by A. J. Cross
Hanson was tense. She wished she hadn’t had to come. She wasn’t clear what she’d say to Charlie Hanson when he arrived, which was adding to her tension. But this was about Maisie and what she needed. She knew exactly what she wanted to say about that. The door opened again. She looked up.
He was here.
She watched as Charlie Hanson – tall, upright, a little broader than she remembered, his hair still mostly dark – came towards her.
‘Hello, Kate,’ he said warmly.
She saw his hands reach out towards her. Not having anticipated direct contact she gave one of them a quick shake and slid a menu across the table.
‘I’ve decided on just coffee but you choose whatever you want and I’ll call the waitress.’
He sat, looking directly into her eyes. ‘It’s lovely to see you. You look wonderful. It’s been a long time.’
‘Yes. It has.’ She couldn’t think of anything else to say. The waitress came, took their order and went away. His eyes were still on Hanson.
‘I wanted to contact you so many times but I was never sure of the reception I’d get. I didn’t think you’d welcome it.’
Her eyes were focused on a point slightly to the left of his face. She didn’t say anything.
‘I was thinking about you the whole time I drove here. It’s twenty years since I left.’ Left me. ‘Yes. I know.’
He gazed at her. ‘I wish you’d responded to my letter all those years ago.’
She gave him a direct look. ‘What letter?’
His brows came together. ‘The one I left for you that day.’
It felt like she was drowning. ‘I didn’t get a letter.’
Silence stretched between them. Hanson had no reason to disbelieve the letter’s existence. The fact that she hadn’t ever seen it could mean only one thing. Her mother had acted to make sure she didn’t. She looked across at Charlie, guessing he was thinking much the same. He looked at his hands.
‘I should have phoned you when I heard nothing but your mother made clear that I wasn’t welcome to contact you or call at the house. I didn’t want to add to her anger in case it impacted on you.’
She swallowed. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was all a long time ago.’
His eyes drifted over her face. ‘I’m sorry. I did what I felt I had to do. Don’t blame your mother.’
‘Why not?’
He looked into her eyes. ‘Because she’s dead, Kate, and it’s a waste of energy.’
After a short silence he said, ‘We had something in common, you and me. She didn’t understand you and she didn’t approve of me.’
Hanson thought of the times her mother had either mocked or berated her for ‘wasting time reading, reading, always damn’ well reading!’
‘I don’t think she approved of me, either.’ She watched him choose his words.
‘Your mother and I were mismatched. Me, a stuffy lawyer who liked a quiet life, your mother the social one who loved parties, the theatre, holidaying with friends.’ The old photograph she’d shown Maisie flashed inside Hanson’s head. She wanted to know who her biological father was. His name. She couldn’t ask Charlie Hanson. It was still unspoken between them that Charlie wasn’t her father. He was still talking.
‘She was very easily bored by the domestic life but I know there were times when she enjoyed having you and young Celia in the house, running around the garden.’
Hanson sipped water. ‘Yes. I remember. Celia was athletic. She admired that.’
A memory surfaced of Celia, thirteen years old, already five feet seven, sailing effortlessly over the school high jump.
You always set the bar too high, mother. Mother.
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said I would love to see Maisie. How do you feel about that?’ She gave a firm nod.
‘I’m fine with it. Because it’s what Maisie wants.’ She paused. ‘You have to understand something. There has to be an agreement between us. You can’t come into Maisie’s life and then leave it, no matter what the reason. I won’t allow it. If you have the slightest doubt about having long-term contact with her you need to tell me now.’
‘I understand what you’re saying. I want to be part of Maisie’s life. And yours. I give you my word.’
She looked at him directly. She’d had a child’s implicit trust in him once. Could she trust him to do the right thing by Maisie? Right now, control of the situation was in her hands. She took a deep breath.
‘I haven’t decided yet about the best place for you to meet Maisie for the first time. I’ll think about it and let you know and we can agree on a date and time.’ She stood, offered him her hand.
He took it, drew her gently towards him and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
She reached for her bag, turned, walked out of the coffee shop staring directly ahead, back and shoulders rigid, lips pressed together.
She set the plate down in front of Maisie. ‘Your favourite. Spag bol with a side dish of chunky chips.’
Maisie peered at them. ‘Six to be precise.’
‘Stop counting your food and eat. Take some salad as well.’
Hanson ate, her thoughts roaming over her meeting with Charlie Hanson. It had laid a few ghosts. Well, one or two. Now she had to decide where the meeting between Maisie and Charlie Hanson would take place. Until she did she wouldn’t mention today’s meeting to Maisie. It would send her high as a kite.
‘Mum?
‘Mmm …?’
‘Have you spoken to my grandpa?’
The forkful of salad stopped on its way to her mouth. Hanson looked at her. ‘You are uncanny, do you know that?’
Maisie widened her eyes, mock-shocked. ‘What a thing to say to your best girl.’
Best girl. It had been one of Hanson’s names for Maisie when she was small: You’re the best girl I’ve got. It wasn’t long before Maisie had worked out that being her mother’s best girl put her in a very select group of one.
Maisie waited. ‘Mum? Have you spoken to him?’
‘Yes. He’s really looking forward to seeing you.’
Maisie’s eyes danced. ‘When he comes here, guess what I’m going to do? I’m going to show him the teddy bear he sent me when I was born.’
Hanson nodded. ‘That’s a great idea.’
So, that’s the place decided. I’ll ring him tomorrow and agree a date and time.
THIRTY-TWO
Inside her room at the university Hanson rang the hospital where Amy Bennett was still a patient. After a short conversation she put down the phone. A few questions to Amy had confirmed what police inquiries had already established, but she’d had to be sure: there was no link between Amy Bennett and Elizabeth Williams. Their personal interests, educational experience and a seven-year age difference provided no common ground.
She read the names of the Persons of Interest in her notebook: Chris Turner. Lawrence Vickers. Michael Myers. Aiden Malahide. She talked herself through the process.
‘Elizabeth knew Turner and Vickers.’ She added lines linking the names, seeing another link. ‘Aiden Malahide, he met Elizabeth on one occasion.’ She went through her notes. Hollis, one time student at the same college, now resident of Texas was another. He’d spoken to Elizabeth on the day she disappeared. She added another line, connecting him to Elizabeth.
Hanson knew that Hollis’s passport had been examined. It confirmed that it had been twelve months since he was last in England. She couldn’t see how he might have killed Elizabeth. But he was here when Amy was attacked. They’d also checked with Elizabeth’s aunt. She hadn’t recognised the name Myers and neither had Amy just now.
‘So nobody knows Michael Myers and all of this means … what?’ She wrote quickly then gave the words a decisive underscore. ‘All of our POIs were somehow part of Elizabeth’s world or experience. None of them appear to have had any connection to Amy Bennett’s life.’
She went to the heading Physical Evidence. Fibres for Elizabeth.
Boot and tyre prints for Amy. Without a suspect, they couldn’t move forward with any of it.
She moved to Similarities of Modus Operandi. The words overheard by Myers, the words recalled by Amy Bennett. MO was still all they had.
‘Whoever he was, those words are important to us because they were supremely important to him. He felt compelled to say them. They’re all we have to link the two cases.’
Hanson knew that spoken words weren’t a known signature in repeat homicides. How could they be? Anyone who heard them would be in mortal fear of his or her life, then deceased shortly afterwards. She had no doubt that Amy had been destined for a similar fate as Elizabeth.
‘We got lucky because of Myers’ nocturnal activities and also because of Amy’s determination to survive for her baby’s sake. We have his signature, his fantasy-based, ritual behaviour.’
She reread all she’d written and saw the size of the task facing them. If none of their POIs could be elevated to position of suspect for both cases they would be looking for someone who was a stranger to both victims. She understood Watts’s sentiments. They were staring at failure because all they had were a few spoken words, limited physical evidence and precious little time.
‘I have to know exactly what this fantasy of his is about.’
She collected her things and headed for the door, her mind on clothes.
Elizabeth Williams’ clothes.
The brown boxes filled UCU’s big worktable. Two were small and labelled: ‘Elizabeth Williams. Effects.’ The much larger boxes were marked ‘Elizabeth Williams. Clothing.’ There were ten of them.
‘Has Adam’s team finished with all of this?’
Corrigan nodded. ‘Everything the original investigators removed from where Elizabeth was living at the time she went missing. The boxes of effects contain mostly small items like cosmetics. Her phone was never found. Adam’s team has gone over her laptop. This is their report.’
He handed it to her. ‘I didn’t find anything that grabbed my attention but you might.’
She took it. The laptop had revealed very little in the way of personal information. Email and Facebook messages were innocuous, confined to a small circle of individuals, all female. Her eyes roamed over them a second time. She knew what she was seeing.
‘These are the communications of a young woman who was in a relationship with Chris Turner and knew she had to be guarded. She must have suspected he would search through them.’ She put down the report and turned her attention to the boxes of clothing.
‘Tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll help,’ said Corrigan.
‘Elizabeth’s killer removed all of her clothes and took them away with him. The only things he left were the scarf and the small ring which was probably still on her finger at the time he buried her.’
‘He wanted the clothes as souvenirs?’ he suggested.
‘In which case, why not take the scarf or the ring? Easy to remove. Easy to hide until he wants to look at them, relive the experience. Why take everything else? I don’t think it was souvenirs he was after.’
She began searching through Elizabeth Williams’ clothes. ‘Hollis said Elizabeth told him that she was planning to change her clothes that Sunday afternoon. We know she had a suit cleaned. We have to establish if we can what she was wearing when she disappeared. If that suit is here, we have a problem. I’m hoping it isn’t because of what it tells us about where she was going.’
They searched the boxes in silence. There was no suit.
Hanson took a deep breath. ‘I’m confident now that Elizabeth had an interview on that Sunday evening. Malahide denies seeing her again after she called into his office the previous Wednesday. Right now there’s no indication that he did, but we don’t know that for certain.’ She began repacking the boxes, glancing up at him. ‘I’ll pack this away if you need to leave.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t need to be anywhere else. I’ll help you finish up.’ Not looking at her, his tone light, he said, ‘How’d your date go yesterday?’
‘It wasn’t a date, Corrigan.’
‘Not someone who’s romancing you?’
She grinned at the quaint phrase. ‘Definitely not.’
He gave her an intense, blue look. ‘So tell me the kind of romancing you go for, Red. The kind that works for you.’
She didn’t want to get into this. She wanted to keep it light between them, like it always had been.
‘Oh, you know. Being with the person, laughing, talking and enjoying the moment. All the usual bells and banjos.’
He looked at her. The silence lengthened. ‘You know how I feel about you.’
She didn’t look at him. It had been said. It was out there. It couldn’t be unsaid.
‘Yes.’
‘Is that a problem for you?’
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Why?’
She could feel his warmth. ‘Because I don’t do “romance”.’
He looked down at her, brows raised. ‘What’s wrong with romance?’
She looked at the dark hair, his face, his mouth. ‘It carries an expectation.’
He frowned. ‘People usually expect a relationship.’
‘I don’t. I don’t want or need one’
‘Is this about me in particular or all men in general?’
She thought of how much she liked Corrigan. She recalled Celia months ago, expounding on the attractions of his mouth. ‘Have a look at his lips if you don’t believe me. They’re lovely. He’s got these little tucks, one at each corner of his mouth which sort of lifts them, even when he’s not smiling. They make his mouth look kissy.’ She recalled her own hoot of derision. ‘For God’s sake, Cee! You’re making every romance writer despair or gag.’
She studied his mouth. Edible. ‘It’s about me.’
Seeing his eyes darken, knowing he was a good friend she knew she had to offer him more. ‘My father left when I was fifteen. Kevin left Maisie and me after two years.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t need more of that kind of hurt.’
‘You don’t know that that’s going to happen.’
‘Exactly. Over the last ten or so years I’ve learned to organise my life so that I don’t get into situations which might lead to that kind of risk. Plus, it could cause other difficulties for us because we work together.’
The blue eyes searched her face. ‘You can’t close down your life because of what might happen. You’re missing out on so much.’
She looked up at him. ‘What makes you think I’m missing out, Corrigan?’
He looked confused.
She took a breath. ‘I live my life exactly as I want. I don’t miss out on anything, except what I don’t want.’
‘Tell me what you mean.’
She looked directly at him. He has to know. ‘Sex without commitment works for me. I doubt it fits with what you’re looking for.’
He frowned. ‘I get it. Two men hurt you. That doesn’t mean you have to organise your whole life like that.’
‘It’s my choice. It feels safer.’
‘Because you call the shots? That’s no way to live, Kate. We all need emotional connection. Closeness.’
Listening to his words she realised that he understood her better than Kevin ever had or ever would. It didn’t change anything. Should she tell him or should she wait? Wait for what? We’re at an impasse.
‘You’re right. It’s not without its problems. There was someone who didn’t like me calling the shots. We met about three years ago at the university when he attended a conference I’d organised. He was attractive. I thought he was a nice person. I was wrong. I ended it and he wasn’t nice any longer.’ Hanson took a few steps, putting distance between them. ‘I found out he’s the kind who likes to finish things.’
‘And?’
‘He made my professional life difficult whenever he got the chance.’ She gave him a direct look.
‘You know him, Corrigan. Or you did.’
He looked mystified. ‘W
ho?’
‘Roger Furman.’
The name of the one-time manager of UCU hung in the air. The silence between them went on for ever. Finally, he nodded, not looking at her.
She waited. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking that now it makes sense. The conflict between you and Furman was toxic. Yes, he’s a poor excuse for a human being but the way he was with you and your response to him – I could never really get what that was about. Now, I do.’
‘I’m telling you what I think you need to know about me. I evaluate people as part of my job but when it comes to the personal, I’m not very good at it. I choose the wrong men. See Exhibit One: Kevin Osbourne.’ She looked away from him then back. ‘That was unfair. Kevin has his failings as we all do, but he’s not a bad person. What I’m saying is that I don’t want you to be a wrong choice. I like you too much for that and we have to continue working together.’
He hadn’t moved his eyes from her face during the last minute.
She picked up her jacket and bag and headed for the door. ‘We’re very different people, aren’t we Corrigan? Now you know more about me you may want to rethink what you want. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
THIRTY-THREE
Watts read what Hanson had written on the board, then turned to her.
‘It’s still just your assumption that she was wearing that suit when she was killed.’
‘No it isn’t,’ she snapped.
He sighed. ‘OK, have it your way. I think it tells us why she wasn’t wearing it after he killed her. He was iffy about DNA. Or, he took it for a souvenir.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He didn’t.’
He dropped heavily onto his chair. ‘You don’t let anything alone, do you? Right. Let’s hear it.’
She pointed at the board. ‘Elizabeth routinely wore casual clothes, like most of her fellow-students. She was keen to find work experience in an area she believed had some value. We know she’d arranged an interview for that Sunday because she told Hollis. By the time she talked to him she’d decided what she would wear: she’d already had that suit cleaned. She’d collected it that Saturday. I think whoever killed her stripped her for one reason: if she was ever found, investigators might come up with an idea as to where she was going. He feared that that might lead investigators to his door.’