by Jane Isaac
She sighed, reached for her bag and retrieved the rechargeable torch she’d picked up for him, along with a tiny expanding camping towel, and headed up the stairs. It wouldn’t do to part on a bad note.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Helen looked across the desk at Superintendent Jenkins. Telephone clutched to his left ear, he smoothed his right eyebrow between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand. He had been on the phone since she arrived, pausing only briefly to signal for her to sit in the chair opposite, before continuing his conversation. He said very little, yet his mood darkened the room.
Several minutes passed. She gave up trying to decipher his one-sided conversation and glanced around his office, wondering how many of her little cubicles would fit comfortably inside. The conference table at the far end was surrounded by chairs all pushed underneath, the books on the bookcase were aligned in height order, the papers on his desk stacked in neat piles. A laptop sat open in front of him.
The abstract painting on the wall caught her attention: just a few splodges of yellow and orange. There didn’t seem to be a pattern and it certainly didn’t resemble any recognisable shape. Helen could appreciate the talent of artists, but preferred something she could relate to like landscapes or portraits. It suddenly occurred to her that this was the only personal artefact in Jenkins’ office. There were no photos on his desk of family, nothing to indicate a life outside work. It reminded her how little she knew of the man behind the suit.
She’d heard rumours that he was divorced and lived alone but Jenkins never discussed his private life, and she often wondered if that was simply because he didn’t have one.
He replaced the receiver, leant back in his chair and steepled his long fingers before he spoke, “Thank you for coming, Helen.”
His sour tone caught her off balance slightly. When his secretary had called earlier to arrange the appointment, she assumed that it was to discuss the cold cases. Now she wasn’t so sure. “You asked to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Helen, would you mind telling me why you still have Scottish police watching Miss Carradine’s parents’ bungalow?”
“Of course, sir.” She was startled he’d discovered this, since she’d requested that all communication came through her. But Jenkins was a skilled detective and, whilst he tended to toe the political line adopted by many senior ranking officers, he did have the ability to consider the wider aspects of an investigation.
She presented a concise update of the case so far - the sizing of the jacket, the suicide note and reiterated the phone call by the female informant made so close to Carradine’s address, closely followed by the disappearance of Eva herself.
Jenkins didn’t interrupt. He sat, one leg crossed over another, which made his body appear at an angle, hands now folded in his lap.
When she finished he unfolded himself and leant forward. “Helen, I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Don’t let enthusiasm spoil your career.”
“But, sir… ”
“You disobeyed an order yesterday. I specifically asked you to leave Eva Carradine out of it.”
“But, considering the facts… ”
“There are no facts.” His terse calmness cut through her like a knife. “People go away all the time.” Jenkins leant back, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes momentarily. “Hell, where is the money supposed to be coming from?”
“I’m sure I can… ”
“That’s enough. There isn’t cash for hunches and whims. We have a tight case and the offer of central resources to tie up the loose ends, which is worth its weight in gold. Problem is, any saving we might have realised, you have now blown on a whimsy notion with Strathclyde police force. I’m not going to repeat the evidence that points to a case solved, Helen, but I will say that this investigation is no longer yours. DI Fitzpatrick’s team will close this one. Lend him one of your officers to aid the smooth transition. We move on.”
His voice softened, “Let’s put this behind us. You got a good result on the Bracken Way case last year. You’ve got another one here. These jobs take it out of you - the hours, the headaches, the decisions. Take the weekend off, maybe spend it with your family. Come back on Monday and let’s show the chief what we can do with these cold case shootings.”
She stared back at him, but held her tongue.
His face slackened. “Look Helen, you’re a good cop. Senior investigating officer on homicide is a difficult job. You have to balance leading an investigation with being a team player. Sometimes that’s not easy.”
“I don’t have a problem leading my team, sir. Actually, many of them share my view… ”
“Then it’s your job to change their mind,” he interrupted. Once again, his tone adopted a harsh inflection. “You give the orders. Believe me, you have to kick a few butts from time to time to gain respect in this place. You say, they do. That’ll lick them back into shape.”
Helen was infuriated. How dare he question her ability to manage. His empty words and lack of respect for his colleagues made her embarrassed for his rank.
Not for the first time, Helen left Jenkins’ office, raging like a bull. He was so wrong, yet he couldn’t see it. Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Where was Eva Carradine? At the bottom of a ravine? Floating in a lake? Since officers reached her parents’ bungalow in Scotland, she hadn’t returned. Helen pursed her lips. The surveillance on Eva Carradine may have been cancelled, but she’d make sure she lent one of her best detectives to Dean’s team. It always paid to keep your eyes and ears open.
***
A stream of vehicles stretched out in front of Eva as she pulled off the M80 towards Callander and slowed to a halt. She sat there for several minutes, tapping the steering wheel. When nothing moved, she cut the engine and climbed out. The view from the side of the road showed a line of traffic stretching to the horizon.
She sighed, climbed back into her KA and turned on the radio, fiddling with the channels until she found what sounded like a local station, hoping for some travel news. When Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ filled the car, she turned the volume down to low. She glanced at the car behind her in her rear-view mirror, then turned it to view her own reflection.
She stared at the stranger in the mirror. The severe black fringe accentuated her eyes - they looked bluer, larger; dark lashes curled out of pale eyelids. She couldn’t deny that the hairdresser had done a wonderful job, skilfully layering the inverted bob at the back so that it fell softly forward into her face. In other circumstances she might even have liked the change.
An image of her mother skipped into her head. She had always been so proud of her daughter’s natural, blond locks. She’d be so disappointed. Eva raked her hands through what was left of her mane. It felt false, like nylon. Once again she had messed everything up.
***
Helen sighed and shut down her laptop. She was supposed to be rereading the ballistic reports on the Roxten boys’ shootings, but her brain refused to focus. She made her way downstairs to join her family. The blare of the television drew her to the living room where she found Jo and Robert on the sofa watching a movie.
“Hi guys,” she said. “Anyone want tea?”
“No thanks,” Jo said, without looking up. Robert shook his head.
“Where’s Gran?”
“Gone to watch her own TV,” Robert said, eyes glued to the screen.
Helen looked up to see squirts of blood spray across the television screen. The image changed to a girl’s terrified bloodied face, then back to a car windscreen as two lines of blood dribbled down to the wipers. Helen turned to Robert and Jo. “What is this?” Her question elicited no response. She switched back to the television to see the bloodied girl stumble around the car and discover the body of an old man with one eye shot out.
“Ewww.” Robert said, still absorbed in the screen.
Jo grimaced. “That’s gross.”
“What is this?” Helen repeated.<
br />
“Wolf Creek,” Jo answered.
“What?” The alarm in Helen’s voice pulled both pairs of eyes to her. “You’re not watching this!” She bent down, grabbed the remote and changed channels.
“Hey!” Robert said.
“Robert, it’s an eighteen rated film, and a damaged one at that. You’re not watching it!”
“Oh, come on,” he pleaded. “All my mates have seen it.”
“No, way.” Helen shook her head and retreated to the kitchen, teeth clenched.
She sat at the table and pressed her palm to her forehead to soothe the ache that was gaining momentum. A tiny thought niggled her. Earlier, the phone company confirmed that the call made from Naomi’s phone on Wednesday, the day after she was killed, was made from somewhere in the Roxten vicinity. Did Jules visit his boys and use Naomi’s phone before he died? Or did Karen Paton make that call? One thing was for sure. It wasn’t Eva. She was in Scotland…
“Are you okay?”
Helen looked up to see Jo standing at the doorway. “Fine. That film was far too old for Robert.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realise it was going to be that gruesome.”
“Christ, Jo! It’s an eighteen certificate. He’s only just thirteen.”
“I’ve said I’m sorry.”
“Well, sorry isn’t enough when it comes to kids.” The barbed words escaped before Helen could soften them.
Jo stiffened. “Perhaps that’s telling me something, eh?”
Helen sighed loudly, trying to calm her acerbic tone. “I wasn’t implying that your… ”
“Save it!” Jo interrupted. “I need time to think.” And with that she stomped out of the kitchen.
Helen placed her head in her hands. The day was turning into a disaster. Her conversation with Matthew hadn’t gone well, she’d upset Robert, argued with Jo. As she massaged her forehead, Jenkins’ face popped into her mind. Was that why she was so tetchy? Because she’d been taken off the case? Because no-one could see the holes in the investigation? Or was it because, deep down, she was starting to think they might be right.
***
Sleep didn’t come easily to Helen that evening. She tossed and turned like a paddle boat in the midst of a mighty storm.
When she finally did drift off, her slumber was haunted by dreams.
She was in Naomi’s house, trudging down the stairs. Shrill screams filled the air around her. They were coming from the lounge. The metallic smell of blood seeped out of every crevice. The faster she moved, the more steps appeared beneath her.
The scenery changed. She was standing on the pavement outside Jules Paton’s house, an innocent bystander. Karen Paton and Naomi were shouting. She couldn’t make out the words. They seemed oblivious to her existence. Naomi became increasingly agitated. Karen’s boys tugged at her sleeve, crying.
Another change. Helen was following Naomi down a dusty bridleway. Fields stretched out across rolling country on either side. She had to quicken her pace to keep up. Naomi’s red hair hung loose. Wisps reached out and danced in the wind. Helen sped up to reach her. Just as she caught up she felt something brush her shoulder. She glanced behind to see Jules Paton’s face. As she turned back, someone had moved in front of her, blocking her path. They collided. Helen stumbled and almost fell. When she recovered herself, she looked up into the eyes of Karen Paton.
Helen woke with a start, blinking her eyes open. She glanced at the clock and nestled back into the pillow. It was only five thirty.
Sleep continued to evade her. Too many disjointed images, too many thoughts merged together in her mind. But one theme continued - Jules, Naomi and Karen. Had Karen played a role in the murder? She couldn’t have been the female informant, her voice was too high pitched, almost mouse-like. But what about the call made from Naomi’s missing phone on the day after the murder, traced back to Roxten?
She turned onto her side restlessly and switched back to the interview with Karen. The fiddling of the ring, cutting into her finger. Was she hiding something? Karen’s record was clean. Was it dealing with the police that made her so agitated? Or was she frightened for her children? During her service, Helen had faced many cases where concerned parents laboured under the misapprehension that any slight brush with the law meant that custody of their own children would be called into question. In reality, removing children from their families only occurred in extreme circumstances and was a difficult and convoluted process involving social services experts. And from what Helen witnessed, Karen Paton was a good mother.
No, there was something else bothering her, something niggling beneath the surface. She decided to pay Karen Paton another visit. Just to set her mind at rest. It wouldn’t be out of place for the police to provide a welfare visit to Jules’ next of kin now, would it?
Chapter Twenty-Three
The alarm bleeped at seven, waking Helen with a start. She leapt forward, slammed the snooze button and rested back on the pillow to calm her shallow breaths.
Her head thumped like the beats in Matthew’s music and she rubbed her hands up and down her face to ease the tension. After a night of shallow, evasive rest she could feel the warmth and comfort of deep sleep luring her.
Her mind flashed back to recent events: the searching of Eva’s house, the discovery of Jules’ body, the investigation wrapped up in a tidy pink ribbon by Dean’s team. She recalled his words, ‘Perhaps you are getting too close to this one?’ Then Jenkins, ‘It’s a good result, we need to move on.’
Daylight crept through the crack at the top of the curtains. Perhaps they were right. Maybe she had allowed herself to become too close. Certainly, the intervention of MOCT into the Spence case frustrated her. It reminded her of year eleven in secondary school: she’d spent months organising a charity fundraising concert and was taken sick with suspected meningitis days before the event, leaving a fellow pupil to take over. She’d hated sitting on the sideline, while someone else took the reins of her baby.
Helen stared at the ceiling, toying with following Jenkins’ advice and taking the day off. She could spend time with the boys. But Matthew was away, Robert had arranged to meet friends in town, and her mother had a lunch date with an old friend. Even Jo had said she was going to take advantage of a quiet house to catch up with work this morning. Left to her own devices she would brood around the house. No. She pushed Operation Aspen firmly out of her head. Today she’d go to the station and immerse herself in the review files.
***
Eva stared across the countryside. Soft mist danced on the edge of the field. The view was beautiful, the air clean. She inhaled deeply and held onto the breath, wanting to keep it forever.
She continued further down the road, past a field of sheep, another of cattle. A Land Rover rattled passed, then nothing. She paused beside a gateway and looked out into the distance. Just past the edge of the field there was a loch. She stared at it as Amy MacDonald’s ‘Mr Rock and Roll’ bounced into her ears from her iPod. Only last week they’d listened to it as they drove through France. Naomi and Eva. Together. Last week. A brief recollection of a former life filled her brain, warped by recent events.
She focused on the water. It looked inviting, reaching out for her. Naomi. Icy darkness cocooned her. A lump expanded in her throat. The water reached out again, calling to her.
Her life was a tangled mess. She stared at the loch. It would be so easy. In death the pain would be released. Easy. She suddenly remembered a documentary she’d watched on near death experiences a couple of years ago. The drowning victim’s voice spoke in her head, ‘Drowning isn’t easy, your body fights the water and chokes to death. It isn’t a pleasant feeling, not until the water engulfs you and, by then, you are practically unconscious.’ She shuddered, wondering if she was really brave enough to try.
An image of her mother pushed into her mind. She would be devastated, not least because Eva hadn’t come to her for help in her hour of need. Eva would be losing her pain, but passing on a new desperatio
n and anxiety, one that would glue itself to a parent’s heart for the rest of their life.
She threw her head back, stared at the hazy blue sky. The truth was she was too cowardly to try. The weight of her mother’s anxiety weighed too heavily on her shoulders. She ached to contact her. But Eva’s mother hadn’t taken her own mobile on holiday and her stepfather never switched his on. It was only for emergencies…
As she glanced down, something on her finger glinted in the sunlight. Her engagement ring. She recalled how the proprietor of the guest house from the evening before had glanced at it when she enquired about a room. The knowing look she gave when Eva said she needed to take a few days away, to use up holiday at work. A young woman travelling around on her own - must be a relationship break-up.
The importance people placed on that ring finger interested Eva. She had been engaged to Nick for six months before he’d finished it. She kept wearing the ring, but mostly because it offered her safety. On a night out, men would notice and give her a wide berth. And if she saw someone interesting, well, she could always remove it.
She glanced back across the water. She thought of Nick. The bad boy that caught her eye, the one she’d flunked university for on the promise of an engagement ring and a life of excitement. Nick that left her soon after. Although ludicrous, part of her still harboured feelings for him. When she dropped out of university she’d overheard her parents talking in the kitchen. Her stepfather had said, ‘The only way Eva will learn to make the right decisions is to experience the consequences.’ Trouble was, she never seemed to make the right decision.
After university, she secured a sales job in insurance. It seemed fun at first, but very soon the boredom set in. She rented a house with a loser of a boyfriend who dumped her, forcing her to move to a smaller flat and take in a lodger to cover the rent. Even the lodger, a student from Hampton University called Nicole, didn’t hang around. She shuddered. This was never how she saw her life evolving.