Mel meets his eyes, holds his gaze, says nothing.
‘Do I have to repeat myself?’
‘No,’ the word is tinged with frustration, she feels like a ten-year-old being told off by a parent.
‘She may wake very confused and upset, even terrified, and that may have a fundamental impact on her well-being. I can’t risk that.’
Mel nods her head, she must be careful, she’s no fool. It may be weeks before Veronica is cognitive. He gives her a final deep stare before striding off down the corridor.
God knows who’ll she’ll wake up as, thinks Mel to herself. Will she be Lily Probisher or Veronica Lightfoot? It could be either or both, if the historical medical records are anything to go by. She peers through the glazed window in the door. Head lopsided, Veronica lies prone on the bed; a ventilation tube down her throat. The craniotomy carried out to alleviate the pressure within her brain has left a shallow depression in her skull the size of the palm of her hand. Somewhere in the hospital, the section of bone removed is being stored in a freezer, ready to be re-inserted when the conditions are right. Mel is filled with sadness—what if they can’t? The reality of Veronica’s situation sinks in. Her broken legs will be fine, but the brain doesn’t heal in the same way. She may have to learn to walk and talk all over again. Her mental capacity may be severely affected. Days ago, she’d heard someone from another family telling Rosie that she must have hope. Hope was what got them through it. Mel wonders how useful it will be as Rosie endeavours to navigate her way through the carnage of a murder trial.
She hurries towards the exit, struggles on with her coat. Her phone falls from her hand to the floor. A text message from Thomasine flashes up as she picks it up. She leaves it be, pushes open the doors, a blast of air hits her face.
It’s bloody freezing!
As she runs across the carpark, it’s almost empty except for a couple of cars, two beams of light shine across her path. She plonks herself in the driver’s seat, calls up the message from Thomasine.
‘Have you been to see Jacky Wainwright yet?’
And that was it.
She hasn’t. The muscles in between her shoulders knot. Perhaps it’s time to remind Thomasine Albright that she’s not the one in charge of her sister’s case. She shrugs it off, Thomasine is unlikely to send them on a wild goose chase. She’s too smart for that. She’ll go see her tomorrow. Right now, Jacky Wainwright might be the best lead they have.
55
Jacky Wainwright looks alarmed as Mel thrusts her badge in her face. She sways a little, steadies herself on the doorframe.
‘DCI Mel Phillips, can I come in?’ Her tone is firm but polite.
The woman nods her head, her attention elsewhere. Mel looks over her shoulder; someone is doing a three-point turn in the road. The rear of the car inches away from a silver-grey Audi. Jacky lets Mel pass by her into the hallway, she herself continues to stare out the door. Mel hears the sound of an engine going off into the distance. Jacky shuts the door, tells her to go straight ahead into the living room. Whoever it was disappeared swiftly. The room is as Thomasine had described – a cacophony of wooden plaques and motivational sayings. Mel silently chuckles to herself and wonders if Mrs Wainwright had one for this occasion. She doubted it.
‘I’m not sure if you’re aware but there’s now an active investigation into the murder of Karen Albright.’
‘Karen Albright?’ The woman’s face blanches – there’s a sharp intake of breath.
‘I’m here on a different matter, although we believe it is linked to that case. I’m also investigating the disappearance of Veronica Lightfoot. I’m sure you’ve seen it in the media. She’s been found alive.’
The woman nods, gestures for her to take a seat.
‘Thank you. I believe you may have known Veronica.’ It was a statement, not a question. The woman’s mouth opens. Mel can see her struggling to form an answer – nothing comes out. ‘We have evidence that strongly indicates that you and she knew each other and that you were there on the night of her disappearance.’
‘Evidence?’ the word is barely a whisper. Her face crumples, thick tears slide down her face taking her eyeliner and mascara with it.
‘What sort of evidence?’ Her lower lip trembles.
‘I’m not at liberty to say more than that. You, amongst other people, are in a line of enquiry that we’re exploring.’ Mel dips into her handbag, takes a tissue out of a packet and offers it to her. The woman takes it out of her hand. ‘No need to get upset, Jacky – may I call you Jacky?’
She blows her nose, nods back in assent, sniffs.
‘Thanks, Jacky, I’m sure we can sort this out. I just want to check a few things with you. I could kill a cup of tea, though.’ She stands up, gives Jacky Wainwright a wide smile. ‘Shall I make it?’ She knows that it will throw the woman off-guard. It does.
‘No, no, I’ll do it.’ Together they go into the kitchen. Her hands shake as she fills the kettle.
‘Shall I get the cups out?’ Mel opens a cupboard at random. Purposefully makes her words light-hearted, casual, ‘In here, are they?’
A few minutes later they seat themselves back in the living room. A light sheen of sweat covers Jacky Wainwright’s face. She cradles her cup of coffee tightly between her hands.
‘Are you okay?’ Mel feigns a look of concern.
The woman nods her head. ‘Just nervous. I’ve not been interviewed by a police officer before.’
‘Well, always good to get the first one out of the way, then.’ Fear consumes the woman’s face.
‘The first one?’ Her eyes widen.
Inside Mel feels slightly guilty, after all, the woman had supplied Thomasine with the photographs. Without her help they might not be as further forward. She takes a tape recorder out of her bag. ‘I’ll need to use this, is that okay?’
Jacky swallows, her lips go into a solid line. ‘That’s fine.’
Mel gets the feeling that it isn’t fine at all.
‘We believe you met Veronica in a nightclub, is that right?’
She nods, looks down at the tape recorder, blinks.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, could you tell me who you were with, the night Veronica disappeared?’
Jacky’s eyes widen, her fingers play with her wedding ring.
‘I wasn’t—’
Mel raises an eyebrow and tilts her head slightly to the side.
‘I… I mean, I’m not sure, there were hundreds of people in the Connaught. I only knew a few of them.’
‘That’s the Connaught nightclub? So, who did you know?’
‘Billy, Smithy, Del, Paula, I didn’t really know Veronica other than to say hello to.’ Other names tumble out, ‘Then there was Carol, Christine and Linda – my friends from Liverpool.’
‘What’s Billy’s surname?’
‘I don’t—’
‘I think you do.’ Mel purposely drops her gaze to the digital recorder.
‘Billy… Bennett, I think it was Billy Bennett.’
‘And Jimmy, where was he from?’ The name off the cassette tapes, Mel is sure Jacky knows him.
Her voice breaks, ‘I’m not—’
‘I believe there was someone called Jimmy?’
Two pink circles prick Jacky Wainwright’s cheeks. ‘Gosh, I’ve not heard that name in years.’
Mel leans back into her seat. Her smile fades. There’s a burst of vibration in her pocket, a text message, she ignores it. Her mouth twitches. ‘You do realise that this is a police investigation, that you may be interviewed under caution, I’m giving you the chance to tell me the truth. After all,’ she pauses for a moment, ‘you didn’t come forward in 1973, we’re going to want to know why not.’
The woman looks like a rabbit frozen in the headlights.
‘I’m sorry but—’
‘I know it was a long time ago.’ Impatience flashes across Mel’s face.
‘Back in the seve
nties it was different times. The police were, well…’ Thick black tears run down Jacky Wainwright’s face. ‘On the take, not all of them.’ She snuffles. ‘The ones in the clubs. You couldn’t trust them.’
‘Who was paying them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I want you to take a few moments to think about it.’
The woman tugs at the tissue between her fingers and takes in a deep breath.
‘He’s a good man now, turned his life around. I don’t want to harm him.’
‘Nevertheless?’
She closes her eyes, swallows. ‘Jimmy – it was Jimmy Fairfax.’
‘Are you still in contact?’
Jacky shakes her head.
‘Is that a no?’
‘No, we’ve not spoken for a long while.’
‘Who was on the take?’ Mel imagines the cogs whirring in Jacky Wainwright’s brain.
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t remember. I’m sorry.’
It is almost twelve thirty when Mel leaves. Jimmy Fairfax and Billy Bennett had been very bad boys indeed. Her gut feeling tells her it’s Jimmy Fairfax. He’d argued with Veronica that night. But this was circumstantial, and she doubts the CPS will accept the tapes as evidence. Especially as Veronica had been heavily medicated at the time.
Jacky Wainwright said that she’d not seen them argue. Perhaps other members of the group had. At least she had more names now for the team to investigate.
What if Karen saw him attack Veronica? She’d been to a nightclub with Billy, it said so in the diary and they had photographic evidence of that. Billy could have introduced her to Jimmy. Billy was his lap dog and, according to Jacky, he used to clean up Jimmy’s messes. What if Jimmy thought Veronica was dead and didn’t want any witnesses? Her pulse races, she’s on to something and knows it.
She takes out her mobile phone, texts Jenny. Gives her a list of names to get the ball rolling. No point in waiting until she gets back.
56
It’s been three nights since Rosie last slept in her own home. Curled up, she sleeps in a chair by Veronica’s bed.
There will be no miracle recovery.
Now weaned off most of the drugs that kept her in a coma, Veronica is constantly agitated. The thin cotton sheets wrap around her body, catch on her nightie. She turns over every few seconds, trying to get comfortable, forgetting she has already turned moments before. She tugs the bedsheet over her head. Tries to block out the light. Never settling; never sleeping. Always exhausted.
Her short-term memory has been severely affected, whatever she hears slides into her head and right out again. Her speech is slurred, her tongue swollen. Words come out randomly, regardless of the conversations she has with herself or someone else.
Occasionally, she points at the wall, eyes wide with terror. Her mouth gapes open in an empty silence. A nightmare brought into the broad daylight.
‘What do you think it is?’ asks Rosie, her hand unfurling her sister’s clawed fingers as she turns again.
A look of concern crosses the nurse’s face. ‘A nightmare, probably. Maybe something to do with the accident. It could be the drugs. That sometimes happens. It’s hard to guess.’
Rosie sits back in her seat, picks up her journal. She keeps a diary of Veronica’s progress; she jots down a few words.
She’s afraid of something and I have absolutely no idea what it is.
57
Sam lets out a growl of frustration, there are no criminal records on the PNC for a Billy Bennett or a William Bennett born in Lancashire between 1950 and 1954. He tries births and deaths – kicks the heel of his shoes against the legs of his chair. There are hundreds of William Bennetts that fit that criterion. ‘This is going to take me bloody ages.’
Jenny’s voice rises above the milieu of voices. ‘Have you refined the search, put the car in?’ The whole team are working down the list of names supplied by Jacky Wainwright.
‘No, but I will.’ Two-finger typing, he punches in the information. Why the hell didn’t I think of that myself?
The Department of Transport records bear fruit. His eyes quickly run down the results.
Robert William Bennett, born 1953. Registered owner of a white Capri between June 1972 and January 1974.
‘Thank you, Jenny,’ he whispers under his breath. He inputs the data into the PNC, and this time he gets a hit, Robert William Bennett reported the car stolen in 1974.
‘Found him!’ he exclaims. He leaps to his feet, punches the air, relieved at last to be making progress. Their heads dipped in concentration no one seems to notice. His next stop is the electoral roll. An address in Norfolk comes up. Robert William Bennett had been the sole occupant of the property since 1979. Sam wonders what he did between 1974 and 1979. ‘Jenny, will you do a general search on the internet for Robert William Bennett, that’s Billy Bennett’s full name.’ He scribbles the address down on a piece of paper and hands it to her. ‘Best to try the Land Registry, too.’
He sits in silence for a moment, tilts back his chair. His eyelids flutter then close. That morning he’d woke early, way too early. Exhausted and drenched in sweat. His sleep plagued by dreams of a young girl with wires attached to her head, convulsing, screaming at him to help her.
He pushes those thoughts away and concentrates on Karen Albright. We could have so easily missed her. The photographs could have been on the internet for years, waiting to be found. Thom Albright must be pretty pissed off, too. Those magazines had been at her friend’s place for years.
The press will have a field day when they find out. If they find out. Hopefully, they won’t. The team had been working hard to find Karen’s killer. It galls him that the CPS will probably reject anything that’s had Thom Albright’s involvement. All the work they’ve undertaken on the back of it will follow it down the toilet.
Kinsi shouts across the room. ‘Sam, what’s the name of the woman Mel saw earlier?’
‘Jacky Wainwright? Why?’
‘I thought it was. We’ve just had a call. Husband found her unconscious – at home. She’s with the paramedics now.’
58
It doesn’t take him long to pack; a few crumpled shirts, thick hiking socks crusted with mud, two pairs of jeans – unwashed clothes that he’ll dump on his way to the airport. He’s already got rid of most of his stuff, thrown in the local clothing bank in a rare moment of charity.
A double-decker bus thunders past the window; the glass vibrates in its tarnished metal frame.
Naked, he pulls on the merino thermal underwear Lottie bought him for Christmas. He layers on top two long-sleeved T-shirts and the fair isle jumper he bought from Oxfam. Over his long johns he slides on a pair of waterproof trousers, commando green, two sizes too big. He secures them with a black leather belt. He’s lost weight – the curve of his hip bones, the broadness of his chest – a new body is emerging.
He shaves his head, just as he had for the passport photograph, takes the clippers to his skull, short clean strokes just as he’d done before. Clumps of fine grey hair fall to the floor – he finishes off with a razor, careful not to nick his scalp, careful not to cut. Two minutes later he is done; a dab of shaving oil rubbed into his newly domed head the final finishing touch. He gazes at himself in the mirror. Fleetingly, a confused look crosses his face; a lack of recognition, a hint of doubt. Finally, he puts on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, to match the passport photograph. A total transformation, he thinks to himself. Even Lottie wouldn’t know me. He feels a tinge of sadness – how will she cope without him? He never prepared her for the single life. His eyes glisten as he blanks those thoughts out.
He wanders around the room – black and white geometric shapes glare back from the walls. The owner’s futile attempt at modernity. Against the wall, a copper monstrosity – a double bed whose mattress sinks in the middle. The lurid black and pink silk duvet slips off with every movement. It had driven him mad. The place was one of those walk in off the street places; cheap, ch
eerless and strictly cash. Probably used by prostitutes. He studies the bed for a moment. Perhaps I should have availed myself of the local delights?
With a shake of his head, he finishes off packing the rucksack, stuffs in a pair of trainers, two pairs of waterproof gloves, wraps the chisel and hammer in his sleeping bag and positions it on top of everything else. A bag of latex gloves lies open on the dressing table. He tucks them in one of the outside pockets, for convenience. Lastly, he packs the toiletries, his razor, clippers, tooth whitening kit, toothbrush. Along with his phone charger he distributes them amongst the outside pockets. He pulls the tie tight, snaps the clasp shut.
‘Done.’ He takes a final look around the room. Should I clean it, wipe all traces of myself from it? It would take too long and, anyway, the people here are unlikely to report me. I can’t imagine they’d want the police streaming all over the place. He’d only been there a couple of nights, the woman behind reception barely looked at him. Nah.
Then he chastises himself, he’s getting sloppy, the old language coming back.
He eases his padded jacket over his clothes, slips the rucksack over his shoulders.
She Lies Hidden: a spell-binding psychological suspense thriller Page 26