by Jess Ryder
‘Done your research then,’ I say, teasing.
The tea-making’s taking forever and I’m thinking of going to offer help, when the great man comes back in, carrying a tray laden with a floral china tea set and a plate of chocolate biscuits.
‘Sorry for the delay. I was stupid enough to check my emails while I was waiting for it to brew… Do sit down, Eliot. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’ Durley pours and hands out the cups and saucers, pulling out two small tables from a nest and positioning them precisely at our right-hand sides. He finds coasters in the sideboard drawer, glancing up at the photo of his wife as he fusses, then sits in the big armchair. ‘Yes, very good of you to come.’ He takes a tentative slurp. ‘Difficult to have this kind of conversation over the phone. And probably better if it’s off the record at this stage.’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Do have a biscuit.’ Eliot leaps up and passes me the plate, but I’m too excited to eat. Durley takes one, dunking it briefly in his cup before sliding it into his mouth. He crunches away slowly, staring at me like I’m an object of some considerable interest. ‘How much do you know about the Darkwater Murder?’ he says eventually.
‘Nothing really,’ Eliot replies on my behalf. ‘There wasn’t much on HOLMES so I asked Gerrard – she said you worked on it.’
Durley nods. ‘Cara Travers, a twenty-two-year-old drama graduate – pretty girl as it happens – stabbed in the chest with a kitchen knife. I was exhibits officer on the case.’ He turns to me. ‘Bagging and labelling, establishing the chain of evidence. My first murder, that’s why I’ve never forgotten it.’ He puts his mug down. ‘You know, you do look incredibly like your mother.’
My heart falls into my stomach. ‘You knew her?’ I pull a face at Eliot, but his expression doesn’t shift.
‘Well, I met her a few times, if that’s what you mean,’ Durley replies. ‘Bit of a hippy, if I remember rightly.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Are you saying my mother had something to do with the murder?’
‘She found the body.’ He registers our astonished expressions. ‘I beg your pardon, I assumed you knew.’
My heart starts to race as the chief rises and walks over to the sideboard.
‘My wife kept scrapbooks of every major case I was involved in. It was her way of being involved, bless her. God only knows, she spent enough time by herself. Barbara loved following the trials, read all the papers, even sat in the public gallery sometimes. She missed it when I went into management.’ He glances towards her photo on the chimney breast. ‘Anyway… I had a rummage this morning and found this.’ He gestures for us to come over.
It’s the kind of old-fashioned scrapbook Dad used to buy me when I was a child, so we could make a record of our holidays. The same coloured sugar paper, pink, purple, acid yellow and sludge green, faded and bitten at the edges. We used to stick in postcards and publicity leaflets, tickets for boat rides and museums, drawings I’d made on rainy days. And later, when we got home, we’d add photos he’d taken of me proudly standing next to a sandcastle, or lying on my surfboard, triumphant after a good ride to the shore. I suppose kids nowadays do it all with an iPad… I don’t know why I’m thinking about that now. Maybe it’s because I can’t take all this other stuff in. Maybe I don’t want to know the truth about what Becca did.
‘Here you go. This is Cara Travers.’ He points to a grainy black-and-white head shot of a young woman with even features and long straight hair; blonde or perhaps mousy, it’s hard to tell. She’s all smiles and innocence, her expression hopeful and eager, as if contemplating a long, happy life stretching before her. Girl-next-door pretty. The perfect murder-victim photo. I turn a few pages, casting my eyes over the yellowing newspaper cuttings. The press used the same photo again and again, fixing her personality, defining her in death. ‘Cara Travers, young actress’, ‘Cara Travers, victim’, ‘Cara, aged 22’.
‘It should have been one of the simplest cases the team ever put together,’ Durley says. ‘There was only one suspect – her ex-boyfriend, Christopher Jay. He was a nasty piece of work, pot-head, thief, violent bully. Cara had been brave enough to finish the relationship, but he wouldn’t accept it. It was a classic case of “if I can’t have you, nobody else will”.’
Christopher Jay. In my mind, I can hear my tiny voice struggling to pronounce his name.
‘So what was the case against him?’ asks Eliot.
‘It was made up of lots of little things; when you put them together, they added up. For a start, there were no signs of forced entry, which meant Cara probably knew her killer. She hadn’t been living in Birmingham long and hadn’t made any friends outside of their little theatre company. The other actors had left weeks earlier and had cast-iron alibis, and – importantly – no motive. Jay was the last man standing. Cara had recently done a big clean-up of the house, but his fingerprints were all over the kitchen and there were signs of a struggle. Nothing on him, unfortunately, but he had plenty of time to dispose of any bloody clothing, along with the murder weapon, which we never found, although a large knife was missing from the block. Jay admitted going to the house that day. A neighbour saw him arriving in the afternoon, but nobody saw him leave, suggesting he remained there until the time of the murder. And Cara’s friends testified that he’d been violent towards her during and after the relationship. Motive, opportunity and no alibi for time of death – it was all there. So we took it to trial and…’ He pauses, as if it’s too painful for him to continue, walking away from us towards the window, where he stands, gazing at the large, empty lawn.
I exchange a curious look with Eliot. ‘So what happened?’ I say, after a pause. ‘Did something go wrong?’
Durley turns round to face me, a look of cold hostility in his eyes. ‘Your mother, that’s what went wrong.’
My stomach turns over. ‘My mother? What do you mean?’
‘The statement she gave the morning after the murder was consistent with the timeline. She claimed she’d had an argument with her husband and left the house in the middle of the night to get some fresh air. She went for a walk around Darkwater Pool and came across Cara’s body, ran to the nearest phone box and called 999. When the duty officers turned up ten minutes later, they found her weeping hysterically and covered in the victim’s blood.’
Eliot raises his eyebrows. ‘But she wasn’t a suspect?’
‘No,’ replies Durley firmly. ‘There was nothing to link her to Cara Travers.’
‘So what did she do? Move the body? Compromise the forensics?’
‘It was much worse than that.’ Durley turns around and goes back to his armchair, sitting down heavily. ‘When Rebecca Banks took the witness stand, she gave a different version of events, said the victim was still alive when she found her. She even claimed Cara spoke to her, asked her to stay with her until she died. It was a complete shock to us – my DI was absolutely furious. She’d been called as a witness for the prosecution and suddenly she’d switched sides.’
‘Switched sides?’ I echo. ‘Surely she wouldn’t have done that deliberately.’ I don’t get what he’s talking about, but the disgusted look on Durley’s face is making me feel defensive.
‘If you let me explain,’ Durley replies, his tone a little patronising. ‘The pathologist put the time of death at between 9 and 11 p.m., but Rebecca Banks dialled 999 at 12.42. If Cara was still alive, with her injuries giving her a twenty-minute bleed-out at most, it put the time of the attack at around midnight. Which meant Christopher Jay couldn’t have killed her, because at that time he was conveniently getting chucked out of the Punjabi Paradise restaurant six miles away, and there were half a dozen people prepared to swear to it.’
‘How annoying,’ says Eliot, creasing his forehead into a sympathetic frown. ‘Why do you think she suddenly changed her mind?’
Durley shrugs. ‘I think she just got a bit carried away by the drama of the occasion, didn’t realise the implications of what she was saying
. The prosecution gave her a really hard time, but she wouldn’t budge – said she’d forgotten to mention it when she made her original statement because she was in a state of shock or some such bullshit. It was a gift to the defence. They made the most of it and suddenly our case didn’t seem so watertight.’ Durley sighs with irritation.
Eliot walks over to him. ‘Didn’t the judge advise the jury in her summing-up? Surely she told them to put science above faulty witness testimony?’ I bristle at the word ‘faulty’ and turn back to the scrapbook, searching for a mention of Becca’s name.
‘Yes, but instead of clarifying things, she made it worse. She reminded them that the pathologist had admitted it was more difficult to accurately determine time of death in very hot weather. It was supposed to help, but it undermined the pathologist’s expertise and confused the jury even more. After six hours they delivered a not-guilty verdict. Christopher Jay is still running around free as a bird, might even have gone on to kill more women, who knows?’
I turn over another page and see a photo of a man who must be Christopher Jay leaving the court. He’s flanked by what looks like his lawyer and an older woman, probably his mother. Journalists are crowding around him, thrusting microphones at his chest. In the background, standing on the steps of the building, I see a face I vaguely recognise. Not Becca, though. A young woman with jet-black hair and a short fringe. Her mouth is wide open; she looks as if she’s screaming at Jay. Who is she? She doesn’t look like Cara’s sister. A friend, perhaps?
‘The video is very confused, but it gives us one very important piece of information,’ says Durley. ‘Rebecca Banks realised she’d made a terrible mistake and wanted to tell the truth.’
‘But given her state of mind, sir, surely we can’t trust the video any more than what she said in court.’
‘My mother was – is – schizophrenic,’ I add, looking up from the scrapbook. ‘She wasn’t diagnosed until after I was born. Apparently there were earlier symptoms, but nobody put two and two together.’
Durley nods sagely to himself. ‘I remember she was off work with depression at the time of the murder. If we’d known it was schizophrenia, she could have been declared mentally unfit to give evidence and Christopher Jay would have gone down for life.’ He turns to me. ‘It could still be useful to us. How is your mother? Can she function?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I say, as I reach the end of the cuttings and close the book.’ She escaped from the psychiatric unit in 1991 and nobody’s seen or heard from her since.’
‘But she could still be alive.’
‘We don’t know that she isn’t, but—’
‘Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention,’ Durley interrupts, standing up and putting on a formal voice. But it’s obvious he’s excited: his trimmed eyebrows are raised and he’s trying to curb a smile. ‘The timing couldn’t be more perfect; we’ve just launched Operation Honeysuckle, a major review into high-profile unsolved cases from the 1980s. Recent advances in DNA recovery and blood detection makes it worth us revisiting these cold cases one more time. They’ve had a lot of success in other forces, which is great for the victim’s families and, to be frank, good for PR. Now it’s time for Heartlands to step up to the plate.’
‘So the case is already under review?’ Eliot asks.
‘No, but it’s on the list. I’m boosting the cold-case team – they need a kick up the arse, to be frank – so I’ve allocated funds for a temporary promotional secondment and we’re about to advertise. You’re just the kind of chap we need – on the High Potential Development Scheme, passed your OSPRE, ready for your next challenge. If you were to apply, I’m sure you’d be an excellent candidate…’ He lets the words dangle enticingly in the air.
Eliot almost jumps to attention. ‘God! I don’t know, sir, I mean, that sounds really interesting, but…’
Durley smiles. ‘You’d be a DS, and once you’ve got a couple of high-profile convictions under your belt, who’s to say where it might lead?’
‘Well, it’s really good of you to think of me, sir.’
‘Strictly speaking you shouldn’t work on the case because of your connection to a chief witness, but it was a long time ago, Meredith’s estranged from her mother and it’s not like the two of you are in a relationship.’ He pauses. ‘You’re not, are you?’
‘No,’ we both say hurriedly.
‘Good.’ A chirruping sound comes from Durley’s trouser pocket and he takes out his phone. ‘Sorry, got to read this.’ He frowns at the screen.
‘Well, sir, we won’t take up any more of your valuable time.’
‘I was supposed to be going for a run,’ he says, quickly texting his reply, ‘but I’ve got to go into the office now. Such is life.’ He leads us back into the hallway. ‘The Cara Travers acquittal has bugged me for years so I’d like to help all I can. Make the most of this opportunity – you’ll learn a lot.’
‘For sure. I’ll definitely think about applying.’
‘Don’t think. Do.’ Durley gallantly helps me on with my coat. ‘If we can finally nail Christopher Jay, it’ll make the perfect retirement present.’
‘Pub?’ says Eliot as soon as we reach the end of the driveway.
There’s no sign of one in any direction so we decide to carry on up the hill, following the diminishing size of the houses. We don’t say much. The conversation is too big to have on the street. Eliot’s long legs stride out and I remember how I always had to walk twice as fast to keep up with him; how he made me feel like a kid, especially when he held my hand and dragged me along at his pace. He’s so used to being in a rush that he can’t walk slowly any more, and it puzzles me how he’s not early for everything instead of late.
After five minutes, we reach a small village green, with a post office, a couple of hairdressers, a newsagent and a curry house. At the far point of the triangle of neatly trimmed grass is The Saracen, whitewashed with black beams in the same style as Durley’s house. The pub is almost empty and deathly quiet. The afternoon sun is streaming dustily through the leaded windows and everything – the walls, the patterned carpet, the upholstery on the seats – is the colour of dried blood. Eliot buys us a couple of Beck’s and a packet of cheese and onion crisps and leads us to a table in a dingy corner.
‘Well…’ he says. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t take it all in.’ I open the crisp bag and the pungent smell of old socks wafts out. ‘Do you think she made the video to show to the police?’
‘Yeah, that would figure.’
‘I wonder why she didn’t go through with it.’
‘Maybe your dad stopped her.’
‘But why? If she realised she’d made a mistake with the evidence… I don’t think she lied deliberately; she was just ill.’
‘Your dad was probably trying to protect her.’
‘But they could have had a retrial…’
‘Not back then. There was double indemnity; you couldn’t be tried for the same crime twice.’
‘But you can now?’
‘For murder and very serious offences, yes.’
We sit in silence for a few moments, drinking our beers and thinking our own thoughts.
‘So does that mean you’re going to take the job?’ I say eventually.
‘I’ve not been offered it yet.’
‘As good as…’
‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘There are procedures these days, equal opportunities…’
‘But he’s the chief constable; if he wants you then he’ll make it happen. He’ll be like your sponsor, he’ll mentor you.’
‘I’ll be his bitch, you mean.’ He laughs. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure I want to spend six months in Birmingham.’
‘It’ll be okay. And you’ll be a sergeant, you’ll be working on a murder; that’s what you want, isn’t it?’ I persist.
‘It’s a cold case, Meri, it’s not the same. It’ll be mostly paperwork – reading endless statements, chasing up forens
ics …’
‘Well, I think it’s a great opportunity and you should take it. You’ll regret it if you don’t.’
‘You just want me to find your mother.’ He lifts the bottle to his mouth.
‘No, I don’t,’ I bite back instantly. Too instantly.
‘You do. That’s what all this is about.’
‘No, it’s not. I’ve never had any interest in finding Becca.’
‘Not even now?’
‘Especially not now.’
‘Not true, Meri.’ He takes my hand. ‘You forget how well I know you.’
I snatch my fingers away and grip the edge of the table. ‘Well, you’re wrong. I wanted to know why she made the video and now that bit makes sense, kind of… But I don’t want to meet her, I don’t want a reunion. Anyway, Dad would have a fit.’
‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry.’ Eliot takes my hand again. ‘It’s just that… well, you do realise, whoever’s investigating will want to interview her.’
‘They’ll have a problem,’ I say, looking into my lap. ‘She’s dead. Killed herself. That’s what Dad thinks, anyway.’
‘And what if she’s not dead?’ Eliot presses. ‘What if we discover she’s still alive… where she lives… what then? Do you want to know?’
Do I? I wish I could say I didn’t. I wish I didn’t care, that I could walk away, leave the police to get on with it. But it’s too late now. The genie’s out of the bottle.
Chapter Eight
Cara
March 1984
At last the front bedroom had been transformed into a studio space and was ready for the auditions.
‘I’ll lead the workshop while you observe and take notes,’ Isobel said as they ate an early breakfast.
Cara’s face fell. ‘Oh… I thought we’d be doing it together.’