ‘Whoever is on the premises needs to stay exactly where they are until we’ve finished the search. You need to go and
tell your guests, Mrs Player, or one of our officers will do it.’
‘You can’t do this!’ Gloria was becoming hysterical.
‘Don’t worry, love,’ Adrian assured her. ‘It’s just a storm in a teacup. I’ll be back before you know it, and every single one of these wankers will be looking for new jobs.’
Both detectives raised their eyebrows, and Adrian was passed along to one of the uniformed officers.
‘Mrs Player,’ said the second detective, ‘I need you to go and speak to your guests and staff. I’ll come with you.’
Gloria could barely speak she was shaking so much. ‘I should go with Adrian,’ she stammered. ‘He’ll need me with him.’
‘No, Mrs Player, we need you to stay here. Let me make you a nice cup of tea.’
Gloria looked up at the young detective, who couldn’t be more than twenty-five. He had a thin face and large eyes, reminding her of Adrian when he was younger.
Once outside, she sat awkwardly with all their guests, who were curious and demanding to know why they wouldn’t be able to go home until the search had finished. She dodged most of the questions and plied them with more alcohol, but she knew they’d be gossiping when they were eventually allowed to leave. Worse still, the staff were standing around idly pretending to look at their phones and she just knew they were filming everything, ready to sell their stories to the press.
When she heard the Velux windows in the roof of the large annex at the end of the house pop open and saw an officer’s face looking down at them and then across their many acres, she felt sick. Adrian had an office up there, a place he’d told her she wasn’t allowed to go. It was his private domain, an area of the house he kept locked.
‘You might want to call someone, Mrs Player,’ said the young detective, who had appeared beside her. ‘A family member? Do you have any other children? Your husband won’t be coming home tonight.’ He handed her a cup of tea which she wasn’t going to drink.
‘I have two sons, Brett and Scott, but I can’t call them about this. They’ll never forgive me.’