by Sarah Ward
‘His life has already taken a certain course and it’s not something any of us can do anything about.’
‘What course? What are you talking about? And why are you getting him to leave me gifts? I don’t understand what they mean.’
‘I’m trying to explain. The reason for all this. Haven’t you guessed yet?’
‘Guessed? What the hell am I supposed to have guessed? All I know is that you’re on the run from the police who think you shot Andrew. Remember him? The man you married?’
Lena stared at her. ‘The police still think I shot him?’
‘What are they supposed to think? Your husband turns up dead. The one you went to prison twelve years earlier for killing. Then you disappear. What are they supposed to think?’
‘But I had to leave.’
‘Had to? You’ve always done what you wanted to do. You did exactly the same this time. Disappeared because you felt like it.’
‘But Kat,’ her sister reached out and clutched at her arm. It was the first touch Kat could remember since they were teenagers. ‘Andrew was killed. How do I know I won’t be next?’
65
I’ve made a right cock-up of things, thought Palmer. I’m even going to borrow an expression from Llewellyn to describe it. Connie hadn’t made a fuss this morning. She was a good one. There had been no awkward silences or pleading glances. She treated him as she always did. Yet, despite his carefree manner, it was he who was struggling. It wasn’t because he felt guilty. The problem was that he didn’t feel any guilt at all. Surely that’s what he should be feeling. Joanne was at home with her fertility kits. Thank God it was the wrong time of the month. He doubted he could have managed it this morning but there would be no excuses if the time were right.
Connie was jigging her legs to one side of him. He wanted to put his hand out to still them. She annoyed and attracted him in equal measure. What a complete and utter lunatic he was. It was time to go home. The problem was that he was happier here than where he needed to be that evening. He couldn’t disentangle his feelings enough to understand if it was the pull of Connie that was keeping him here or the thought of going home to Joanne that was repelling him.
Sadler walked across to them with a face like thunder. ‘Come into my office.’ Palmer looked at Connie, and she shrugged. They followed their boss into his room. ‘Shut the door.’
Sadler didn’t seem to notice Connie’s frown. Well, hardly surprising, thought Palmer. They usually conducted their meetings with the door shut anyway. What was the problem?
Sadler sat down heavily in his chair. ‘The trouble with being a local is that sometimes it goes against you. If I hadn’t been from this area, I might have paid more attention to the history of Hale’s End.’
‘The history,’ asked Connie. ‘You mean the First World War?’
‘Forget about the war. I mean its more recent history. Because I spent the odd evening larking about in Hale’s End when I was a teenager, that’s what I associated it with. Messing about. Somewhere you could go when you wanted to frighten yourself stupid.’
‘I think it’s still a bit spooky now,’ said Connie.
‘The problem is that a witness has come forward today to say that Hale’s End also used to have a reputation for being a place to go and have sex.’
‘What, in the building?’ asked Connie.
It’s all going to be about sex today, thought Palmer.
‘Not inside the morgue, thank God. However, you could once get a car along the path.’
‘Like dogging?’ asked Connie. ‘You know, where people drive and watch other people have sex in cars?’
Sadler’s face was sour. ‘I can see a hint of amusement in your face, Connie. Get rid of it. I’m not talking about voyeurism. I’m saying that it was a place, literally off the beaten track, where you could go to have sex.’
‘Llewellyn said it was all about sex,’ said Palmer.
‘Yes, he did, didn’t he? Well, I dare say most of it was young teenage couples with nowhere else to go. Although there may have been the odd spot of adultery going on too.’
Fuck, thought Palmer. He didn’t dare look at Connie.
‘You think this is about adultery?’ Her voice sounded hoarse to Palmer’s ears.
‘No, I think it’s about non-consensual sex.’
‘What?’ Connie’s voice had returned to its normal pitch. ‘You mean rape?’
Sadler tapped his pencil on his desk. ‘I’ve had, from a reliable witness, an account of her being taken to Hale’s End, voluntarily at first, and then assaulted during the course of the evening.’
The room fell silent. Both were digesting the information.
Connie, of course, was the first to speak. ‘But it’s Philip Staley that we’re linking with sexual assault. Through the testimony of Rebecca Hardy. It’s Andrew Fisher’s body that we found at Hale’s End. We’ve not found any connection between the two yet.’
‘Well, this might be it. It might not have been Philip Staley who was killed at Hale’s End, but he’s connected to this case. Now there’s a possible link to the location where the murder took place.’
‘Who’s this witness?’ asked Palmer.
Sadler looked down at his desk. ‘I’d rather not say at the moment. We’ll take a statement in due course. I think we’ll have to. But I want to see if we can come up with something more substantial to ensure it’s relevant to the case.’
Palmer frowned. This wasn’t right. If this woman was a potential witness, then they needed to take a formal statement from her. Any delay might jeopardise a future trial if they cut corners regarding witness statements.
‘Is the victim traumatised?’ asked Connie. ‘If you like, I can take along a victim-support officer. Two women. It might help.’
Palmer saw Sadler hesitate. ‘Not for the moment.’
‘She doesn’t want to speak to anyone?’
Sadler didn’t respond, and, in the moment’s silence, Palmer felt the need to fill the void. ‘Did she report the attack?’
‘Yes, but she says she was treated badly during the questioning.’
‘Badly?’ echoed Palmer. This didn’t sound good.
‘I don’t at this stage want to go into any details. Except to say that she felt one of the officers took a prurient interest in the minutiae of the attack. There doesn’t appear to have been an investigation of any substance. She thinks the case was eventually classified as “no crime”.’
‘Fucking hell.’ Connie stood up.
Palmer put his head in his hands. ‘No crime’ was a police classification for when, following an initial report of a crime, subsequent investigations came to the conclusion that no offence had actually been committed. There were a myriad of reasons why this happened. Some were legitimate, for example when there were few witnesses or little chance of securing a conviction. But for sexual assault, the historic ‘no criming’ of cases had been because of a lack of willingness to investigate claims further. This wasn’t just the case in Derbyshire. It had happened everywhere. A disgrace and often the result of an excessive workload.
Palmer risked a look at his boss. Sadler’s expression was calm.
‘Sit down, Connie. This is important. We need to keep our emotions out of this. It wasn’t Philip Staley who was her attacker. Or Andrew Fisher.’
‘So why is her story important?’ Palmer caught sight of Sadler’s face. ‘I mean in relation to this case. Except that she was taken to Hale’s End. That’s a tenuous link.’
‘It’s a link all the same though, isn’t it?’ Connie’s voice was subdued. ‘I think the boss is right. This is sounding right. There’s been something missing, and this could be it.’
Sadler tapped his pen on his desk. ‘I want you to do some digging into that club where Rebecca Hardy says she was assaulted by Philip Staley. What was its name?’
‘Ups ’n’ Downs. It’s not open any more though,’ said Palmer.
‘Well, you’re going to have to use your ini
tiative. I want you to go and talk to some of the girls who used to go to that club when it was open. They’re going to be in their late thirties and early forties now. Try some women’s organisations. Even the Women’s Institute. Put out some feelers. I want to know about Hale’s End too. What went on inside the club and if the girls ever went to Hale’s End. Voluntarily or not.’
‘Why don’t we go through the files?’ suggested Palmer. ‘We could see what we can dig up in relation to both locations.’
‘Leave the files alone.’ Sadler’s voice was cold. ‘And don’t, for the moment, discuss this with anyone.’
He doesn’t want Llewellyn finding out about this, thought Palmer. What the hell’s going on?
66
Lena’s life in danger? Kat took a closer look at her sister. She was wearing pale-blue jeans and a threadbare white jumper with a hole in the sleeve. A cigarette dangled from her left hand, burning uselessly. Lena didn’t seem inclined to smoke it, but neither did she stub it out.
‘You don’t believe me.’
It wasn’t a question. Kat struggled to form the necessary words. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more. I haven’t known what to say to you for years.’
Lena finally took a puff of her cigarette. ‘Well, my life is in danger. It doesn’t really matter whether you believe me or not.’
‘But why? Why is your life in danger?’
Lena looked at the floor. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you kill Andrew?’
Lena remained looking at the pavement. She shook her head.
‘But you know who did, right?’ Kat was thinking of the boy.
Lena didn’t answer. Kat took a deep breath. ‘Who was it in your bed in 2004?’
‘I can’t talk to you about that.’ Now she did look up, and Kat nearly recoiled from the look of misery in her eyes. For the first time that she could remember she felt a human stirring in response to whatever mess Lena had found herself in. Even if it was one of her own creation.
‘Why have you got that boy to leave me things? I know you always liked to be mysterious, but what do the clues mean?’
‘Don’t you remember them?’
‘I remember wearing the necklace. As a kid. The blouse? It took an old photograph to work out that it had even belonged to you.’
‘But you remember the scarf?’
‘The scarf? I remember wearing it in the early nineties, I think. So what? What are you trying to tell me?’
Lena looked deflated. ‘I’m trying to tell you a story. About what happened back then.’
‘Story? So you can taunt me with relics from that time?’
‘I’m not taunting you. I’m trying to explain.’
‘Explain? Explain what?’
‘Why I’ve done what I’ve done.’
‘You mean killing someone who you pretended was your husband?’
‘Yes.’
Kat stood still. ‘And? Well, I’m listening. Tell me.’
‘Kat. You don’t seriously think I’m the only one? The only woman he attacked? It’s not only my story. It’s the story of others too. Including you.’
67
Thursday, 16 July 1987
The man pressed her against the wall, one hand pushing at her chest to hold her steady. With the other hand he lifted her skirt. No, thought Lena. I don’t want this. She wasn’t even drunk. The cider that she’d half drunk had left her feeling nothing more than relaxed while she had watched Kat dancing. Relaxed enough to feel the thrill of pleasure when the man had slid his arm around her and whispered in her ear. For five minutes they had stayed like that, swaying to the sound of the music coming through the walls.
‘Fancy a cigarette?’
Lena’s smile had been genuine. She’d picked up the habit over the summer holidays last year. While her parents worked, she and Kat had lounged around and read Cosmopolitan magazines, giving their own slant on the advice in the problem pages.
She had followed him out the back entrance, past a couple pressed up against a wall, their mouths devouring each other. After the rancid smell of the club, the outside smelt sharp and fresh. He lit cigarettes for them both and watched her as she smoked. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
He smirked at her. ‘Right.’
Emboldened by the sense of adulthood the cigarette gave her, she asked, ‘How old are you?’
He took a long drag of the cigarette and blew lustily into the air. ‘Twenty.’
For the first time, Lena felt the stab of fear. He was old. Not at school. What was she doing out here with him? She threw the half-smoked cigarette onto the ground. ‘I’d better be going in.’
He stubbed out his cigarette on the wall behind her and pushed her back against it. She felt his face descend onto hers and his tongue in her mouth. Repelled, she tried to push him away, but instead she felt his strength.
68
Connie was exhausted. It was gone seven, and, given the precious little sleep she’d had the previous night, she felt a lethargy that made her want to rest her head on the desk for an hour to summon what energy she could muster. But the investigation suddenly had gathered momentum, and, despite Sadler’s reticence, she could feel the energy pouring from him too. Palmer was ignoring her on the other side of the room. He seemed subdued by their boss’s exhortation not to look at the files. It would go against every conformist instinct he had.
She rang Rebecca Hardy, who clearly wasn’t happy being disturbed at home. Connie looked at her watch. She’d probably interrupted her putting the children to bed. All Rebecca could remember was that she had been taken to a lay-by for the assault. Connie couldn’t prompt her any more than this. There were strict rules about putting ideas into potential witnesses’ testimonies. Which meant she would need to find out more information through hard graft. Which was all right by her. She needed the distraction.
First of all, she wasn’t going to get in contact with the Women’s Institute. The vast majority of its members weren’t teenagers in the eighties, that was for sure. Most forty-somethings were bringing up kids who were nearly teenagers themselves. She saw them going in and out of the fitness centre in the converted mill on the way home from work. That was where she needed to speak to them. Not among the cakes and jams. ‘I’m off to the gym,’ she shouted at Palmer, who frowned across the office at her.
*
The building was quiet when Connie entered, but the illusion of inactivity was false. It was early evening, the busiest time for a gym, and the subdued noises coming from the various exercise rooms suggested unseen physical strain.
The boy at reception couldn’t seem to grasp what she wanted, couldn’t see beyond the ID she’d shown him. Connie wondered if he had a record. In the end, she asked for the manager and was directed to an office behind the reception desk.
The manager was around her age, with tattooed forearms that bulged out of his polo-shirt sleeves. He had a well-educated accent. ‘Can I help?’
She showed him her ID.
‘No trouble here, I hope.’ He had an easy manner. Confident.
‘I’ve got a problem I need to pick your brains about.’ She told him about needing to track down women in their mid-forties who drank in the Ups ’n’ Downs pub in the eighties.
‘That place was legendary. I had my first underage drink there too. About 1992 or 1993. It had closed by the late nineties though. I think it lost its licence.’
‘What was it like then?’
‘Awful. Full of young girls and boys. Gelled hair, acne and overpowering aftershave. I used to nick my dad’s. I must have smelt like a perfume factory.’
‘What brand was it?’
He grinned at her. ‘Davidoff.’
‘Not Brut 33 then?’
He looked her up and down. ‘That’s more your generation.’
Cheeky bugger, she thought.
His face took on a serious expression as he picked up a sheet of paper. ‘We’ve a full evening of classes, as us
ual. Mid-forties, you say. You might want to try the spinning class.’
‘Spinning? Isn’t that a bit extreme for the over-forties? Aren’t you doing yoga by then?’
He grinned again at her. ‘Burns off a lot of fat but it is exhausting. You need to speak to the class before they start, not after. It’s Jill taking it today in about twenty minutes. I’ll give her the heads-up that you want to have a word first.’
‘You okay about me doing this?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not.’
A sea of faces looked at Connie as she entered the room. There was a mix of ages, from mid-twenties up to fifty-something, she estimated. However, at least ten to fifteen looked the age she was looking for. She took a deep breath. Here goes.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt your workout schedule. I’ll literally be five minutes unless someone can help me, and then I might need to take more of your time.’ She had their attention. ‘We’re investigating a crime that may have links to the late eighties, and, in particular, a pub, or nightclub you might have known it as, called Ups ’n’ Downs that was open then.’
There was a snort at the back of the room. ‘Meat market.’
‘I’m sorry?’ asked Connie, who had heard well enough.
‘It was a pick-up place. You went there to have a snog with someone who was as drunk as you. Dance around your handbag. That sort of thing.’
The woman folded her arms on her handlebars. They were clearly days she thought better finished.
‘Anyone else remember it?’
A woman near the front put up her hand. ‘I went a couple of times. It was a dire place. I could never decide what to drink. I used to settle for Malibu and pineapple. Now the smell of coconut makes me heave.’
Connie nodded. ‘Anyone else?’
A third woman shrugged. ‘I knew it existed, but I wasn’t allowed out late. So I never went.’