by Maggie James
The woman stands up, extends her hand. ‘You must be Spencer,’ she says. Her tone is polite, but her expression is hard. ‘I’m DC Campbell. Family liaison officer. I’d like to ask you some preliminary questions about the night Jessie was murdered, before I notify my colleagues that you’re home. Dana, Lori, could you give us some privacy, please?’
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Dana shoots him another piercing stare as she exits the room, Lori following. Spencer’s mouth is dry, his palms sweaty.
‘Could we . . .’ He clears his throat, but his voice remains hoarse. ‘Could we do this someplace else?’ He’s mindful of the accusation implicit in Dana’s face. Impossible to discuss Jessie’s death in this house, where her ghost haunts every room. If he has to talk to the police on their home turf, so be it. He’s past caring what the predatory press hounds across the road will infer.
DC Campbell’s expression remains neutral. ‘I can take you to Bridewell station if you prefer.’
Spencer swallows panic. He knows he can’t avoid this, yet Campbell’s words make the scratches on his back prickle. The memory of Jessie’s dead, outstretched arm, perhaps with his blood and skin cells under the nails, flashes into his mind.
Campbell is staring at him, expecting a response. ‘Fine. Whatever you think best.’
When he returns hours later, he clocks the condemnation in Dana’s face the minute he walks into the living room. Behind her, his father’s expression holds anger mixed with worry. Between them, the atmosphere is tense, heavy, filled with accusations. Thank God Fraser Golden’s not here, he thinks. Lori’s not around either.
‘Did you kill my daughter?’ Dana’s voice is level, controlled, yet Spencer realises she’s barely holding her emotions in check.
‘No.’ It’s like being at Bridewell police station, only worse. Sweat beads his forehead. ‘I swear I didn’t murder Jessie.’
‘Why should I believe you?’ Dana’s voice rises higher as she invades Spencer’s personal space.
‘It’s the truth. I’d never hurt her.’
‘You went missing at the same time she did. You come home days later, with no real explanation of where you stayed or what you’ve been doing. What have the police said?’
From somewhere he finds the wherewithal to reply. ‘They took a DNA sample. They told me they’ll test it against evidence found on her body.’
Dana moves even closer. His eyes trace over the veins in her eyes, the paper-like dryness of her skin, the cracks around her lips. She looks terrible, he thinks.
‘Whoever raped and killed my girl was careless. Left traces behind. If they are a match to you—’ She’s so close he can smell the coffee on her breath, and he takes a step backwards. ‘You’d better pray the police get to you before I do. Or Fraser, for that matter.’
‘Dana!’ His father’s voice is harsh, cracking through the air like a whip, Spencer flinching in its wake. ‘Leave him alone. All this is pure speculation.’
Dana sits back on the sofa, her gaze never leaving Spencer. Hatred, dark and thick, flashes from her eyes. ‘Do you have a better explanation?’ she asks Jake.
‘Maybe it’s like Lori said. Jessie was seeing someone and didn’t tell us. She was sixteen, Dana. Girls are naïve at that age, their heads stuffed with romance. Perhaps some older guy groomed her online. She goes to meet him, all starry-eyed, only to find she’s made a terrible mistake.’
Dana’s lips are rigid. ‘And how did she come into contact with him? Between school and home, it’s not as though she got many opportunities to meet men. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s how it should be for a sixteen-year-old.’
‘Like I said, online. These perverts are slick, practised, know what they’re doing. Even though you didn’t allow her a laptop, she had Facebook on her mobile. Hell, you were on her case often enough about how long she spent browsing it. Besides, she was found at your property. You can’t tell me that wasn’t her choice; a set of keys to the house were discovered in her bag, remember? Like it or not, Dana, Jessie went to meet whoever killed her. But it wasn’t my son.’
Spencer can see Dana isn’t buying it. As far as she’s concerned, he has ‘guilty’ carved into his forehead. Her next words prove him right. She eyeballs him square on. ‘Pack your bags. I want you out of my house within the hour.’
‘That’s unfair!’ Jake’s expression is shocked. ‘Dana, you can’t—’
‘My home, my rules. You know damn well I’ve never accepted his druggie past, all the binge drinking. You think I’m any more comfortable with him raping and murdering my daughter?’
Spencer blanches at the vitriol in her voice. He runs from the room, heading into the garden for a cigarette, desperate to escape the hatred in her eyes.
Later, when he judges it’s safe to re-enter the house, he pads upstairs to his bedroom, keen to avoid Dana. Within minutes, a knock sounds at his door. When he doesn’t respond, Jake walks into the room, sits on the bed beside his son. ‘What happened with the police?’ he asks.
Spencer runs through the statement he made to Lightfoot and Baldwin. How he cruised the bars around the city centre that night, starting with Murray’s. The place is a dive, lacking CCTV cameras, with surly bar staff who never eyeball the customers, so he’s sure nobody there can tell the police anything. He repeats to Jake what he told the police: how he can’t remember much of that night as he was drunk, but he recalls getting in a fight at some point. How he spent the weekend at Vinnie’s, recovering from the mother of all hangovers. Along with the fact that his mobile was switched off, out of battery, hence his not picking up the frantic phone messages left for him.
Some things he doesn’t mention. Like waking up close to Jessie’s corpse. His vague memory of unzipping his jeans as an unknown man watches. Or Lightfoot’s inspection of his shoulders, her sharp questions about the marks, now largely healed, on the left one. Her request for him to remove his T-shirt was inevitable, given that he suspects DNA evidence was found under Jessie’s fingernails, but one that filled him with dread nonetheless. His explanation that the scratches must have been caused during the fictitious fight had sounded false even to his own ears. From what he’d deduced, though, Lightfoot was already aware of his penchant for drugs and drinking binges. Informed, no doubt, by Dana. Given that the scabs from the scratch marks were mostly gone, leaving just pink traces, the woman didn’t have sufficient reason to detain him.
‘Is there anything you didn’t tell them?’ Jake asks.
‘No,’ Spencer says. ‘Like I said, it’s all a blur.’
‘Son.’ Jake faces him squarely now, his gaze piercing. ‘If you’re not being honest about something, now’s the time to come clean. To me, anyway.’
Spencer wonders if his father’s psychic. How does he know?
‘Hell, these things happen,’ Jake continues. ‘Did she come on to you, then act the tease? Was that how it went down? She asked you to meet her at the house, the two of you had a few drinks, then everything got out of hand? Then you spin a cover story about going out boozing?’
‘No! I swear that’s not how it was.’
Jake’s silent for a while. Then: ‘Dana’s been sent a god-awful card. Wouldn’t talk about it at first, she was so upset. Did you send it?’
Spencer’s confused. ‘What are you on about?’
‘A greetings card. With a vile message inside, saying Jessie got what she deserved, how Dana’s not a fit mother.’
Rage balls in Spencer’s gut, threatens to erupt, but he reins it in. ‘And she thinks I sent it?’
‘She reckons it’s some crank. Was it you?’
‘No. You have to ask, Dad? Really?’
Jake stands up, his expression grim. ‘You must admit, you two have never got along. I’ve spoken with her. She admits she’s prejudging you, but insists you have to leave. I’ve bought you some time, though. She’ll give you a week, otherwise she’ll pack your stuff herself and throw it into the street. And you’re to stay out of her way in the meantim
e.’
An hour later, Spencer hears a key in the lock downstairs, a female voice in the hallway. Lori is home. Her footsteps sound on the stairs. The door to her bedroom opens.
Desperate to talk with her, angered by his father’s accusations, he walks into her room. ‘Hi,’ he says, and she turns, startled. Relief floods through him when she smiles, her expression warm, without judgement.
‘Hey, Spencer,’ she replies, her tone light, although exhaustion is etched under her eyes. ‘I’m sorry I got mad at you before, but Jessie’s death has devastated me. I can’t think straight anymore. How did it go with the police?’
He swallows, his mouth dry. ‘Not great. They think I’m guilty, I’m sure of it. Because I can’t account for my whereabouts that night, not properly anyway. They took my DNA, Lori.’
‘That’s nothing. They obtained a sample from everyone. Routine stuff.’
‘There are scratches on my back. I haven’t a clue how they got there.’
Her face pales. ‘It won’t have been from Jessie. You couldn’t have done anything like that.’
‘Then who did make them?’
‘You must have pissed someone off when you were too drunk to remember. Wouldn’t be the first time, would it? I know you, Spence. Sure, you’ve had your problems with drink and drugs, but you’re no killer. When the DNA results come back, you’ll be in the clear.’
Spencer exhales. For now, his sense of isolation retreats. She’s solid, is Lori Golden. He pushes the memory of Jessie’s dead face from his mind. Bad enough he’s admitted to the scratches. Any more, and Lori will be calling DC Campbell.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘For believing me.’
From the depths of her handbag, Lori’s mobile sounds, the ping of a text coming through. She pulls it out, frowning. ‘Aiden again,’ she says, annoyance in her voice. She thrusts the phone back in her bag. Spencer’s puzzled. Isn’t Aiden a friend of Lori’s?
‘Problem?’ he asks.
Lori’s mouth tightens. ‘He’s been so weird,’ she says. ‘Always calling, texting, wanting to know if the police have any leads.’
‘Isn’t he just being a good mate?’
Lori shakes her head, her expression shuttered. ‘It’s more than that. The way he acted when I told him about Jessie – his reaction was way different to what I’d expect. It went beyond just being concerned for me as a friend.’
Spencer shrugs. ‘People react to things in different ways. Could be Jessie’s murder has triggered something for him. Some bad memory, perhaps.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. Now I’m not so sure. Can’t put my finger on what’s behind it, but his behaviour’s making me uncomfortable.’
‘You don’t think’ – Spencer draws in a breath – ‘that he had something to do with her death?’
Lori chews her lip. ‘No. But I don’t think he’s telling me the whole story.’
Spencer’s at a loss as to what to say. He hardly knows Aiden, after all. He risks a difficult question. ‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Jessie?’
Her eyes slide away from his, and he senses she’s holding something back. Then it hits him. Lori has her theory about who murdered Jessie all right, and she’s keeping her suspicions within the family.
‘Say it,’ he urges, his voice ragged. ‘You suspect my father, don’t you?’
‘Spencer . . .’
‘You think he killed her. Admit it.’
Lori sits on the bed, her movements jerky. ‘Don’t get mad at me. But it’s crossed my mind. He doesn’t have an alibi for when she died.’
‘He was watching television. I saw him before I left.’
‘What about later, though?’
‘Jeez, Lori! He was home here alone, all right? It’s not his fault nobody can back that up.’
‘There’s more. The way he used to eye her up – it bothers me, Spencer.’
He draws in a breath, rattled beyond measure. ‘Dad’s not into teenage girls.’ His tone is curt. ‘Whatever you’re thinking, you’re mistaken. Jessie was like a daughter to him.’
‘I suspect he may have left the house, driven somewhere that night. If so, why would he lie about it?’
Something inside Spencer snaps. ‘You’re tossing accusations around like they’re confetti,’ he says, anger in his voice. Her glib insinuations infuriate him, making him itch to slap her. ‘First Aiden, now my father. I know you’re hurting, Lori, but do me a favour. Get your head straight before pointing the finger at everyone around you.’ Turning on his heel, he walks out, slamming the door behind him.
That evening, Jake shovels peas into his mouth, and Dana pushes hers around her plate. Lori stabs a chunk of chicken with her fork, acutely aware of the space where Spencer normally sits. Tonight he’s eating upstairs, for which she’s grateful. His expression when he stormed out of her room earlier wasn’t pretty. The atmosphere around the table is thick, suffocating. Nobody speaks. Instead, they watch the early-evening news bulletin.
From what the reporter is saying, another arson attack occurred in Speedwell the night before, causing extensive damage to an empty industrial unit. And it seems there was another warehouse fire in Downend on Sunday evening as well, the same night that her mother’s property was burned. Then shock hits Lori. The television report cuts to a house she recognises: 35 The Larches. Behind the reporter she sees the blackened walls of the house, the blown-out windows, the mess that was once the roof, and she shudders.
The woman addresses the camera. ‘The perpetrator now appears to be targeting private homes as well as industrial buildings, as witnessed by this latest fire in St George. As we reported in a previous bulletin, speculation is mounting as to whether the blaze at twenty-six The Elms, where the body of murdered teenager Jessica Golden was discovered, has also been part of the arsonist’s campaign. With me I have—’
A strangled moan comes from Dana. ‘For the love of God, will someone turn that damn thing off?’ she hisses.
Jake grabs the remote, points it at the screen, which goes black. Beside him, Lori shudders. She hates fire, avoids Bonfire Night celebrations, averts her gaze when anything burning is shown on television. For Lori there’s no worse fate than death by fire. In her nightmares, she screams in terror as flames surround her, cutting off her escape route, their deadly heat edging ever closer. She always wakes bathed in sweat, panting for air.
All this because, when she was six years old, she tripped and fell on Bonfire Night, her face landing inches from the blaze. In the split second before Fraser Golden dragged her to safety, brushing away the sparks burning holes in her puffa jacket, she became one with the fire, experienced its power, giving rise to a virulent phobia. Another reason she’s uncomfortable around Damon Quinn. OK, so the guy does a worthwhile job, but it baffles her how he deals with fires on a daily basis.
‘Sorry you saw that, love,’ Jake says. ‘God, what the hell is going on?’ He rakes his hand through his hair. ‘I reckon that reporter’s right. The guy torching all these buildings is the one who killed Jessie.’ Dana doesn’t reply, and hurt steals over Jake’s face. He turns to Lori. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Lori keeps her reply neutral, remembering her suspicions about the man. ‘It’s possible.’ She recalls her conversation with Ryan. He also thought Bristol’s arsonist and Jessie’s murderer might be the same guy, his theory backed up by what the police psychologist said a while ago on television.
Something creeps into her mind, despite her best efforts. Spencer, leaving in a funk on Sunday evening, staying away another two nights. Did he, during those missing hours, set the latest blazes in Speedwell and Downend? And if so, did he also torch 35 The Larches? As well as where Jessie died on Friday? Fear squeezes the breath from Lori’s lungs, so ugly are her thoughts. Has she been wrong about the guy she’s always liked? Is Spencer Hamilton a murdering bastard, one who gets off on setting fires?
Lori shakes her head, recalling Jake’s furtive glances at Jessie. Not something she e
ver saw from Spencer. The father’s the culprit here, not the son. Whether he also torched the house at The Larches remains to be seen; Lori, having been out with friends Sunday evening, is unsure of Jake’s whereabouts that night. Either way, the police should complete the DNA testing soon. Meaning he’ll be arrested for her sister’s murder if he’s guilty. Case closed, in Lori’s opinion.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Ryan tells her later, over a bottle of Shiraz at his flat. ‘If he killed your sister, the bastard deserves a slow lingering death, not life in jail.’
Chapter 7
DEPRESSION
Wednesday lunchtime, and Lori arrives home from buying groceries to find her mother in tears. Dana’s hair is a wild tangle on top of her head; coffee stains are spattered over her T-shirt. She’s pacing the living room, her eyes glassy, unfocused.
‘The police have taken Jake in for questioning.’ Despair runs through her voice. ‘I don’t understand. Why him and not his son?’
Lori moves to hug her mother, all the while thinking: I knew he was guilty. As she does so, she hears footsteps descending the stairs. Spencer rounds the foot of the banisters into the hallway, heading for the kitchen. As he does, his eyes meet Lori’s, then he spots Dana, causing him to head back upstairs. Before he does, she reads anger, defiance and fear in his expression. God knows he has enough reason. First she suspects his father of murder, and now the man’s been arrested, with no credible alibi. No wonder Spencer’s scared; he must be going through hell right now. However much she wants Jessie’s killer strung up by the balls and tortured to death, the last thing the Goldens need is for the gossips in the park to be proved right. For the murderer to be hiding in plain sight under the family’s roof.