The Truth Will Out

by Jane Isaac

  “Right. What are we doing about the informant?”

  “The phone used by the informant isn’t traceable on our systems and we can’t site it either as it’s seemingly off at the moment. The quality of the recording isn’t great, but we’re playing it to everyone that knew Naomi. Hopefully, somebody will be able to identify the voice.”

  Jenkins nodded slowly and stared across at the wall for a moment, tapping his chin with his right forefingers, another habit of his.

  Helen glanced past him into the incident room. She could see one of her officers calling across the room to somebody, another on the phone, others clicking at keyboards, rustling through filing cabinets. It never ceased to amaze her how a thin plasterboard wall could enable her to cut the sounds and movements from her mind.

  Her eyes rested on a soft toy rat that hung over the white board listing the job allocations for that morning - somebody’s joke at Pemberton’s expense. It was incredible how quickly, when it came to humorous incidents, word got around. The jokes had started at briefing this morning: ‘I hear there’s a rat in the camp. I think I smell a rat, sergeant… ’

  “Okay. That all seems in order,” Jenkins said and abruptly stood. “Let me know of any developments as soon as they occur.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  He turned as he reached the door. “Don’t forget our meeting with MOCT at eleven thirty in the conference room.”

  Helen stifled a groan. It hadn’t slipped her mind that Midlands Organised Crime Team, or MOCT, were coming down to assist in their cold case shooting investigations, or that the introductory meeting had been arranged for that morning. “I was going to send Pemberton on that one, sir. It’ll be a good developmental move… ”

  “He’s at Memington Hall.”

  Her jaw tightened. “I realise that. I’ve got the autopsy at twelve.”

  “Delegate.” He turned his head to the office behind him where Spencer was on the phone, waving his arms about vigorously. “Send him.”

  “Sir, I strongly… ”

  “I need you there,” he said, enunciating every syllable. “You can use the press conference afterwards to appeal for witnesses to the current case. Let’s play this one down as an argument between lovers that went wrong. We won’t mention the murder weapon. With any luck we’ll have it wrapped up in a few days.” He scratched the back of his ear. “We are dealing with public perceptions here, Helen. Let’s not turn this into something it isn’t. We’re there to promote the help we are getting from MOCT to solve our outstanding murders. A united approach against gun crime. Keep it positive.”

  Helen fought to keep her reserve. Autopsies were key to a murder investigation. She hated missing it. Just as she inwardly cursed the politics of modern day policing, she recalled the intelligence on Paton. He’d been associated with cocaine supply… How big a player was he? Local intelligence had been quiet for a while. Had he moved further afield? If so, he may have attracted the interest of the area organised crime team. Maybe she could salvage something here - use the meeting with MOCT to glean some background on Paton? It had to be worth a try.

  “I’ll sort it,” she said.

  “Good, see you there.”

  Helen sighed as she watched Jenkins wander back through the main room and disappear from sight. She eased back into her chair and rolled her shoulders, listening to the cartilage in her neck pop and crackle. She was no longer thinking about politics. There was another reason why she hadn’t wanted to attend the MOCT meeting: Detective Inspector Dean Fitzpatrick.

  They met a year ago, on a week’s residential training course in the West Country - ‘The Proceeds of Crime Act’. She recalled Dean entering the room that first morning; his very presence lifted the atmosphere of the group of strangers instantly. Dean possessed that special gift of acknowledging everybody in a group, saying just the right thing at the right time, pressing just the right buttons to make everyone feel special. Coupled with dark, athletically handsome looks and a killing smile, he was infectious.

  After break they were paired together on a syndicate exercise. Initially wary of his charm, Helen couldn’t fail to be pleasantly surprised by his practical, easy nature and impressed with his knowledge of legal application.

  As the day progressed, she slowly peeled her shutters back. Over lunch they discussed sailing. Both Helen’s boys had taken lessons the summer before at Pitsford Reservoir, just outside Hampton. Dean was a keen dinghy sailor. He laughed at her accounts of the boys learning to tack, leaning over the side of the boat to keep the sail upright. Over dinner they discussed family. He explained how he was separated from his wife and talked about his daughter, Lucy.

  By the second day they were studying the role of gambling, money laundering and asset seizures in organised crime by day, and tearing each other’s clothes off by night. He was a generous, tender lover and, when exhausted from sex, they lay and talked, him about his various hobbies of golf, swimming and cooking; she about her family, her boys. She was flattered by his genuine interest in her.

  When the course ended, they exchanged numbers. With Dean in Nottingham, a two hour drive north of Hampton, Helen had been sceptical about a future relationship. The following week he surprised her, by calling and texting most days. On Saturday evening he drove down, took her out for dinner to Georgios beside the canal. She remembered it well: she ate risotto, him cannelloni. It was the first time she’d worn a dress in years and it felt good. Afterwards they’d spent an exhilarating night together in a hotel nearby.

  In spite of the distance between them, the relationship continued on this level for several months. A few hours grabbed here or there between shifts, the odd night together arranged around family commitments. Helen didn’t make a point of dating police officers and they agreed to keep the relationship secret for a while.

  It hadn’t been the first time Helen had been drawn to a man since her late husband, John. She had indulged in a few flings over the last ten years. But there was something about Dean. Something that made her stomach flip, gave her a lust for life. Something that reminded her of how much she’d missed these past years.

  After four months, Helen plucked up the courage to introduce him to her boys. It was a Saturday afternoon, they went out for pizza and stopped to take a walk in the park on the way home. Dean won Matthew over almost instantly with his knowledge of gold medals in rowing in the last Olympics. Robert, initially reluctant, soon followed when Dean produced a ball from the boot of his car and they had an impromptu game of football in the park.

  A month later they all went away to Cornwall for a weekend together. Helen was walking on air. Nothing could burst her bubble. Until he left her after that holiday and headed home. That’s when she received the text message.

  Hi Honey, I’ll be home around seven. Can’t wait to see you. D XX

  A simple message in many respects, but a message that said so much. And in that split second her elation hit the floor.

  The following day, back at the station, Helen looked up an old friend she’d trained with at Bruche police training centre in Warrington. DS Celia Barren worked for the Nottingham force, just like Dean. She remembered the call as if it was yesterday. They spent a few minutes catching up, talking about Celia’s daughter and Helen’s boys.

  Finally, Helen asked her if she knew Dean.

  “Fitzpatrick? Of course I do. Everyone knows Dean. Why do you ask?”

  “Just interested.”

  “Interested?” Celia paused. “Oh, no, Helen, not that kind of interested?” Helen didn’t respond. “I can see why, but no chance there. He’s still very much married.”

  Even as she recalled the conversation Helen felt her heart drop all over again. “I heard they were separated?” she had asked.

  “Not as far as I know. He keeps it all private, but I do know they’re still cosied up in the same house together. They live in the next road to me.”

  That’s why I was never invited to Nottingham, she’d thought. So many
times it was promised, and every time it fell through for whatever reason. Even now, she remembered the lump in her throat, the pain in her chest. How could she have been so stupid?

  She’d excused herself, ended the call as soon as politely possible and replied to his text message. Eight simple words, I think this was meant for your wife.

  What hurt Helen more than the lies and the deceit was that he was still with his wife, even now. Helen never wished to break up a marriage. But for the first time in ten years she had really let someone in. And she wasn’t interesting, attractive, clever or funny enough to keep them.

  When she didn’t return his calls, a barrage of text messages followed. Not wishing to be played for a fool twice, she’d forced herself to delete each and every one of them, unread. When he arrived on her doorstep a week later, she refused to see him. But closure hadn’t made the pain or humiliation less easy to bear.

  “Ma’am?” Spencer’s soft tone jolted Helen back to the present. Lost in her memories, she hadn’t heard her door open, seen his face appear around the edge. He held up an empty coffee mug.

  Helen managed a flat smile, shook her head and quickly told him about the autopsy. As he retreated she collected her bag and made her way out to the ladies room.

  Relieved to find it empty, she washed her hands and splashed water over her face. When she looked up into the mirror she hardly recognised herself. Her face was pale and washed out. Dark rings hung below her eyes. Helen searched through her handbag. At the bottom she found an old pot of blusher and applied a light covering, then smoothed her lank hair and tucked the stray strands behind her ears. She snatched another glance, sighed and turned to leave.

  Just as she turned down the corridor towards her office she spotted him. Her knees immediately weakened. He was standing there, military style, hands clasped behind his back, talking to another plainclothes officer she didn’t recognise. Suddenly, the other officer let out a chuckle. Dean smiled, reached round and tapped him on the arm. They looked like two old friends, sharing a joke. For a second she contemplated turning and walking back in the opposite direction. Then he looked up and she realised she had no choice but to approach. She would be meeting him in less than an hour anyway, no point in putting off the inevitable.

  “Well, well, look who it is!” Dean said, a smile spreading from ear to ear.

  Helen ignored the flip in her stomach and forced a smile as she approached them. “DI Fitzpatrick.”

  “Helen! It’s good to see you,” he cried, ignoring her reserve. He locked his eyes on hers, his gaze intense.

  She deliberately turned her flushed face away from him, towards the other officer.

  “Oh, this is DS Edwards, my deputy,” Dean added hastily, as if he had forgotten he was standing next to them. “I see we’re going to be working with you on your gun crime cases.”

  Cases, Helen thought. They’re people. Dead people. “So I understand.” An awkward silence followed. “Well, it’s good to see you,” she said, shuffling to the side. He didn’t move to let her by. For a split second, she could feel his eyes on her, the air between them charged. A familiar ‘just stepped out of the shower’ odour filled her nose. It was intoxicating.

  She forced herself to snap out of it. “We have another murder. I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

  “Yeah, I just heard about that. Another shooting?” Dean asked.

  “Young woman, shot twice in the chest,” Edwards added.

  “Looks like we arrived at just the right time,” Dean grinned.

  Helen formed her lips into a thin smile. “You’ve done your homework. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course, see you at the meeting.” He moved aside and she continued down the corridor.

  When she finally returned to her office, she shut the door and closed the blinds. Helen leant up against the wall and rested her head back on the cold plaster. For some reason she had wanted this moment to be so different. For some reason she had wanted to look triumphant, so that he could see what he was missing. But she couldn’t fathom out why.

  Chapter Eight

  Situated an hour north of Glasgow, Aberfoyle was a small town nestled in The Lomond and Trossachs National Park. Eva stopped for a moment to watch the tourists wander up and down the main street that offered eateries, outdoor clothing stores, gift shops and a visitor centre. She marvelled at how, even in low season when the weather was at its harshest, people still travelled here from all over the world to enjoy the breathless beauty of rural Scotland.

  Having stopped at the Co-op on the corner, she was now stocked up with bread, milk, tea and eggs. She filled up at the petrol station, grabbing a large bar of Cadburys from the counter before continuing on her journey.

  Eva had been coming to Scotland every year for as long as she could remember. The familiar surroundings felt like a baby’s comfort blanket and the tension trickled out of her shoulders as she pressed on into the rural heartlands.

  Turning off the A821, the winding country lanes drew her further into the Scottish countryside. She slowed to pull into a field entrance, jumped out, leant her elbows on the gate and drank the fresh, clean air. The field was inhabited by three large cows, hair hanging down over their eyes, curved horns protruding from their heads. One of them gazed in her direction for a second, before lowering his head to the grass.

  Eva watched them gently grazing. They whiled away their days eating grass, basking in the sunshine, sheltering under trees in bad weather. Always together, always looking out for one another. A mixture of envy and melancholy washed over her. What kind of a friend was she, running off and leaving Naomi like this?

  She pushed her head up and closed her eyes as the thick breeze brushed her face. During their last conversation she had been annoyed with Naomi, frustrated at her inability to cope with the situation they found themselves in. Yet Naomi was right to be petrified. Guilt stretched her heart into a tightrope across her chest. She should have stayed, supported her friend, faced up to their problems. But Naomi wouldn’t have wanted that.

  Eva thought of the black gloved hand. Had they seen her face on Naomi’s screen? She swallowed, blinked open her eyes back to the present. The cows had moved away to the other side of the field. She climbed back into the car and, as she revved the engine, made a point of opening the window.

  The sharp wind rustled through Eva’s hair as she pressed the accelerator. Grief turned to anger and she allowed her rage to flourish in her driving, revelling in the twists and turns that eventually led her to the road that ran alongside the vast Loch Ard, flanked by beautiful conifer covered mountains, past the Macdonald ‘timeshare’ resort and hotel where she stayed in her early years, and into the small sprawling village of Kinlochard.

  When she reached the Wee Blether tearoom adjacent to the old shop, she made a sharp left, past the post box, the tiny primary school, through the scattered houses and up into the mountains. The sun shimmered across the top of the loch as she slowed and turned left into Lochside, the two bed bungalow her parents’ bought eight years ago, situated almost half a mile outside the village.

  Twenty minutes later she was seated on the veranda at the back of the property, cup of tea in hand, overlooking the loch. She pondered how different her life would be if they’d dumped the drugs. They brought them back out of fear for their lives. The wrong thing for the right reason. Why now, were they being hunted down?

  The hot fluid warmed her. She gazed across the loch. The isolation and sheer beauty of the landscape slowly drained her of the troubled memories that haunted her brain. For the first time in twenty-four hours, she finally felt safe. With her parents still away on holiday in South Africa, nobody would find her all the way up here. Would they?

  She closed her eyes and relished the warmth of the sunlight soothing her face. It seemed nobody had told Scotland about the snow down south.

  The branches of two silver birches at the bottom of the garden batted against each other in the wind. The sound was distant at f
irst, then louder, then louder still. Suddenly, she realised that it wasn’t the trees at all. She turned urgently towards the sound of the gentle footsteps, scraping across the decking.

  ***

  Glocks, Berettas, Baikals - all automatics. These are just some of the weapons we’ve retrieved from the criminal underworld. We have recovered a few revolvers, but they tend to be on the decline. Usually illegally trafficked in from former war zones such as the Balkans, although a few replicas are made in this country, all are readily available on the black market if you have a few grand to spare.”

  Jenkins and Helen were seated around the end of the long table in the conference room. Helen looked at the images of reclaimed guns on the screen, then watched as Dean in his slick black suit stood back and pressed another button on his laptop. The image on the screen changed.

  “Don’t be fooled by the media,” Dean continued, turning to face his audience, “knives are still the weapon of choice in gangland Britain. Guns tend to draw too much national attention, as we’ve seen recently, so are generally used to scaremonger and frighten, or carried as a status symbol. But the numbers are rising.” He pointed at a graph that showed a crinkled line turning upwards. “What the press don’t know, is that there are a lot more out there than we have figures for, or care to imagine.”

  Dean raised his hand and brushed it across his dark hair. Helen felt her stomach bounce. “We are working very closely with ballistics on the intelligence side to see if we can establish any links with current outstanding cases of gun crime throughout the UK.”

  Helen glanced out of the window as she fought to keep her emotions in check. A strapping wind had wiped the clouds from the sky, allowing the sun to melt the remaining snow spots. Heavy rays penetrated the window, warming her left shoulder. Her mind turned to Operation Aspen as her investigation had now been named. How was the autopsy going? Had they retrieved the other bullet? She checked her watch. Did they have an ID on the informant yet? A sharp look from Jenkins turned her attention back to the screen.