I take a sip of the hot liquid and stare at DI Locke from behind my cup. ‘Do you know who the ex-BT van driver is? I’ve certainly never seen him before but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t or isn’t also in the Met. I mean, I never saw Peters face-to-face, did I?’
I hear a key turn in the lock then the howling wind causing the front door to slam shut behind a slightly bedraggled Cynthia. ‘Gawd, it’s icy out there.’ She dumps her coat on the stand and enters the living room rubbing her pink hands. ‘Sin— Oh, who is this?’
‘Detective Inspector Locke,’ she says.
Aeron gave Cynthia the spare key. She slept downstairs last night on the thin memory foam mattress we usually keep in the attic. DI Locke catches me rolling my eyes. Hers glint with unexpressed amusement.
‘You haven’t caught him yet,’ says Cynthia.
I want to wipe the cynical look off her face and say, ‘Yes, actually, they have.’ One of them at least. But DI Locke tilts then lowers her chin in expectation, and I muster all my self-control. Until both individuals are facing a judge, I should keep my mouth shut.
‘If you can’t find the idiot who dumped a dog turd on the bonnet of my car this morning, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you can’t locate an aggressive driver.’
‘You didn’t say anything ab—’
‘I got the marigold gloves out to clean it up first thing,’ she cuts me off. ‘If I’d have waited for you to get out of bed it would have dried on and the car would have needed a valet. Where I’d be able to get that done around here, gawd only knows.’
‘Cynthia?’
‘Well, what a bloody thing to do, eh?’
‘Cynthia, do you still have a motion-activated dash cam?’
‘Yes, but, oh…’ She shakes her head and waves the comment away. ‘You didn’t think I’d leave it in the car all night, did you? On this estate? Hah!’
‘We can’t all afford security cameras.’
‘You, Sinead, need them more than most so you should consider getting some installed.’
‘I’ll go over the road and speak to Logan, see if he managed to capture anything on his drones,’ says DI Locke, heading for the front door.
‘He was flying them last night,’ says Cynthia. ‘That’s what woke me up, I think.’
I don’t ask her what compelled her outside in the cold, dark of night.
I saw her stash of cigarettes dazzling me from the part-zipped handbag she left on the dining table while I prepared dinner yesterday. She purchased the jewelled tin with the distinctive gold ribbon emblazoned across the front of it during a trip abroad years ago. She doesn’t know that me and Aeron are aware she treats herself to a cigarette every evening. She must have snuck out to smoke it the moment I fell asleep. Me being the last, as always, to do so.
I turn back to the house that not only feels unsafe, but now that my mother-in-law has moved in, albeit temporarily, discomforts me. I hope it isn’t long before Aeron has enough of her too. Although her presence has been a welcome distraction to the children, I’m looking forward to her return home.
Aeron’s car pulls into the driveway and I’m overcome, powerfully, with the reminder that this house is no longer going to be our home. Aeron is moving into a flat on his own. And I’ll soon have to start looking for a cheap rental for me and the children to live in. We talked it out last night in the car while Cynthia put the kids to bed, both no longer angry. We’ve decided to remain civil for the sake of the kids but we agreed, despite still having feelings for each other, our fear of getting caught or hurting one another had replaced love long ago.
Mai bounds out of the car, ahead of Brandon. Aeron tugging something from beneath the front passenger seat that has lodged itself there. The children’s schoolbooks, a homework sheet, and a painted grid on a piece of folded A3.
Aeron locks the car with his key fob then his attention is diverted to DI Locke who is crossing the road towards him, holding something in her raised hand, while motioning for me to see what it is.
DI LOCKE
Newport, Wales
They might not have anything relevant on them but analysing them is worth a shot.
‘I found them in the attic while I was clearing out some old recordings,’ says Logan.
‘How many are in there?’
‘Seven,’ he says, staring at the cellophane packet of SD cards.
‘You’re not expecting us to sit and look through them all with you?’ says Sinead.
‘No,’ says Logan. ‘You,’ he aims his words at me, ‘can sift through them in your own time.’
‘Why are these recordings differentiated from the others?’
‘I saw something in the sky, about three months ago. It looked like the north star, except it was bigger and brighter. I got my phone out to start with, but the lens was scratched, and I couldn’t get the focus right, so I deleted it and got the drone out.’ He hoists a heavy spaceship type object from a unit behind the front door to show us. ‘It’s heavy and old, and I only use it when I want to film something for over an hour because the battery life on it is fantast—’
‘I’m sorry. Logan, but you said you could help us?’
He frowns. ‘The memory cards hold twelve hours of recordings each, covering six hours a night from 9 p.m. until 3 a.m. or midnight until 6 a.m., over fourteen non-consecutive nights. Starting Thursday the 26th of July and ending on Thursday the 18th of October.’
‘You have an excellent memory. But how do you categorise them?’
‘The date and time appear at the beginning of each film. Just tell me the dates you need, and you can borrow them.’
‘I’ll need to scan through them all.’
‘Oh, well… uh… okay.’
‘Thank you.’ I snap the bag out of his hand before he changes his mind and I’m forced to get a warrant to view them.
On the way out the door I turn to him and say, ‘Just out of interest what was it that you saw in the sky?’
‘Venus.’
I leave with a nod.
*
While I await charging confirmation from the CPS who are currently recommending a Recall to Court for Alex, for breaking his only term of parole – to refrain from police contact, on top of the solicitation, incitement, and encouragement of attempting to murder Sinead – I have two DCs munching on Twix while they stare at their computer screens.
From where I sit, the monitor angled away from me, I can just make out the slow movement of the drone’s impression of a midnight blue sky which occasionally displays the top of a tree or the shadow of a passing bat as it swoops across the camera lens.
I slip into a trance-like state. The kind that envelops me as I’m cruising down the dual carriageway, watching the dusky sunburst through the spindly trees lining the valley walls.
Ashleigh has returned home, her brother’s unfortunate demise deemed punishment enough and allowing her to evade judicial repercussion. Though she fought him for the bag of cocaine shortly before he died, the technicians couldn’t find her fingerprints on it. An inquiry is taking place after the funeral, but the coroners preliminary report states his cause of death was accidental.
That means nothing, of course, to the DCI.
I’m waiting for Evans to call me into the unit to discuss the IOPC’s recommendation. They should soon have decided whether to mark the circumstances preceding Josh’s death as a traffic-related, or police-contact-related incident to review mine and Jones’ actions. Though it’s possible that we will be demoted or even suspended from duty for the duration of the inquiry we haven’t yet been kicked off Sinead’s case, so I’m going to continue doing what I can until I can’t.
I’ve got fifteen minutes left on shift. I’m looking forward to a hot meal and a rest in preparation for the imminent destruction Jaxon will create while me and Johnno try to settle him to sleep. The Melatonin only easing the continuous stream of repetitive nonsense he screams while lashing out at us for daring to feel tired until he wears himself out.
It is something I need the physical energy as well as the psychological strength to contend with.
I’m tidying away the files on my desk, placing a folder into the drawer when I’m called over by the DC surveying the footage marked Wednesday the 8th of August at 9.19 p.m.
‘Here. Look?’
And there on the screen is a man, somewhere between five-feet-ten and six-foot tall, well-built, darkish-looking hair, carrying a plastic bag that shines as he meanders towards Sinead’s house and is cut off the screen.
‘That’s all we’ve got on this one,’ she says. ‘No vehicle, no close up of his face, but we’ve got five more SD cards to get through.’
‘Zoom in and de-pixelate.’ I squint my eyes as she taps a few buttons, the image becoming clearer as the tones sharpen.
‘I’ve seen enough to confidently identify him as the ex-BT van driver.’
Placing him on both Christchurch Hill at the time of the vehicle incident and outside the boundary of Sinead’s property with what appears to be a carrier bag containing dog faeces is enough evidence to charge him with harassment and conspiring and assisting to commit an offence. We just need to establish who he is.
*
When I get home it’s late, Jaxon’s in bed, and Johnno as always is waiting for me on the sofa, a tray of just heated food on his lap. He hands it to me with a puppy dog look on his face.
‘Sorry I’m late, babe.’
‘That’s okay. You can make it up to me once you’ve refuelled your tank of energy,’ he says, nuzzling my neck.
HONOUR
Croydon, London
Faith arrives late as usual. Though we don’t really have set times, I’m used to her daily visits. Immediately after Steven’s death she didn’t want to leave my side, had practically moved into the house. Her being around provided comfort. When Kanesha was given a detention for being late to school for three consecutive mornings she stopped their sleepovers, and instead delivered a pre-made breakfast, lunch, and dinner to the house. I assume she too started to feel suffocated. After the funeral she visited late morning and late evening for an hour, letting herself out and withholding the key the police returned to me along with Steven’s solid gold sovereign ring. She still has the key, but she knocks before she enters today, carrying just a microwavable Tupperware box of jerk chicken with rice and peas.
‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
I scowl at her. ‘Kanesha was pulled out of school and questioned by police this morning in relation to my son’s murder.’
‘Asked to assist them with their enquiries,’ she sighs.
‘Why?’ I frown.
‘Because she took Leighton’s phone and put her number in his contacts.’
‘When?’
‘At school. It was for a homework project.’
‘But she’s in sixth form. They don’t have homework.’
‘Coursework then. Look are you going to let me in or what?’
I keep thinking about the day of Steven’s memorial service, Kanesha’s quiet demeanour, her eyes cast to the ground when DS Maguire and DC Pierce approached me, returned to the house with us to inform me Natalie had come forward with information. Were my niece’s upset features disguising guilt?
‘Mmm.’
‘Oh, sis, I haven’t got time for this. Here.’ She pushes the plastic box into my stomach, and I grab it before it falls. The mustard and lime green coloured seasoning stains are murder to get out of fabric and the rug at my feet was handwoven by inmates, thus one of a kind.
I received Dejuan’s gift in this morning’s post. No letter. No note of apology for ignoring me since our son died. Just a rolled-up rug, tied with a blue bow, in a box, postmarked from Fort Augusta Adult Correctional Centre, South Camp Road, Kingston, Jamaica.
‘Thank you.’
She looks down at my slipper-clad feet then up to my jumper, notes I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday, and over my shoulder as though seeking the person with a knife to my back.
I loosen my grip on the doorframe and relinquish the tight breath that seized my thorax the moment I opened the door.
I can feel my eyes flickering from Faith to the car, to determine the distance between us and wonder if she can detect the strain in my voice or feel the electrified tension in the air. She turns away and begins walking towards the Kia. I squint to avoid the weak sunlight attempting to penetrate between the thick branches of the leafless trees, watching her leave. It takes every ounce of psychological strength I have not to charge after her, fear gripping my insides and churning them up like beef in a mincer as I close the door on her, retracting from my only chance of survival, the unlatched door sucked closed in the wind.
I turn slowly, the tip of the knife that had been pressed between my shoulder blades now resting against my breastbone. I stare down at the sharp glinting steel and wonder if the thoughts flashing through my mind or the metallic taste of dread entering my mouth is how my son felt before his killer plunged the knife into his chest and stomach over and again. Not stopping once he’d fallen to the ground.
Was he spitting blood? Did he gurgle my name?
Marcus jabs me lightly and I squeal, gasping for breath. He retracts the blade an inch and shoves me down the hall, into the kitchen.
There is no rear door to the property. No secondary exit. The windows as always, and especially after the break-in two days prior are now locked.
‘Sit,’ he says, pointing to the chair whose last butt that marked the seat cushion was Steven’s, dropping the keys to the front door, now locked, into the pocket of his Adidas tracksuit bottoms.
I follow his order without question, body rigid with fear, pulse thudding wildly throughout my body, my limbs lead-weighted.
I imagine Steven is here, with me, to gather the courage to remain externally calm and to give me the mental agility to figure a way to get out of the house before Marcus stabs me to death.
In a position of submission my panic only grows. It is obvious who holds the power in this room.
I flinch as he steps closer to me. I can almost feel the atmosphere shaking, the anxiety emanating off Marcus in waves. His movements jerky, behaviour erratic. His impulsivity a red flag that he could lash out at any moment.
‘You should have let me in.’ The knife trembles in his hand.
He looked so focused, so determined, that I was too terrified to allow him entry into my home, unsure why he was here and how he knew where Steven, who was ever-cautious about the boy, lived. Now I wonder if Steven did know Marcus was his brother. Had Marcus used it as leverage to get him to run drugs or something else that caused him to become a target? Had Steven been hit by a rival gang member? Was he just a number in a turf war that had been going on behind the scenes of our community, beneath the surface of the murky Croydon streets?
The moment the door hit the toe of Marcus’s trainer as I attempted to close it, I knew my gut instinct had been correct about the troublemaker, but being two inches taller and weighing at least a couple stone more than me, there was nothing I could do to stop him from forcing his way inside.
‘The filth, they’re looking for me, innit. I need somewhere to crash.’
‘You want to stay here?’
I could bolt from the house while he’s distracted. I could call the police from the bathroom. And if he catches me, I’ll subdue him with a heavy object, snatch the key from his pocket, then bolt for the door.
He must sense my thoughts are doing overtime. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. But if the filth come here, asking if you’ve seen or heard from me, you’ve got to tell them you haven’t.’
I nod, and he raises his arm to rub a bead of sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. His gaze not leaving mine for a second though my eyes are trained solely on the blade.
‘Can I get a drink?’ It feels strange asking permission to make myself a cuppa in my own house.
‘What do you want, I’ll grab it?’
‘Tea.’
&
nbsp; ‘Ah man, what’s with you older women? My mum’s the same. Except hers has to be fucking green.’ He pulls a face in exaggerated disgust.
‘I tried it once. Nasty stuff. So, can I?’
‘I’ll come with you. And give me your phone.’ My lifeline.
‘It’s in the kitchen. In my handbag.’
He doesn’t need me to direct him down the hall and into the room. He knows this door leads to the kitchen and the one to my left the cupboard. The ex-council house’s standard issue doors look the same when shut just like the ones in the flat that he shares with his mum and sister; the cupboard door indistinguishable from the kitchen door. He was also my burglar and must have spent a while fingering through my belongings. My heartbeat drums harder in my ribcage.
‘I didn’t kill Steven, Miss Bennet,’ he says as I tip the boiling water into a cup, the desire to pour the contents of the kettle over his head heightening at his obvious lie.
Why would he be here, pointing a knife into my upper spine, if he wasn’t responsible for murdering him? If he hadn’t broken into my home in search of something? If he hadn’t absconded from the police for doing so and needed somewhere to hide?
Though why he has chosen to conceal himself in the same property he unlawfully entered just two days prior I cannot say.
‘What were you looking for?’ I’m expecting him to deny it.
‘The money.’ He takes a sip of his scalding cup of tea and pulls a face. ‘Got any sugar?’
With my back to him, I drop two soluble pills into his drink, hoping it doesn’t froth up. The Solpadol I removed from my mum’s flat intending to return it to the pharmacy who delivered her weekly medication is not enough to knock him out. But it will make him malleable. I pray he doesn’t smoke so much weed that the effect of 60mg of codeine is too minuscule on his habitually stoned nervous system to have any effect at all.
‘What money?’ I say, adding two heaped teaspoonfuls of sugar into his tea.
It bubbles slightly, fizzing, and I paint on a reassuring smile before handing it back to him. ‘I accidently dropped two sweeteners in there before I remembered we have the real stuff. Granulated.’
I Know You (DI Emma Locke) Page 21