by Jane Isaac
Dean smiled gently. “Honey is her nickname. I’ve called her that ever since she was a kid.”
She knew that Lucy loved to perform. She remembered how proud he was when she was offered the role of Sandy in a local production of Grease last summer… She racked her brains. Not once did she remember Dean calling Lucy that nickname. She eyed him suspiciously. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s true. I’ve moved out now. I wanted to make a clean break, to show you that I’m serious about you.”
Helen closed her eyes and shook her head. A lump the size of a golf ball pushed its way into her throat. This was more than she could bear. “It’s too late.”
“Don’t say that.” He moved a hand towards her.
His touch prised her eyes open. She dragged her hand back. Right now, she wasn’t sure what to think. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“You wouldn’t take my calls remember? I sent you endless text messages, which I don’t suppose you read?”
Helen’s mind reeled. She had consumed herself in her own sadness, rolled herself up and protected herself from the calls, the messages. The only way she could deal with the blow was to block it from her mind. Until now.
The waitress arrived with their drinks. They were accompanied by two large cookies on separate plates. She placed them down by his coffee. As soon as the waitress retreated, he pushed one towards Helen. “Everyone knows that chocolate is good for you,” he grinned.
Now she saw it. The reason she had fallen for him: the mischievous wit, the boyish charm. This is what had reminded her of John, what made her chuckle. But this, coupled with remarkably handsome looks, was a recipe for disaster.
She ignored the biscuit, looked him straight in the eye. “What was it you wanted to discuss, Dean?”
His mouth was full of cookie and he wiped his lips slowly. She cursed the rush of excitement that hit her. “I want to have a little chat about Jules Paton. Perhaps I can help you with some background.”
Helen jerked her head back. “You said you didn’t have anything?” Dean didn’t answer. He finished the cookie on his plate, scooping up the last of the crumbs with his index finger. “What exactly can you tell me?”
“Well, I guess you know all the obvious – twenty-eight-years-old, five foot eleven, skinny, blond – we call him ‘Willo The Wisp’…
“Dean. We’ve got every officer in the county looking out for him. We know what he looks like.”
“Sure. Well, he was studying sociology and politics at university until he crashed out in the second year. We think that’s where his coke addiction started.”
“We know that too, he was at Nottingham.” Helen scratched the back of her neck. “Do you have something new for me?”
She watched as an intense expression spread like a stain across his face. “He came back to Hamptonshire when he left university and looked for jobs to fund the party boy lifestyle.”
Helen rose from her seat. The chair squeaked on the tiled flooring. “Dean, if you haven’t got anything new to tell me…”
Dean grabbed her arm. “Give me a chance? Please?”
She slowly sat, but her legs still twitched.
“He took jobs in insurance, sales, anything - used his charm to worm his way in.”
You should know, thought Helen.
“But the money was never enough. So, we think he started supplying, selling at big events like parties, weddings, that sort of thing.”
Helen frowned. “Then why haven’t we brought him in?”
“Because he hasn’t been caught in the act.” His mouth twisted awkwardly. “It’s a bit complicated.”
“Oh?”
Dean sighed. “Jules’ family. They were kind of friends of mine.”
“Am I hearing you right?”
His face turned sheepish. “Look, it’s no secret. I went to school with his older brother. We were in a band together. Haven’t seen him in years, but I bumped into Jules a while back. He knew I was in the job and offered some information.”
Helen massaged her temples. “He was an informant?”
Dean’s face contorted. “Not, technically…”
She lifted a brow. “An unregistered informant?”
Dean sighed and looked at the table. When he eventually raised his eyes, they were intense. “We met up a few times. He gave me information. Possible deals and criminal associations. Nothing credible as it turned out. There was talk of a shipment of drugs. But it was always on the horizon.” He sat back in his chair, scratched the back of his ear. “It all stopped a couple of months ago.”
“What happened?”
“He withdrew. Became difficult to get hold of. Said he wanted out, not only with me, but also with the guys he was working with.”
“Why?”
“No idea. Then a week ago, he stopped answering my calls and disappeared altogether.”
***
Nate flexed his triceps as he hovered in the shadows. His victim should have been back hours ago. He rested his eyes a second, blinked, then froze again, like the street entertainers dressed as statues in the city centre.
Nate had developed a knack for patience, honed through experience. He cast his mind back to an encounter at school with Celia Birtle. Celia had been the most popular girl in senior year with long golden curls that looked as natural as sunshine; large blue eyes, a flawless complexion and legs that went on forever. Every testosterone filled guy in the school wanted to get into her pants.
Most kids gave Nate a wide birth through school. He had no interest in his peers, didn’t share their obsession with music, football or comics. Being alone never troubled Nate. Nobody bothered him - he wasn’t sure whether that was because he was bigger than the other kids or a result of being Chilli Franks’ nephew. But he didn’t care. He focused on his boxing and spent hours in the gym every night. By the time he was sixteen he had a six pack and arm definition an Olympic athlete would be proud of.
But the day the teacher chose Celia to be his science partner, he’d felt sick to the pit of his stomach. Partnering was bad enough, but with a girl? Conniving, cold, self-centred beings. Yet, unlike the others, Celia had chatted to Nate. She told him about her pet Spaniel called Sally, her holidays, her parents and older sister. His cool silence didn’t seem to bother her. A couple of times she shared jokes behind her hand when the teacher wasn’t looking and they laughed together. For the first time Nate experienced a touch of warm friendship and it felt good.
It didn’t last. He remembered the moment it all changed. It was the last day of term. They had spent the lesson extracting DNA from a banana. After class, Nate paused in the corridor to search his locker. He heard voices behind him, two lads from his form teasing Celia about her ‘new friend’. His back was turned, they didn’t realise he was there, lost in the sea of other students. In her musical voice she laughed and responded, “Nate looks like an alien with that wiry hair and acne all over his face and neck.”
Nate’s jaw had tightened. He couldn’t believe his ears, he had to turn, to see her, to be sure. He could still see her now if he closed his eyes; the way she tossed her long, flowing curls behind her neck and grinned, perfect white teeth. A grin that fell flat when she saw him, a face that turned tomato red. He didn’t move, just stared back at her until she bustled away into the crowd.
When the new term resumed, Nate ignored Celia, but he didn’t forget. For weeks he planned, plotted and watched until he knew her movements inside out. Six weeks later, when she returned from babysitting late one Friday evening, Nate was hidden in her front garden, obscured behind the hawthorn hedge. As she closed the gate behind her, he grabbed her around her mouth, hit the back of her head hard, gagged and blindfolded her.
He remembered the moment like it was yesterday. He could still smell the sweetness of her perfume, the shampoo on her hair, the washing powder on her clothes. He could smell her fear. Whilst Celia’s parents watched the ten o’clock news behind their drawn curtains, he cropped he
r beautiful hair to the bone. He still had a bit of it at home. A sliver of skin remained attached for a while, but that had shrivelled and disappeared over the years.
Celia didn’t return to school for a couple of weeks and when she did, hats and scarves covered her head. The fact that he was never caught, simply added to Nate’s excitement. She never explicitly said so, but he could tell she suspected him. Whenever they passed in the corridor, her eyes turned fearful. If they brushed past one another in the canteen queue, she stiffened.
Nate blinked and stretched his arms out in front of him, then drew them back and knocked his fists together, clink, clink, clink, before he froze again.
He was an animal stalking his prey. And as soon as they made a move he would be ready to pounce.
***
Helen stared at Dean, hardly believing her ears. Jules as an informant certainly muddied the waters somewhat. And an unofficial one could make for a potentially very difficult situation. Dean knew police officers were required to declare any criminal associations. Although Jules had no record to speak of and they had received no intelligence on him for some time. No recorded intelligence anyway.
“What do you know about our victim?”
“Naomi Spence?” He shook his head. “Not much. I think he was quite keen on her in the early days, but for the last year she’s been more a trophy girlfriend. I don’t think she was involved in any of his deals.”
“He separated from her two months ago. Do you think it’s connected?”
He shrugged.
“You must have a theory?”
“I think he got himself into something he shouldn’t have. Maybe he siphoned off a shipment. Who knows? All I know is that he’s disappeared.”
Helen sipped the last of her coffee and checked her watch. Quarter to ten. She didn’t want to leave her mother to entertain Jo for any longer than necessary. And she needed time. Time to process this new information, away from Dean. “I ought to get going,” she said and stood to pull her jacket over her shoulders.
He nodded, lifted his head to the waitress who immediately scuttled over.
Dean paid the bill and they stepped out into a cloudy, dark night. The rain had stopped. Dampness rose from the pavements and pervaded the air around them.
“Would you like to do anything else?” he asked.
Helen wasn’t listening. She was looking across the street into a flat above the mobile phone shop. The light was on, the curtains undrawn and a girl sat alone in the corner beside the window, gazing at a screen in front of her. As she watched this perfectly normal activity, an idea crashed into her mind.
“Helen?” The high pitch in his voice brought her back to the moment. “Are you okay?”
There was something she needed to do. She turned back to him just as his phone began to trill. “Fine. Thank you for the coffee,” she said quickly. She nodded to his pocket. “You ought to get that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that she headed off down the street to her car. Jo could wait another half an hour.
Chapter Thirteen
Helen pressed the brake as she drove past the blue and white tape, plastered around Naomi’s home. A fresh faced blond constable, barely out of his teens, stood outside the entrance like a guard at Buckingham Palace. She knew an officer would be posted there until CSI finished working on the property. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since the murder and with the killer ransacking the whole house, as well as accessing the loft space, they had a huge area to meticulously examine.
Her mind followed the killer’s movements. Either they knew Naomi, her routine, her home with its front and rear access, the fact that the house three doors down was empty, that the loft space was open; or, they had been watching her for some time. Hours, days, maybe weeks.
Helen cast her mind back to Tuesday evening. She tried to put herself in Naomi’s shoes. She left work just after seven, arriving home about seven fifteen. Naomi’s red Fiesta was parked up the street, almost thirty metres from her home. They’d had heavy sleet on Tuesday, eventually turning to snow. It must have been a bind not to find a space closer to her front door. Helen imagined her grabbing her bag, her heels clattering the wet pavement as she ran down to her warm, dry home.
Helen slid across her seat, opened the door and climbed out of the car. The Fiesta had been removed for examination. This was about the spot where it was parked. She looked at her watch. Almost ten minutes past ten. She glanced up and down the street. All was quiet. She pulled her torch out of her pocket and shone it across the ground. The officer guarding number eight didn’t move, didn’t even spare a fleeting glimpse in her direction.
She wasn’t really sure what she was looking for. Any clues or evidence would have been removed by now, but she continued for several moments, before moving down the street to number eight.
“Evening.” Helen waved her ID at the plastic guard.
He peered at it, curled his mouth into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodded and stood aside. He didn’t speak a word.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said. He snapped another nod as she climbed through the tape.
Helen paused inside the entrance and switched back to the previous night. There was no evidence to suggest Naomi rushed about when she arrived home. Her damp jacket was hung on the wooden hat stand in the hall, her bag placed on a hook in the cupboard beneath the stairs. Helen wandered down the hallway. Her shoes squeaked on the black and white tiles as she missed the CSI paper and she edged back onto it.
She entered the kitchen. What would Naomi do? Go through her post? There wasn’t any left on the side, but Naomi didn’t seem the type to leave it out, almost obsessive in her tidiness. Helen remembered seeing some bills carefully fastened together with a paper clip - gas, electric, council tax, hanging out of an open drawer the night before.
What would she have done next? Checked her answer phone for messages? Helen crossed to the lounge. She stood very still for a moment, trying to piece together Naomi’s last movements. She recalled Naomi’s landline phone, a black hands free. They’d checked and there were no outstanding messages.
Naomi must have gone upstairs to change. Again, Helen retraced her steps. In the bedroom, she stole another gaze into Naomi’s ordered closet. Naomi had changed into a loose green vest and black jeans, but she hadn’t slung her suit over a chair like Helen would have done. She must have hung it up in the wardrobe, placed her shirt in the washing bin. Helen fingered the numerous suits in Naomi’s wardrobe. They felt oddly sticky through her latex gloves.
She gave up, hesitated briefly to glance at the loft hatch, and moved back downstairs. She recalled the autopsy results: the gastric examination of Naomi’s last meal. Helen stood at the bottom of the stairs and closed her eyes. She could almost see Naomi filling the pan, putting it on the hob to warm up, opening the small tins of sweetcorn and tuna, salting the boiling water, immersing the dried pasta, lowering the heat.
Where would she have eaten the meal? The kitchen was tiny. Helen thought back to her student days, before she had children to provide an example to. They had almost always eaten in the lounge, plates balanced on their laps. But what then? Turn the television on?
She recalled the window she’d peered through earlier tonight - the girl sat in the corner of the room, working on a computer. Her computer had been situated in the alcove between the fireplace and the window, just like Naomi’s. What if Naomi had been on her computer when she was surprised by her killer? Maybe she was completing a late report for work, answering a few emails.
The killer climbed through the loft, quietly navigated the stairs and carefully opened the door. If she had worked on her computer in the corner, she’d have faced the wall. Perhaps there was music in the background, masking any slight sound. He could easily have crossed the few metres to the corner, jerked her back, gagged her.
The torture explained the requirement for surprise. He wanted something, she wouldn’t tell him where it was. He grabbed her
hair to hold her in position. Tied her wrists. Burnt her. Pulled the cloth out of her mouth. She still wouldn’t say. Wouldn’t or couldn’t?
Maybe she pulled away and broke free. He chased her, knocking over furniture, a mirror from the wall. She freed her hands. The bruising to the backs of her arms and across her legs showed they fought.
Perhaps she had fallen to the floor, sobbing, clutching the pains at the back of her neck. He had walked away. She thought he was leaving. Maybe she made to stand. Then he turned back and she saw the gun. Perhaps she tried to reason with him. But it was too late. He shot her twice in cold blood, before turning the house upside down in his search.
Helen turned to face the corner of the room. The desk was bare, the PC already seized as evidence, due to be examined. Tomorrow she would get every technical expert in the station to make it a priority to check Naomi’s last movements online.
***
Eva opened the sugar bowl and shook the few grains visible at the bottom. She hated tea without sugar. Although the migraine had abated, she’d woken with a parched throat, the darkness seeping through her window, the only clue to the time. She hastily drew the curtains with a shiver.
She pulled open the cupboard beside the kettle and moved aside the fresh box of tea bags, the jar of coffee. Her heart sank. No more sugar. There was usually a good store of basics in the house to welcome them for every visit. Annie Buchanan made sure of this. Except, as she had made so clear earlier, she hadn’t been expecting this visit.
Eva was half tempted to wander down the road to the Buchanan’s house to borrow some, then thought better of it. She couldn’t face more conversation. There was always the shop. Tomorrow was Thursday. It opened around ten o’clock. Eva’s face contorted. Although she had met the shopkeeper, Ken Saunders, and his wife, Valerie, on many occasions in the past, they still viewed her as an outsider, and her visit would, no doubt, prompt questions. And, right at the moment, questions were just what she wanted to avoid.
She crossed the room and slung the hot tea down the sink. There was nothing for it. Tomorrow she’d have to head back into town.