by J. E. Mayhew
She grinned at him. “I can see why you’re a policeman. A few days ago? After I met you, actually. You’re one of my first clients…”
“How many other clients have you got?”
“Just you,” she said, breezily. “But you have to start somewhere, don’t you?”
Blake put his wine glass down. “Let me just get this straight. When I came to the RSPCA Centre the other day, you weren’t a practising animal psychologist, were you?”
“That’s a bit of a bald statement. I’d been flirting with the idea…”
“So you dived in the back, wrote down your name and number and gave it to me. Did you make up all that Paws for Thought: Behaviour Saviour stuff on the spot?”
She took a gulp of her wine and grinned again. “No, I’d been throwing ideas around for a while and then you turned up and I thought, ‘why not?’ The psychology is as much the owner as the pet, you know. And you, Detective, intrigue me.”
“I see,” Blake said. He was surprised he didn’t feel angry about Laura’s admission. Maybe it was because her advice was sound so far or maybe it was something else. “So what’s your assessment of me, then?”
She smiled again. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Anyway, I’ll ask the questions, if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Policeman. How long did your mum have Serafina before she left?”
Blake picked up his wine and took another sip. “I don’t really know. Five years, maybe? She didn’t have her when I first moved in…”
“So, your mother was fine when you moved back in with her?”
“Yes,” Blake said. “Well, no. These things don’t happen overnight, do they? If you must know, I’d split up from my wife and had nowhere to go.”
“When you first invited me in, you said it was your mother’s house. Don’t you see it as your home too?”
Blake took a long swig of his wine. “I don’t suppose I do,” he said. “And my brother would have something to say about it if I got too comfy. I crash out here. Eat. That’s about it.”
“Where’s Serafina now?”
“I don’t know. Living room I think.” They went through and found the cat asleep on his mother’s chair once again.
“Maybe she feels secure when there are voices in the house. People having conversations, doing things. It all feels normal to her.”
“I’ll have to get you to come round more often,” Blake said. “Or take in lodgers.”
“Don’t take in lodgers,” Laura said, leaning over and stroking Serafina’s ear. The cat purred loudly and tilted her head to get the most out of the contact. “You see, the odd stroke now and then works wonders. If you spend your time ignoring her then she’ll become stressed.”
“I don’t ignore her,” Blake said. “I feed her. I say hello. I wasn’t ignoring her when I was up the tree at the front at whatever ridiculous hour the other day…”
“That’s something else you can do for me,” Laura said, her green eyes teasing him. “Next time you’re out on an important case, have a look in any trees you pass. See if you can find any cat skeletons.”
“Cat skeletons?”
“Yeah. You know. If cats genuinely got stuck in trees all the time, some would die up there, right? But they don’t because most cats eventually get themselves down. Give her a chance to sort her own problems out.”
Blake nodded. “Fair enough.” He paused and looked at her. “You did a psychology degree, right? Like a human one…”
“Yes,” Laura said, laughing. “I told you. Why?”
“What do you know about revenge? I don’t mean cutting up another driver because they annoyed you on the road. I mean long-term, grudge-bearing, over years, possibly decades. Does that happen?”
Laura thought for a moment. “I think it does. Some narcissistic individuals might harbour a sense of injustice about something and have fantasies of revenge for a long time. Certain people who have experienced social rejection and isolation because of some event may turn to ideas of revenge. I suppose if those ideas were reiterated and reinforced over the years then the person might eventually act on them.”
“How do you mean, reiterated?”
Laura shrugged. “Some of the cases we studied were feuding families. You must have seen films about the frontiersmen in the US. Whole families fighting over an old grudge. Well, that occurs all over the world. It tends to be confined to criminal cultures where there is a resistance to policing. Criminal gangs can succumb to violent feuds. So if a member of that group is brought up hearing all the reasons to hate another group of people, they might become over-zealous.”
“Do you think it could happen in a family group? Round here?”
“I don’t think we’ve got the Hatfields and the McCoys battling it on Bidston Hill, have we?”
Blake laughed. “No but on a smaller scale. If a child was fed a particular story about an injustice against their father or another family member. Some kind of grudge could be fed, couldn’t it?”
“It could, I suppose,” Laura said. “Look, I’m no expert and it’d have to be some kind of dysfunctional family but some kind of blood feud could be encouraged. They’re generally ‘eye-for-an-eye’ kind of things, I think. Families taking tit-for-tat revenge on each other.” She paused. “I don’t know. To be honest, I feel more comfortable talking about cats.”
“Me too,” Blake said, “but you may have helped me more than you think.”
Laura held his gaze and smiled. “Good. Now the other day, we were talking about fun…”
◆◆◆
The shotgun barrel felt cold in her hands but she liked that. The best things are done cold. Anger gave you that surge of strength to finish the job. When Marcus Hunt had died, she was cold and calculating until the first blow. That had been her strength. She’d picked up his shotgun and brought it with her. It would be useful.
She’d be cold like the shotgun barrel. She cracked it open and frowned. It would all end tomorrow. One way or another. She wouldn’t let the dying man slip away without paying him a visit. But he was last on her list.
The idiot had to get his comeuppance first. And someone, no, something else. The sense of betrayal had grown these last few weeks but it had been there from the first moment she saw the dying man in the hospice. All those years of giving, of sacrifice, just so they could pay some bimbo nurse to plump his pillows and flutter her eyelashes at the old goat. No. That’s not good enough. She snapped the shotgun shut.
Thursday October 31st (Hallowe'en)
CHAPTER 38
He didn’t have to be the world’s greatest stand-up or raconteur to deliver information to the team in the Major Incident Room but Blake was firmly of the opinion that Detective Constable Ian Ollerthwaite shouldn’t be allowed to talk in public to any group, however small. In fact as the briefing went on, he became convinced that Ollerthwaite shouldn’t be allowed to talk to anyone at all. Ever again.
Ollerthwaite was a member of the wider team and dealt almost exclusively with any aspects of fraudulent accounting. Blake could feel his eyes grow heavy as the thick-set constable droned on about Victor Hunt’s business interests.
It was vital information and should have kept him riveted but something about Ollerthwaite’s delivery was vocal ketamine. Blake glanced around, gratified to see Kath Cryer stifling a yawn and Manikas rubbing his eyeballs into the back of his head.
Memories from the previous night filled his head; he thought back to Laura and how she’d wrapped herself around him. How he’d frozen, unable to return her warm kiss. She said she understood; that it was too soon but she didn’t know. Didn’t know that he didn’t deserve affection. It had been almost thirteen years since Ellie had died and he’d split up from Nicole. Everything had vanished in that year, Searchlight, his daughter, his wife, his future.
Since then, he’d immersed himself in work. He’d buried his feelings of guilt and grief. And just when he was beginning to find his feet, his father died and his mother began her slow decline into de
mentia. Why risk even a moment of happiness when it can be snatched away from you so suddenly and brutally? He couldn’t explain all that. And so she’d left. Blake snapped himself back to the briefing.
“So, in conclusion, it appears that most of Victor Hunt’s business rivals have either retired,” Ollerthwaite counted the options on his chubby fingers. “Died or moved abroad. Some have done both…”
Kinnear put his hand up. “What, Ian? Died and moved abroad.”
Ollerthwaite’s droopy moustache twitched back and forth as he ruminated on Kinnear’s question but he didn’t crack a smile. “No, retired and gone abroad. I see my error there. I’ll amend that in the written report. Thank you, Andrew, that’s a very helpful observation.”
“So, we can rule out any financial or business rivalry as a motive in this investigation?” Blake said.
Ollerthwaite nodded slowly. “I believe so, sir. Hunt retired from business a long time ago and has benefitted from investments and passive income. Even when he was more active, members of the business community who are still with us have only good things to say about him. He was a shrewd businessman but surprisingly popular. A deeper investigation into his finances might reveal something but…”
“We’d have to be certain what we were looking for and have a justifiable cause to go rooting. Which we haven’t,” Blake said, winding Ollerthwaite down. “Two of Hunt’s children have been killed. It can’t be coincidence.”
“Anyone who might have a grudge against Hunt from around the time of the original murders is either dead or too old to have committed the current crimes,” Vikki said.
“Children,” Blake replied. “What about the victim’s children?”
“Guv?” Kath Cryer said.
“I was thinking about revenge last night. Who in this group of people might have been left destitute or shamed as a child by the murders?” Blake said, turning to look at the cluttered picture board. “What if they blamed Drucilla and, by association, Victor Hunt for some reason?”
“Why would they blame Drucilla, sir?” Cryer said.
Blake rubbed his temples. “We’re pretty certain she planted evidence on some of the people she had arrested. She certainly gained a certain amount of fame from the cases. Imagine if someone’s life spun out of control because of one of the murders. They’re likely to blame Drucilla and, maybe the whole Hunt family for the disaster, right? Gerald Rees said that Rebecca was the spitting image of Drucilla. Maybe it triggered some terrible reaction.” He slumped against the desk. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m clutching at straws.”
Kinnear shifted in his seat. “Fiona James and her son are dead and I can’t imagine Peter Bradshaw getting it together enough to catch a bus back to the Wirral let alone plan and commit murder.”
“The Locks had no other relatives as far as we know,” Vikki said. “The house is a ruin. Hunt never rented it out again. There’s nobody there who might want revenge.”
“Carly Simmonds had a sister, Carol,” Kath Cryer said, slowly. “Always in her shadow. Carly had a thing going with Hunt before she moved onto David Collins. Collins was embezzling from Hunt. Could she have blamed Hunt somehow?”
“Did you meet her?” Blake said.
“No, I interviewed her mother. Carol was out.”
“Go and find her. Talk to her. Kinnear, you go with Kath.”
Kinnear looked as though Blake had slapped him in the face. “Who me, guv?”
“There’s nobody else called Kinnear on the team. It’s possible we’re dealing with a violent psychopath; I don’t want anyone out on their own.”
Cryer rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry Kinnear, I won’t bite you.”
Manikas raised a hand. “Guv, didn’t Collins have a couple of kids, too? He was publicly shamed by Drucilla. If anyone might hold a grudge against the Hunts, it could be someone from the Collins family.”
“That’s true, Manikas, you and Vikki see if you can find where they are now,” Blake said, turning back to the photo board. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere.”
◆◆◆
An awkward silence filled the car as DI Cryer and Kinnear drove down the M53 towards the Simmonds' house. Kinnear hated it. He felt as though an invisible barrier had fallen between them. He looked out of the window and watched the green embankment flash by. Every now and then, a housing estate or school building would reveal itself as the slopes and fenceline dipped. He took a breath. Wasn’t he going to have a word with her, rather than take it to Blake? But now his words felt trapped in his throat. If he spoke now, he’d end up shouting.
Suddenly, Kath broke the silence. “So, what’s your problem, big boy?” she said, staring ahead as she drove.
“Sorry, Ma’am?” Kinnear said, raising his eyebrows. “What d’you mean?”
“Well, it seems like whenever I make any kind of comment, you grind your teeth and go as red as a nun in a pole-dancing club.”
“It’s nothing, Ma’am.”
“No, really. You can be straight with me,” Cryer said.
Kinnear searched her face for a smirk or any sign that she was trying to be funny. “Well, it was just that some of those comments you made felt like they’re directed at me. Because of who I am.”
Kath raised her eyebrows. “Really? Why? cos you’re gay?”
Kinnear hated himself for it but years of hiding still made it hard to just acknowledge this and let the conversation flow. “Yeah,” he said, trying to sound casual.
“Well, you’re going to have to man up, aren’t you Kinnear?”
Kinnear felt as if he waser who called falling down a lift shaft. “Man up? What d’you mean by that?”
He noticed Cryer give him a sidelong glance. “I worked bloody hard to get where I am, Kinnear. And I didn’t spend my life worrying over comments about my tits or whether I had PMT or who I shagged to get promotion. I just got on with it. I expect you to do the same. I’m not the most touchy-feely of people but I’m good at catching criminals. You will be too if you stop getting all twitchy about every other word someone says. Just for the record, I don’t really care if you’re gay, straight, bi or whatever so long as you do a good job. Okay?”
Kinnear felt numb. “With all due respect, ma’am, I thought we’d got beyond that…
“Beyond what?”
A spark of anger flared in Kinnear’s gut. “All this ‘banter’ and ‘leg pulling.’ Just because you’ve had to put up with crap like that all your life, doesn’t give you the right to shovel some my way. You should know better. I don’t care if you’re the best DI in the world. Taunt me about my sexuality one more time and I’ll take it to DCI Blake. Ma’am.”
Cryer glanced at Kinnear and pursed her lips. “Suit yourself,” she muttered, locking steely eyes on the road ahead.
Kinnear stared out of the window at the passing cars and houses. He didn’t feel any better. And he knew he’d made an enemy, but he was glad he’d stood his ground. They drove on in frosty silence until they came to the address and pulled the car over outside Carol Simmonds’ house.
A mousy, middle-aged woman was climbing into a Ford Ka and paused as they walked towards her.
“Carol Simmonds?” Kath said, flashing her warrant card. The woman nodded. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?”
“I’m on my way to work,” Carol said.
Kath gave a tight smile. “I honestly don’t think this’ll take long.”
Carol led them back into the house and into the back room which had a dining table and some elegant oak chairs sitting around it. Kath glimpsed Carol’s mother dozing in her armchair as they passed the lounge. “If you can keep your voice down, don’t want to wake Mum. Were you the officer who called the other day?”
Kath nodded. “Yes, we're investigating a crime that happened recently. We think it might be linked to the murder of your sister in some way. Could you tell me where you were on the evening of October 23rd?”
“That was a Tuesday wasn’t it? Yeah, I was h
and bell ringing at St Oswald’s Church just down the road. I go every Tuesday. It starts about six, so I have some tea at work and then go straight on.”
“And there are people who can verify this?” Kinnear said.
Carol looked pale. “Course there are, about twelve others and we went to the pub quiz at the Acorn afterwards. What’s this all about?”
Kath gave a tight smile. “Don’t worry Carol. We’re just eliminating you from our enquiries, as they say. I can't really explain more than that. Could you just do me one more favour and roll your sleeves up?”
Carol Simmonds blinked and licked her lips. “Do I have to?”
Kath Cryer shrugged. “You really don’t but it would just help us a great deal if you felt able to.”
“Oh, alright then,” Carol muttered. She pulled off her coat to reveal a Sainsbury’s tunic and shirt. Rolling her sleeves up, she revealed her skin crisscrossed with tiny scars; evidence of anxiety and unhappiness. None of the cuts were fresh. “I don’t do it anymore. But when Carly went, I couldn’t stop. It was my only way of coping. I felt guilty because I was angry with her. I think I was angry with everyone.”
“Carol, I’m so sorry,” Kath said. “If we’d known, we’d never have asked. It’s just that the person we’re looking for has scratched arms. Fresh scratches from someone they attacked. As I say if…”
Carol held up her hand. “It’s alright, officer,” she said. “You’ve got your job to do. I hope you catch whoever it is. Can’t see what it’s got to do with Carly but I suppose that’s none of my business. It never goes away, you know.”
“Sorry?” Kinnear said.
“Whatever you do, it doesn’t bring anyone back. And even if someone’s in jail, it isn’t the end of it. We have to soldier on.”
Kath nodded. “I know. Carol. I’m sorry.”
“You just have to put it behind you but some can’t. Like that Collins woman…”
“Collins woman?”
“Yeah,” Carol said. “She came round here a month or so ago. Trying to rake it all up. Making up wild stories about the Hunts and how they killed her dad and it wasn’t suicide. I sent her packing, I can tell you. Naomi, she said her name was. Naomi Collins.”