‘Don’t go up there. The forensic team are still busy. Any hairs or fibres you leave behind will only confuse the issue.’
‘I think I still remember the drill. And thanks for your concern.’ Frank’s voice was louder than he’d intended. ‘You’re all heart.’
Foster clambered out of a white protective overall, removed both elasticated plastic overshoes, straightened his tie and swept back his hair with long, thin fingers. He shrugged into his suit jacket, reaching for a well-used comb in the breast pocket. An audience waited for him outside. Media hungry not only for answers, but for someone upon whom to focus their attention. Right up Foster’s street.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he said eventually, his voice clipped and unconvincing. ‘But, right now, the investigation is my priority.’
‘And not mine?’ Frank squared his shoulders squared.
Foster rocked gently on his heels.
He’s loving this, Frank thought. For too long he had worked in Frank’s shadow. Now he was free, now he had the authority. Frank despised him, all the more, for that.
‘No,’ Foster said. ‘Not any longer. This kind of thing is best left to policemen, not debt collectors.’
Although Frank had no intention of reacting to the jibe, he felt Nicky’s hand in his midriff. He took a moment, then said in a low, even voice, ‘I want you off this case, Foster. I’ll talk to the chief superintendent about it. Commander Allen if I have to.’
Foster gave a thin smile. His lips were moist, like thick pink worms. ‘You have to have a valid reason to remove me from the case, Frank. Dislike or…envy, simply won’t be enough.’
‘I have a valid reason.’ Frank noticed that many of the milling uniforms and suits and overalls had stopped what they were doing, and he knew he was about to make a mistake. But he was on a roll and the bitterness of past feuds poured out. ‘I want the bastard who did this found and caught, Foster. Trouble is, you couldn’t find your arse in the dark with a torch, or catch a fucking cold in mid-winter. My valid reason is simple: you’re not up to the job.’
A nerve pulsed around Foster’s left eyelid. His gaze narrowed. A trembling hand pushed back the glasses on his shiny narrow nose. ‘Do whatever pleases your tiny mind, Frank. I know what your opinion is of me, and rest assured it’s reciprocated. Just don’t come anywhere near this investigation or I’ll have you for it. Obstruction of justice is still a crime.’
‘So is the fact that you’re heading this or any other investigation.’
Scowling now, Foster looked around deliberately. ‘Any of you real policemen caught helping this man to interfere will find yourselves writing out traffic tickets in the shittiest hole I can transfer you to.’
His gaze returned to Frank, challenging him to continue. Frank slowly shook his head, had one last glance upstairs, then turned sharply and headed back out of the house. He needed fresher air to breathe, to put distance between himself and Foster, and from the house that now held such terrible associations.
Back in the heat he felt nauseous, and the fresh clamour from the media bored holes into his skull. He was vaguely aware of Nicky and Foster having a heated disagreement, but his mind was wilting beneath the assault of terrible images and irrational thoughts. Then Nicky was with him, gripping his arm, helping him stagger forward. Until then, Frank hadn’t realised how much he’d needed the support to get him where he wanted to go.
‘Trouble?’ he asked as they made their way back out to the street.
Nicky shrugged. ‘Nothing I can’t handle. He didn’t want me to take you back home. I said we’d do it for any other bereaved citizen, and I wasn’t about to make an exception for you.’
Together they fought their way through the media who, while they had not been given a full briefing, were aware that Frank was a player somehow. A number of the elder statesmen recognised him and were calling out their questions, either unaware of his personal tragedy or perhaps not caring about the intrusion. Several uniformed officers moved swiftly to head them off and form a human barrier.
When the two men reached the car, Frank slumped back in the passenger seat and said, ‘Thanks, mate.’ He allowed himself a hollow smile. ‘Sorry to put you to all this trouble, but I can’t cope with Foster around.’
‘I’m sorry, Frank. I should have told you about Foster before we drove over here. Truth is, I was hoping he’d be gone by the time I got back. When I saw his car still here I knew I had to warn you.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll have to see the place another time, when he’s crawled back under his rock. But thanks for sticking with me, Nicky. I’m glad it was you who …’ Frank shook his head, helplessly.
‘I couldn’t let it be anyone else, mate. Too important. As for Foster, I should have known better than to bring you here while there was even the remotest possibility that he might still be around.’
Much of the short journey across to neighbouring Chingford took place in silence, Frank becoming wrapped deeper within his own mind, feeling himself retreat from the awful reality. At some point, he realised they had stopped and were parked up outside his house.
He turned his head. ‘I need a drink. How about you?’
‘Well, Foster said to head straight back when I was done. All things considered, I reckon I can spare an old mate some time. And Foster can go to hell.’
‘Superintendent Foster.’
‘Yeah. Ain’t that the biggest fucking joke you ever heard?’
Frank’s home was the standard three-bedroomed semi; the nuclear family’s choice of dwelling. Built between the wars, at a time when space had not been at a premium, he felt himself dwarfed by the substantial rooms, still unused to the feeling of emptiness some eleven months after Janet had left him. Even with the children there at weekends, the resonance spoke more of a way-station than a family home.
In the kitchen, he yanked open a cupboard door and took down a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. His hands were shaking as he uncapped the whisky. Taking two tumblers from the draining board, Frank filled both almost to the brim, passing one to Nicky before leaning back against the sink. Two thirds of his own drink disappeared in one swallow. He felt the heat spread through his body and he welcomed it. Stared into space and let his mind go blank.
Nicky’s eyes never left his friend’s face. He searched for signs of recognition, of shock, but there was nothing to be found there. Frank had simply switched off.
The glare of the day hit both men as it spilled through the glass doors leading into to the conservatory, where wicker furniture had grown dusty and plants had survived only because of Laura’s determination. Nicky took off his jacket, draped it over the back of a dining chair and sat down. He rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and loosened the knot of his tie. Taking careful sips from his glass, he waited patiently. It wasn’t a time for words. Only if his friend spoke them. Several minutes passed before Frank seemed to come back from somewhere distant and melancholy.
‘I was with the kids just yesterday, dropped them at the house around six in the evening.’ He was talking to Nicky, but his eyes were lost in the past.’ On Saturday we went to Margate with Janet’s friend, Debbie, who seems to have taken a shine to us for some reason. Actually, she and I have got quite close recently. I like her, the kids like her. We’ve become something of an item. Yesterday I took Gary and Laura out to Epping Forest, showed them a few places where I used to go as a kid. We had a nice stroll in the woods, a good honest talk about our lives and our plans.’
He choked on the words, looked up at Nicky. ‘It’s almost a year since me and Janet split up, and I don’t think I’ve been handling it too well. Somehow it all seemed to come right this weekend. Debs was an added bonus, but me and the kids…we were great together. I can’t believe they’re gone, Nicky. I can’t believe I’ll never see my little boy again. Or Janet, for that matter. I still thought a lot of her, you know.’
Swallowing back on his own sorrow, Nicky nodded. This kind of grief was difficult en
ough when dealing with strangers. Now, with his best friend in such desperate need of answers, he felt particularly lost. ‘It’ll take a while to sink in. You should have someone here with you, Frank. How about I call your mother?’
‘No.’ Frank’s shake of the head was certain. ‘I need to be on my own. Like I say, it hasn’t really got through yet. And I have to keep my wits about me for Laura’s sake. She may need me. She will need me.’
‘We’ll find out soon enough. The lads’ll keep working on this one till they drop.’
‘I know what Foster said, what he threatened, but I want in on this, Nicky.’ Frank looked across, pained. ‘You’re my best mate, and I shouldn’t ask. It’s your career, and I know what it means to you. But you’re the only one I can ask.’
‘Fuck Foster. I was going to offer anyway. Later. When you’d had a little time. I won’t leave you out in the cold.’ Nicky spread his hands and shrugged. ‘I couldn’t do that to you.’
Frank’s chin began to tremble, his eyes blinked rapidly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘So, say nothing. What kind of a pal would I be if I let you stew every day, not knowing what the hell was going on? No, Foster’s a grade-A twat, but I can handle him. He has the rank, but he doesn’t have the respect of the men.’
‘It’s a bad dream, Nicky.’ Frank dropped onto a high stool, rested his elbows on the breakfast bar and put his head in his hands. ‘The worst nightmare of all. But I know it’s one I’ll never wake up from.’
Nicky stood and came across the floor. He pulled Frank to him, embracing his friend and inviting him to let go of his emotions. When he did, Frank’s whole body convulsed. Nicky held him tight until the wailing and sobbing had subsided. When his friend was spent, Nicky pulled back a little, tears still sliding down his own cheeks.
‘What a pair of old tarts,’ Frank said. He laughed without mirth, knuckled his eyes.
‘Speak for yourself. I’ll miss my godson, too.’ He clapped his friend on the arm.
‘I know you will, mate. I know. Listen, you’d better drink up and get going. I don’t want Foster coming down heavy on you.’
‘Yeah. I’ll head back, see how things are shaping up. Capel will have set up the incident room by now.’ He paused, eyed Frank speculatively. ‘Look, are you sure you don’t want anyone here with you? There must be someone I can call? How about Debbie?’
Frank shook his head firmly. ‘No. There are people I need to tell, of course. And I’ll do that as soon as you’ve gone. Well, once I’ve pulled myself together.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
Nicky drained his glass. Grabbed his jacket, hooked it over his thumb and flung it across his shoulder. ‘I’ll be round later tonight with everything we have. If we get anything major, I’ll call.’
‘Thanks. You know what it means to me.’
Nicky nodded and smiled. ‘Like I said, no trouble. I’ll be here when I can.’
‘Okay.’
‘Take care, Frank. And…I’m sorry, mate. I really am so very, very sorry.’
5
Nicky returned a little before midnight, by which time Frank had called Debbie, Janet’s parents, and his own mother. Janet’s father had been the most difficult of all to deal with, which came as no surprise. For a few seconds the man had said nothing. Then, as he always did in times of stress, he went on the attack.
‘Was this someone with a grudge against you, Frank? Is that why my daughter and grandson died?’
Having expected nothing less, Frank bit down on any residue of bitterness he may have felt. An ex-RAF electrical engineer, Arthur Rankin had never hidden his dislike of Frank, and had constantly sniped at the police force: kindling to Janet’s own rising flame of disenchantment. Frank had always wondered how much of an effect his in-laws had on Janet’s decision to seek pastures new. He suspected they were responsible for a great deal of her dissatisfaction. Perhaps they had persuaded her into the very bed in which she died.
‘No, Arthur,’ Frank said without rancour. ‘It wasn’t at our house, was it? No one I’ve ever put away would know where Janet has been living these past ten or eleven months.’
‘If you say so.’ He paused; an uncomfortable silence that seemed to drag on forever. Just as Frank was beginning to wonder if the line had gone dead, Rankin spoke once more. ‘She was getting her life in order. For the first time since before she met you, she was actually—’
‘Arthur, I’m not going to go down this same old road with you. I’m suffering, too, and my grief is every bit as real as yours. I just felt it best that I should let you know, rather than having some stranger contact you.’
‘Mary is out at the moment. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her, but when I do we’ll want to see Janet.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me what to think or do!’ His voice rose in pitch, venom in the words. Frank could almost see the spittle flying from the man’s lips. ‘This is my daughter we’re talking about. I’ll do as I damn well please.’
You do that, Arthur. Maybe you deserve to go and see your precious daughter all cut up, butchered, lying on a mortuary slab. Maybe that’s exactly what you need.
Frank exhaled slowly. The thought was unworthy of him. Nobody, not even Arthur Rankin, deserved to see their own flesh and blood so horribly mutilated.
‘Arthur, even I haven’t seen the … Janet or Gary.’ Bodies. You were going to say bodies. Why is that so difficult for you? ‘My ex-colleagues tell me it would be too distressful. They were both brutally attacked and disfigured with a sharp weapon. I was only trying to save you from that pain.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m sure you were. If you’d cared about our feelings you would never have married my daughter.’
‘I’m going now, Arthur. I’ll speak to you again when you’ve had time to let this sink in.’
‘Speak to me? Speak to me? Now that my daughter’s gone I don’t want you to speak to me ever again, you murdering bastard. Do you hear me? Do you?’
As he cut the connection with his hand, Frank held the phone against his slick brow. Its touch was cooling. His head was pounding now, just above the eyes, where it always got him when it was feeling particularly vicious. The pain came in waves, the ebb and flow of a relentless tide. He swallowed a couple of paracetamol and allowed the headache to subside before making the next call.
His mother offered sympathy he found hard to believe was entirely genuine. He hadn’t seen her in more than a year, and she had never taken to Janet or either of the children. Her reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected; she hadn’t exactly been the most maternal of mothers, and was a grandparent in name only.
Duty done, Frank’s final call was to Debbie. Through her tears of shock and distress she offered to drive over and keep him company. Despite their growing fondness for each other, Frank gently refused. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll call.’ Then he went back into the living room and sat down to wait, the bottle of Scotch by his side. The sun slid effortlessly across the sky, shadows lengthened, the room became tinged with grey, and finally fell into darkness. At some point, Frank switched on a table lamp, but his only other movements were pouring and drinking. He didn’t eat, never once moved from the spot. He just sat and drank and weaved his way through time.
He’d had better days, and the light of those other days came back to brush against him now. Times when life was so much more than mere existence, when the way ahead seemed clear and full of promise. Times when he and Janet were still together, starting out, their plans still fresh and exciting. Then the children had come along, and each seemed to bless them more.
In his mind he saw every hug, every kiss, every tender moment shared, heard every song that ever meant anything to either Janet or Gary. Moments frozen in time, always there to be called upon, even when the pain of doing so was too much to bear, the pain of not doing so worse still.
It was some while before he realised tha
t Laura hadn’t yet figured in any of these snapshots from the past. There was a part of him still desperately clinging to the hope that his daughter was alive, that her return was only a matter of simple negotiation with her captor. And there was another part that reminded him of all the times he had seen distraught parents wrestling with the exact same emotions, only for fate to deal them the very worst of hands.
Around eleven-fifty he heard a car pull up outside. He peered through the curtains, and was at the door to meet Nicky before his friend had a chance to ring the doorbell. Nicky looked exhausted, his suit crumpled, eyes red-rimmed. Wayward strands of hair hung down over his forehead. At forty-three, Nicky was a year younger than Frank. Today, both men seemed much older than their years, sorrow a crueller enemy than either gravity or time. Frank offered him a Scotch, only to discover the bottle was empty. He fetched two beers from the fridge.
‘So, what have you got so far?’ he asked, sitting forward on the armchair, fingers of both hands raking his lap.
Nicky took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘You’re not going to like it, Frank.’
‘Just tell me. How much worse can it get?’
‘It looks as though we have a serial killer and abductor on our hands.’
This was about the only thing that had not occurred to Frank. Murder investigations were never anything less than difficult at the best of times, but the two words that haunted detectives most of all were ‘serial killer’. Not only were they usually the most malevolent of creatures, but they were also often the most elusive.
The majority of murders were committed in a brief moment of rage or passion, often by persons known to the victim, or for easily detectable reasons. Serial killers were unorthodox in every conceivable way. They played by their own twisted set of rules, in a game few were able to comprehend.
Degrees of Darkness Page 3