The Truth Will Out

by Jane Isaac

  “Any skin samples, hair under her fingernails?”

  “Nothing. He’s pretty convinced that the killer wore gloves.”

  “What about the missing bullet?”

  “Lodged in her spinal column. Gooding retrieved it.” He pulled a pack of Lambert & Butler out of his pocket and held it up briefly. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Of course.”

  She left Spencer to wander outside to take solace in a cigarette, and made her own way back up the stairs to the incident room. Helen’s mind was awash. The torture made sense in a way. The killer was desperate to find something that he assumed was in Naomi’s house, something he thought Naomi had hidden. But what?

  Her phone buzzed and she looked down at it, curiously clicking the button to open the text message: Really need to talk. Are you free for dinner later? Dean x.

  The kiss at the end made her blood boil. Did he really think that he could pick up where they left off? Pushing her phone deep into her pocket, she stomped up the stairs, feeling every step.

  By the time she reached her office a pain seared the surface of her brain. She reached for her bag, popped two paracetamol and drank them down with the old tea on her desk. The cold fluid made her flinch.

  As she sat down in her chair her mobile trilled. The Dad’s Army theme tune indicated it was her mother. Thoughts of her boys entered her head as she pressed the answer button, her mother rarely rang her at work.

  “Hi, Mum. Is everything okay?”

  “Hi, darling. Yes, all fine. I’ve had a call from Auntie Jo.”

  Helen couldn’t resist a brief smile. Jo was John’s sister, the boys’ aunt. For as long as she could remember her mother had referred to her as ‘Auntie Jo’. “Oh, how is she?”

  “Alright, I think. She’s coming to stay for a few days.”

  Helen balked. Although Jo lived in nearby London, busy lives over the years had reduced their contact to cards and phone calls on birthdays and a single visit at Christmas. It wasn’t like her to turn up impromptu. “It’s not a good time at the moment. I’m up to my eyes with work.”

  “I did try to put her off. I told her you had a case on and won’t be around much, that perhaps she should come another time, but she insisted.”

  Helen could very well imagine her mother trying to delay a visit. Jane Lavery tolerated Auntie Jo but if she was honest her very presence exhausted her within the first hour.

  “Apparently she’d like to spend some time with the boys,” her mother added.

  That didn’t sound likely. Only a couple of years older than Helen, Jo was a career girl in banking and had chosen not to have children. Helen recalled her getting engaged to her long-term partner, Tim, some months earlier on holiday in Antigua. Perhaps they’d had an argument? This was all she needed. Another headache.

  Jane Lavery seemed to sense her daughter’s frustration. “Sorry, love. Anyway, her train arrives at seven thirty. I just phoned to let you know. I’m making up your spare room.”

  Helen ended the call. For some reason her mother’s voice made her think back to Chilli Franks. Undoubtedly, the most important case of her father’s career, that name would be ingrained into her mother’s brain. Chilli’s contempt for her father was openly demonstrated on many occasions during the trial. She remembered hiding behind the kitchen door as a child, listening to her father’s frustrating stories: The cup of urine he chucked in James Lavery’s face when he visited him in his cell, the repeated threats against his wife and family. Her father called them, ‘Shallow threats of a condemned man.’

  Chilli had been out of prison for ten years and there hadn’t been any repercussions to her family. Maybe James was right and the threats were shallow. But there was still a darkness about Chilli, something untoward. She felt it in her bones.

  Helen stared back at her phone. She drew the message from Dean back up and her fingers moved over the keys quickly to type: Busy tonight. She let out a deep breath as she pressed send. One headache dissolved.

  ***

  Eva woke with a start. She shot forward, glanced about in bewilderment for a moment. The loch sloshed up against the shores, the water grey now that the sun had receded. She shivered. How long had she been asleep? As she moved to sit up, a spasm of pain struck her back. Maybe falling asleep curled up in the chair in the midst of a northern breeze, had not been her brightest move.

  Her mind turned to Naomi. She wondered how she was. If she should call her. Was she in hospital?

  Maybe she should call the hospitals near Hampton? But she wasn’t a close relative and, even if they would talk to her, they might ask awkward questions.

  Maybe she should contact Naomi’s parents. Although Naomi hadn’t got on well with her dad for some time. She’d want to keep this from them. And she certainly wouldn’t thank Eva for spilling the beans.

  They’d agreed to keep the secret to themselves. Tell no-one. But that was before the attack.

  Eva’s thoughts collided. She slowly gathered herself to a standing position. As she did so, a pain shot through her head. Coloured lights flashed across her peripheral vision indicating the onset of a migraine.

  She moved into the bungalow, carefully locking the door behind her and ambling across to the bedroom. The sight of the bed felt like a roaring open fire on a chilly winter’s evening. She kicked off her shoes and climbed in fully clothed, wrapped the duvet around herself and sunk into the soft mattress. Only sleep now, would dull the immediate pain.

  Chapter Ten

  Pemberton turned the wheel sharply and pulled into Forge Way. The area reserved for parking was situated at the rear of the properties, which were enclosed by tall picket fencing, exposing their back gardens through narrow slits. Most of the gardens were laid to lawn, one had a patio at the top, another a bench outside the back door. A flash of colour in the garden on the end caught Helen’s attention. A conifer battled for space in the overgrown near corner of the garden, its branches feathering through the gaps in the fencing, obscuring the view. But through the far corner she glimpsed a blue slide, a couple of footballs and a goal.

  This had been DI Fitzpatrick’s one concession, the address of Jules Paton’s ex-wife and kids. He’d presented it to her at the press conference earlier in the company of Superintendent Jenkins, as if he was doing her a huge favour.

  Yesterday she’d been looking at photographs of two dead victims who’d lain in the roads nearby. Now she was back in the rabbit warren again.

  They exited the car and made their way up the side alley between the houses, past an overflowing wheelie bin to the front entrance of number forty-two. Heavy beats of music thudded from the house next door.

  As Helen raised her fist to the door a loud wail rose from within. She gave Pemberton a sideways glance and knocked firmly. There was a scurry inside, the patter of young feet across hard flooring. The crying abated. Two small hands slapped the pane of frosted glass that ran down the middle panel of the door.

  The hands were rapidly removed. A jingle of keys, a click and the door opened. Dressed in tight jeans and a black, fitted top, Karen Paton stood in front of them in bare feet. Her dark hair was scraped back from her face and tied in a high ponytail. She wore no make-up, yet the beauty in her young face was striking: neat dark brows framed deep brown eyes, edged with thick black lashes. Helen guessed she was in her early twenties. The young boy with the offending hands, around two-years-old, was balanced on her hip, fresh tears still visible on his face.

  Helen held up her card. “Good afternoon, Karen. I’m DCI Lavery and this is DS Pemberton.”

  Karen made no attempt to invite them in. She simply nodded, her eyes switching from one to another. The child wriggled in her arms and she tightened her grip. “I can’t tell you anymore than I told you on the phone,” she said, exasperation filling her tone as the child continued to wriggle.

  “We just want to ask you some questions about Jules, Karen,” Helen said. “May we come in?”

  The child was squ
irming hard now, writhing around. Karen reluctantly moved aside to let them in and as soon as the door was closed, she put him down. He immediately scooted behind her.

  Helen bent down. “What’s your name?”

  He stared at her for a moment, before moving further behind his mother’s legs.

  “Not like you to be shy, Ben,” Karen said and rubbed his head tenderly. “Don’t you like the police lady?”

  He looked up at his mother and grinned, then hid his head in her leg. “You’d better come through,” she said, lifting him back onto her hip.

  Helen and Pemberton followed them down a narrow hallway, past a closed door on the right, stairs blocked by a wooden baby gate to the left, and into a square kitchen. The fittings were basic, grey formica cupboards with mock marble work surfaces. An older boy sat at a round pine table in the middle, drawing a picture. He wore a blue jumper with a gold school emblem, although he barely looked old enough to be at school. He stopped and stared at them.

  “Hello,” Helen smiled.

  He said nothing, but continued to stare, wide eyed. A thick aroma of warm milk pervaded the room.

  Karen put the toddler down, then turned and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry but I think you’ve had a wasted journey.”

  “We just need to ask you a few questions,” Helen said, “it shouldn’t take long.”

  The elder boy lowered himself down from the table and ran to the back door, swiftly pushing his feet into a pair of green wellingtons.

  Karen Paton turned to face him. “Callum, if you’re going outside to play, you need to put your coat on,” she said.

  He grabbed a navy jacket off the back of a chair and went outside without uttering a word. The door slammed behind him.

  Finding herself next to the fridge, Helen studied the photographs encircled by a plethora of fridge magnets, drawings and paintings that decorated it. Pictures of the two boys playing football, one of them holding a fishing rod, another of them posed by a large building that Helen didn’t recognise. She paused on one of Karen, dressed up on a night out on the town, then several others of her below that looked as if they’d been taken professionally.

  “These are nice,” she said. “Where did you have them taken?”

  Karen spied her suspiciously. “I used to do some modelling before I had the kids.”

  “Is that where you met Jules?”

  Karen guessed where the line of questioning was going. “Yeah. He was at one of the shoots.” Her voice was deadpan, her face a brick wall.

  Helen looked back at the photos. Karen Paton was certainly very photogenic.

  A loud wail rose from behind them, “Want to go out too!”

  Karen turned to look at her younger son. “Okay. Put your boots on first.”

  “Don’t want to!” He rushed across to the door and reached for the handle.

  “Ben!” She moved quickly and positioned herself between the door and the toddler. “No,” she said firmly, ignoring the others in the room. “If you want to go outside, you wear your boots and coat.”

  Ben let out a shrill scream and threw himself on the floor.

  “Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Helen said. She pressed her lips together in sympathy.

  Karen briefly nodded, although her face held a ‘how would you know?’ expression. She turned her attention back to the toddler who was banging his hands on the floor.

  Helen glanced around the room. Apart from some freshly peeled potatoes standing in an uncovered pan next to the cooker, a kettle, breadbin and single kitchen roll, the surfaces were clear. She recalled their earlier phone conversation when Karen had confirmed that her and Jules were separated, although he has open access to the children and comes and goes as he pleases. She also maintained she hadn’t seen him since Saturday and had no idea where he was and no way of contacting him. The problem was Helen didn’t really believe her.

  She suddenly became aware that the crying had abated. The toddler was fiddling with a small box, picking out raisins and planting them in his mouth. She watched Karen lift him onto the side and he swung his legs as she helped him into his jacket, fastening each button separately, then slipped red wellington boots over his feet. His eyes were still fixed on the box of raisins as she pecked him on the nose and lifted him down. She handed him another box and opened the door. “Give those to your brother.”

  As Karen turned to face them, Helen pointed at the empty chairs in front of her, “May we?”

  She gave a reluctant shrug as they sat.

  “Difficult age,” Helen said, tilting her head towards the garden.

  “You got kids?” Karen’s tone was abrasive. She clearly felt her mothering skills were being questioned.

  “Two boys,” Helen said. “Teenagers now.”

  Karen looked genuinely surprised.

  “Why don’t you sit down?”

  Karen sat in the chair nearest the back door and eyed Pemberton suspiciously as he got out his notebook and pen. “I don’t know anything,” she said.

  “It’s fine, Karen. You have nothing to worry about. We just want to ask you some questions about Jules. Detective Pemberton here will make a few notes.”

  “I told you everything I know over the phone. I saw him last Saturday, when he dropped the kids off. He said he was going away for a while.”

  “When will he be back?”

  She shook her head. “No idea.”

  “What about contact details, a mobile phone number?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Oh, come on, Karen. Surely you must have something. What would you do if one of the boys got hurt or you needed help?”

  “Call my dad.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Does he go away a lot?”

  “Yeah. It’s his work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  Karen gave her a sharp look and twisted the silver, celtic ring on her forefinger. “He buys and sells used cars.”

  Helen let the silence linger for a while. “How long is he usually away for?”

  Karen shrugged. “Sometimes a few days, sometimes a week, sometimes longer.”

  “Where does he go?”

  “Wherever the cars are, I guess,” she looked away. “You’ll need to ask him.”

  Helen stared at her until she met her gaze. There was something uncomfortable about her. Karen twisted her ring again. The thudding music from next door had stopped. The fridge hummed in the background. Helen recalled Henry Spence’s account of Jules’ relationship with Naomi. One line stuck in her head. ‘… he started to control her, knock her about.’ She angled her head, “How long have you two been separated?”

  “Over two years now. We broke up just before Ben was born.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  Karen’s fingers worked the ring, twisting faster now. “Not really. Mum and Dad help out a lot. And Jules still comes around, takes the boys out.”

  “Was he ever violent towards you?”

  Karen snorted. “Jules?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never!” She looked from one detective to another. “Jules isn’t a bad man. Just couldn’t keep it in his pants. Even after we split he still wanted to look after me, kept buying me stuff.” She looked around the kitchen. “He didn’t want us to move here. Said it was too rough. He wanted to keep us in Hampton, in a nice house around the corner from him. But my parents live in Roxten. This is where I grew up. I know he helps, but he’s away a lot and my folks help with the boys.” She turned her gaze towards the garden. “I don’t know how I’d manage without them.”

  More silence. Helen could hear the scratch of Pemberton’s pen against the paper.

  “It’s because of her, isn’t it?” Karen said.

  “Who?”

  A shadow crept across her face. “Naomi. She was killed. I saw it on the news.”

  “What do you know about Naomi?” Helen asked.

  “Not much. Jules was seein
g her for a couple of years. Bit stuck up if you ask me, but the boys liked her.” She snorted again, “Not difficult to get a toddler to like you when you buy them things and pump them full of sweets.”

  Helen smiled sympathetically. “You didn’t like her?”

  “I never said that. Only met her a couple of times.” She cast her eyes to the floor.

  “What about Jules?”

  Karen looked up sharply. “You don’t think he killed her? Is that why you’re looking for him?”

  Helen looked down to see a red mark had formed beneath the ring on Karen’s finger.

  Karen followed her eyes and tucked her hands in her lap.

  “What do you think, Karen?”

  “I think nothing,” she said. “Nothing!” Her voice was filled with anger, but her face looked like she wanted to cry. “They split up a couple of months ago. And he had nothing to do with her murder. He just isn’t capable.”

  ***

  As they approached the alley that led to the car, Pemberton stopped to light a cigarette and cast her an inquisitive glance. He looked as if he expected to be berated, especially in view of the fact that she had recently given up. But Helen was not about to pass judgement. Instead, she checked her phone. There were two missed calls: one from Dean, which she deleted, the other from Spencer. She dialled him back.

  He answered on the second ring, as if he was waiting for her call.

  “Hi, Steve. Any news?”

  “Yes. A slight breakthrough.”

  Helen’s stomach lurched. She could hear the sound of an engine purring in the background. “What is it?”

  “Some of the victim’s friends said Naomi went on holiday to Milan with her best friend, Eva Carradine, a week or so ago.”

  Helen felt a rush of adrenalin. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Pemberton tilt his head to get her attention. She lifted a hand to silence him. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m just heading back to the office. We managed to get her address from the spa at Memington Hall where she was a member. Want me to head out there?”