by Jane Isaac
The detective hadn’t sounded concerned. She told Eva to stay in the room, that they were having a meeting this morning and she would ring her again before lunchtime. She assured her of her safety. But Eva didn’t feel very safe.
The man in the car park lifted the phone to his ear and spoke into it. He leant against the side of his car, his free arm raised as he ran his fingers through waves of dark hair. Watching him from behind the curtain, she suddenly felt as though she was peering into another world. A world where she no longer played a part.
At this moment Eva felt like a spectator, watching the lives of others, while her own life was placed on hold.
***
Helen arrived at work just after eight thirty. As she entered the car park somebody pricked the rainclouds that had been hovering in the sky and they burst their contents over Hampton. Helen pulled her coat up over her head, battling to carry her briefcase and bag, as she exited the car and ran to the entrance.
Pemberton was standing just inside the door as she passed through, depositing a pack of Embassy cigarettes back into his pocket. “Morning Sean,” she said. “Everything alright?”
He looked solemn. “Sawford phoned a couple of minutes ago. He’s stuck in traffic.”
“Do we know how long he’s going to be?”
“No idea. A lorry crossed the central reservation on the M1.” A loud drumming noise caused him to hesitate and gaze out into the car park. The rain was coming down hard now. “Could be a while.”
“What about Inspector Fitzpatrick?”
“No sign yet.”
“Great!” Frustration chipped her tone.
“Big news from last night is that Chilli Franks’ nephew was killed in a police chase,” Pemberton said, changing the subject as they walked together towards the stairs.
Helen paused and whipped around to face him. “Nate?”
Pemberton nodded.
A picture of Nate entered her head: the dirty blond number two hair cut, the acne riddled face, the dark eyes that always looked frighteningly intense. He couldn’t have been much more than eighteen. For the first time in her life she felt a marginal amount of pity for Chilli Franks.
***
Helen was pleased to see the rain had cleared as she turned into the small car park beside Weston Park school. It was packed as friends, parents and supporters had turned out to watch the football game. She parked on the grass at the far end, desperately hoping the ground wasn’t too waterlogged. She didn’t relish the prospect of being hauled out of the mud. As she left the car and headed towards the pitch she noticed how quiet it was. She checked her watch. Just after ten. The boys should have just started the second half. Normally there would be calls from the pitch, cheers from the crowd, words of encouragement from coaches, the shrill sound of the referee’s whistle.
She trudged around the back of the building to the field. It was empty. That explains the lack of noise, she thought. Usually the game didn’t finish until ten thirty. She was just wondering if she had the wrong location when she entered the clubhouse at the far end of the pitch and was met with the muddy, sweaty aroma of a football team.
Helen glanced up at the notice board. Pictures of lads beamed back at her: a formal shot of them all in smart club kit, the coach at their side, then numerous other photos of the team on events, in training, partying, paintballing. The boys varied in age from around ten to fifteen. Robert loved football, playing in Hampton’s junior league every Sunday morning during season. Suddenly, she was struck by the difference between her boys. Matthew showed no interest in rugby or football, preferring athletics, water sports and climbing whereas for Robert it had always been football. He’d pushed a ball around the lounge before he could walk.
Helen felt a pang in her heart. Her boys were growing up fast. It seemed like only a few years ago that she was persuading them to take a shower, change their underwear and clean their teeth. Now they both spent hours in the bathroom. Razors sat next to toothbrushes in the holder, a couple of bottles of hair gel and aftershave were added to the shower gel, shampoo and conditioner on the shelf.
A distant noise made her turn towards the windowed doors where she could see a group of boys marching towards the clubhouse. She felt a mild nudge on her arm and turned to see Jack, Robert’s friend, beaming at her.
“Hello Mrs Lavery.”
She smiled back at him. “Helen,” she corrected.
He gave her a cheeky smile. Jack was a stocky lad, with clumps of brown hair that stuck out in all directions and ruddy cheeks. “You missed a great game.”
“I was hoping to catch the end.”
“Oh, we started at eight today. Special fixture. Did you not get the email?”
Helen formed her lips into a smile. “Must have missed that. What a shame.”
“We won the Stars Cup!” He beamed at her, exposing a wide gap between his front teeth.
“Well, I guess congratulations are in order then. Well done!”
“Three - two. Robert scored the winning goal.”
“That’s great!” Helen became distracted by a group of boys exiting the changing room with bags slung over their shoulders, chatting noisily. She looked back at Jack. “Where is Robert?” she asked.
“He got a lift back with your friend. Dave, Den… No, Dean, that’s it, isn’t it? The tall guy. Jack placed his hand above his head to indicate height. “Good of him to come and watch the second half. He cheered all the way through.”
“Dean was here?” Helen felt a rush of blood to her head.
“Yeah. Anyway, coach took us all for a milkshake to celebrate and Robert got a lift back with him.”
Jack turned towards the door. “There’s my dad. Gotta go. See you soon, Mrs Lavery and tell Robert I’ll text him!” His final words were muffled as he disappeared into the changing room. She became aware that Jack’s dad was standing next to her and turned, politely thanking him for Robert’s sleepover last night, before turning out into the air.
As she made her way to the car, confusion consumed Helen. What was Dean doing here?
She was just sliding into the driver’s seat when a torch shone inside her head, reminding her of their conversation on Wednesday evening. He’d expressed an interest in going to the match. But she’d been against it. Anger flared inside her. Reaching out to her through Robert was a very low ball. A very low ball indeed.
***
Helen rested her head on the steering wheel. That certainly explained Dean’s absence from the station this morning. But where was he now? And more to the point, where was Robert? She tried their mobiles. Both switched to voicemail and she left urgent messages to call her immediately.
As she raised her head she noticed that the rain had started falling again, soft droplets dancing on the windscreen, blurring her vision. She called Pemberton who confirmed that Dean hadn’t returned to the station. Then, chewing the side of her lip, she called home.
“Hello?”
The sound of Jo’s voice threw her off balance and she paused momentarily. “Oh, hi. I wasn’t expecting to get you. Thought you’d still be recovering from your night out.”
“Didn’t drink.”
Helen didn’t miss the pithiness in her tone. “Oh.”
“I’m with child, remember?”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you didn’t come home last night.”
“Couldn’t get a lift until this morning.”
Helen was starting to feel frustrated. The last thing she needed right now was an argument with a grown adult over their social life. “Is Robert with you?”
“I haven’t seen him. I thought you were picking him up?”
Ignoring the question, Helen ploughed on, “Is my mum up?”
“She came down briefly for some water. Still looks like a ghost… ” The line crackled. “Helen, what’s up? You don’t sound yourself.”
“Nothing. Really. Just Robert’s not here. Must have met a friend, forgotten I was picking him up.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is. Do me a favour though, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Call me if he gets back before I see him.”
Helen rang off. Where are they? Her brain offered a practical explanation. They were at Hayes cafe, Robert tucking into a chocolate ice cream sundae, reliving the final winning goal of the match. But why the mystery? She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all.
Chapter Thirty
Helen drove up and down the streets of Hampton’s town centre, desperately searching for Robert’s red hoody, the navy sports bag slung over his shoulder. Finally she reached the high street and parked outside Hayes cafe. She jumped out of the car and ran to the entrance, but even before she was through the door, her hopes had trickled down the nearest drain. Through the glass fronted coffee house she could see perfectly well that neither Robert nor Dean were there.
Unrelenting, she pushed open the door and rushed up to the bar. Apart from a young couple huddled together on one of the sofas by the window, the place was empty. The waitress looked up and gave her a familiar smile as she approached. “Latte?”
“No, sorry. You haven’t had my son in this morning, have you? A young lad, thirteen, may be in a sports kit.” Her words were running together, mingling with her quick breaths.
“No.” The waitress looked alarmed, shaking her head. “We’ve been dead all morning. Is everything okay?”
Helen raised a hand. “My son. I think he’s gone off with a friend.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her card. “Please give me a call if you do see him?”
As soon as Helen was out of the door she whirled around. Where to next? Dean’s bed and breakfast flashed into her mind. She headed down the road in a half run, flinging herself around the corner. The hotel sign was still lit up, even though it was now mid-morning. Helen rushed through the entrance. A rich, musty smell welcomed her into the hallway she’d seen two days earlier. She grabbed the small gold bell and rang it hard.
It took several minutes and two more rings before she heard footsteps and saw feet emerging from the stairs. As the body came into view, Helen witnessed a dumpy woman in her early fifties with hair thinning at the front. She had on a loose navy skirt and a cream jumper that was bobbled across the chest.
“What’s going on?” The woman’s voice croaked as she spoke. A strong smell of nicotine followed her.
Helen flashed her identity card. “I need to see Mr Fitzpatrick,” she said.
“I was just doing the rooms on the top floor,” the woman answered. “I haven’t seen Mr Fitzpatrick this morning. He didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“And you are?”
“Vera Little, proprietor.”
“May I take a look in his room?”
The woman looked surprised momentarily, but didn’t argue. She pulled a book off the table beside her. “Now which room is he in… ”
Helen ignored her, and headed upstairs to room four. She tried the handle, but it was locked. She started banging her fist on the door as Vera’s heavy footsteps grew louder, followed by short, raspy breaths.
“Hey! Wait a minute,” she said, as she unlocked the door.
It opened to reveal a room veiled in darkness. Helen blinked, allowing her vision to adjust. The curtains were closed and it smelt dirty, as if the bedclothes needed a good wash. It had seemed larger to Helen on her last visit, more spacious, tidy, glamorous. Or maybe that was the drink talking.
The empty room injected a sick feeling into the pit of her stomach. Helen turned, pausing briefly to lock eyes with Vera and press a business card into her hand, before she ran down the stairs.
Outside the guest house, Helen’s mind reeled. Where else? She dug into the depths of her memory. A Chinese restaurant in Roxten pounced into her mind. They were open all day Sunday with a buffet. Dean frequented it regularly when he stayed in Hampton. He’d suggested taking her there for a late breakfast once, but the thought of eating Chinese in the morning had made her stomach turn. But Robert wasn’t so discerning. And he loved Chinese.
She raced back to her car and headed out of the city centre. In less than ten minutes she was turning into the small car park at the front of the bank of shops, of which the Chinese restaurant, ‘Wok Up’, was on the end. She parked hastily and jumped out of the car. The windows of the restaurant were steamed up, obscuring her view, but she could see that there were several bodies milling around inside.
Two middle aged men, plates loaded with food, turned from the buffet bar as she burst through the door. The rush of thick heat beat her cheeks. She scanned the tables. One at the far end was surrounded by a group of dishevelled teenagers who looked like they hadn’t slept since the day before. A man sat alone at a small table beside the window. Two waitresses stood behind the counter and watched as a waiter approached her. But she didn’t stop to speak to him, merely turned and left the shop.
The sick feeling in her stomach started to churn her insides. She put her hand up against the brick wall to steady herself. Where were they and why hadn’t they answered her messages?
At that moment, Helen saw a hint of colour disappear around the side of the building. It looked familiar. She followed it. Nothing. She walked around to the back of the restaurant, past a bank of dustbins overflowing with cartons, paper and food scraps. A clicking noise caught her attention. She whizzed around. Another movement. Again Helen followed it, back onto the side street, past a block of two storey flats. It led to a dead end, a pedestrian alley the only outlet into the rest of the estate. She continued down the alley, into another street lined with houses on either side. There it was again in the distance, just for a split second before it turned off. She tried to call out, but her lungs sucked the last breaths from her mouth.
Helen ran down the road, her feet pounding the pavement, and turned at the next corner, unsure of where she was heading. She passed a teenager dressed in a black hoody and jeans, texting on his phone. He looked up briefly, but didn’t meet her gaze. Helen headed through another alley and whizzed around. She was in the heart of the rabbit warren now. She didn’t recognise her surroundings. The streets were bare. She reached into her pocket for her mobile. It was missing. It must have fallen out. She was desperately trying to recall when she last used it when she saw something out of the corner of her vision. He was on his mobile. She sped towards him. Almost as she reached him, he disappeared around a corner and up the side of a house.
She turned the corner. Helen heard a thump and felt a simultaneous sharp pain penetrate her skull just as the world turned black.
***
Pemberton was starting to feel edgy. He checked his watch again. It was now after one. Sawford had reached the station before twelve and called several times enquiring after Helen. He wanted to meet urgently. But where was the DCI? She said she’d be back by eleven.
She wasn’t answering her mobile. He’d left several messages. Dean hadn’t shown up either. The word around the station was that he was sorting out family problems, but nobody could reach him. Had they met up? But surely she would ring. It was out of character for her not to be available on the end of her phone.
He made his way out towards the car park and was just pulling the external door open when he heard Sawford’s monotone voice, “Sean, any news on the DCI?”
Pemberton cringed inwardly and stood for a split second to regain his composure before turning to face him. “Not yet. She’ll be back soon.”
“So you said, an hour ago.” Sawford stared up at him, a file tucked beneath his arm.
“She’s obviously been delayed.”
Pemberton had seen that look before, the scrutinizing look that examines your face and body language searching for the truth. He’d used it himself on many an occasion. But he remained silent, refusing to be drawn.
“Problem is, sergeant, this won’t wait. And, as she’s not answering her phone, we’ll have to start without her.”
Sawford tur
ned on his feet and Pemberton reluctantly followed him into a meeting room. Sawford placed the file he’d been hugging on the small round table in the middle, sat back in his chair and folded his hands together.
Pemberton sat opposite him.
“I’d like to hear more about the DCI’s relationship with Dean Fitzpatrick,” Sawford said.
“I told you yesterday… ”
“I heard what you said, yesterday,” Sawford cut in. “But I want to know the truth. Are they involved?”
Pemberton stared at him in disbelief, careful not to narrow his eyes or react in any way. When he spoke, his voice was impassive. “In truth, I’ve no idea. They are old friends. That’s all I know.”
“Oh, come on, Sean. You work very closely with the DCI. She must talk about her home life, partners?”
Pemberton eyed him warily. “Not really. Occasionally she mentions her kids, her mother, but generally she’s quite private about her personal life.”
“It’s a coincidence that they have disappeared together, don’t you think? And my sources have been watching them. They’ve worked on this case together, tied up all the evidence.”
Pemberton stared at him, trying to work out exactly what he was implying. “Helen didn’t believe the case was solved,” he responded. “She thought there was more to it, worked hard to keep it. She pressed Jenkins because she didn’t feel the evidence tied up.”
“Did she? Are you sure? Or did she just say that to keep herself in the clear?”
Pemberton’s head was spinning. He’d worked closely with the DCI. She was passionate about making a difference, just like her father.
Sawford leaned forward, leafing through the folder. “I’ve spoken to Gooding,” he continued. “There was further bruising on Paton’s neck, inconsistent with the ligature we found. It’s possible he may have been killed first, and hung later to make it look like suicide.”
“That’s practically what Helen thought, yet there was nothing in his report.”
“No, because he was told to ignore it. He was told that the evidence against Paton was compelling and there was no need to pry further.”