by Helen Fields
‘God, you’re tedious. It was a joke, Turner. You really do need to get a life.’
‘Okay, I’ll do that,’ Ava said, feeling hijacked. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘No problem. I’ll be taking full credit for the Spice slashing cases, just so you know. Next time, don’t piss off a Police Scotland board member.’
Ava smiled as she walked out. It was easier to leave when Overbeck was behaving like her normal self.
Callanach was waiting for her at the hospital. They spent a few minutes talking to Jadyn Odoki, who was sitting patiently with Caroline, hoping desperately that his beloved future wife could somehow hear him. A section of her skull had been removed in surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain, and she looked ghostlike among the white sheets, bandaged and tubed. The doctors would only shake their heads when asked for a prognosis. It was too early to tell. Her life hung in the balance. Even if she did regain consciousness, which was by no means certain, she might never function as she had before. If only they’d handled the situation differently, Ava thought, stroking Caroline’s hand before they left.
‘I hate the words “if only”,’ she said to Callanach as they walked the corridors to where Samson Jerome was under constant guard, handcuffed to the railings of his bed.
‘I’m pretty sure Caroline Ryan was thinking “If only some police officers would burst through the door right now” just before we did,’ he replied.
‘Not you as well. I think I’ve had enough words of wisdom this afternoon,’ Ava said. ‘Apparently Mr Jerome has been stitched and had his eye seen to, and the doctors say he’s fit to be cautioned and charged. You ready?’
A siren sounded in the hall. Footsteps thundered around the squeal of a cart being sped along the corridor. Ava and Callanach backed themselves against the wall as a medical team rushed through, barging the double doors to Samson’s room open, shouting instructions and information to one another as they stripped off Samson’s gown and applied resuscitation pads to his chest.
‘No,’ Ava cried, watching the scene through the wire noughts and crosses of the glass on the door.
Flatline.
An increased charge.
‘Excuse me, I need you to move. You can’t be here now,’ a nurse said.
‘I’m in charge of that prisoner,’ Ava said. ‘What happened?’
‘He’s not a prisoner here, he’s a patient, now if you could just …’
‘He butchered three women and a fourth is in your hospital in a coma. So what the fuck just happened?’ Ava demanded.
The nurse reddened and sighed. ‘He pulled the needle from his arm.’
‘He was handcuffed. How is that possible?’ Callanach asked.
‘It seems he used his mouth, then deliberately swallowed both the metal and surrounding plastic. He’ll have been bleeding internally. It looks as if his heart just decided there wasn’t enough pressure left to continue pumping,’ she said.
‘Nope. Can’t get him back,’ a doctor said from Samson’s bedside.
‘One last try,’ someone replied. ‘Stand back.’ They applied the paddles again, charging, sending an electric shock through his chest. Nothing. There was silence. ‘It’s no good. I’m calling it.’
‘No,’ Ava yelled, turning her face into the wall and punching hard. ‘It’s too easy. How fucking dare he kill himself. It’s not fucking fair!’
Time of death was 6.15 p.m.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Five weeks later, in mid December, with Edinburgh decked out in a foot of snow and crowded with shoppers, Ava got the call that Caroline Ryan had woken up. She was pulled out of a meeting with the procurator fiscal, who was still trying to explain to her why Oliver Davenport, Leo Plunkett and Noah Alby-Croft could be prosecuted for a single charge of assault to severe injury but not for Melanie Long’s murder. Technicality upon technicality, all wrapped in sparkly jargon, and tied up with a bow of reasons why not. Against that backdrop, hearing that a young woman who until recently had a bright future ahead of her might still live to fulfil her potential was the best gift imaginable.
‘She’s awake,’ Ava grinned, poking her head around Callanach’s door. ‘Let’s go. I’m driving.’ They made it to the hospital in record time, in spite of the weather, with Ava unable to contain her excitement. ‘You know what? This whole autumn has been a disaster from start to finish. We haven’t caught a break on either case. No one is going to really pay for what they did. At least, if nothing else, Caroline is going to be conscious for Christmas Day and she can start the New Year planning her wedding and healing. What are you doing for the festive season? Do you and Selina have anything fun planned?’
‘She’s going back to Spain to see her family. She’s invited me, but …’
‘But what? It’s got to be warmer than here and you’re due time off in lieu of all the overtime. You’d be crazy not to go. I, on the other hand, am going to let Natasha feed me until I’m sick. I’m going to buy myself a ton of gorgeous presents and I’ve decided to get a cleaner. New Year’s treat.’
They walked from the car park into the hospital and made for the lifts.
‘Finally. You think the cleaner will even be able to find the floor in your house?’ Callanach smiled.
‘Don’t be so rude. Natasha invited you, too. I’ll tell her you’ll be drinking sangria and watching the sun go down on some romantic beach. She’ll like that. Here we go. Jadyn’s expecting us. I said we’d go very gently today, just a couple of questions, see how much she remembers. And I think I’ll tell her that Samson’s dead. If nothing else, it’ll reassure her that she really is safe now.’
Caroline stared at them blankly as they walked in. Her hair, shaved from the surgery, had begun to grow back in spiky patches. Thin when they’d found her, she seemed emaciated now.
‘Caroline,’ Ava said, sitting down next to her and touching her hand briefly. ‘Do you remember us?’
She nodded, looking from Callanach to Ava then back again.
‘You stopped him from killing me,’ she whispered slowly, her voice grating in her throat.
‘They say her voice will recover. It’s just lack of use,’ Jadyn explained.
‘You were very brave,’ Callanach said walking closer. ‘It takes a lot of strength to survive what you went through.’
‘Thank God you came,’ Caroline said, attempting a smile before closing her eyes for a few seconds. ‘Sorry, I get tired and things are fuzzy.’
‘Of course, but it’ll get better,’ Ava said. ‘We’ll wait until you’re feeling stronger before we ask too many questions. There’s no rush. The main thing is that no one can hurt you now. The man who abducted you is dead.’
Caroline stared. ‘You’re sure?’
‘He committed suicide. We were there. We saw his body. You have nothing to worry about any more. We just wanted you to know that you’re safe.’
‘And her,’ Caroline said, eyes closed, head sinking deep into the pillow. ‘She’s in prison?’
‘Her?’ Callanach asked.
‘The woman. Her name was … it’s unclear … began with R.’
‘Rachel?’ Ava said, glancing at Callanach. ‘You met his sister?’
Caroline opened her eyes again, her lips trembling. ‘Met her? She did it. All of it. Wanted to pray. She told me … told me …’
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ Jadyn said. ‘You need to stop. She’s getting distressed. We can’t risk her blood pressure going up. Please, you should leave now.’
‘No,’ Caroline said. ‘Wait.’ She breathed deeply, gathering strength. ‘She told me to repent. It was her who cut those other girls. All her. He was just … carrying out orders. Where is she now?’
‘You don’t need to worry about that, Caroline,’ Callanach said. ‘We’re keeping policemen outside your door. You can rest without worrying.’
Ava stood up, fighting to keep her face neutral against the rage and pressure building inside her. ‘Caroline, you’ve done really well. We’l
l come back in a day or so. Take care.’
Jadyn frowned at them, looking to the door, where no policemen stood.
‘They’ll be here in ten minutes,’ Callanach whispered to him. ‘Stay with her until then.’
They managed to walk normally until they were beyond Caroline’s door. Then they ran.
Callanach called in instructions to get units over to Vince Ashton’s address and hold Rachel Jerome until they could get there. They’d only been in the car five minutes before word came that Rachel could not be found.
‘Mr Ashton said Rachel Jerome left his house a week ago. He hasn’t heard from her since. Apparently she said the police had agreed that she could go back to her house,’ a uniformed officer reported by phone.
‘Search Mr Ashton’s property and the chapel,’ Ava said. ‘Check nearby roads for her car, too. We’ll go to her home and see if she’s there.’
‘Is the forensics team still working at the Jerome property?’ Callanach asked.
‘Not actively, but we’ve kept it closed off in case the lab results come back and suggest that more work needs to be done. Given that we thought we’d stopped having to build a case when Samson killed himself, the forensics became less of a priority,’ Ava replied. ‘But we missed something. We must have done.’
‘The woman in the shopping mall,’ Callanach said. ‘It didn’t make any sense at the time, so we disregarded it as irrelevant, but the estimated age matches Rachel Jerome’s.’
‘Not the description, though.’ Even as she said it, she realised how easily they’d been fooled. Rachel Jerome’s well-trimmed pixie cut and brown hair had seemed a million miles away from the woman with the greying bun who had stood in the dress shop and spied on Samson as he’d met up with Kate Bailey. ‘She even gave Samson the order to kill himself. Do you remember what she shouted when she walked into the greenhouse? “Do the right thing, put your faith in the Lord.” With Samson dead and no trial, the investigation would grind to a halt, making it far less likely she would be implicated. She was in charge the whole time, and she outsmarted us.’
‘That’s what he meant when he said there were orders, instructions. I assumed he’d been told what to do by some imaginary voice in his head. He really was just an instrument – only he was Rachel’s,’ Callanach said. ‘That’s why he was so keen to exonerate her on his way to the hospital. He confessed to everything to allow her to go free.’
They drove back to the Jeromes’, both of them knowing the boat they wanted to catch had already left the harbour. Pulling up at the deserted property, it seemed pointless even going inside.
‘I have to know for sure,’ Ava said. ‘Why don’t you double-check the greenhouse? Just make sure she hasn’t parked her car out of sight there. I’ll take a look inside.’
Callanach walked away as Ava took a brick to the front door glass and hooked her hand around to unlock it, vaguely thinking, as she had so many times before, that no one should have glass near their door locks. Stepping into the house, she saw it differently now.
The obsessive neatness was not quaint country cottage style, but the rigour of fanaticism. The sweet bewilderment of Rachel as she’d talked about her brother, as if there was nothing in the world to hide, had been an act of cunning so sophisticated that everyone involved had fallen for it. Rachel was the churchgoer, so she had sent her brother out to do the dirty work. She had it all figured out from the start. If the police put two and two together, she would never be identified as the culprit. Her brother’s greenhouse, her brother’s car. A willing and unquestioning accomplice who would do whatever he was told. Not a scrap of evidence inside the house and an uncanny ability to appear devastated while she was being interviewed. Ava felt sick.
She took the stairs, walking quietly into the nearest bedroom, which had belonged to Samson Jerome. Every item, as well as his bedding, had been removed. Turning her attention instead to Rachel’s room, she began to pull drawers open. These, too, were orderly to the point of obsession. Socks were in pairs. Pens had lids on. Blouses had been ironed before being hung in the wardrobe. The bedding was plain rather than flowery or patterned. It was comfortable enough, but bland. Exactly what Ava had seen before, but this time it told a story of a woman who either craved or prided herself on self-discipline through denial.
On the top shelf of the wardrobe, at the back in a box, was the photo album Ava had been searching for. Every home had one – at least every home belonging to the pre-internet generations. This was the original social media; showing the family photos to relatives once a year when they came over at Christmas or after a summer holiday.
Rachel Jerome had looked remarkably similar at twenty as she had at thirty, forty and fifty. A bun was pinned at the back of her head, the dark hair streaked through with grey. The image of the woman in the dress shop.
Callanach joined her on the floor of the bedroom, flicking through the cardboard pages, covered with sheets of sticky plastic.
‘Rachel Jerome wasn’t just clever, she was brilliant,’ Ava said. ‘She knew in the dress shop that the staff would look straight through a middle-aged woman. They wouldn’t be bothered to strike up conversation or try to sell her their skimpy dresses. She chose a place where she might be seen, but not remembered. I think she was there to make sure her brother didn’t screw up and scare Kate Bailey off straight away. I wonder how recently she had her hair coloured and restyled. She must have had a sense that we were getting closer.’
‘Kate Bailey.’ Callanach sighed. ‘She told me. As she was dying, I told her I wanted to find the man who’d hurt her. I asked her to tell me anything that might help. I heard her reply as womb. I assumed, too easily, that it was to do with where he’d cut her, but now I wonder if she wasn’t just saying half a word.’
‘Woman,’ Ava said. ‘She was trying to tell you it wasn’t the man who had mutilated her. You couldn’t have known. This is hindsight policing. We should both know better.’
‘I still don’t get why. That’s the missing piece of the puzzle. What made them kill together? Homicide conspiracies are so rare.’
‘There are no wedding photos here,’ Ava said. ‘Not around the house or in the album.’
‘She’s supposed to be a widower, right? And the daughter …’
‘Come on,’ Ava said. ‘Let’s check out her bedroom. What did Rachel say? Something about how Verity had gone off to live in Australia with her boyfriend years ago.’
They opened Verity’s bedroom door and peered in. This bed was more ornate, with white-painted ironwork and pale violet linen on the bed. The matching bedroom furniture, slightly childish, was covered in only the thinnest veil of dust. This room had been kept clean, cherished. It had not been allowed to grow up with its previous inhabitant.
‘It’s like a shrine,’ Callanach said.
Ava stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the pink curtains and the tidy desk, just the right size for homework or drawing. There were still books on the bookcase and teddies on a shelf above the bed. It wasn’t unknown for girls to keep their childhood toys, Ava thought, but perhaps only the most well-loved one or two. And then, there at the back …
She stood on tiptoes to look past the fluffy sheep and floppy bear, then stepped up onto the bed and reached over to the back of the shelf.
In her hand as she stepped back down was a rag doll. Homemade, with drawn-on lips, red wool hair and a pretty dress. Ava lifted the fabric to get a closer look at the body. It had been cut from two pieces of fabric, front and back, with neat little stitches all around the edge. The doll had been crafted with love.
‘It’s the same size as the skin dolls,’ Callanach said. ‘Even the head’s the same shape.’
‘Made from the same pattern,’ Ava said. ‘She was remaking her daughter’s toy over and over again.’
‘Or perhaps replacing her daughter,’ Callanach said. ‘Which means, I think, that she’s not in Australia. The girls all had to repent. They were sinful.’
‘It started with Zoey disrespecting her parents, accusing her stepfather of violence. After that, they couldn’t stop taking the girls. Perhaps none of them repented properly.’
‘Or perhaps there were a number of different sins they needed the victims to pay for …’ Ava said. ‘Call the station. I want an all-ports alert across the UK. She might have driven to an airport or ferry port by now, but we have to try. Circulate both photos – the one with the bun and with the new haircut. And get the cadaver dogs out here, with diggers. Verity didn’t go to Australia. That’s why this room has been left untouched. The poor girl needs to be found. I may have messed up every other aspect of this case, but I can do this right.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
Verity
‘I’m leaving and you’re not going to stop me,’ Verity said.
‘I’m your mother, and I most certainly can stop you. What’ll you do for money? Where will you live?’ Rachel demanded, blocking the hallway to the front door.
‘I don’t care where I end up. I won’t live in this house with him any more. I told you what he was doing to me, and what did you do? You prayed with him,’ Verity said, crying again.
‘Your uncle needs God’s help. I saw to it that he punished himself. But we are family, Verity. You can’t run away from it, from us. God won’t let you,’ Rachel insisted.
‘It’s not God!’ she yelled. ‘It’s you. I don’t want to live here any more. I don’t have to. I’m over sixteen. I can go wherever I want with whoever I want. I’ll get a job.’
‘What do you mean, with whoever you want?’
Silence.
‘What … did … you … mean?’ Rachel hissed, taking hold of Verity’s shoulder and forcing her thumbnail into the top curve of flesh.
Verity howled. ‘You’re hurting me!’
‘Is there a boyfriend? Is that what this is about? Have you been dirtying yourself, you little whore?’
‘I didn’t dirty myself! Your brother did that, always pawing me when you’re not here, staring at me, coming into my room when I’m undressing. Why shouldn’t I have a boyfriend? You don’t care what Samson does to me, so why can’t I do what I want?’