by Sarah Ward
Connie rubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘I don’t think it’s his fault initially but something’s gone wrong, and I don’t know what. I was giving what reassurance I could. We’ve been warned by Sadler not to take any notice of the inquiry into how a misidentification was made.’
‘You don’t think it’s relevant to now?’
‘It might be, but that’s what we’ve been told. Bill needs to stop worrying. I suspect there are going to be more culpable people than him. What about Lena Gray’s lawyer, for example? He or she didn’t do their job in relation to identity checks. Can you see? It’s not just about Bill.’
Scott looked unhappy. ‘I’ve worked with him for five years. Ever since I left school. I came here for a lark, to be honest. Someone mentioned there was a job going in the pathology department at the local hospital. It appealed to my goth instincts.’ He caught Connie’s expression. ‘I don’t mean anything weird to do with the dead bodies. I was brought up a Catholic. I’ve got a lot of respect for the dead. I just thought it’d be an interesting place to work.’
‘And is it?’ She wouldn’t fancy it. Connie didn’t like the dead at all. The smell and the waxen bodies repulsed her.
‘I suppose. There’s a lot of admin, to be honest, and also, although Bill would never admit it, a lot of down time. That’s how I’ve got to know him. In the quiet periods between the autopsies we chat and drink a lot of tea.’
‘About what?’ Connie was genuinely curious. She’d been privy to the tea and conversation too. But, now she thought of it, the chat had been desultory, and she doubted if she could remember a single topic that they had discussed in any depth.
Scott looked downcast. ‘We talk about life. And the past. What it was like in the old days when forensics were in the early stages. He was, I mean is, interesting. He loves his job. Cares about the process and the way things are done. Which is why he’s so gutted that he got things wrong.’
Connie flopped down on the wall next to Scott and fumbled in her bag. She screwed the lid onto the base of her electronic cigarette and gave a deep puff. Scott looked at her with amusement. ‘It’s hardly Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep.’
Connie snorted. ‘This is hardly LA. Look, Bill’s one of the good guys. He needs to ride this one out. I’m going to give you the benefit of something I’ve learnt since I became a copper. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve developed this theory. I’ve tested it in other cases, and I think it’s going to hold up in this one too.’ She looked at him and was surprised to see he was eager to hear what she was going to say next. She took a deep breath. ‘When someone, like Lena, wants to deceive you – I mean, really deceive you – there’s absolutely nothing you can do. It takes a fluke or complete luck to catch them out. I’ve seen it time and time again, and the simple fact is, Lena Gray wanted us to think that the man she found dead in her bed was her husband, and it would have taken a mind-reader to have worked out what she was up to.’
She saw that Scott was looking relieved. He should be. Because she was damned if she was going to stand by while Sadler and Bill took the blame for the deceit being pulled by Lena Gray. ‘Look, let me give you my mobile. What’s your number?’
He rattled it off, and she typed it into her phone. ‘This is mine. Call me if you think Bill is getting seriously stressed about this case. He needs to know we’re with him on this.’
‘Will do.’ Scott was looking at her in amusement and, unless she was mistaken, with a familiar glint in his eye.
She decide to ignore the expression. ‘Can you give me directions for the quickest way back to Hale’s End Mortuary? I only just managed to find it yesterday. I want to take another look at the place where the real Andrew Fisher’s body was found.’
*
Even with the dead man’s body gone, Hale’s End was a grim place. Connie could smell rotting foliage that was out of place in the spring sharpness. Five crime-scene investigators were still combing the area for clues, and, as she ducked under the tape, she shouted at one of them: ‘Anything interesting?’
He shook his head but walked over to her. ‘There are footprints everywhere. Considering how bloody difficult this place is to find, it seems half of Bampton has walked down here at some point. Well, maybe not half, but I’ve counted at least twenty different feet at the front of the building. I’m about to go around the back now.’
Connie could feel her phone vibrating in her bag. By the time she retrieved it, it had clicked off. She looked at the ID. Sadler. When she tried to call him back, he was engaged. Damn, he was probably calling Palmer. Her competitive instincts kicked in, and she dialled Palmer’s mobile. He was engaged too. Subduing the urge to get back in her car and drive down to the station to see what Sadler wanted, she walked up to the stone building and peeped inside.
The crime-scene investigators had finished with the interior. Stepping into the space, Connie was assailed with a pressure in her ears. She walked over to the stone slab where Andrew Fisher had been found. Why murder him here? Was Hale’s End just a place to lure the victim to his death, or was there a more deep-seated reason for killing a man considered by everyone to be dead in a place for the deceased?
Her mobile vibrated again.
‘It’s Palmer. Where are you? Sadler’s been trying to get hold of you.’
Connie dropped her bag in irritation, which made her jump. She grabbed it and walked out of the mortuary. ‘Well, he clearly found you. What’s the problem?’
‘Lena Gray’s gone missing. Sadler’s just been around to the house to interview her. The only person there is her sister Kat, who claims that Lena must have left in the middle of the night. Sadler says her story rings true.’
‘Does she have any idea where she might have gone?’
‘Apparently not. Sadler wants us back at the station pronto. This case is becoming a can of worms. First he has to see Llewellyn. Let’s hope by the time we get back it’s still Sadler we’re reporting to.’
12
Kat’s professionalism was being stretched to the limit. She couldn’t afford to cancel on any clients, but, at the same time, she needed to ensure she didn’t lose any through inattentiveness or being generally useless as a therapist.
It was Theresa’s first time with her, but, as she had assured Kat at the beginning of the session, she’d seen therapists before. For Kat, this always brought out mixed feelings. People tended to stick with their therapists if they were any good, and Theresa’s ready admission that she had been through a few suggested either she’d been unlucky with her previous counsellors or she had unrealistic expectations as to what she would get out of the sessions.
Sweeping her eyes over the information sheet that her new client had filled out, Kat could see that she would be fifty next month. Her marital status was down as divorced, and she wanted help with ‘anxiety’. Bare bones of information, and yet you could develop a set of assumptions on such meagre pickings. Kat noticed the unease as soon as Theresa showed up at the door. Small lines radiated from her eyes, although Kat could also detect a hint of wry amusement when she introduced herself.
She suspected that Theresa might well be a more complex client than the bald tag of ‘anxiety’ could cover. But, again, speculation. Stop it, she thought. Her training kicked in, and she smiled. ‘What brought you here today?’
At the end of the session, Kat rose from her chair and showed Theresa out. So her assumptions had been wrong. Idiot. She should have known better. In fact, she did know better. Behind the calm façade and anxious eyes had been a story. Not merely sad or depressing, like some clients’ tales. No, a traumatic event that had given Theresa a very real reason to fear the world. Nor was it commonplace. Surely the story wasn’t commonplace? Kat searched her tired brain. She had never heard anything similar in her years of practice. No, not a run-of-the-mill story.
She thought about Lena. Kat had suggested counselling when she’d come out of prison but her sister had given her a closed look, and the matter had never been ref
erred to again. The events yesterday had shattered that façade. Behind it all was a secret so monstrous that her sister had absented herself from the house.
Well, she’d got through the morning. First, the meeting with the policeman and then a new client. She frowned again at the thought of Theresa’s story.
Theresa had assured her she would come back next week. Kat thought the likelihood was that she would, but she wasn’t one hundred per cent sure. She wouldn’t have bet her life on it, but, chances were she’d be seeing Theresa again.
13
Sadler sat in front of Llewellyn, curiously moved. He’d gone into his office expecting a tantrum, warnings of dire things to come but, as he reminded himself, he always underestimated his boss. Underneath the bluff insensitivity of his public profile was a decent person and an experienced policeman. It wasn’t the first mistake that he’d seen. What made the difference was how you managed it.
Blame. Something goes wrong, and the first thing you do is look around for someone to hold to account. He’d forgotten that Llewellyn shared his dislike of this reaction. Llewellyn would want to sort it out first. Holding someone to account would come later, if necessary.
‘So,’ Llewellyn said, looking at Sadler over the top of his glasses. ‘An almighty cock-up is what we’ve got here. In fact,’ he smoothed a hand across his desk, ‘what we’ve got is cock-up on top of cock-up. First, the misidentification of a body we thought was Andrew Fisher, then the murder of the real Andrew. And now you tell me that Lena has disappeared. Which makes it cock-up number three.’
‘You think we should have arrested her when we went to question her about the body in Hale’s End? We were, at that time, relying on a visual identification of the dead man. My identification. It was hardly grounds for arrest. Especially as she had already served a ten-and-a-half-year sentence for his murder.’
Llewellyn sighed. ‘It’s damn lucky you weren’t the investigating officer in 2004. In fact, I’ve gone back through the files. Your input was fairly light. A mere DC. You’ve not done too bad in the intervening time.’
‘It’s been nearly twelve years. I wouldn’t be much good if I hadn’t.’
Llewellyn grunted. ‘The main thing is that you’re okay to head up this case. I’ve had to approve it with the Chief Constable, though. Second time I’ve spoken to him today.’
A note in his voice made Sadler look up but Llewellyn didn’t elaborate.
‘Everything we do from now on is going to come under scrutiny. All of us. In fact, only those who weren’t around in 2004 are likely to escape attention. You need to make good use of Palmer and Connie. Their inexperience is going to be an asset here.’
‘Will I need to get involved in the review into what happened?’
Llewellyn sighed. ‘I want you to keep out of that, Sadler. Of course, you’ll be interviewed. It’s going to be painful for us all. I intend to take full responsibility for this. I’m going to see Andrew Fisher’s mother myself after this meeting.’
‘You’re not going to break the news to her yourself?’
‘Of course not. She’s already been informed of the discovery. We did it as soon as we had official ID but I need to see her myself. Explain what we’re going to do. As I said, Sadler, I’m taking responsibility for this one. I’ll let you know what she tells me.’
‘Do you want to take someone with you? Connie, perhaps?’
Llewellyn shook his head. ‘The family-liaison officer will be there. You’ll be following it up with an interview, of course.’ Sadler’s face reddened. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I know she might be involved in this. Where the hell has Andrew Fisher been for the past twelve years? But that’s not our only worry. You know what you need to do, don’t you?’ Llewellyn counted the list off the fingers on his left hand. ‘First, find out the identity of the man found in Lena Gray’s bed in 2004. If she was having an affair, which it certainly looks like, then someone must have known about it. A friend possibly. Second, we need to open an investigation into the killing of the real Andrew Fisher. Not least, why he was killed at Hale’s End. I’d forgotten all about that place. Why murder him there?’
‘And third, you want me to find Lena Gray.’
Llewellyn left his hand up in the air. ‘Well, she does appear to be the one with all the answers, doesn’t she?’
14
Kat stood outside Providence Villa and looked up at its bleak façade. They were mad trying to hold onto the place. It was crumbling around their ears. A cavernous void that consumed whatever money she and Lena managed to scrabble together – Lena from her paintings and she from her clients. She tried to view the place with an outsider’s eye, but it was impossible. Too much of her childhood and teenage years were bound up in the house, and she could only see the vestiges of the family home it had once been. It hadn’t always been so drab. Only in the past ten years or so. Since Lena went to prison, certainly.
Walking into the house, she could sense it was still empty of Lena’s presence. She called out to make sure, but her voice just bounced off the walls. She knew she should cook herself something to eat, but the knot in her stomach filled the gap where food was needed. She ignored the kitchen and climbed the wide stairs, past Lena’s room and up into her attic bedroom. She sat on the high bed and wondered if this was all that life had to offer her: shelter in the bedroom of her teenage years, a non-existent love life and a career that continually threatened to collapse through the sheer difficulty of scratching a living.
Something thumped against her window, and she crossed over to it, peering into the gloom. She was too high up to be scared of an intruder. It was probably a bird or, possibly, a bat. A bat, a creature of the supernatural. Kat frowned. The town that was most associated with the Gothic in England was Whitby, a favourite place of Lena’s. During the dark days of her late teens, times she would refer to as being chased by the black dog, Lena would often take herself out of Bampton and drive east until she reached the coast. Derbyshire, for all its wild and untamed beauty, lacked the ingredient that could calm Lena’s perturbation. The sea.
Lena and Kat, growing up in the limestone dourness of their Victorian villa had, perhaps inevitably, been fascinated by all things dark. In Kat, this had manifested itself in a love of horror films, especially those produced by Hammer in the sixties and seventies. Lena had initially embraced the Gothic seventies kitsch with gusto but had suddenly declared them too childish. And that had been that. But she hadn’t forsaken the Gothic completely. A trip to Whitby when she was in the sixth form had led to a lifelong attraction to the place.
Another thump. This time outside her door – and a sound that Kat recognised. She got off the bed and opened it. Charlie strolled in and jumped up onto the bed before curling up into a circle, his tail wrapped around his head. Kat reached out to stroke him, and he purred obligingly.
Whitby. Could Lena have gone there? The problem was that she’d left the house in the middle of the night, possibly just after midnight according to DI Sadler. She wouldn’t have been able to go far on foot at that time. They shared a car between them, and it was still parked in front of the house. It was the first thing that Kat had checked when she discovered Lena missing. The police would presumably be checking the local taxi firms. Would she have gone all the way to Whitby by cab?
Lena had always been protective when it came to her privacy. Kat had never accompanied her to Whitby and had little idea where her sister stayed during her visits. In a hotel, perhaps. Only once, when their mother was sick, dying in fact, had Kat shouted at her sister over her secrecy. ‘It’s all very well you needing your space but what about me? How am I going to contact you if you never answer your mobile phone?’ Lena would talk to you only when she wanted and not before. Calls constantly went unanswered.
Kat frowned, trying to recall a fragment of memory. Lena had, after the argument, given her something. She could recall a piece of paper. An address hastily scribbled down. Where would she have put it? In the drawer of the
hall table was the family’s address book. It had been used by their parents since sometime in the early seventies. Long-dead relatives vied for space among half-remembered acquaintances.
Kat went downstairs to the book and tipped it upside down. A confetti of notes, letters and cards dropped onto the dark wood. She rifled through the detritus, trying to find something that resembled what she remembered. Eventually she opened out a lined scrap, torn from a notebook. There it was, written in Lena’s impatient swirls: 43 Crowther Terrace, Whitby. No postcode. No directions. But an address.
Kat picked up the car keys and weighed them in her hand. Lena, having run away at the news of her husband’s death, would surely be prime suspect for his murder. Despite the fact that Lena had already gone to prison for his killing. Kat’s head ached with the sheer impossibility of it.
She pulled back the curtain of the hall window. Rain was lashing against it, and the sashes strained against the wind blowing at the window pane. It was a wild night; winter hadn’t yet finished with Derbyshire. From behind her she heard Charlie come clattering downstairs as if to remind her of his presence. Taking a packet of cat biscuits from the shelf, she shook out his daily allowance. She also changed his water and went upstairs to take a bath before having an early night. The weather was too malevolent to be going anywhere this evening. She would make a start first thing. She needed to find Lena before the police did.
15
Saturday, 14 December 1985
Kat leant forward to push the video into the player. She could hear Lena munching on a packet of crisps behind her. The sounds of a hand being delved into the packet and shovelled straight into Lena’s mouth. She didn’t need to turn around to know that they would be nearly finished. ‘Your breath will stink.’