by Sarah Hilary
‘Any odd post in the house?’ Noah asked. ‘Letters, maybe anonymous?’
Joe frowned into the phone. ‘Hate mail? She’d had some trouble with that but it was years back, wasn’t it? Before she moved up here.’ He’d been surprised to find her name in the police database.
‘These letters would be recent. She might not have kept them.’
Noah’s way of asking whether Joe had checked the rubbish? He had, in fact. ‘She’s a shredder. Junk mail, bank statements, bills. Her recycling’s full of it. But why don’t I take a fresh look round for anything she didn’t shred.’ He’d not been looking for letters the first two times he’d searched the house. ‘From her brother, you think?’
‘Not necessarily. We’re aware of a couple of women who were writing to Michael Vokey when he was inside Cloverton. We’ve seen some of their correspondence. The content is quite unusual.’
‘What sort of thing are we talking about?’ Joe thought of the young woman Vokey had attacked in London. ‘Threats?’
‘The opposite,’ Noah said drily.
‘Oh, those sorts of letters.’ Joe’s heart sank. He knew the world wasn’t black and white. People behaved badly and irrationally, even unforgivably. But he’d wanted to believe that what happened to Alyson was an accident, even while he was exploring all other possibilities, searching her bins, looking for signs of foul play. An accident was bad enough. How could she face going home to that house if she’d been attacked there?
‘We think these same women may have written to Julie Seton,’ Noah was saying, ‘possibly with Vokey’s encouragement. Lara Chorley, and Ruth Hull. I’m wondering whether Alyson had any letters like that. These women are upset about the family house that’s in probate. We’ve been told Alyson may have been pushing through the sale against Michael’s wishes.’
Pushing through the sale, Joe thought. So they’d pushed back, sent Alyson down those stairs?
‘You want me to look for paperwork about the house sale?’ He rubbed his thumb at the screen where Annie’s text was sitting. ‘When I’m checking for letters from Lara and Ruth.’
‘Could you? It’d be handy to know whether she’s had any recent correspondence about the London property. I’ll text you the address. Michael was living there, squatting really, before he was put away. We don’t know whether Alyson was aware of that.’
‘Wish we could ask her,’ Joe said. ‘For her sake.’
Her poor legs whittled with bruises from the stairs. And white – proper indoor legs. The fall had rucked up her nightie, showing her knees. He’d tugged it back down to give her her dignity.
‘But she’s doing okay,’ Noah said. ‘The surgery went well?’
Real concern in his voice. Joe liked him for it. ‘Yes, they think so. I’m hoping to hear from the hospital later today. I’ll keep you posted. And about the house, if I find any letters.’
‘Thanks. We’ll do the same down here. Good luck with everything. I hope you get that call from your wife soon. And that Bobby bonds with his new brother.’
‘Thanks. Me too.’ Joe ended the call and pulled on his coat, planning the route from Alyson’s house to the hospital. Annie was three days overdue already. He’d be closer to the hospital than here at the station, and his DI had told him to do what he could to help the Met in London. No one wanted Michael Vokey on their patch. Not the police, not the public, not even Vokey’s sister.
Joe thought of Bobby making space on his shelves for his new brother’s books and toys. Alyson and Michael must’ve been that close, once upon a time. Now it looked like Michael might be a suspect in his sister’s attempted murder. Unless Joe could find evidence to rule it out, or until Alyson was able to tell them the truth about what happened before Joe found her at the foot of her stairs with her poor white knees on show, looking like a sheep he’d once seen on the road out to Newby Bridge, struck by a car and stranded, dying, at the side of the road.
Noah knocked on the door to Marnie’s office. ‘D’you have a minute?’
She’d been on the phone, but she nodded him to a chair. ‘How was DS Coen?’
‘Very helpful. He’s headed back out to Alyson’s house to see if he can find anything from Ruth or Lara, or about the house sale. Since Ruth’s so sure that’s a bone of contention between Alyson and Michael, and because it gives him a motive to attack her. If he attacked her.’
‘Any word on Lara?’ Marnie pitched her empty paper cup at the bin, hitting it neatly.
‘Not yet. Debbie’s waiting to hear from the officers who went to her cottage first thing. I wanted to show you something, though.’ He took out the Polaroid he’d unpinned from the wall in the other incident room. ‘Vokey drew this. It’s Alyson.’ He handed the Polaroid across the desk. ‘I almost didn’t recognise her. The photo we have on file’s so different, but this is one of the pictures we found under the floor at his mum’s house. His artwork. It’s Alyson.’
The sketch wasn’t cruel like the ones of Ruth but it was sparing, half a dozen swift lines in charcoal, feathered by his thumbs. Alyson’s eyebrows and eyes, her nose and mouth. He’d captured her wary look from the photo Joe had provided, but so much gentler and more questing. She wasn’t a beautiful woman but she looked it, here. Not because her brother had lied or elaborated. Because he’d told the truth in the same way he’d told it about Ruth in the life studies which exposed her flawed ego so efficiently. His drawing of Alyson was affectionate, and expansive. The white space between the charcoal lines conjured the whole of her face, illuminating it.
‘He loves her. Or he did, when he drew this.’ Noah looked at Marnie. ‘I don’t think he’s the one who hurt her. I don’t think he could— Not when he feels this way about her.’
‘If he still does. But if he feels she betrayed him by selling the house?’ Marnie put the Polaroid down on the desk between them. ‘That would hurt even more if he loved her.’
‘True. But they were close when he drew this. We didn’t think he was close to anyone. She refused to visit him in prison. He wanted to see her, but she said no. That must’ve stung.’
‘If we look at it like that,’ Marnie touched the hard edge of the Polaroid, ‘it makes it more likely he hurt her, not less.’
Noah couldn’t argue with her logic.
‘There’s something else we need to consider.’ She knotted her curls away from her face. ‘If the house is a motive and he felt threatened by Alyson’s claim on it then we need to think of what he might have done about that. What was it Ruth said: “He loves that house, all of his childhood is there.” He chose to tell Ruth that Alyson was threatening to sell the house. What if he meant her to do something about that? What if he instructed her to do something about it?’
That smile of Ruth’s, the speech about the beautiful thing they had.
A chill carded the back of Noah’s neck. ‘You think Ruth attacked Alyson?’
‘What did Joe Coen say about visitors to the house?’ Marnie stood, going to the filing cabinet for two bottles of mineral water. ‘Had there been any visitors?’
‘It’s a busy street, lots of strangers.’ Noah took the bottle from her outstretched hand. ‘Couriers, delivery people, estate agents. No one that raised any eyebrows, Joe said.’ He unscrewed the lid of the bottle, frowning. ‘Not that Ruth raises eyebrows, until she chooses to. That outfit of hers is a deliberate disguise, and I bet she practises those smiles every morning.’
‘We have two women ready to do anything for Michael Vokey,’ Marnie reminded him. ‘One of whom lives less than an hour away from the sister who’s threatening to sell the house he loves. The house he can’t afford to lose because of what he’s done to the walls, and the cellar.’
‘Lara?’ Noah gave a slow nod. ‘Her trip to Edinburgh’s conveniently timed as an alibi.’
‘It’s a long way for Ruth to go and return in a day,’ Marnie agreed.
Noah drank a mouthful of water, thinking it through. ‘They were writing to Julie, harassing her. That might be
indicative. It wasn’t enough for them to have his attention, they wanted his approval, wanted to win his approval. Making sure he gets the house would achieve that.’
‘There’s another possibility we’ve not considered,’ Marnie said. ‘That Ruth and Lara know one another, or that they know of one another. I can see Vokey wanting them in competition for his attention, and using that to push each woman to up her game. I don’t see Ruth being keen to share the role of his confidante, do you?’
‘Not without a fight.’ Noah set the bottle down on the desk, scratching at his cheek. ‘But I can’t see Ruth agreeing to hurt anyone, not physically. It’s too important to her to have the moral high ground. She’ll petition and protest to her dying breath, but attempted murder? She’d never be able to reconcile it with her faith. Lara’s another matter. Her letters are darker, more dangerous. More possessive, too. She belongs to Vokey, he belongs to her. That business about bruising easily behind her knees. And offering to send more photos, asking what he’d like from her, inviting him to challenge her to take risks. He’ll have found that hard to resist.’
‘Let’s prioritise Lara. Check for footage of her car in the vicinity of Alyson’s house, and double-check her alibi in Edinburgh.’ Marnie got to her feet. ‘I don’t like the fact we’ve not been able to speak with her yet.’
‘If she’s hiding something, she’s playing it cool.’ Noah followed her from the office to the incident room. ‘But that’s not necessarily a good sign.’
‘No, it’s not. Debbie, what’s the latest on Lara Chorley?’
‘Sorry, boss, still waiting for the call.’
‘Chase it, please.’ She nodded at Debbie’s phone. ‘Colin, you have Lara’s registration. Let’s run it through ANPR to find out exactly where she’s been in the last week.’
Automatic Number Plate Recognition. Marnie was harbouring serious doubts about Lara’s movements if she was wanting to check that data.
‘Will do,’ Colin said. ‘And I’ve spoken with Julie. We have a lead on that interview she saw online, the one with the prison officer from Cloverton.’
‘Good, but let’s focus on Lara. It’s taking too long to track her down.’ Marnie nodded at the team. ‘As quickly as we can, please.’
‘I’m in touch with Joe Coen up in Kendal,’ Noah added. ‘Leave that with me. We need to know where Lara’s been, and how much she knows about what’s going on between Michael and Alyson.’
15
‘She calls herself your sister, but she’s a traitor. That’s your house, darling. I have plans for it, and for us. Black-out curtains and a big bed with an oak headboard. I saw one in a shop in Kendal, carved all over with flowers and fruit. Such a work of art! You never saw carving like it, knuckle-deep in places. This one spot, a crop of strawberries, where the detail’s simply glorious. You can see every individual seed. I keep thinking of us in bed. I’ll know exactly how many seeds are in each of those strawberries. If I shut my eyes, I’ll be able to find them with my fingers. I’ll be able to taste them. I want to taste strawberries every night we’re together.’
Mickey grunts and shifts in my bunk, his breath reaching me in rotten waves.
I turn the page, read on: ‘I want to taste limes too. Do you like limes, darling? Such a sharp taste, so bright it fucks through everything. You’ll blindfold me, put me on my knees, and I’ll be able to see its shape through the blackness.’
This is the stuff he’s been waiting for, the good stuff. Lara knows how to serve it up, I’ll give her that. The strawberries were foreplay. Lime’s the main course.
‘Thirst makes hot silk of my throat, salty. My thighs ache. I’m kneeling on a thin carpet on a hard floor. My hands behind me, wrists pressed together, fingers interlaced. I’m being very, very obedient.’ I stumble, blinking at the page.
Lara’s taken to typing her letters, like Ruth. I can’t pretend it’s her handwriting making me stumble. But I always want to stop at this point.
Mickey grunts: ‘Go on.’
‘“Open your mouth!”’ I’m reading Lara’s words. ‘You don’t wait for me to do it. My jaw makes a hollow sound as you lever it wide. I thrust my tongue for a quick taste of you, like sandalwood, earning a slap because that’s breaking the rules and I know it.’
She’s deluded. If she thinks this grunting ape tastes of sandalwood, she’s deluded.
‘I rock to the left. You wait while I get my balance, your breath grazing the air above me. You’re taller than I expected. Your skin smells of freckles.’
It smells of rot, and rubbing. He’s rubbing at himself in the bunk that’s mine.
‘You thrust a lime into my mouth. A whole one, “Bite down,” you play with my jaw until I do as I’m told. Zest darts to the back of my throat, my tonsils quivering as it hits, tongue stung by acid. I have to work hard to hold the position you want. The shock of the taste hits me like a hand.’
I’d like this to be over quickly, but Lara’s learnt to pace herself. Almost as if she knows how long he has to labour to reach a conclusion. Longer and longer, it seems.
‘The fruit burns then numbs my lips. You wedge it deep, forcing an O from my mouth. Juice trickles down my chin, tickling. You take my face in your hands and lean in to lick around the taut shape of my lips. I swallow, tasting sherbet sweets, syllabub, martinis. The friction of your tongue brings my lips back to life. I can feel the dimpled details in the lime’s waxy rind.’
I turn the page to read, ‘I shudder as your teeth nip, sending a pulse of zest buzzing about my mouth. You follow the trail down my neck and lick slowly, hotly at the base of my throat. My skin rises under your touch. Your mouth reaches lower and I’m levitating, suspended from your kiss. Love— Love is not a safe word, but my mouth is crammed with colour and my skin sings so brightly it lights the room.’
I stop, realising he reached the end two sentences ahead of me. I’ve been reading to an empty cell. He isn’t moving, isn’t moaning. The air is flat and void. He’s wiped himself out. Or Lara has, with her words. He’ll be quiet now, for hours. I can breathe, I can move, I can think. She’s wiped him out. I fold the letter away and climb down to the cabinet where my ligustrum is waiting.
Slipping the scissors into my top pocket, I swing back into the top bunk, settling cross-legged there to work. I bend over my little ligustrum and whisper to her all the ways in which I’m glad, each small snip of the blades a blunt, beautiful echo in the empty cell.
16
‘Lara Chorley didn’t drive home directly from Edinburgh.’ Colin pinned a map to the evidence board. ‘ANPR gives us a circuitous route, taking in Kendal on the way back. This was yesterday.’
Debbie was the first to react. ‘She was in Alyson’s home town at the time of the accident?’
‘If it was an accident. Bloody hell.’ Ron linked his hands on top of his head. ‘The letters were bad enough, but he’s got them killing for him? Trying to kill for him?’
‘I’m narrowing it down,’ Colin said. ‘To see how close her car came to Alyson’s house.’
‘There was no sign of a break-in,’ Noah reminded them. ‘But I’ve let Joe Coen know what we’re thinking. He’s taking a fresh look around for anything to suggest Lara was in contact with Alyson by letter, or in person. We’re checking phone records, of course.’
‘Debbie, what news from Lara’s home?’ Marnie’s steady tone defused some of the excited tension in the room. ‘Have the local police been to her cottage?’
‘Yes, but she was out. She left a note saying she’d gone into town for food and fuel.’
‘She’s a fan of leaving notes,’ Ron said sourly. ‘Has anyone actually seen or spoken to her since Vokey ran off? Or are we taking it on faith that she’s alive and kicking?’
‘I spoke to her.’ Colin flushed. ‘When you were bringing Ruth back from Danbury. It wasn’t a long call, just enough to confirm she’d been in Edinburgh and was on her way home.’
‘So just a couple of barefaced lies, then.’ Ron rolled h
is eyes at the ceiling.
Colin bit his lip, stung into silence.
‘Lara wasn’t a suspect two days ago,’ Marnie reminded him. ‘We wanted to locate her, and we did that. Local police were taking charge of questioning her. We trusted them to do it.’
‘We should’ve brought her in.’ Ron folded his arms. ‘Like Ruth.’
‘We should have questioned Ruth in Essex,’ Marnie told him. ‘That’s the word from on high. We cooperate and collaborate. We don’t take over.’
‘Local police have been dicking about for two days,’ Ron complained. ‘Have they even searched Lara’s house for Vokey? She’s running around the countryside doing his bidding. For all we know they’re Bonnie and bloody Clyde.’
Noah’s phone rang and he turned away to take the call, aware of Marnie’s continued efforts to pour oil on the troubled waters of the team. ‘DS Jake.’
‘Noah, it’s Joe Coen. I’m at Alyson’s. You were right about the paperwork.’
‘Hang on. Let me put you on speaker.’
Marnie nodded at the team and the room fell silent, listening to Joe.
‘So she’s a shredder, like I said. But she’s also a hoarder, at least when it comes to her brother. A drawer full of prison forms, from Leeds as well as Cloverton. Visitor requests from Michael, rules about contacting inmates. And paperwork from their mum’s death, certificates, solicitors’ letters, all that sort of thing. Then there’s this letter. Typed, no signature.’ Joe hesitated. ‘D’you want me to read it? I could send a photo from my phone.’
‘Both,’ Noah said, ‘if you could.’
‘Okay. It’s just that it’s not— Okay.’ Joe drew a short breath. ‘“You should be standing by him, you bitch. Just like he stood by you. That house’s all he has left. You don’t want it, you never wanted it. So keep your hands off it. You’ve hurt him enough. We won’t warn you twice.”’
‘Wait,’ Noah said. ‘We won’t? It definitely says that?’