It was a fleeting moment of positivity, something to keep her going through their grim task. And she was glad of it today.
78
‘Why?’
The starkest of questions and the hardest one for Charlie to answer.
‘Why would anyone do something like that?’
Charlie stared at the bewildered face on the small screen. The Skype connection to Durban was far from perfect, the sound dropping in and out, but she had managed to convey the basic details of his daughter’s death to Bob Scott. The 55-year-old, who’d moved to South Africa with his wife five years ago, was clearly poleaxed, struggling to process the calamity that had befallen him.
‘That’s what we’re endeavouring to find out. We have our entire team working on it. And, believe me, we won’t rest until –’
‘And you say this is linked to another murder?’ Scott said, cutting across her.
‘Yes, the circumstances suggest the two incidents are connected.’
‘Dear God,’ Scott continued, running his hand over his face, now contorted with distress. ‘I never thought it would happen like this.’
‘Sorry?’ Charlie replied, not sure she had heard properly.
‘Well, we … Lauren’s mother and I suspected that this call would come one day. But this …’
He couldn’t say the words – horror assailing him – so Charlie jumped in.
‘Can I ask why you were expecting this?’
Scott gathered himself, wiping a tear from his eye.
‘Lauren was our only child and we gave her everything … but she was a lost soul. Difficult, closed, angry. She … she was difficult as a teenager …’
He hesitated as if unsure whether to speak ill of the dead.
‘… but she was even worse after that. Drink, drugs, self-harm, you name it. By the time she was in her early twenties, she was hooked on heroin. That’s when things really started to go downhill.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning she would steal from us, often coming to the house when she knew we’d be out. She would shoplift, beg, borrow to find money for drugs. And when that wasn’t an option, she, well, you know …’
He didn’t need to spell it out – Lauren’s convictions for soliciting stared up at Charlie from the charge sheet in front of her.
‘Why was this, do you think?’ she enquired. ‘Why the drugs, the self-destructive behaviour?’
Scott shrugged helplessly.
‘Perhaps it was just her personality. Perhaps she was in with the wrong crowd. Or maybe it was just because that’s how shitty life can be sometimes.’
Bitterness had seeped into his tone now. Charlie looked at his face, intrigued by the conflicting emotions distorting it. Bitterness, guilt, shock, but also a profound, heavy sadness.
‘Had you spoken to her recently? Had she talked to you at all about her plans?’
‘We last spoke around four years ago. It was better that way.’
Clipped and definitive. Charlie was shocked – and angered – by this curt dismissal of his own daughter. She had no idea their estrangement was so profound.
‘Because?’
‘Because it was too upsetting for everyone. She couldn’t change, despite all our efforts to help her.’
‘So you …’
Charlie didn’t want to say ‘cut her off’ but couldn’t think of how else to phrase it.
‘Oh, don’t think it was our decision, because it wasn’t,’ he said firmly, reading Charlie’s mind. ‘My wife would have kept in touch, she wanted to keep the channels of communication open, even after we moved here, but Lauren wouldn’t have it. She severed contact with us.’
‘Why would she do that? Presumably she still needed you, your support.’
‘Our money, you mean.’
Another shot of bitterness, but almost as soon as he said it, Scott’s face resumed its sad, weary demeanour.
‘Lauren didn’t like herself. I can’t put it any other way. If I was being generous, I’d say she cut us off to spare us. She knew she was self-destructive, exploitative, deceitful. She knew all this and yet she couldn’t stop, the drugs were too much a part of her life by that point.’
Charlie nodded, then responded:
‘I should say that your daughter was clean by the end of her life.’
Once more, Scott looked at Charlie as if she had just smacked him in the face.
‘She’d been to AA, NA, and had got herself together. She had a boyfriend and was making a go of things.’
Now the 55-year-old broke down, burying his face in his hands and sobbing loudly. The fact that his daughter had had a shot at redemption, only to be brutally murdered, was too much to bear.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, but kept his hands clamped to his face.
Charlie watched him, her heart breaking for him. But she knew the worst was yet to come. It now fell to her to compound his misery by telling him that in other circumstances, if Fate had not intervened so brutally, he would have been a grandfather. But before she could do so, Scott spoke again:
‘It’s such a waste …’
‘I know,’ Charlie replied, her own voice thick with emotion now.
‘Despite everything, she was a talented girl. She had so much potential.’
‘I’m sure …’
‘And we were proud of her. Not of what she became, but early on. When she surprised us with her A-level results, when she started university. We could see a really bright future for her then.’
The tears were streaming down his face, but Charlie’s sympathy was now tempered by curiosity.
‘Sorry, you say Lauren went to university? We didn’t find anything on record suggesting she attended –’
‘She didn’t finish the course,’ Scott replied, matter-of-factly. ‘She dropped out after a year or so, then that was that.’
Charlie digested this.
‘And can I ask which university she attended?’
‘She stayed locally, so as to be close to friends and family. Southampton University had a very good reputation at that time.’
Charlie sat back in her seat, momentarily lost for words. An interview that had promised so little, except distress and grief, had suddenly provided her with a significant new lead.
A possible connection between Tom Campbell and Lauren Scott.
79
It had been a long wait, but at last her patience had paid off.
Having been jumped by Graham Ross earlier, and dressed down by Simmons, Emilia had been determined to get back on the front foot. Which is why she was now in the car park of the Premier Inn, watching Matteo Dominici scurry across the tarmac.
Her coverage of the New Forest Killer had been good so far – better than good – but it lacked anything that genuinely tugged at the heartstrings. Melanie Walton had been too traumatized to talk and had knocked back all enquiries. Lauren Scott’s parents, meanwhile, weren’t even in the country and her boyfriend had gone to ground. Emilia had seen the footage of him fleeing his flat this morning and had immediately set about making enquiries, texting the cleaners, porters and receptionists she knew at the local hotels, hoping the promise of some drinking money might loosen their tongues. Sure enough, her foresight had paid off, one of her informants confirming that a flustered Dominic had checked into the Premier Inn off New Road earlier that morning.
Emilia had raced down there, but on arrival was frustrated to find that Dominici had left again, almost immediately after his arrival. She cursed her lengthy chat with Simmons and her contretemps with Ross, was sure she could have snagged him if she’d moved a bit quicker. But, counselling herself to be patient, she’d set up camp in the car park, watching the predictable parade of businessmen, stag-do revellers and adulterers file past.
Eventually Dominici surfaced. Exiting a taxi, he hurried across the car park towards the service lift, presumably hoping to avoid any unwanted attention. But Emilia was one step ahead of him, sauntering towards him, so as not
to excite his interest, until it was too late to avoid her.
‘Matteo?’
He jerked his head up, startled. Emilia stepped directly in front of him, extending a hand.
‘I’m Emilia Garanita. I wonder if I could have a minute of your time?’
‘Who are you?’ he barked.
‘I’m from the Southampton Evening News. We’ve been covering your –’
He pushed roughly past her, continuing his progress towards the building.
‘I know you’re grieving, Matteo,’ Emilia continued, hurrying after him, ‘and that you deserve some privacy. But ignoring the press is not the answer. The best thing you can do is give me your side of the story, then all this will –’
‘Go to hell.’
‘I’m not trying to upset you. I understand your distress, I really do.’
Dominici walked more quickly, Emilia struggling to keep up.
‘I just want to get to know Lauren a little better. She was a wonderful woman, I’m sure, and I’d like to give our readers a better understanding of her. To afford them a glimpse of the woman you knew and loved.’
‘Where do you get off?’ Dominici stopped abruptly, rounding on her. ‘Pretending to be interested in me, in Lauren?’
Emilia held her ground.
‘I’m just doing my job, Matteo. I will quote you accurately and I won’t put in anything you don’t want me to. Talk to me about Lauren, tell me about –’
‘You’ll get nothing from me. Nothing.’
He took another step forward, but as he did so, he spotted something. A man with a long lens was taking pictures of their confrontation from the far side of the car park.
‘Who the hell is he?’ Matteo roared.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ Emilia said blithely. ‘We just need some photos, so our readers can see how well you’re bearing up.’
Emilia was glad she’d asked one of their photographers to join her. The photos of Dominici looking crazed with grief would be perfect for the front page. But their subject didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm.
‘I hope you burn in hell, you … you parasite.’
Stepping forward, Dominici spat in Emilia’s face, a large glob of saliva landing on her left cheek. Instinctively, she took a step back, fearing she was about to be attacked, but Dominici now turned on his heel and disappeared into the bowels of the hotel.
‘You ok?’
Darren Hall, her snapping colleague, had joined her.
‘Never better,’ Emilia replied, pulling a tissue from her bag and wiping the spit from her cheek. ‘Get anything good?’
‘You betcha.’
‘Then you’d better send them through.’
Emilia headed back to her car, tossing the tissue into a nearby flowerbed. Darren’s concern was not unexpected; nor was it welcome. The truth was that when she had her game face on, Emilia could handle anything. Many people would shy away from the aggravation, the insults, the abuse, but not her.
She actively enjoyed it.
80
He tried to keep his breathing steady. But the adrenaline was pumping and his hands shook as he laid the clothes out on the bed.
It had become his ritual now. The calm before the storm, a moment to gather himself. But it was more than that. It was the point when reality drifted away to be replaced by something different, something better. Picking up one of the heavy boots, he ran his finger over the thick, rutted sole. It was so hard, so certain. Every time he put it on he felt some of its confidence rub off on him – it made him feel strong, powerful, untouchable even. Holding it up to his nose, he breathed in its aroma – a heady mixture of leather and rubber.
Laying it down, he picked up his fatigues. They too were army surplus and in mint condition. His day-to-day clothes were always crumpled and dirty, but never these. They were immaculately clean and pressed – he loved the way the iron purred over the black fabric as he worked on them. They remained concealed in the aged wardrobe, behind moth-eaten coats and jumpers, and he lived for the moment when he could retrieve them, smoothing them out and admiring them, as he laid them out on the tatty eiderdown.
Impatience now mastered him and he slipped them on, revelling in the feel of the coarse fabric against his skin. They made him feel whole. They made him feel real. Closeted away in his tiny, gloomy bedroom, the indignities of the working day seemed increasingly distant, as if they belonged to someone else. The curtains were always drawn, keeping the world at bay, allowing him to fashion a different destiny for himself. This place had always been his sanctuary, containing the only things that mattered to him. His uniform, his trophies, his weapons. For him, this was the promised land.
Darting a look at his watch, he realized with a shiver that it was nearly time. Darkness was falling. It was a summons he could no longer resist, so, snatching up his balaclava, he stuffed it into his backpack and grabbed his jacket. Slipping it on, he pulled the hood up and hurried from the room.
This time he didn’t turn towards the front of the house, but to the rear. If anyone had spotted him returning home, they would not see him depart, the stakes were too high to allow that. Opening the French windows, he slipped out into the yard. From here it was a short march to the back gate and he didn’t hesitate, pushing through it as he hurried towards the Defender.
At the last moment, he paused, caution dictating he check that the coast was still clear. But there was no one around, he was quite alone. So, climbing inside the battered 4x4, he fired up the engine.
81
Joseph Hudson toyed with the key fob, flicking it back and forth. Helen could tell he was excited, nervous even, longing to turn the ignition and snap into action. Clearly, he was not a man who was good at waiting.
Osbourne had joined McAndrew out front, doubling up a necessary precaution now that night was falling. Helen had opted to join Hudson in a spot near the top of the rear alley, partly because it was her duty to babysit the new recruit, partly because she was intrigued by him.
‘Tell me about the bike.’
Hudson stopped flicking and turned to her.
‘Have you always been a solo traveller?’
Hudson smiled at the double meaning, then replied:
‘Product of a misspent youth.’
Helen nodded. Her own obsession with bikes had started when she and her sister, Marianne, used to steal them as teenagers.
‘I don’t broadcast it, but I grew up in a travelling community.’
Helen said nothing, genuinely surprised. Travellers seldom joined the police, given the suspicion that still lingered on both sides.
‘We were on the south coast, not far from Chichester. We didn’t have cars, well, not all the time, so I grew up driving quad bikes, mopeds, whatever we could construct, cannibalize …’
‘Did you enjoy it? Growing up there?’
‘What’s not to like about racing around on quad bikes?’ Hudson replied happily.
‘My sister and I, we only had the two wheels, but I know what you mean. It’s the sense of freedom it gives you –’
‘And of being in control,’ Hudson broke in. ‘Of going where you want to go. One day, I just took off and didn’t come back.’
Hudson clocked Helen’s reaction, continuing:
‘It was nothing bad. I just knew what I wanted to do and that didn’t fit with the travelling life, so I went to London and started over.’
Helen digested this. The parallels with her own life were striking, except that she had headed south to change her fortunes, while Hudson had headed to the capital. Personally, Helen had been glad to see the back of it.
‘I met a girl, fell in love, got married. Then fell out of love, got divorced and was back to square one.’
‘Right.’
‘I was a mess, truth be told, but I always knew what I wanted to do and that saved me. Work’s always been my escape, my salvation.’
Another parallel. The more Hudson talked, the more he seemed to surprise her.
&n
bsp; ‘So I did my training and signed up. The Met didn’t have many travellers applying to be coppers back then,’ Hudson continued. ‘So, they did a very thorough background check on me. Bit like you’re doing now.’
It was said with humour. Helen smiled briefly and looked away, scanning the street for signs of life.
‘We’re a tight ship here. I like to know who we’re dealing with.’
‘Well, let me know when I’ve passed the test.’
Helen said nothing, a companionable silence descending, before Hudson continued:
‘How about you? Ever go back to your old haunts?’
‘Absolutely not. I hope they’ve bulldozed the place.’
‘There’s nobody there any more? No friends or relatives?’
‘Anyone I ever cared for is either dead or in prison. But I guess you know that, right?’
Hudson didn’t bother to deny it.
‘The only person I know from that time is Superintendent Simmons. She did me a good turn back then.’
‘Then you must be glad to have her at Southampton Central.’
Helen was pleased he hadn’t tried to pry.
‘I’d love to say I’ve had bosses who I’d throw down for,’ Hudson continued amiably. ‘But to be honest they’ve largely been timeservers or glory hunters. It’s one of the reasons I’ve kept moving, to be honest, kept trying to find the right place for me.’
Down to the Woods: DI Helen Grace 8 (Detective Inspector Helen Grace) Page 19