Buried Secrets

by Lisa Cutts

  ‘Now, Hazel,’ said Travis. ‘I need to go outside now.’

  Chapter 82

  Each day, Hazel reserved two seats at the end of the front row of the public gallery for her and Travis. Each day he sat impassive beside her listening to the evidence being presented and despite the fidgeting and sweating, he seemed to take it all in with a determination to see it through to the end.

  Today was too much for him.

  It was too much for anyone and as much as Hazel had tried to forewarn him, support him and shield him, he was an adult and allowed to make up his own mind. What was unfolding in front of him in the legal system’s playhouse was wearing him away one layer at a time, but this latest detail had gone straight to his core.

  He didn’t remember leaving the courtroom, walking across the well-worn carpet to the double glass doors leading to the public waiting and seating area, although he supposed that he must have. He was in a small side room with Hazel.

  His head was full of anger and self-pity and hatred. They were all beginning to merge so he couldn’t tell hate from self-loathing. He had no right to feel like this and every time he slept, every time he ate, every time he drank one of his aunt Una’s endless cups of tea, he was letting his parents down. He should suffer. It was the only thing to do. He couldn’t feel anything but misery.

  At last Travis said, ‘I don’t think I can go back in there and listen to any more of that.’

  His eyes were red as he looked at her for approval.

  ‘It’s up to you what you do. I promise you one thing and that’s that no one, no one at all, will think any less of you for not going back in the court. You’ve been here every day and if that’s what you want to do, you know that I’m here to help you and to support you in whatever way you want.’

  They both sat still, hearing but not really listening to the sounds of a Crown Court with ten courtrooms, each having as many as four different sentencings, hearings, administrative hearings and trials on any given day.

  ‘It’s as though I can’t stand to watch it,’ he said, gulping air, ‘yet I can’t bear to look away either. From what that scientist woman just said, even if Aiden didn’t hit my mum on the head, his clothes were saturated with her blood. Is that right?’

  ‘Scientists give their interpretation of the facts and what she’s said is that whoever was wearing the T-shirt and jeans, and we know that was Aiden, was likely to have kneeled or leaned very close to your mum’s head as she was bleeding heavily. It’s likely that Jenny was standing a little further away because the blood on her shoes was airborne.’

  He started to speak through his tears, falling onto his tie as it hung draped around his neck. ‘Aiden only got arrested the second time because he was stupid enough to go back for their clothing. He’d have got off scot-free otherwise.’

  He wiped the back of his hand across his nose as Hazel fished in her bag for a tissue.

  ‘You know the most stupid thought that keeps running through my head?’ he asked Hazel.

  She shook hers in response.

  ‘If Jenny confessed in the police station to killing my mum, knowing that Aiden had done it all along, she loved him so much, she was prepared to go to prison for him. What did my mum do for me? Fuck my best friend and get her head smashed in.’

  Chapter 83

  Inside the courtroom, the forensic scientist turned to face questions from the defence teams. The jury were indicating a liking for her, so attacking her wasn’t going to work on this occasion. As an expert witness, she knew what she was talking about too.

  ‘Is it possible from your comments earlier relating to the enormous amount of blood on Aiden Bloomfield’s clothing, and the “breathed-out blood”, as it were, on the shoes, that you can rule out Jenny Bloomfield as having struck any blows?’ asked Jenny’s counsel.

  Freya put her head to one side as she considered the question. ‘In this situation, if I was to strike into a source of wet blood with a hammer, such as a person’s head as they lay on the floor, I would have to bend down to do it.’

  She made a half-hearted crouching motion within the witness box, encouraging the jury to think and imagine someone having to crouch to hit someone’s head as they were prone.

  From many years of giving evidence, Freya knew that jury service could be heavy-going and did her best to give her findings in a way everyone could understand. Sometimes she became animated but she always got her point across in a rational and straightforward way.

  ‘The action of bending or squatting down,’ she said, ‘exposes parts of me that would be different if I was standing and hitting someone. For example, if I bent down, my right knee might be presented to the impact site. When the men’s jeans, court exhibit five, were examined, a large amount of bloodstaining was found on the right knee, consistent with whoever was wearing those jeans bending down and hitting the victim on the head.’

  There was a pause whilst everyone took in this information and a few of the older jury members, no doubt many of them also parents, pondered Jenny’s confession that would save her son. It also gave the QC time to get his thoughts together.

  ‘Would you expect the person striking the victim’s head with a hammer to have more or less blood on them than, say, an innocent bystander?’ said the QC, leaning forward on his wooden note stand.

  ‘For a blunt-force event, such as a hammer attack, the main things I would look for would be the size of the individual spatter stains caused by droplets of blood landing on an item, such as clothing, the spread of the spate, how each stain relates to others, and then finally the overall distribution of the bloodstains across an item. It’s all taken into account but if I were to demonstrate to you with a meat tenderizer, some blood and a bit of pork – we use pork in training a lot as it behaves like human flesh – if you were standing close by, you would possibly end up with more blood on you than me, even if I was the one hitting the pork.’

  Her last comment caused a small titter in a very tense room.

  ‘So to speak,’ she felt the need to add. ‘Blood can fire off in a completely different direction too if the dynamics of an assault cause it to do so. So hitting someone with a particular shape of weapon, such as a hammer, will influence the spread of the resulting blood spatter. What this might mean is that the blood could all or mostly be forced away from the assailant. This might mean that a large amount of blood is deposited on a bystander and relatively little transferred to the attacker.’

  ‘In conclusion,’ asked the QC, scratching at his hair beneath his wig, ‘from the blood-pattern analysis, you can’t definitively say who struck the blows to Linda Bowman’s head.’

  If he wanted a ‘no’ answer, he was disappointed.

  ‘The idea that the attacker would be heavily bloodstained is a misconception. Unless there is a lot of blood loss at the moment the blows are struck, there is a greater chance of there being no blood transferred at that time, or very little rather than lots. It’s very easy to strike a bloodstained surface multiple times and walk away relatively or completely blood-free. I’ve hit hundreds of pork joints over the years and I’ve seen it myself in simulations.’

  She paused and added, ‘I can’t be definitive about who struck the blows, but the right knee of the jeans, court exhibit five, has significant bloodstaining consistent with the person wearing them being beside the victim on the floor whilst blood loss was particularly heavy.’

  This was what Jenny’s defence team needed to do – show that Aiden was in some way responsible and get the jury to see things in a different light.

  However, no one had yet asked the question of whether Aiden’s jeans were blood-soaked because he was kneeling beside Linda to shield her from an attack.

  Possibly from an assault by his own mother.

  Chapter 84

  Afternoon of Wednesday 15 November

  For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Sean felt nervous. He sat on the cheap material covering the cushioned sofa, his two-thousand-pound suit touching un
speakable horrors. He had thought about wearing something cheaper from his workwear collection, but then the sniffer dogs at the prison security checkpoint might have picked up on the Class A he came into regular contact with. Better to be safe, and besides, he wanted to impress Jack McCall.

  It wasn’t every day he got to visit one of the country’s biggest organized crime bosses, definitely not one that had been grassed up and sent down.

  Sean had made his mind up years ago that he was going to live an extraordinary life, so why not make peace with the past. He had known it would catch up with him, so he’d willingly run towards it.

  He fiddled with his tie, pinched the creases in his trousers between his thumb and forefinger and kept a careful eye on the metal-barred door leading to the wing.

  It wasn’t long before the bulk of Jack McCall loomed into the doorway and was pointed in Sean’s direction.

  ‘What you dressed as, boy? You look like a fucking solicitor.’

  ‘Good to see you too, Jack. You’re looking well.’

  The prisoner rubbed his hands over his stomach. ‘Food’s shit in here, unless you got a couple of quid, although I do get to go to the gym. Library’s a bit light on the classics but it allows time for meditation and self-reflection.’

  Sean wasn’t sure if the last part was a joke so he waited until Jack laughed before forcing his own mirth to the surface.

  ‘What you come to see your old uncle for then? You better not have ballsed up my business.’

  Jack threw himself down in a chair so Sean warily sat down to face him.

  ‘No, it’s all going fine and I took a risk coming to see you. My name’ll be linked to yours now on your prison records. The police aren’t so stupid that they won’t check.’

  He jolted as Jack lurched across at him. ‘Don’t take fucking liberties. How’s this a risk to you? You’re enough of a dozy bastard that you risk the identity they gave you, Kelvin, to come and visit me in prison, so tell me how that’s a risk to you? I’m inside and you’re fucking about out there.’

  Sean glanced around the room that was filling up with prisoners and their visitors, opened his mouth to say something. Jack put up his hand to stop him, shot him a warning look.

  ‘Let me remind you of something,’ the family head said, ‘take absolutely no risks about anything you say in here.’ Then he held his forefinger up to his lips. He followed this up with a conspiratorial wink, then added, ‘So whilst you’re in town, have you managed to catch up with anyone? How about your sister?’

  ‘That’s not—’

  ‘I always liked her. Thought she had more bollocks than you, real nasty cow when she wanted to be too. I saw a true McCall entrepreneur spirit in her. I always doubted my boys would take over the firm. It was a close thing between you and her. Why don’t you drop by and see her? Bury the hatchet.’

  Jack threw his head back and laughed at his own joke.

  ‘Funny, Jack, real funny,’ said Sean. ‘The problem with my sister was that I didn’t always like the company she kept. She should have been a bit more astute when it came to who her bedfellows were. Someone like her shouldn’t have chosen to play such a dangerous game. It was pure and simple taking the piss.’

  ‘I hope that’s not the reason—’

  Now it was Sean’s turn to put his finger to his lips.

  ‘Not in here, Jack. I’ll let you know in eighteen months’ time. I wanted to run a few work problems by you, but as you say, walls have ears. Still, I don’t think this was an entirely wasted trip. In the meantime, I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up, so if you’ll excuse me.’

  He stood up, prompting Jack to do the same.

  As a prison officer made his way towards them, Sean held out his hand and said, ‘And by that time, you’ll be blown away with my new business model.’

  Chapter 85

  After taking Travis home, Hazel couldn’t wait to see Harry. Court was exhausting and she knew that there was a long way to go yet. She pulled up outside his house, relieved to be away from Travis and equally pleased to have a whole evening ahead with her boyfriend. He had texted her and told her that he was at home and asked if she fancied a quiet night in, a restaurant or pub plus a takeaway. ‘Surprise me!’ was her answer.

  She was certainly surprised now as a second car was parked in the driveway alongside Harry’s Honda. Her stomach gave a lurch as she realized that the brand-new Audi parked next to his six-year-old car was most probably his ex-wife’s.

  Engine silenced, she leaned forward over the steering wheel, thinking through her options. Hazel couldn’t face any more confrontation today, yet she didn’t think it was fair that a total stranger was stopping her from walking into her boyfriend’s house.

  That presented another problem: should she let herself in with the key that Harry had given her some time ago, or ring the doorbell? The former seemed to be rubbing the other woman’s nose in it but the latter made her the outcast.

  It hadn’t been Hazel who had left Harry at the first chance of financial independence, taking the children several counties away. She hadn’t broken his marriage up, so why was she hiding in her own car outside his home?

  Hazel made up her mind: whatever Harry’s ex-wife wanted, she wasn’t about to drive away again. Harry was worth hanging around for, and the near-panic she felt at losing him surprised her. Hazel opened the door to get out and had her key ready to show she wasn’t afraid to make the point that things had moved on since Mrs Powell had left her husband to his own devices.

  As she put one foot on the tarmac, she heard the front door open and a blonde woman, a very attractive blonde woman, came out of the house.

  Transfixed, Hazel stayed where she was, scrutinizing the woman’s neat choppy haircut, her long woollen coat, her designer handbag, her high-heeled beige suede boots and the way Harry was staring at her before she said something to him that made him laugh.

  There was no mistaking that he gave a deep and hearty laugh that meant he’d found whatever she had said genuinely funny. Even the thought of the months of feeling secure and enjoying every moment with Harry, hardly a cross word, couldn’t prevent her despair at what was unfolding before her very eyes. Hazel felt tears forming but couldn’t stop watching. She had got there earlier than Harry was expecting. By the time she’d dropped Travis and driven all the way back across town again, court would have been finished. Now she wished she had gone back to work and not known that Harry’s glamorous ex-wife had paid him a visit.

  Then Harry did something so fantastic that Hazel let out a laugh between the fingers of the hand that had been about to turn the engine back over.

  As his ex walked away from him, back turned, he extended both hands and gave her a very unmistakable middle-finger gesture. Just to make sure it wasn’t wasted, he shouted, ‘Oi, and next time, fucking ring first. I don’t dance to your tune any more.’

  Hazel took out her phone and texted Harry. Decided pub and takeaway – my treat. Xxx

  Then she sat in the car outside his house for five minutes, never intending to tell him what she had seen.

  Chapter 86

  Friday 24 November

  Since the day Travis asked Hazel to take him out of the court, he hadn’t always made it there to listen to the evidence. It was the catalyst that allowed him to cut himself some slack. Sometimes he got out of bed determined to hear everything through, no matter how distressing it was, such as when Sasha Jones and former police officer George Atkins were called to give evidence, and sometimes he couldn’t face getting up at all.

  Once, they’d got as far as the steps of the court, and when Hazel looked round for him, expecting him to be following her, he was at the bottom of the steps, court staff and members of the public walking around him as he stood stock still, eyes shut, concentrating on breathing. She went back down to stand next to him and placed her hand on his arm.

  ‘No,’ was all he said and they walked to her car before she drove him home. She had her reservations about him
staying during the trial on his own in the house where his mum was murdered, yet all she could do was talk to him about it. It wasn’t something that she was able to influence even if she’d wanted to. He could legally live there and paying off the small mortgage wasn’t a problem with the money his parents had put away, plus the insurance money.

  Travis’s actual problems were far less practically solved. He was in a living torment where every waking second was taken up with lamenting that he had ever agreed to go to the pub that evening with Aiden, that he’d stayed out and not gone home to his own bed, and more than anything else, that he and Aiden had ever had such a ridiculous bet as sleeping with each other’s mothers. He felt as guilty as if he had killed her himself.

  The weeks had dragged themselves on and the time had come for Jenny and Aiden to give their evidence. There was much talk in the poky police room along the corridor from court seven as to whether she actually would go into the witness box. Neither defendant was obliged to and the jury would be warned by the judge not to read anything into someone choosing to say nothing, but Travis wasn’t on the jury. He could read anything he liked into it.

  Warned by Hazel what might happen, he knew that he couldn’t miss this, no matter how bad his mood was, how much he wanted to stay at home and pretend that his parents had gone out for the day and would be back at any moment, moaning at him for not tidying up or putting the rubbish in the dustbin, for leaving his trainers in the hallway. Strengthened by having not just his aunt and uncle around him, but the family liaison officer, plus half a dozen other police ranging from the exhibits officer to the detective chief inspector Barbara Venice, he sat still and waited to see what Jenny would do.

  She was called to the front of the court and all eyes were on her as she walked to the witness box, security officer behind her.