Twisted

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Why have you brought his name up?’

  Marcus gritted his teeth. ‘Because Lena has got it into her head that he could have been there and abused Amy, but the only time he was with her, with both Lena and myself, was when we were on holiday in Antigua, more than two years ago, and he and Amy were never alone. He’s my best friend, for God’s sake. I know him and I don’t want any aspersions cast on him – he’s not even in the country.’

  Reid chose his words carefully, explaining that forensic tests had revealed seminal fluid and different female DNA on the panties taken from Amy’s bedroom, and he would therefore require a list of everyone that used Simon Boatly’s flat. Although they had spoken to his girlfriend Justine, Reid said that specifically he was interested in any other women Marcus had recent intercourse with as they had found strands of hair that were not a match for his daughter’s.

  Marcus bowed his head, sighing. ‘Justine was one regular visitor, but there was another woman.’

  ‘Who, Mr Fulford? Withholding evidence is a criminal offence, so I need to know right now.’

  ‘I have also been seeing one of the women that works for Lena; her name is Gail Summers. I really don’t want my wife told about Gail – she’s been very helpful to me regarding the divorce and if Lena did find out she’d fire her.’

  Disgusted by Marcus’s attitude and behaviour, Reid decided that he’d spent enough time with him, and headed out of the room, suggesting that perhaps he put the stopper on the brandy bottle. He closed the door behind him and was making for the kitchen when Agnes approached him and asked if he felt it was all right for her to leave as it was just after five.

  ‘You’d better speak to Mrs Fulford,’ he said abruptly, and continued into the kitchen.

  Burrows was still by the phones and was more than happy to go back to the station with him, even if it meant trawling through the list of names she’d accumulated during the day. Agnes returned, reporting that she had been told she could go home and that she was going over to the garage to tell Harry that he would not be required either.

  ‘What does he do over there? Sit in the car all day?’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Fulford had a gym above the garage – well, the equipment is still there but after he left Mrs Fulford made it a sort of sitting room. Harry has a TV and small kitchenette with a microwave. Your officers searched it when they were over there with the dog.’

  Reid nodded, though he had not been aware that it existed, but hoped, as Agnes had said, that it had been searched properly. He made a note to check the search reports when he returned to the station. By now he was worn out, and yet he hesitated to leave without speaking to Mrs Fulford; as Burrows put on her coat he said he would just have a few words and trusted that was all it would be.

  Lena, still at her computer, turned as Reid gave a light tap on the open door. There was always that moment of hopeful expectancy, which he quickly defused by saying there was no news. She looked very pale, and said she hoped he didn’t think badly of her but working took her mind off the constant anxiety.

  ‘Of course not. Whatever helps. Would you like me to arrange a family liaison officer to be here at the house overnight?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d like a stranger here right now, but thank you.’

  He gave a small nod as she pushed back her chair and held out a neatly printed list of names, phone numbers and addresses. The phone on the desk rang yet again. Reaching for it, she gave him a small smile as she answered the call.

  He walked out and then paused as he heard Lena talking on the phone. She sounded quite curt and said something about every box being labelled.

  ‘Gail, it’s very simple: if they wanted the table cloth plus napkins with the child’s name printed on them, then it’s necessary to have three days’ prior notice.’

  The call continued as he made his way downstairs, realizing that the woman on the phone was the Gail that her husband had admitted to having an affair with. From what he had gathered, Marcus Fulford couldn’t keep his dick in his pants, but there was nothing to suggest that Lena, a very attractive woman, also had extramarital flings. Although he reckoned that Marcus was a handsome man, there was a weakness to him, but if his wife indeed had – as he had made a point of stating – bipolar disorder, then perhaps it had encouraged or exacerbated his womanizing. If Marcus was an open and blatant womanizer since his separation from Lena, Reid wondered if Amy knew about or witnessed his antics and what that might say about their relationship as father and daughter.

  Chapter 18

  It was after twelve when Reid finally got home and fixed himself a stiff scotch with ice and water. His small flat was as he had left it early that morning. It was more or less a crash pad, with few personal photographs or memorabilia. The furnishings were simple clean lines and the walls a magnolia cream that gave the box-shaped room a feeling of space. The only items of value were a large plasma TV and expensive stereo system, with his collection of CDs and DVDs stacked in alphabetical order in a glass cabinet. A desk, computer, printer and two filing cabinets with a shredder machine wedged between them dominated the small room.

  He had a habit when returning home of emptying his pockets of his wallet, ID card and small change and leaving them on the desk. His briefcase would be placed beside the chair and he would set out his notebook and any files he needed to familiarize himself with. Tonight he was too tired for his usual ritual, dragging his tie loose and chucking his suit jacket onto a chair in his bedroom as he carried through his drink. He intended to take a shower, but lying on his bed sipping his scotch he eased off one slip-on black leather shoe after the other, kicking them onto the floor. He leaned across and drew one of his pillows on top of the other. Sometimes when he came home this tired he would put on some soothing classical music – he had good-quality speakers throughout the flat, and a remote control on his bedside cabinet. But tonight he didn’t even have the energy to move from the bed, and he downed his scotch, closed his eyes and was in a deep sleep within seconds.

  Unlike Reid, neither Marcus nor Lena could sleep. She had made an omelette and they had opened a bottle of wine earlier, although he noticed she hardly touched her food. He asked if she had eaten anything in the day and she shrugged, saying she didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry.

  She stood up. ‘I think I’ll take a bath.’

  ‘I’m going to watch some TV, I’ll use the guest bedroom.’ He meant to get out of his chair and put his arms around her, yet instead he remained at the table finishing off the bottle of wine. Eventually he switched off the lights and took himself rather drunkenly upstairs. He felt he should go to her bedroom to check on her, but he couldn’t face any further accusations. He was not sleeping but lying fully clothed on the bed in the guest room when she came in. He lifted his arm to indicate for her to come and lie beside him.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ she said plaintively

  ‘Nor can I. Come here.’

  Lying beside him with his arm around her and resting her head against his shoulder, Lena realized it was the closest they had been for two years. Neither spoke – it was as if they were bereft of words, as if the ghost between them was Amy.

  Reid had forgotten to switch on his alarm, but nevertheless he woke around his usual time, albeit with a thudding headache. By the time he had showered and dressed it was seven thirty. Two cups of strong black coffee made him feel wired, but his headache persisted, and he decided he would go into the station for breakfast.

  The canteen was filling up, and having said a few gruff good mornings he sat at his usual table with his back facing the majority of diners. There was a low hubbub of chatter, which annoyed him as he ate his scrambled eggs and sausage and pushed aside his two rounds of toast. He never knew how they managed to make toast so chewy, the butter sitting on it like a puddle. Equally bad, the morning coffee always tasted stewed. Reid by nature was never one to complain, so he downed his coffee and got a refill to take to his office.

  There was to be a team
meeting at nine, but he had a while to take a couple of aspirin and get his mind into gear. Open on his desk was his diary and he picked up a red marker and wrote in large letters FRIDAY, DAY 6, underlined it and then tossed the marker down. By now his coffee was tepid. Nevertheless, he drank it, then uncapped his felt tip pen and began to write down the day’s work schedule. DS James Lane tapped at the door, also carrying a coffee but this one was a Starbucks. Reid indicated for him to come in.

  Lane didn’t sit, but hovered, sipping his drink. ‘The Crime Night people are interested in doing something on air but they’re not sure exactly how to run it yet.’

  Reid shook his head. ‘A missing fifteen-year-old girl, who may be dead, and they’re being non-committal – what more do the bastards want? We need more information and especially some forensic results. This is now day six, Jimmy, and we have fuck all to go on.’

  ‘Not looking good, is it?’ James said, dribbling his coffee down his chin and taking out a handkerchief to dab at his shirt.

  ‘The holiday footage in Antigua worries me now, especially the section where Amy was masturbating.’

  James seemed more intent on dabbing the coffee stains on his shirt as he spoke. ‘So is Marcus Fulford now your main suspect?’

  ‘He’s all I’ve got at the moment, but even then we are nowhere, and there’s this family friend Simon Boatly to check out. I also think we need to go back to Amy’s school and see if we can get anything – it’s more than possible Amy may have confided in a friend, maybe Serena or someone else in her class.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ James glanced at his watch, nearly spilling what was left of his drink. ‘It’s nearly nine, so we better get down to the briefing room.’

  At that moment Reid’s desk phone rang and it was Pete Jenkins at the forensic lab, letting him know that he had started work on Marcus Fulford’s sample and hoped to have a full profile for comparison before the weekend. Reid gestured for DS Lane to wait as Jenkins continued.

  Reid listened, jotted down notes, and said he would arrange for interviews straight away then replaced the phone and stood up.

  ‘It’s unbelievable – they have DNA profiles from different females on a selection of the underwear. The lab needs to know exactly which panties belong to who and keep pressing me for samples from women Fulford recently had sex with. He has only admitted to shagging two women – his present girlfriend Justine and then there’s Gail who works for Lena Fulford – but there’s bound to be others. I think we need to get them brought into the lab to try and identify which underwear is theirs.’

  ‘You think that’s wise, or necessary for that matter? Why not just get DNA samples off them and send them to the lab?’

  ‘Because it will cost thousands of pounds to analyse, which I haven’t got on my small-team budget. I know it’s cutting corners, but it will save time and money.’

  ‘Well it’s your case and your decision. We better get downstairs – everyone will be waiting.’

  Reid nodded and adjusted his tie, and had just begun to gather up his notes and files when someone else tapped at the door and this time it was Chief Superintendent Douglas, the senior officer in charge of Richmond Police Station. In his forties, he had red hair, and his uniform jacket just about contained his stomach as he was overweight. Known to be brash in speech and manner, he demanded an update as he was concerned by the lack of any new developments. Reid sat down again and invited Douglas to take a seat but the chief simply huffed and stood facing him across the desk.

  ‘Well, forensics are working on enough knickers to open a Victoria’s Secret department, and some have semen stains from the same unknown male,’ Reid said, trying to be slightly humorous, but it was wasted on Douglas.

  ‘So what are you doing to trace this unknown male?’

  ‘The scientist and I both think it may be Marcus Fulford. I’ve taken a DNA sample from him and should know for certain in a couple of days.’

  ‘The father! Christ, sex games going on in the family?’

  ‘I’d say so. He’s certainly shagged enough women and the daughter doesn’t appear to be the sweet innocent teenager we first believed.’

  ‘Six days missing. Are we looking for a body, Vic?’

  Reid looked up and hesitated: the full version of his Christian name was bad enough but the abbreviation was even worse.

  ‘If he was sexually abusing Amy and she threatened to expose him then it’s possible he killed her on Saturday or Sunday. Problem is, I haven’t got a sighting of her anywhere near the Mayfair flat.’

  ‘So you want to hold back on arresting him at present?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘I’d like to try another round of press reports and Crime Night first . . . see if it flushes out any new witnesses or fresh information.’

  Douglas frowned. ‘You need to make a decision one way or the other about Marcus Fulford.’

  ‘We’ve obviously been misled regarding Amy’s character, so it’s reasonable to think she was sexually aware and may even have had a male friend that she decided to run off with. Perhaps an older man . . . there’s a family friend we suspect . . .’

  ‘Who is he and why haven’t you spoken with him yet?’

  ‘Simon Boatly, but we believe he’s in the Bahamas at present. He’s a wealthy aristocrat photographer, but basically living off the interest from a considerable inheritance. He also owns the Mayfair flat Marcus Fulford lives in.’

  ‘Well stop sitting on the fence, get out there and make some arrests,’ Chief Superintendent Douglas said as he picked a small piece of fluff from his immaculate trousers. He held it between finger and thumb, screwed it into a tiny pin-size ball and flicked it onto the worn carpet.

  ‘Although we found Amy’s passport she could have acquired another one, and we are checking flights around the time she was missing,’ Reid said, trying to avoid Douglas forcing his hand.

  ‘I’ve got a daughter the same age and I find it difficult to believe that a fifteen-year-old teenager never whispered secrets to her school pals. If our missing girl was sexually aware, and having some kind of a relationship with this Boatly bloke, then I would think she would have told someone about him, even more so as she was at a weekly boarding school and sharing a dormitory. If you insist on holding off on arresting people then I think it might be beneficial for you to have another session at Amy’s school.’

  ‘Already in hand, sir.’

  ‘Good. I’m having to go over to Scotland Yard, but contact me if anything comes in. I’ll give you until Monday and if you’re no farther forward I’m calling in a murder squad to take over the investigation.’

  ‘Does that include the weekend, sir?’ Reid asked, hoping the answer would be no since as a DI he would not get paid overtime.

  ‘Yes, of course it does and I’m ordering you to work.’

  ‘And what about my team?’

  ‘Overtime budget is tight, so you can only have two officers with you.’

  ‘If a murder squad does take the case I would like to stay on board,’ said Reid, spying his chance.

  ‘Let’s see how you go first, but make sure you keep me informed of any developments.’

  Reid remained sitting at his desk as the DCS left. He had really not intended to bring up his thoughts on Simon Boatly, but now that he had he would have to question him. He sighed, doubting their budget would run to anyone making a trip to the Bahamas, but along with Marcus Fulford, Boatly was earmarked as a suspect. He checked his watch; it was nine fifteen, and it felt as if he had been at work all morning – instead it was only just beginning. His meagre budget was being stretched to breaking point by forensics and the extra uniformed officers assisting in the house-to-house enquiries. If it became a murder squad inquiry he really hoped he could remain on the case, and work alongside such experienced detectives, as it would be an excellent move for his future career.

  Chapter 19

  Agnes was taken aback at the mess in the kitchen. Again she was left to clear up the newspap
ers from the table, then wash the dishes and return the kitchen to its usual immaculate order, finishing by using cleaning spray on the granite work tops so they gleamed. As she went into the hall she saw Marcus heading down the stairs.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have any cigarettes, do you?’ he asked sheepishly.

  ‘Well as a matter of fact I do – it’s a pack that Harry left. I’ll get them for you.’

  The phone rang and she saw that apprehensive look on his face, so quickly said that she would take it in case it was a journalist.

  ‘The Fulford residence, this is Agnes Moors speaking.’

  Marcus waited then Agnes turned to him, holding out the receiver.

  ‘It’s for you, a Detective James Lane.’

  Marcus took the receiver, and after a moment asked Agnes to transfer it to the drawing room. She passed him a packet of Marlboro Lights, which in fact were her own, but she would never admit that she still smoked. Marcus left the kitchen just as Lena walked in.

  ‘Who was on the phone?’ Lena asked.

  Agnes said it was a detective and Marcus was taking the call in the drawing room.

  ‘Did he have any news?’

  ‘He never said. Do you want me to make some fresh coffee?’

  ‘No, I have a headache. Are there any paracetamol tablets in here?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a pack of Mandanol, the ones you prefer, in the first aid drawer beneath the telephone.’

  Lena opened the drawer, fetched a glass and poured herself some water before taking out the blister pack. Agnes watched as she popped out four tablets and, without making eye contact, said quietly that they were 500 mg caplets and perhaps four were too many to take at one time.

  Lena ignored her swallowing the capsules one after the other. She drained the glass and left it on the draining board.

  Marcus was sitting on a sofa smoking, but when Lena walked in he got to his feet.

  ‘I have to go to the flat and bring my stuff back,’ he said quietly.