Remember, Remember

by Lisa Cutts

  ‘Are you still married?’

  ‘No – bloody hell, no. We got married when we were both twenty-one and it lasted less than three years. She’s remarried and has three kids. I haven’t seen her in years.’

  ‘Why did you suddenly get the ring out after all this time?’

  ‘Because I know how much it got to you that a total stranger had his dead wife’s wedding band taken, and the stolen stuff being flogged at the gold shop gave me an idea. I don’t want the ring. I wasn’t even sure where I’d put it. I got it out to sell it. Having you living here with me has been great. I thought that we could take it to a gold shop, flog it and go for a beer on the proceeds. While we were there, we could ask if they’ve had any other rings in lately.’

  I felt bad for doubting Bill, but who could have blamed me? I didn’t really know that much about him at the end of the day. I certainly didn’t know that he’d been married. I had mixed feelings: I felt that I didn’t deserve happiness and someone to care for me, but also perhaps that I shouldn’t rely on the relationship going anywhere with news like this being kept from me. Anything good that ever happened to me was always tainted in some way.

  I smiled at Bill and told him what I thought he wanted to hear: I explained how much it meant that he had put me first, and then we spent the rest of the evening talking about his short-lived marriage and planning the rest of the weekend. We did all of our talking cuddled up on the sofa, a rapidly dwindling bottle of wine in front of us.

  Saturday passed by in a blur: Bill and I had the usual weekend and ‘days off’ stuff to catch up on, and I felt more at home in his house. Then Sunday arrived and I did a terrible thing. Actually, two terrible things.

  I cancelled on Stan. It was cowardly, I knew that, especially as I got Bill to call him and tell him I wasn’t feeling well. This was something I had never done before and hoped I would never do again. I tried to rationalise it to myself by saying that I had only recently returned to work, I had taken on a massive workload, and I had a visit to my sister on the horizon – always one of the hardest things I had to face on a regular basis. I knew all along that I was avoiding Stan too.

  The other terrible thing was that I went into work. I had seen on the news that the police had arrested four people in connection with the murder of Patrick Hudson in the early hours of Saturday morning. The arrests had been planned for three, not four. I was well aware that information often came into an enquiry late, leading to a further arrest – sometimes circumstances couldn’t be foreseen and there were more people than anticipated on the premises – but a decision to arrest for murder was never taken lightly. I told Bill I was nipping out to the shop for painkillers, but I drove to the police station.

  Parking on Sundays wasn’t usually a problem so I drove my BMW through the gate to the back yard and drew up as close to the door as I could manage. I let myself in with my pass and then was uncertain where I should go. I wasn’t supposed to be here on my day off, and, while it wasn’t something I would get into trouble for, I couldn’t justify wandering around Custody. That was certain to draw unnecessary attention to my presence, especially in connection with an enquiry I’d been told to stay away from. But it was easier for me to be at work than at Stan’s, and staying at home was definitely not going to distract me from my thoughts.

  I found myself walking along the corridor to the stairs leading to Cold Case.

  I could hear Wingsy’s voice as I arrived outside the office. It sounded as though he was talking to Clint Stirling, although the other voice wasn’t as clear. I pushed the door open and saw Wingsy with his back to me, Clint sitting opposite him, and Joanna Styles, senior crime scene investigator, typing away at the desk I had been using for the last couple of weeks. Clint and Jo looked up as Wingsy turned in his chair towards me.

  ‘Morning,’ I said, unsure now what I was doing here at all. ‘I left my phone charger here on Friday. My phone’s gone flat so thought I’d drop in and get it.’

  No one looked convinced but, in fairness, they didn’t look that interested either.

  ‘I heard there’s four in custody now,’ I said.

  The thing about police officers was that it was usually easy to get them to talk about a job they were working on, unless it was something covert. Even then, it was worth a try.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Wingsy. ‘We executed the warrant at Philip Peters’ house and hiding in the loft was a bloke called Kieran Murray. He was arrested because, on top of hiding and not being too pleased to see us, he also had a set of car keys on him for the VW Polo that they’ve been driving around in.’

  ‘Did you manage to recover the car too?’ I asked, showing slightly more interest than I’d meant to.

  Clint looked up from his paperwork. ‘I’m working out the cost of sending off all the samples and the floor mats from the car now. There’s about five of those we’re sending from the vehicle. Each of those exhibits plus gunshot residue kits from each of our four in custody is…’ He glanced across at Jo to help him out.

  She allowed a frown to crinkle her brow before looking skywards and said, ‘Allow about £500 per item. It’s probably a bit more, but the lab will give a breakdown. We’ll call it five grand for good measure.’

  ‘So I hope you’re not sniffing around for a working rest day, Foster,’ said Wingsy. ‘There’s no money left to pay you.’

  ‘And Jo,’ said Clint, ‘Kieran Murray’s DNA went up to the lab too. Out of the four, he was the only one whose sample wasn’t already on the national database. That’s going up first thing in the morning. The Warrant of Further Detention was sorted today so we’ve got all four of them here until Tuesday at midday. Loads to do before then.’ Clint went back to what he was doing, Jo had never really stopped her work, and Wingsy remained twisted in his chair to stare at me.

  He got up and gestured that I follow him outside. Out of earshot of anyone else, my friend asked me, ‘Why are you really here?’

  ‘I wanted to know how things were going and I couldn’t settle at home.’ I glanced down and tapped the skirting board with my foot. ‘I feel bad about Annie, I want to know if the Rumblys are connected to Patrick’s death, and I’m avoiding Stan.’

  Wingsy ran his hands through his thinning hair. ‘Have you thought about counselling?’

  ‘Have you thought about hair extensions?’

  ‘Stop being stupid, Nina. I’m trying to help you. You can’t do anything about Annie at the moment, you know that. What I can tell you – ’ he dropped his voice at this point and led me further away from the offices ‘ – is that two of the four spoke in interview and said that they were all out together on the night of the shooting. One answered “no comment” to all questions and the bloke that I interviewed, Philip Peters, gave a prepared statement through his solicitor – the usual bollocks – “I wasn’t there and it was nothing to do with me and why would I shoot Patrick Hudson?” Not worth the paper it’s written on, but the two who did speak said they were in the Polo on the night of the shooting.’

  I got the point he was making. ‘So if there were four of them in the Polo, they weren’t likely to have squeezed Richard Hudson into the car too.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Wingsy. ‘We need DNA or GSR particles to come back and this not only strengthens this job, but helps both Richard and Annie. So far, the evidence on Richard is that he was very close to the scene when his father was killed. I know that you’re still worried he may be rearrested at some point or charged when he comes back on bail, but someone else’s DNA may prevent that ever happening.’

  ‘What exactly are we looking for DNA on? Was the gun ever found?’

  Wingsy glanced up the corridor as a uniform officer came to the top of the stairs. He and Wingsy exchanged hellos and, once the patrol officer was out of earshot, Wingsy said, ‘No, but one thing that was a keep-back from all but the investigation team was that the CSI found a mobile phone within the cordon at the scene. It was unregistered and was previously used to make several calls to
telephone numbers attributed to three of those currently in custody. It’s also been sent off for fingerprinting and DNA. There’s the likelihood that we can show it as belonging to Kieran Murray. That’s why his DNA is being taken to the lab first thing.’

  ‘That’s looking positive then for charging Murray, if no one else,’ I said, more to myself than Wingsy. ‘But none of this has brought the arrest of Rumbly any closer.’

  ‘We think it was the blokes in the Polo who might have been there when Errol Chandler overdosed and Sidney Manning was injected with Naloxone. They work for Rumbly. All we need is for one of them to talk.’

  This at least gave me hope that I’d get to see Rumbly held to account for something he’d done. Maybe his past was catching up with him at last.

  ‘Why don’t you go and see Stan and sort out whatever the problem is there?’ said Wingsy. ‘I know you, and that’s bothering you more than anything else.’

  ‘What makes you so sure I’m not just really keen and wanting to keep on top of the investigation?’

  ‘Because, in all the years I’ve known you, you only ever set foot in a nick on your day off if the bar was open. We don’t have a bar any more, so go and see Stan.’

  Wingsy was right. Especially the part about the bar. I glanced at my watch. ‘He’ll be having his dinner by now. I’ll ring him.’ I smiled at my decision.

  ‘You can’t call him,’ said Wingsy.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you left your charger in the office and your phone’s gone flat. Remember?’

  59

  Before I left the building, I texted Bill to let him know that I was on my way to see Stan and that I was feeling much better.

  He replied with one word: Good. He’d known I was avoiding my oldest friend, but he didn’t know the real reason why. I hadn’t wanted to admit even to myself that I could have had a better life with Stan than with my own parents, so I wasn’t up for confessing to my boyfriend any time soon. I needed to deal with this so I could concentrate on work, and I needed to plan a visit to see Sara soon too.

  I got to Stan’s, and steeled myself for what I was going to say to him. He had always been the first person I turned to, but that was because he had never been the problem. Things were very out of kilter and I was finding it a difficult topic to tackle. One thing I did know was that I couldn’t keep hiding from him. I’d already buried enough dark thoughts over the years; more would not help. I stood inside the porch, handbag gripped in one hand, the other on the doorbell before I changed my mind.

  Stan opened the door and surprise was written all over his face, instantly replaced by another emotion. ‘You look absolutely terrible. I didn’t think you were coming. Come inside.’ He stood back to give me room.

  That would have been the moment to say something to him, but I wasn’t sure if my voice was up to it. I kept my head down and headed into the hallway. Usually I would have stopped by now and got a hug, asked how Stan was, but I felt the urge to keep moving and avoid the issue. I was good at that.

  When I reached the kitchen, I’d run out of house. ‘You’ve had dinner,’ I said, as if Stan needed to be told he’d eaten a meal.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I spoke to my mum…’

  I stood uselessly in Stan’s kitchen, next to his sink where the roasting tin had been put to soak. When he didn’t speak, I felt compelled to. It was me, after all, who had turned up on his doorstep.

  ‘She told me something. Something I didn’t like. Don’t like.’

  Stan sat down at the kitchen table, and I moved to the seat opposite him. ‘She told me that, when I was a child, you wanted me to live with you and Angela. Is it true?’

  Stan sighed and reached for the bottle of red wine between us on the table. He half-filled his own glass and pointed at the dresser beside me where the remaining crystal wine glasses waited their turn. Not one to argue in such a situation, I reached over and took down the nearest one. As he poured, we both watched the cherry-red liquid fill the glass.

  ‘Your mum – well, both of your parents, but particularly your mum – was exhausted after we found you and your sister. Sara needed constant looking after, and in those days your parents didn’t have a car to get to the hospital. It was a real strain on her, and me and Angela didn’t have any children yet – Samantha hadn’t been born. We discussed it and thought that it might be of some advantage to everyone if you came and lived with us for a while. It was only ever going to be for a while. A month, perhaps two.’

  He paused and took a sip of his drink. ‘I think your mum might have made you think it was to be a permanent arrangement. It never was, and it never would have been allowed to be, because of my job. She hated the idea and so we never mentioned it again.’

  I picked up my wine and gulped some down while I thought of my question. ‘How many times did you discuss it with my mum and dad?’

  ‘Once,’ said Stan, ‘only once. She said no and that was the end of it.’

  I felt even worse being told it would only have been temporary. My mum had tried to make me think that there was something underhand going on, and all the while it had been one conversation nearly four decades ago. It had brought to the surface feelings of regret for a happier life I had been denied. A life without each and every day making me feel responsible for another’s misery. I suspected that my face was reddening with embarrassment.

  ‘Are you OK, Nina? You look as though you’re burning up.’

  I put my hand to my cheek and felt that it was a little on the warm side. Nevertheless, I took another swig of my wine, concentrating on its velvety texture rather than remembering how I had cowered behind her. My eight-year-old sister had shielded me and received the blows meant for me. The times when I allowed myself to wallow in this misery were few and far between, but, when they came, a huge hole of black appeared, trying to consume me. Once or twice, it almost managed it.

  ‘Have you eaten today?’ he asked.

  Miserably I shook my head. I felt wretched. I barely noticed Stan get up but was aware of cutlery rattling behind me, accompanied by the sound of a microwave. I was about to protest that he really shouldn’t worry and not to go to the bother of getting me something to eat, but then I realised I didn’t have the energy to argue.

  A scrounged Sunday lunch with all the trimmings would usually perk me up, but in my present mood I hardly ate a thing. The only reason for the improvement in my mood was talking things over with Stan and clearing the air. Not that he’d been aware there was a problem until I showed up on his door and pushed some roast potatoes around my plate. I did, however, help him out by drinking a large glass of his wine.

  We put the world to rights once more, and I realised I should have talked things over with Stan much earlier rather than stewing on them for days. My mum had every right to overreact to situations, but I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get wound up about anything she said. I felt much more at ease as I said goodbye to Stan.

  We stood by his front door and he hugged me. ‘Next time, Nina, tell me what the problem is, OK?’

  I nodded, my face brushing his cashmere jumper. The thing was, I would never tell him what would now occupy my waking thoughts: I wished I had gone to stay with him and Angela and that I’d lived the last thirty-eight years as Stan’s daughter.

  60

  When I returned to work the next morning, refreshed from a good night’s sleep, I allowed my mind to fill with all the other problems I had to face, wondering which should get my attention first. Annie’s ex-husband had been murdered, her son arrested along with another four people, Leonard Rumbly needed arresting, Joe Bring wanted me to get his son into boot camp in exchange for information, and people seemed to be dying all over the county from drug overdoses.

  Bumping into a very flustered Michaela made my mind up earlier than I’d anticipated. She charged out of the door into the yard, colliding with me, and shouted, ‘Fuck, sorry, darling. I’m off to HQ. All three drug deaths are being
looked at today by Major Crime.’

  This was good news.

  ‘What’s made them change their mind?’ I asked.

  ‘The toxicology came back on Lea Hollingsworth. She had enough heroin in her blood to kill her but there are no other signs that she was an addict or even a user. Add to that the fact that she had head injuries, and someone somewhere has realised that not only is this now a murder investigation, rather than an accidental overdose, but it’s probably linked to the other two.’

  I had a hundred more questions for Kayla but she had keys in her hand and was backing away from me towards the last unmarked job car in the yard, so I kept it brief. I called after her, ‘Can you let me know more when you get back? I’m really keen to know details and if there’s any overlap between suspects on both our jobs.’

  I didn’t hear her reply, as a marked car pulled out of one of the bays with its blue lights flashing and engine gunning, on its way to a call somewhere. I waved at Kayla and let myself into the building.

  After making my way to the Cold Case office, saying hello and dropping my bag off, I told Harry that I was going to speak to the drug liaison officer. Lee Schofield had been the division’s DLO for three years and there wasn’t much he didn’t know about controlled drugs. He had been on national Home Office courses up and down the country, and as a drug valuation officer, drug testing officer and drug evidence expert he assisted the Crown Court with knowledge or information about any drugs matters relevant to a trial. He knew just about everything there was to know, such as why a kilo of heroin was worth £25,000 when in reality its price was £3,000 if purchased in Pakistan or Afghanistan.

  I knew that Lee always got in very early on a Monday morning to get ahead of the nine am meeting and arm himself with the facts and figures for drug-related crime over the weekend. The last time I had seen him was one Friday night about nine pm in Riverstone town centre. I’d fallen out of a bar with a couple of friends and he had been on duty at the door of the bar, swabbing those in the queue for drugs. He had told me that the weekend operations always resulted in a fair few people being arrested for possession of cocaine or another illegal substance. This was surely further reason for drugs never to be legalised. If you were daft enough to stand voluntarily in a queue and wait for a police officer to swab you for drugs, with a police sniffer dog nosing at your pockets, there was little hope for you.