by Elena Wilkes
‘What didn’t you see, though?’ a voice inside her says. ‘How blind are you? You never see what’s right in front of you.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘We’re holding your boyfriend for questioning.’
Frankie’s eyes follow D.S. Markham as she walks around the table and sits down opposite her again. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ She smiles casually, as though they are a couple of old friends having a catch-up.
‘He’s not my boyfriend…’ Frankie watches as she settles herself, organising her pen and pad of paper. ‘You’re holding him on what charges?’
‘I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the people we’re detaining, I’m afraid.’ The D.S. looks at Frankie disapprovingly. She rests her hands on the pad, fingers linked, leaning forward slightly as though waiting for Frankie to speak.
‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘Really?’ The D.S. twitches an eyebrow. ‘Okay. Well… Let’s look at that from our point of view. A man has died in a house fire, in a house that you broke into through a window, using Mr Jarvis’s Swiss army knife. Is that correct?’
Frankie nods.
‘You’ve already told us that you were intending to remove a laptop from the property, but which is no longer in your possession, and all the evidence you claim to be proof of his sexual offences, has been lost.’
‘But there was a camera—’ Frankie starts.
‘Many houses have security cameras, Ms Turner. It’s not that unusual.’
Frankie stares across at this woman who is probably only a few years older than herself. She can tell what she’s thinking: she’s an open book. Her eyes move from Frankie’s hair to her nails and then to the state of her jacket. They’re assessing and judgemental. Her gaze says a lot: that she may have designer clothes, a nice car, and a fancy rural postcode, but the smell of her background comes off her in waves. There’s the stink of trouble in her DNA, and they both know it.
‘Jack Vale was involved with drugs,’ Frankie repeats for what feels like the millionth time. ‘I’m telling you, he killed Charlotte, his stepsister. He told us. He said—’
‘He told you? You’re absolutely sure that he said that: word for word?’
‘Not precisely, but he—’
‘So he didn’t say it?’
‘He told us that she was “his” and he was angry that Martin had touched his property.’
‘He was angry that Martin Jarvis had murdered his sister?’
‘No!’
‘He wasn’t angry, then?’
‘Christ!’ Frankie slams her hand on the table.
‘You seem very upset, Ms Turner.’ D.S. Markham sits back, frowning a little. ‘Would you like me to get you that cup of tea?’
‘Look. We went to the house because Jack told me that Peter Vale was a danger to Chloe—’
‘Jack gave you information to protect your daughter?’
‘Yes.’
She can immediately see how contradictory this all sounds.
‘Although you haven’t yet explained how Chloe came to be living there without you. Odd isn’t it? She’s only fifteen, after all.’ The D.S. puts her head on one side like a bird, but that’s where the resemblance ends: there’s clearly nothing small and sweet about her at all.
‘I – She—’ Frankie stumbles. ‘She wasn’t there alone. She was with me for a while—’
‘—A ‘while.’’ The D.S.’s head moves to the other side. ‘We’ll need to define what ‘a while’ means, I think…’
The lie burns hot in her cheeks.
‘But let’s come back to that later,’ the detective switches tack, smiling.
Frankie can feel the threat being applied as leverage.
‘So let’s get back to where we were.’ The D.S. picks up the pen and taps it on the table. ‘You’re saying that Jack Vale, this drug-dealer, confessed that he had indecent images of his stepsister, which his father, Peter Vale, took the blame for, and indeed was prepared to do a six-month prison sentence for. Have I got that about right?’
‘Yes,’ Frankie nods emphatically. ‘Martin knew that Charlotte Vale was scared out of her mind and that something bad was happening to her, but she wouldn’t say who, or what, she was scared of. Jack had a hidden camera in her room. I saw the photographs that he’d taken… I saw one of Chloe—’ She breaks off suddenly remembering the photograph of Chloe that Jack had given her in the car. ‘I took it when she wasn’t looking.’
His grinning face comes back to her and she’s instantly repulsed.
‘I don’t know what Jack did to Charlotte. But I know it was so awful she couldn’t even talk about it.’
The D.S. consults the pad in front of her.
‘The police believed that Charlotte had been sexually assaulted; that she’d been raped.’
The hardness of her statement shudders the air.
‘But the DNA evidence was washed away by the amount of time she was in the water.’ Frankie can feel the D.S.’s eyes raking her face. ‘I read all the statements that are on file, Ms Turner, and it was your evidence, your very compelling evidence I might add, that put Martin Jarvis behind bars. Are you now saying that evidence was a lie?’ She gives her a quizzical sideways look.
‘It wasn’t a lie… Not a lie, no. I was mistaken, I made a mistake—’
‘But you said you saw Martin Jarvis. You said you were sure of it.’
‘I said I saw him, yes—’
‘But now you’re saying you didn’t see him, and that you couldn’t be sure, which means that what you said in a court of law, Ms Turner, was, indeed, a lie.’
Her head tips to the other side again.
‘So how do you explain the necklace and the hairband?’ Frankie feels suddenly exhausted and close to tears.
‘The necklace and the hairband?’
‘The night she died, Martin said Charlotte was wearing a necklace.’
‘Martin Jarvis said.’ The D.S.’s tone is unpleasant.
‘Yes. When her body was recovered from the water, she had marks around her neck that were never explained, and the necklace was missing. Until Vanessa, her mother, gave it to me as a gift. Somehow it got from Charlotte to her jewellery box.’
D.S. Markham’s eyes flicker. ‘You have this necklace?’
‘Yes. At home.’
‘And the hairband?’
‘It was sent to me – with the letters… Stalking-type notes. I came in and told the police about them. You have all this on file.’
The D.S.’s chin lifts a little in query. ‘But you’ve already said that someone called Matthew Jarrow sent you notes when he got out of prison. And the hairband doesn’t appear in the evidence file.’
Frankie falters. She takes a breath. ‘Matthew Jarrow: that wasn’t the truth, and I took the hairband… My husband didn’t know the whole story, you see, and—’
‘So more lies, then?’ She gives her an odd look.
‘I can see how all this sounds, but—’
‘Hmmm… Yes, I’m sure you can.’
There’s that tone again.
‘Yes… yes… I can. But look, I have a photograph. One of the photographs that Jack took.’ She puts her hand in her pocket, and then the other pocket and then checks her jeans. ‘Martin has it,’ she says. ‘Martin had it in the car. Speak to him. He’ll tell you.’
D.S. Markham lets out a long sigh and raises her eyebrows. ‘It looks as though we’re speaking to Mr Jarvis about quite a few things, so we’ll add that to the list.’ She smiles grimly and pushes her chair back to stand. ‘I’ll get you that tea shall I?’
‘Do Vanessa and Peter know what’s happened to Jack?’
The D.S. doesn’t reply; instead she pauses for a moment.
Frankie looks up at her. ‘Peter will confirm what I’ve told you about Jack. He did all those things because he was protecting his son and he believed that Martin had murdered Charlotte.’ Frankie shakes her head. ‘God, what a mess.’
The
D.S. bites her top lip. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘You will be talking to him though?’ she presses. ‘You will speak to him?’
The D.S.’s mouth contracts slightly into a thin line.
‘I may as well tell you. Peter Vale’s body was found earlier this evening. His throat had been cut with a short blade knife similar to the kind of knife you described belonging to Mr Jarvis. Mr Jarvis is also sitting in our interview room covered in blood.’
Frankie finds her jaw has dropped open.
‘Martin Jarvis is on licence, as I’m sure you’re aware. That means he can be recalled to prison at any time, and that’s exactly where Mr Jarvis will be going.’
Her jaw closes with a snap. She knows that the D.S. is watching her face.
‘As I indicated earlier Frankie, there are lots of unanswered questions that I will want to put to you and I’m sure there’s lots of “evidence” that you’ll want to produce for me.’
She says the words like they’re all part of a tired joke and she’s heard the punchline a million times.
There is a pull, deep in Frankie’s stomach as she realises she’s not going home for a long while yet.
‘Is that okay, Frankie?’ The D.S. is still smiling as she nods dumbly in reply.
‘Ah, tea! Silly me! Actually, I could do with a cup myself. I’ll tell you what, we’ll have one together. I’ll scrounge some biscuits too if you like and we can have a good old chat.’
Chapter Thirty
Her phone begins jangling the minute she steps out of the station into the quiet street.
It’s Alex.
Where are you?
The message bats onto the screen.
She checks it, realising she’s got thirty missed calls. It flashes again into the grey light. She presses the ‘Call’ button.
‘You’re safe! Thank god, you’re safe! Oh Christ! I’ve been going out of my mind… How could you just walk out like that? It’s four o’clock in the morning, Frankie. Where the hell are you?’
She halts, mid-step. ‘You told me to get out.’
‘I was really pissed. I was upset and angry…’ He falters a little.
Her brain stumbles and snags. It’s all a mess, everything is a mess.
‘Please come home, Frankie. I’ve been so worried about you. We need to talk.’
Talk? She has no energy. There are no words.
‘I want to make this right. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I can’t tell you how much I need to hold you and touch you. I was so afraid—’ There’s a catch in his voice.
‘Will you please just come back? To chat things over. That’s all I want right now – you and me, two people, two adults – a truthful, open, honest conversation. Please, Frankie.’
‘I’m over an hour away. You’ll have to give me time.’
He takes an inward breath of relief. ‘You can have all the time you want.’ His voice is soft. ‘You can have anything, you know that, Frankie. You’ve always known it. You can have all the time in the world.’
She goes and sits in the car, unable to drive, unable to think. It feels as though the world is carrying on, but she is perfectly still. A flock of disturbed starlings chatter and fight in the tree across the road. They tumble and swoop across the front of the car and disappear into the blurred rooflines. She realises it’s close to dawn. She must’ve been in the station for two or three hours. Her body aches and she knows she stinks of god knows what. Her head is thumping. She’s too wired to sleep and too exhausted to stay awake. She wishes she could fall unconscious and have the whole lot of it drift away like a terrible dream.
The D.S.’s face comes back to her. She may have let her go, but she’s not free. How can she be? No one would believe what happened, let alone an experienced detective. Frankie stares glumly at the clock on the dashboard as it clicks from one number to the next. It’s a game of cat and mouse, and she’s being reeled in. But reeled in to what?
* * *
‘Two people have died tonight.’ D.S. Markham blew across the surface of her tea and took a sip.
‘Stop. Please stop. I can’t hear any more.’
Peter, dead? Peter can’t be dead. Jack’s dead.
‘And both you and Mr Jarvis have blood on your clothes. Would you like to talk me through that?’
‘Jack and Martin fought. Jack attacked me. Martin got the blood on his shirt from the fight.’
‘So neither you nor Martin had blood on you before you went to that house?’
‘No!’ She looked up at the detective, shocked.
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You saw Martin’s shirt before the fight?’
Frankie tried to think back… His jacket was zipped up when he got in the car.
‘But he didn’t know…’ she blurted. ‘He had no idea where Peter was; neither of us had. He didn’t know that Chloe was even living with Peter and Vanessa. He was totally shocked when I told him.’
D.S. Markham pulled a face. ‘What? Peter Vale attacks Martin Jarvis so badly that he ends up in the prison hospital but doesn’t tell him that he has his daughter living with him?’
You took my daughter, so I took yours. Vanessa’s words came tumbling back to her.
Frankie’s brain blundered around, trying to tie it all together.
‘Listen! Jack orchestrated it all! He was going to kill us!’
The D.S. regarded her as though she was looking at a naive child.
‘The question is, Frankie, do you trust everything Martin Jarvis has told you?’
The D.S.’s head tick-tocked again. She pursed her lips as though she was trying not to smile.
‘Let’s look at the options here, then. Let me play devil’s advocate for a moment. Let’s say Martin Jarvis was involved with Jack Vale in some very dark and shady enterprises. We already know that Martin and Jack are associated through drug-dealing—’
Frankie interrupted her. ‘But Martin wasn’t a dealer like Jack! He only did bits and pieces. He was just small fry, recreational, that’s all—’
The D.S. continued as though she hadn’t spoken.
‘—Martin and Jack become involved in some shady stuff and somehow Charlotte Vale gets lured in, but she doesn’t like what she finds. She’s going to spill the beans, so she gets murdered to shut her up. But Martin does the prison time for it and resents Jack for walking away scot free.’
‘But Jack already told us—’
The D.S. held up her hand. ‘Now just go along with my theory for a while and let’s unravel it a bit further. Martin believes Jack owes him. Martin threatens Jack. So Jack gets his father involved, hoping he’ll kill Martin in prison, but Peter messes up. Peter Vale now knows too much, so Martin takes him out too. Martin then goes into that house with you, finds Jack there, and sees an ideal opportunity to get rid of him once and for all. How about that?’
Her whole tone was ladled with glib sarcasm. Frankie stared at the desk. She concentrated on the scratches and whorls on the tabletop, seeing patterns and faces: a goblin with a hooked nose, an elephant with three legs, a leering pumpkin with hollowed-out eyes.
She looked up suddenly, ‘Where are Chloe and Vanessa?’
‘We haven’t been able to locate them. We don’t know where they are right now. We’re trying, though. A neighbour said they’d just gone away for a couple of days. But we will trace them, rest assured of that… Now, come on, tell me what you think about my Jack and Martin scenario?’
But Frankie could only think about Chloe. She felt her mind drifting: Vanessa’s plan was obvious: Jack had told her to get her as far away as possible. But what would she do now Peter and Jack were dead? There was no one to corroborate anything.
‘Okay Frankie, let’s do this your way.’ The D.S. pushed her chair back a little and put her hands flat on the table. ‘None of what I’ve said is true. It’s Jack Vale from beginning to end: he’s a sex offender, a murderer and a drug dealer, yes? So this vita
l evidence, this hairband, this necklace, this photograph, just explain how come you’ve got it all? Seems odd, doesn’t it?’ She looked at her awry. ‘You said you told the police all about it in your earlier statement, but all we have are a few hastily scribbled notes. Why didn’t you give this hairband and necklace to the police if it was so crucial to this murder?’
Frankie shook her head.
‘There are so many things and actions that you don’t seem to be able to explain, Ms Turner.’ D.S. Markham paused. ‘And just so you are aware, Martin says he doesn’t have the photograph of Jack Vale that you referred to.’
Frankie’s eyes batted up.
‘He also says that you and Charlotte had a fight at the party the night she died.’
There was a pause where the two women looked at each other. The moments ticked by. So what was Martin doing: Shifting? Deflecting? Denying?
‘What we’ve got so far is a dead girl’s necklace and hairband in your possession, and her step-brother and step-father dead on the same night. Is that right?’
She noted the colour of the D.S.’s eyes. They were a kind of washed-out blue: muddy and a little dull, not sharp and bright and full of clarity.
‘And you’re wanting me to believe, what? That it wasn’t Martin Jarvis who killed her, but Peter or Jack Vale. Is that right?’
Frankie looked down into the surface of the tea and watched the steam rise.
‘So take me through it, frame by frame, Frankie. That night when you went down to the canal boat. What did you do? What did you see?’
She remembered the keyed-up pounding swirl of emotion. She’d wanted a row – to scream out – but when it came to it… When she saw…
Frankie scoured her memory.