DEAD SECRET a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by JANICE FROST

  * * *

  As soon as she walked into the station the following morning, Ava could tell that something was up. Neal didn’t even thank her for the coffee she plonked in front of him when, unusually for her, she showed up ten minutes late.

  “Where have you been?” Neal asked irritably, “leave your coat on; we need to get to Nancy Hill’s as soon as possible.”

  “I thought you said we were bringing her in?” said Ava. She had half thought that Nancy Hill would already have been picked up by a couple of constables and be waiting to be questioned. Neal glared at her, though she could not possibly have known what he was about to say.

  “Nancy Hill is dead. Our uniforms found her when they called to pick her up. When she didn’t answer the door they looked around outside the property and discovered the back door unlocked. Found her in the bath with her wrists slashed.”

  Ava did not dare take the lid off her coffee cup. Neal had not so much as glanced at his, and his urgency and vexation were palpable.

  “If that damn train hadn’t been delayed . . .” he began.

  “ . . . We wouldn’t have gone to the Trafalgar estate and discovered that Nancy had a big secret. And we wouldn’t have had a reason to call on Nancy. The outcome would still be the same; Nancy would still be dead,” Ava said bluntly. Still, she understood that part of Neal’s anger stemmed from his frustration at not having brought Nancy in the evening before, thereby saving her life. “I know that, Sergeant,” Neal snarled, then, less irascibly, “look, I’m bloody frustrated about all of this . . . just when we seemed to have a chance to move the case forward, this happens. Four deaths now. At the rate the bodies are piling up, we’ll have exhausted all our suspects soon.”

  Ava had seldom seen him so wound up. She did not share his sense of guilt. Neal was feeling bad because he had failed to save Nancy. It caused Ava a moment’s concern that she did not seem to care as deeply as Neal, then she dismissed the thought; it was not that she did not care enough, but that sometimes, her Chief cared too much. Perhaps she was learning professional detachment after all. She felt sorry for Nancy’s terrible loss and for the despair that led her to take her own life, but that was all. No doubt one day there would be a case that would get to her and unravel her, but she was determined it wouldn’t be this one.

  * * *

  It took less than half an hour to drive out to Shelton. The village was one of a cluster that lay within a six-mile radius of the city, and was popular with families because of the good schools and easy commuting distance from Stromford. Ava drove. Only ten minutes from town, they were already in open countryside, but now, off the A-road, it felt as if they had left the city a hundred miles behind. The road was lined on either side with fields, ploughed over at this time of year, brown and flat and stark, and in many areas, still flooded with water from the recent rains. The bleak November landscape was relieved by hedgerows and copses and the odd farm building, and crows flapped their scrawny wings over ridges in the fields, looking for food.

  “Ever thought of moving out of town, sir?” Ava asked as they neared the village and a radar speed sign flashed out a warning to her to reduce her speed. “Nice cosy cottage in a place like this?” Shelton was postcard picturesque. As Ava spoke, they passed a pretty fourteenth century church on their right and the restored village pump on the green to their left. A cluster of traditional cottages surrounded the green, all topped with orange pan-tiled roofs and built out of the same cream-coloured local stone. It made Ava think of chocolate boxes and jigsaws.

  “Quite happy where I am for the time being, and Archie’s settled in school. Besides, Stromford isn’t really a city, is it, more like a big town? I hear you’re a bit of a country girl?”

  Ava smiled, “Not exactly. I’m a bit out in the sticks but I’m only three-and-a-bit miles from town. And of course, there’s a hamlet about half a mile away.”

  “Doesn’t it feel a bit isolated?” Neal asked.

  “I have neighbours. Sort of. Nearest one’s about five minutes’ walk away.”

  “Is your place alarmed?”

  Ava snorted, “You’re kidding, aren’t you? My landlord’s a bit on the tight side to say the least, but the rent’s low — mostly because there are few amenities nearby. I do have Camden — he’s as good as any guard dog.”

  Neal did not comment; they had arrived at Nancy Hill’s cottage.

  * * *

  A uniformed officer stood by the door. He said good morning to Neal and smiled at Ava, self-consciously puffing himself up as she came close.

  “Hi Ava — I mean, Sergeant.” A friendly voice greeted her inside Nancy’s small hallway.

  “Hi Dan,” Ava answered, “How’s life?”

  “Busy,” Dan said, his smile instantly transforming him from geeky to handsome. “This one’s straightforward enough, I think. Obvious suicide according to Hunt.” Ava nodded soberly.

  “Partner’s in the sitting room. He’s in a bit of a state.”

  Ava cringed, recalling Nancy’s distress when she’d received the terrible news about Amy. It seemed like there was no end to the fallout of grief and tragedy from Amy — or Emily’s — murder. With a feeling of trepidation, Ava entered the sitting room where Neal and a police constable stood over a bewildered-looking Richard Turner. Richard was slumped in a chintz armchair, head in hands. He looked up at Ava as she entered the room and shook his head, saying, “I can’t cope with all this now. You’ll all have to come back later. All I can think of is Nancy lying in that . . . that . . . bloodbath.”

  “Mr Turner,” Neal said gently, “we understand you are upset but there are a few questions we need to ask. I’m sure Nancy would want you to cooperate with us in our investigation into her daughter’s death.” Neal signalled to the police constable to make some hot, sweet tea. He sat down in the other armchair and Ava took a seat on the sofa feeling awkward and voyeuristic.

  “What about Nancy? Who’s going to be looking into her death?” Turner asked in some confusion.

  “Mr Turner, it seems very likely that Nancy took her own life,” said Neal.

  “Why would she do that? She would have recovered from Amy’s death given time and with my support. A couple of nights ago she asked me to marry her. Why would she do that if she intended to . . . to . . . kill herself?”

  Neal sighed, “Grief makes people act irrationally sometimes. They don’t know their own minds. Nancy was suffering from a reactive depression. Another evening she might just have picked up the phone and called you. Last night, she responded to her feelings in a tragic way. It makes no sense to a rational mind, but Nancy wasn’t thinking rationally when she stepped into that bathtub. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr Turner.”

  Ava mumbled her own condolences, and she did feel for Richard Turner, but at the same time, she felt impatient with him for holding things up. She wondered how Neal was going to proceed. Was it possible that Richard Turner had no inkling that Amy was not Nancy’s natural born child? To her surprise, she saw her boss nodding at her to take the lead. She cleared her throat,

  “Mr Turner. We have recently discovered that Nancy may not have been Amy’s birth mother. Were you aware of this?”

  Richard Turner’s astonishment dispelled any doubt. Ava would have bet money that he was as shocked as she and Neal had been to discover that this was the case.

  “That’s preposterous,” Turner said. “Why would you even suggest such a thing? Is this some kind of sick joke?” Anger had temporarily replaced grief. For a moment, Ava thought him capable of striking one of them.

  Evidently, the constable preparing tea in the kitchen had the same thought, for he appeared suddenly in the doorway, asking, “Everything alright in here?”

  “Quite alright, constable,” Neal assured him, “Mr Turner has just received some disturbing news.” With a look that questioned what could be more disturbing than to discover your partner in the bathtub with both wrists slashed, the PC returned to the kitchen.

  “Pl
ease be calm,” Neal said to Richard. “We wouldn’t be asking this if we didn’t have a good idea that it might be true. It may be important in finding Amy’s killer. Take your time and think; did Nancy ever give you reason to suspect that Amy wasn’t her flesh and blood daughter?”

  “Of course not!” Turner exclaimed, but his face said otherwise. It was as though a penny had suddenly dropped and he had found the answer to something that had been puzzling him for a long time.

  “Mr Turner . . .” Ava prompted. He had suddenly gone quiet.

  “I . . . I . . . Amy wasn’t conceived in this country. Nancy had a . . . had more than one sexual encounter whilst living in France and Amy was the result, or so she claimed. She said she didn’t know for certain who the father was and registered Amy under her own name when she was over a year old. She . . . she said she gave birth to Amy by herself and kept her hidden for a while to avoid what she perceived at the time as the shame of not being able to name the father.”

  As he spoke these words, it was obvious from Richard’s face that he realised how improbable they sounded. Ava resisted the urge to ask him if he had ever questioned Nancy’s version of events. Turner put his head in his hands again,

  “She was always so protective of Amy, over-protective. She wouldn’t let me in, wanted to keep Amy to herself. I always suspected there was something she wasn’t telling me, something big that stopped her accepting my proposal. She was going to tell me, I think. After the funeral, when she asked me to marry her, I felt that there was something else she was on the point of saying but changed her mind at the last moment. I was too stunned by the proposal to question her.”

  They were interrupted by the constable bringing tea. Ava gazed enviously at the steaming mug, thinking of her coffee, left untouched, back in Neal’s office.

  “I’ll take that,” she said, stepping forward. She placed the mug on a heart shaped coaster on the coffee table in front of Turner. “Mr Turner, try to have a sip of this. It might help.”

  Turner gazed up at her in bewilderment. “The love of my life has just killed herself. How could a cup of tea possibly help?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” mumbled Ava, “I can’t begin to understand what this must be like for you.”

  It was obvious that Turner was in no fit state to be questioned further, and the fact that Nancy’s death seemed to be a textbook suicide suggested that there was little to be gained from continuing.

  “Mr Turner,” Neal began, gently, “If there is anything about Nancy’s past that you think might be relevant to our investigation, please give me or my colleague a call. Even if it seems insignificant, don’t hesitate.”

  “Nancy didn’t talk about the past. It’s as if her life began when she and Amy moved to the village. She was barely twenty-three then. Before that she lived in France, before that, London and before that she was in foster care for four years. Her parents were killed in a car accident when she was twelve.” Neal nodded, and Ava jotted down some notes.

  “Thank you, Mr Turner. Like I said, if you think of anything else, let us know.”

  Ava felt her head clear as soon as they walked out the door of the cottage into Nancy’s small front garden. “That was intense,” she commented. “So much emotion in one room.”

  “Ours is often a sad business,” Neal said, quietly. He was, she noted, looking around the garden. Neal was known to have green fingers. The small plot would have looked pretty in the summer, she thought. There was evidence all around that Nancy had been a keen gardener, but already the garden was showing signs of neglect. Soggy brown leaves lay un-raked on the grass and across the path, roses un-pruned and plants that should have been moved indoors before the first winter frosts stood withering in their pots. Only a cheerful fuchsia and some flourishing winter jasmine hinted that life goes on.

  “I’ll check information on Nancy’s background now that we know it may be relevant,” Ava said.

  “Right,” he answered. “I want details of her foster carers and any foster siblings. It shouldn’t be that hard to ferret out. In the meantime, I’m going to pay Anna Foster another call, see what she has to say about any prior ties to Nancy.”

  * * *

  They drove back to the station in near silence. Neal had popped a disc into the CD player, some kind of Celtic music that he was fond of playing, melancholy and plangent, that did nothing to lift the mood. Ava’s ankle was aching and she squirmed in her seat trying to find a comfortable position. It was bothering her a lot lately. Perhaps she should take Neal’s advice and see a ‘proper’ doctor.

  At the station, they went their separate ways.

  PC Polly Jenkins caught Ava the moment she walked through the door. “Have lunch with me. I’ve been on desk duty all morning and I’m itching to get out of here.”

  “I’ve just got back,” Ava said, though just at that moment her stomach rumbled audibly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since six that morning.

  “So what? You’ve been working, haven’t you? And I heard that racket — you need carbs — now. Don’t fight it.”

  “Let me just . . .” Ava began.

  “I said now. I know you, the minute you sit down at that computer of yours you won’t stop ‘til you faint from hunger.”

  Ava laughed, “You win. Just give me five minutes.” Before Polly could moan, she pointed and whispered, “Ladies’ room.”

  “Five minutes and I come in there and haul you out.”

  “Five minutes and you won’t have to.”

  Three minutes later, Ava was rubbing her hands together vigorously under the dryer when she felt her mobile buzzing in her pocket. A text. She looked at it quickly, intending to reply later, but when she saw the caller ID, she felt a thrill of excitement. It was from Rukhsana Begum from the community centre in Sheffield, saying that she was in town and that she wished to speak with her about Rohina Ali.

  “Is it that obvious?” Ava said to Polly apologetically as she emerged from the women’s loo.

  “I know that look,” Polly said, dejectedly. “I shouldn’t have let you get past me.”

  “I’m sorry, PJ. I’ve just had an urgent text. Could be a lead. Some other time, okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Like you’re available twenty four seven, aren’t you?” Polly called after her, but Ava had no time for more apologies. She had already texted Rukhsana back and agreed to meet her at the train station, and she had precisely eleven minutes to get there.

  * * *

  Rukhsana was standing near the door of her train, glancing nervously at her watch, when Ava, sprinting along the platform, caught sight of her. The connection to Sheffield was due to leave in a couple of minutes. Whatever she has to tell me, Ava thought, she’ll have to talk fast.

  “I have an address for you,” Rukhsana said as Ava approached, her lungs exploding from the sprint.

  “Rohina Ali?” Ava gasped. Rukhsana looked around as though she was afraid they would be overheard.

  “Here, take this,” she said, pushing a small envelope into Ava’s hand. “In case the whistle blows — there’s not much time to talk.” At that very moment, the guard put his whistle to his mouth and motioned to the two women to either get on or off the train.

  “Thank you,” Ava mouthed through the window. Rukhsana nodded solemnly, her face already blurring as the train moved slowly down the platform.

  Ava ripped the envelope open, tearing the note inside in her haste. She stared, astonished, at the address on the slip of paper; it was right here in the city. Rohina Ali was a student at Stromford University.

  Chapter 19

  For the first time in weeks, the temperature was beginning to drop and the sky did not look overcast. Perhaps soon there would be the first real frost of the season, a welcome change after so much rain. Neal parked his car at the bottom of the Long Hill and walked up, admiring the partial view of the cathedral straight ahead. As part of an ongoing programme of repairs and restoration, much of its magnificent west front was obscured by s
caffolding, but at this distance, none of that was evident; only its jutting towers were visible, piercing a startlingly blue sky, and they were flawless.

  Perched at the top of the Long Hill, the gothic structure could be seen from miles around. Soon after moving to Stromford, Neal had realised that, whenever he drove towards the city, he began searching the skyline from as far away as twenty miles, looking for the familiar towers to guide him home. Years before, pilots returning from bombing missions in Germany had done the same, using the cathedral as a beacon to guide them to the airfields in the flat countryside surrounding the city. For almost a thousand years the cathedral had stood as a symbol of hope, a manmade edifice that seemed to embody the permanence of a natural landmark.

  Anna Foster’s shop was a short distance ahead across the cobblestone street, as Neal reached the hill’s half-way mark. A few afternoon shoppers, pausing for a break in their ascent of the relentlessly steep hill, looked in the window then continued on. The shop seldom seemed to be busy, but as Neal drew closer, he could see that there were one or two customers browsing the shelves nearest the door.

  Reluctant as he was for Ms Foster to lose precious custom, he was going to request that she turn her ‘open’ sign to ‘closed,’ so that he could be sure of conversing with her free of interruptions. Neal pushed open the door and breathed in the alluring scent of books old and new, full of knowledge and wit, facts and fantasies, beginnings and endings.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” Anna Foster greeted him from her desk. Today, he noticed, she looked her age. Dark circles underscored her eyes; her hair was caught up carelessly in a ponytail held in place by a scruffy blue scrunchy, loose strands hanging limply around her face, which was paler than usual. To Neal she still looked attractive — delicate and vulnerable, as though she needed looking after, and it troubled him slightly that he was drawn to her.

  Ava teased him that he had a weakness for damsels in distress, and he feared that she might be right.