For Better, For Worse

by Jane Isaac

  His solicitor had told them that the images found on Stuart’s computer were pre-pubescent; some of them as young as eight or ten.

  Passages of their life drifted in front of her. When they met. When he proposed. When Phoebe was born. Phoebe. Had she kept her daughter safe? She was an only child, she’d seemed to have a good relationship with them both, enjoyed jokes and banter with her dad. They didn’t have any other family close by. No, Phoebe would have told her if he’d been inappropriate. But, would she? The past year, with the child abuse images, the hounding from the press, the impending trial had tested her to the limit. But this was worse. So much worse than she could ever have imagined. Oscar raised a sleepy head as she pulled him close.

  Had Stuart made a fool, a mockery of her? Used her as part of his persuasive machine, a catalyst to prove his innocence. If his wife of thirty years, the mother of their child, the grandmother of their grandchildren, refuted the charge of him downloading child abuse images it added muscle to his fight. Was he telling the truth? Or simply using all the weapons in his armoury, like any politician would.

  The dark thoughts multiplied, creeping in from the shadows of her mind, curling their spindly fingers around her. If her worst fears were true, the press had finally been proved right. She’d married a monster.

  28

  A pen tapped against a desk, a steady beat. A knee knocked nearby. Back at the office, the atmosphere was tightening by the minute. Officers pressed keys abruptly and rubbed foreheads as they emailed searches, their voices laced with a desperate edge as they directed requests into phone receivers. Social services had been prompt in their response, sending a list of residents and staff at the home, readily available from their archive stores. But the list was extensive and working through it was an almost insurmountable task. Many of the addresses were out of date and it could take weeks to trace all the individuals. They needed time. But with a serial killer on the loose, time wasn’t on their side.

  Beth traced the outline of the black and white photograph before her. It had taken less than half an hour out of her journey to stop off at the library on her way back and check the microfiche for news articles during the 1990s relating to Jess Adams’s suicide. There were limited reports online, the Internet wasn’t as well established twenty-one years ago, but there were numerous mentions on microfiche, reporting the suicide, speculation on the effect on Whitefield’s, and later on the home’s closure. They all used the same photograph, featuring a girl in denims and a white loose shirt. Corkscrew curls reached to her shoulders. Her head was angled, her face sombre, as if the photograph had been taken under protest.

  Jess Adams committed suicide at 11.59 p.m., on the eve of her sixteenth birthday. The coroner’s report showed no extended family were traced at the time, no next of kin, and recorded a verdict of suicide.

  An email from social services confirmed they’d completed an investigation after the suicide, but the file had been misplaced. An urgent search was underway; as soon as they found it they would courier it through. Beth tapped her fingers on the desk. She needed that file, now. In their email they also confirmed they didn’t have any other complaints registered to the home; it later closed due to lack of funding and the children were moved to another residence nearby. They named the social worker allocated to Jess at the time of her death as Annie Hudson, who’d retired last year. Her phone number was listed at the bottom.

  Beth grabbed the phone and dialled Annie Hudson’s number. It rung out two, three, four, five times. She was about to replace the receiver when a female voice answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Annie Hudson?’

  ‘No, this is Sylvie, her daughter. My mother’s away. Can I help you?’

  Beth introduced herself and explained she needed to reach Annie Hudson in connection with a case.

  ‘Ah. That might be a bit tricky,’ Sylvie said. ‘My mother is on an extended holiday. She’s walking the Camino.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s a pilgrimage from France to Spain, a two-hundred-mile walk. It’s been her life’s dream ever since I can remember. She’s out there for two months.’

  ‘Is she contactable?’

  ‘The Camino is mostly rural, she’s given up on her mobile because the signals are bad. You could email her though, that’s generally how we keep in contact with her. She stays over at hostels most nights, checks her emails then.’

  Beth took down the email address, thanked Sylvie and ended the call. She switched to the Internet and googled the Camino. Endless listings came up about a popular walk from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port in southern France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Beth drummed her fingers on her desk. Even with all the modern technology available these days, it was still possible for people to disappear off the radar. She typed out a quick email to Annie Hudson and pressed send.

  Frustration nipped at her. The DI was concentrating on putting together the staffing business case for the superintendent. The other management were still at the third murder scene, and the anticipation among the team awaiting their return was evident.

  The sound of the door flapping back on its hinges interrupted her thoughts. ‘Beth!’ Sergeant Nick Geary didn’t enter, holding the door open as he spoke. ‘A word?’

  Beth crossed the office to join him. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were at the scene.’

  ‘Andrea’s gone with Freeman.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Andrea rarely left the office. Even during her previous stint in homicide, she was known for avoiding the gruesome side of the job; apart from when she’d been engaged as a family liaison officer, she preferred to focus on management issues, allocating staffing, arranging budgets and attending strategy meetings.

  ‘It seems she’s set on getting her hands dirty. I’ve been out to see Sarah Carpenter, the former proprietor at the children’s home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s got Alzheimer’s, stage seven. Poor woman has no idea who she is, let alone what went on in the past.’

  ‘Where does that leave us?’

  ‘I’ve received the CSI footage from the third murder scene.’ He held up a memory stick. ‘I’ll share it with the team shortly, but I need to show it to you urgently. Freeman wants you to go out and visit the victim’s mother.’

  Beth followed him down the corridor and into a small side office. Inside the room was a round table surrounded by easy chairs. Nick flicked back the lid on his laptop and inserted the memory stick while Beth closed the slats on the venetian blind.

  The screen flickered, a couple of lines buzzed across. They cleared to show what appeared to be the entrance hall of a house. The carpet was scuffed and threadbare. While the CSI film footage of scenes wasn’t exactly the same as being present, it was certainly the next best thing. The camera jolted as the user stepped outside the house and spanned the lens across the front of the property. It was a Victorian mid-terrace, rendered in grey pebbledash. The woodwork around the sash windows was in dire need of painting. The camera spanned over a small front garden. Weeds pushed up through the cracks in the concrete. An overflowing black wheelie bin sat in the corner. Beth could hear a car pass by in the distance. And another. Underwood lived on Rothersthorpe Road, a busy through route. This was the most public site the killer had used so far, the best chance they had for potential witnesses.

  ‘I wish they’d get on with it,’ Nick said. ‘Anyone would think they were gearing up for the Cannes Film Festival.’

  Beth ignored him. She liked the slow movement of the camera, the attention to detail. She caught the side of a keypad beside the door. ‘The property has been converted to flats,’ she said.

  Nick nodded. ‘Underwood lived on the ground floor.’

  ‘What about his neighbours?’

  ‘Neither side claim to have seen or heard anything. A single man lives upstairs and we’re told he’s been away in Manchester visiting relatives all week. We’ll need to get that verified, of course.�
��

  The camera caught the edge of another CSI’s Tyvek suit as the operator navigated the hallway. It turned off before a set of stairs and entered a door on the left, spanning the lens over a Yale lock.

  ‘No immediate signs of a forced entry,’ Beth said. ‘Is there an access point at the rear?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he let his attacker in?’

  ‘Seems so.’

  The camera moved along a hallway and into a kitchen. A pile of post sat on the work surface, a jug kettle, half a loaf of bread and a box of matches beside. The black and white lino flooring was scuffed and torn in places.

  Back in the hallway, another door on the left was ajar and Beth noticed the edge of a sink, a toilet. The lounge was situated at the back of the property. Beth drew a swift breath. She’d seen many shocking sights during her nine-year career in the police but this one was particularly brutal.

  Sprays of blood showered the cream walls and spattered across the grey sofa. The victim was strapped to a wooden chair in the middle of the room, a pool of blood collected at his feet. The footage zoomed in to the cable ties securing his wrists and ankles in place. Stab wounds tore through his clothing, marking his torso like long slugs. His neck was cut, his head hanging from his body at an odd angle, exposing bits of bone and grey matter.

  ‘There were cigarette burns on the backs of his hands and cuts up his arms,’ Nick said.

  ‘He’d been tortured?’

  ‘Looks like it. The wounds were fresh.’

  Beth could hear the CSI’s coveralls crackle as they bent down and zoomed into a piece of paper, laid on a folded table.

  Justitia suum cuique distribuit.

  The paper was creased, damp in places but the message was clear and shared the same font, same typeface as the other notes.

  The lens moved around the living room. A rolled duvet was stuffed down the side of the sofa, indicating it also doubled up as a sleeping area. The curtains at the rear of the property were closed.

  ‘There’s no rear access,’ Nick said. ‘The garden at the back was sold to the next-door neighbour when the house was converted to flats. The back entrance is bricked up.’

  ‘Do we know when he was killed?’

  ‘We don’t have a time of death yet, but early estimates are some time yesterday evening. He was found by the postman this morning who noticed the front door was ajar, stepped inside and then saw the flat door was also open.’

  ‘What do we know about the victim?’

  ‘Forty-nine. Grew up in Corby, and later moved to Northampton. He was involved in an underage sex ring just over ten years ago. Grooming girls online, average age of fourteen, but some of them were as young as twelve. He was convicted on two counts along with three other men, although they think there were probably a lot more victims involved. Served ten years and was released in 2016. That’s when he got this flat.’

  ‘Where did he live before?’

  ‘Little Billing, on the eastern side of town. Apparently, he wanted to be closer to his family when he was released.’

  ‘Does he work?’

  ‘He’s officially listed as unemployed.’ Nick huffed. ‘I doubt his conviction curries favour on job applications.’

  ‘What about before he went to prison?’

  ‘There’s a string of different jobs on his DWP profile, mostly non-skilled.’

  ‘And Whitefield’s?’

  ‘It’s not listed in his employment history. How are we getting on with tracing the residents there?’ Nick asked, changing the subject.

  ‘It’s slow. The records only came through an hour ago and most of them don’t have forwarding addresses.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get in there. See what I can do to help. You go and visit the mother.’ He passed across her details. ‘I’ll free Karen up to come with you.’

  Karen Taylor was a conscientious support worker whose time on the homicide team exceeded Beth’s, although she was well known in the office for her dislike of delivering bad news. The constant push to double crew Beth was stifling. She was aware Freeman was concerned for her welfare, especially after their last case when she’d struck out on her own in an effort to protect the family she was supporting and ended up in the middle of a hostage situation. But she certainly didn’t need babysitting.

  ‘Are there any violent markers on the mother?’ she asked.

  ‘No, not that I’m aware of. She was fully cooperative during her son’s trial, by all accounts.’

  ‘Then I’ll be fine on my own. Karen will be better utilised here.’

  ‘You go together,’ Nick said. ‘Freeman’s orders. See what you can find out about Underwood’s background and his associations.’

  29

  Olive Underwood’s home on Gloucester Avenue was set back from the pavement by three deeply paved steps and a small concrete garden. Two terracotta pots, each topped with a thin layer of moss, sat either side of a partially glazed front door, the glass shrouded by a net curtain. Beth glanced askance at Karen and knocked. A long husky cough sounded, followed by heavy breaths, growing closer. The net curtain was pulled back, a pointy face peered out, squinting through spectacles.

  Beth held up her card. The curtain dropped back into place. A chain rattled; a bolt was drawn back. The door juddered as it opened to reveal a slim woman, hunched at the shoulder, in black trousers and a cream embroidered top. A pilled grey cardigan hung loosely around her frame.

  ‘Mrs Underwood?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ She switched between them and crossed her arms.

  ‘I’m DC Beth Chamberlain and this is Karen Taylor from Northants Police.’ Beth proffered her card again. ‘Are you Mrs Olive Underwood?’

  The old woman examined Beth’s ID. ‘I am. What do you want?’

  ‘Can we come in?’

  Olive looked down the empty road and then ushered them inside. The doors leading off the hallway were all closed and, apart from the veiled front door, the only available light leaked down from the stairwell making it dark and gloomy.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ she asked.

  Beth ducked away from the rack of coats beside her. ‘Is there somewhere we could sit down?’

  Olive’s answer was lost in the kind of gravelly cough that lingers after a heavy cold. She placed her fist to her mouth, her head juddering, and led them down the hallway. They followed her into a room at the back of the house which was surprisingly light and airy, thanks to a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out onto the garden. A single bar of an electric fire glowed, releasing a surprising amount of heat in the enclosed area.

  Olive switched off the television, sat on a recliner beside the fire and indicated for them to use the sofa.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ Beth said. ‘Your son, Harry Underwood, is dead. His body was found in his flat this morning. I’m so sorry.’

  Olive’s face was fixed on the garden where a bird pecked at a feeder above her patio. She sat as still as a statue.

  ‘Mrs Underwood?’

  Several seconds passed. When the old woman finally met Beth’s gaze her eyes were glassy and she spoke through a wheeze. ‘What happened?’

  ‘His body was found in his flat by a postman earlier today. He’d been attacked.’

  Olive gave a single nod and turned back to the garden.

  ‘Why don’t I get you a drink?’ Karen said.

  The old woman didn’t flinch as Karen rose and left the room. Beth watched a pigeon on the bird table beneath the feeder. ‘Is there somebody we can call?’ she said to Olive gently. ‘To come and sit with you.’

  ‘My daughter lives two streets away. I’ll call her myself.’ Olive tugged a tissue out of a box beside her.

  Beth expected her to dab her eyes, but instead the woman wiped it across her nose, sniffed, and continued to stare out at the garden, absorbed.

  Beth was accustomed to different reactions to the death message. But what troubled her about Olive Underwood was there didn�
�t appear to be any reaction at all. She’d taken time to check the notes and newspaper reports on Underwood’s trial before she left the station; his mother had broken down in court on the day he was convicted. Yet today, on hearing the news of his death, there was nothing, no reaction at all.

  Cupboard doors banged as Karen moved around the kitchen.

  Beth watched Karen return with a mug of tea and place it beside Olive, before she sat forward. ‘I do have some questions to ask, I’m afraid.’

  A muscle flexed in Olive’s jawline.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Harry?’

  ‘Wednesday,’ she said. ‘He usually comes here on a Wednesday afternoon, stays for tea.’

  ‘And how did he seem last Wednesday?’

  ‘The same as usual.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Olive, this is important. Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Harry?’

  The snort that followed induced another coughing fit. When she spoke, her voice was coated with a husk. ‘I imagine there are a number of people. You could start with the families of those girls.’

  ‘We will, of course, look into the old case. What about now? Friends and family around here? You mentioned you have a daughter. Would she or any of the others have seen him or spoken to him recently?’

  Olive closed her eyes and was shaking her head before Beth finished the sentence. ‘I don’t know his friends, that’s if he has any. He doesn’t talk about them. The rest of the family don’t…’ She cleared her throat, opened her eyes. ‘They didn’t speak to him. Only me.’

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘Do you need to?’

  Beth decided to take a step back. She needed to get to know the family, get underneath their skin in order to understand the victim. She needed to go back further. ‘Why don’t you tell me about the trial?’ she asked.