A Promise to the Dead: A gripping crime thriller with a brilliant twist

by Victoria Jenkins

  ‘But why? Why send it to you?’

  ‘That’s the part I’m not so sure about. It’s almost as though he wants to get found out.’ Alex was stalled by her words as they began to take on a greater relevance. The timing of the discovery of Oliver Barrett’s body had always seemed coincidental, but perhaps it hadn’t been. The builders working on the extension at 14 Oak Tree Close had no connection to Oliver Barrett, but did they have one to Michael Wyatt? She needed to speak to Natalie Bryant again. ‘But look,’ she said, storing the thought for now. ‘He knew that farmhouse up on Caerphilly Mountain was derelict, and he knew that no one would be there. If the ground that was dug was meant for Kieran, and if it was Wyatt up there on Saturday night, what he wasn’t expecting was for Matthew Lewis to interrupt proceedings.’

  ‘Why kill Stacey? To keep her quiet as well?’

  ‘She must have seen the van hit him, or been close enough for Wyatt to assume that she had,’ Alex said. ‘What did he seem like when you met him?’

  ‘Unassuming. Just normal, I suppose.’

  ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? Criminals tend to blend in well.’ She glanced at Chloe. ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  She slowed for an approaching roundabout and headed straight across. They were only a few minutes from Cyncoed, where Wyatt lived with his wife. On the street to either side of them, the houses had changed in size and style. Inside, lit rooms with drawn-back curtains displayed wealth and comfort; the kind of lives that most people aspired to. Wyatt had it all, Alex thought – he had done everything he could to transform his life from that of his early years – so why had he done any of this? What other secrets was he hiding?

  ‘His secretary told me he was in a meeting,’ Chloe recalled, ‘but when I went into his office, he didn’t look as though he’d just come from anywhere. He didn’t really seem to be doing much at all. I don’t know … maybe I’m just reading too much into it.’

  Alex took a left turn at a set of traffic lights. ‘You said his daughter died last year?’

  ‘That’s what he told me. Christ … he just seemed so normal. I didn’t suspect him at all.’ She exhaled loudly. ‘Do you know, I even admired him, in a way. How sick does that seem now? It’s a great recommendation for my detective skills, isn’t it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to be fooled by a psychopath,’ Alex told her, wondering if that’s what they were dealing with here.

  ‘If Stan Smith killed Oliver Barrett, where does Wyatt fit in?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Alex admitted. ‘Wyatt and Barrett would have known each other, or known of each other at the very least. Perhaps Wyatt knew what Stan had done. We need to find Jake. Call Dan back for me – get a trace put out on Jake’s phone.’

  She found it difficult to accept that Jake had been in possession of that list of names just the day before and hadn’t thought to mention it to any of them, yet she realised it should have come as no surprise to her. Looking back on the events of the previous afternoon, it occurred to her that perhaps he had been intending on telling her. He had tried to speak to her when he had first come to her office, but she had interrupted him, cutting him short. If he had been about to tell her what he suspected, she had put an end to it. She remembered the interview that had followed. He’d had a chance then; he had chosen not to take it.

  ‘A labour of love,’ Chloe muttered, ending her call to Dan.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something Wyatt said when I was at his office. We were talking about the farmhouse on the mountain, about Gareth Lawrence’s reasons for going to view it. Wyatt said that renovating it would involve a lot of work … that it would be a labour of love for someone.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’ve been assuming these crimes may have been motivated by homophobia in some way. Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe the opposite is true.’

  Alex cast Chloe a glance. ‘I’m not following.’

  ‘Wyatt and Barrett were in the same school year and we know that there’s a good chance Barrett was homosexual, right? We’ve been assuming Stan Smith was abusing Oliver Barrett, but what if his death was the result of something else? Smith didn’t kill Paul Ellis, did he, even though he allegedly assaulted him? So if he’d done the same to Barrett, why kill him?’

  ‘You think Stan Smith found out something was going on between Barrett and Wyatt?’

  Chloe shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s a theory. What if these crimes are more to do with love than hate?’

  ‘But Wyatt’s married. He has a daughter.’

  ‘And? Plenty of gay men hide behind a heterosexual relationship, even more so years ago. Wyatt’s in his fifties – things were a lot different when he was younger. He wouldn’t have been accepted as a gay man back in 1981 in the same way that he might be now.’

  The more Alex thought about Chloe’s theory, the more weight it began to hold. Wyatt’s motive was unclear, but if Paul Ellis’s accusation was founded on the truth, there was another possibility that was making itself increasingly likely.

  ‘Do you think Jake is in danger?’ Chloe asked, distracting Alex from her thoughts.

  ‘I hope not.’

  The words sounded shallow to her own ears as she spoke them. Wherever Jake was, she hoped for his sake that he wouldn’t make any more reckless decisions. As much as he infuriated her at times, the thought of anything happening to him was appalling.

  ‘Jake took that top sheet from the printer,’ Chloe said. ‘He saw Driscoll’s name – he knew that Driscoll was at school with Oliver Barrett and he’d worked out that he had at some point changed his name. Why didn’t he tell us all this yesterday? By the looks of it, he sat through that interview knowing he had a possible link and yet he didn’t say anything. Instead, he went to the school to confirm his suspicions.’

  Alex’s lip curled and she put a hand to her head, pressing her fingertips to her temple. ‘Stupid, stupid idiot,’ she said, pushing her foot flatter to the accelerator.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He didn’t tell us because he wanted to go it alone. This is my fault, isn’t it? I’ve been on his case for months and he’s known it – you’ve all known it. What better way to try to get one up on me than to solve this for himself?’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid? He’s been suspended from duty.’

  Alex ran a set of amber traffic lights, a mounting sense of anxiety gripping her. ‘This is Jake we’re talking about,’ she said grimly.

  Forty-Four

  It was gone 9.30 by the time Alex and Chloe arrived at Michael Wyatt’s home. There had been no answer from Jake’s phone, though it was little wonder he wasn’t picking up. She tried to tell herself that he was fine – that he was keeping a low profile for a few days, taking the sensible option for once – but everything in her suspected that the opposite might be true. If Jake had worked out that Wyatt was Driscoll, and had linked him to each of their victims, there was a chance that he had confronted him in pursuit of some kind of glory. If her suspicions were correct, Jake had put himself in imminent danger.

  He had already been targeted by Wyatt with that photograph that had been delivered to the station. Had Wyatt hoped to destroy his career, or was there another reason for sending the photo? Alex was starting to think she had been given a warning sign: one she had failed to recognise though it had been right in front of her.

  They pulled up outside the electric gates. ‘Impressive,’ Chloe said, getting out of the car. She pressed the intercom, waiting for a voice to greet them. ‘DC Lane and DI King. Is this Mrs Wyatt?’

  ‘Yes. Come on through.’

  The gates opened and Alex and Chloe stepped on to the driveway. Though it was dark, the front of the house was lit with the warm glow of spotlights; sufficient illumination to demonstrate how well kept the property and grounds were. They walked past a BMW and an Audi convertible to get to the front door, where they were greeted by a woman wearing a thin cotton dressing gown tied at the waist. Her wet hair was pile
d high on her head and held in place with a butterfly clip.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, putting a self-conscious hand to her chest. ‘I’ve just got out of the shower.’ She stepped aside to allow Alex and Chloe into the house, which was surprisingly traditional when compared to its exterior. An old piano with a sun-bleached lid stood to the left of the wide hallway, whose walls were lined with paintings of stormy seascapes.

  ‘Is this about the fraud?’ Mrs Wyatt asked, folding her thin arms across her chest. ‘I just can’t believe it. I don’t know how he could do that to us after everything we’ve been through.’

  Alex glanced at Chloe. ‘Fraud?’

  ‘Gareth Lawrence,’ Mrs Wyatt said, narrowing her eyes. ‘I assume that’s why you’re here?’

  ‘You’ve spoken to another officer?’ Alex asked. Unless Gareth Lawrence had made a confession, it was the only way she could have known. Darren Robinson was still recovering in hospital, and Alex doubted he would be keen to share the details of his failed attempt at blackmail. Unless Michael Wyatt was already aware of his business partner’s activities and was planning on taking matters into his own hands, then Mrs Wyatt had gained the knowledge elsewhere. It wasn’t too difficult to work out who she might have spoken to. If Jake had been here before them, it was likely that he had already encountered Wyatt. Where the hell were the two of them now?

  ‘DC Sullivan was here earlier,’ Mrs Wyatt confirmed.

  Alex felt the knot in her stomach tighten: part frustration with Jake at continuing to make investigations after being suspended; part anxiety at the fact that he had been so close to Wyatt, knowing who he was and just what he was capable of. If it was the only thing she had felt certain of all that week, she believed in her gut that the two men were now together somewhere.

  ‘Is your husband in, Mrs Wyatt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he here when DC Sullivan came to the house?’

  Mrs Wyatt looked from one detective to the other. ‘Yes, he was here. I don’t understand what all this is about.’

  Alex could hear her own voice rising, her panic beginning to show itself. ‘Where did your husband say he was going, Mrs Wyatt?’

  ‘To the office. He often works late into the evenings – it’s been his way of coping this past year.’ She paused before clearing her throat, watching with confusion as Chloe took her mobile from her pocket and made a call. ‘Our daughter died. Last year. Michael still can’t talk about it. It’s as though saying her name aloud might make it all real.’

  Alex cast Chloe a glance. Her call to the station had connected; she was requesting that officers be sent to Wyatt’s offices on Cathedral Road.

  ‘Why is she doing that?’

  Alex turned to Mrs Wyatt, who was wearing panic like a second skin. Had Michael told his wife that he had been at work the previous Thursday evening, when he had followed Kieran Robinson to Jake’s flat? Just how much did this woman know about her husband?

  ‘We would really prefer to speak to your husband first.’

  Mrs Wyatt looked back to Chloe, whose attention upon finishing the call had been caught by a framed photograph on the hallway table. A young woman with a thick fall of dark hair that swept in waves across her shoulders smiled at the camera, her head turned from the sunlight that pushed through the photo’s background.

  ‘That’s Elise. My daughter.’

  ‘She’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you. She was.’

  ‘My apologies for your loss,’ Chloe said, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of the woman’s obvious grief.

  ‘She had a rare kidney condition,’ the woman explained, reciting the words without emphasis, as though they were scripted and she’d had to repeat them countless times before. ‘We’d known about it since she was very young. They warned us it would happen, sooner rather than later, but you never really believe it’s going to, not until it does.’

  Alex’s mind was working faster than she was able to keep up with. Michael Wyatt was a successful businessman, a husband, a father who should have been mourning the loss of his daughter, yet if her suspicions were correct, he was also a killer. She needed a search warrant for the property, but she wouldn’t be able to get one until the following morning. It was time they didn’t have.

  ‘You said your husband often works late. Is that always in his office?’

  Mrs Wyatt turned and headed to the kitchen at the rear of the house. ‘More often than not,’ she said. ‘I think throwing himself into his work is his way of coping with things. He’s never liked to bring work home with him. He says he prefers to keep his two lives separate.’

  I bet he does, Alex thought. If she had been the gambling type, she would have wagered a substantial sum on this woman having never heard of Graham Driscoll. Throwing all her luck on black, she tossed in the question.

  ‘Graham Driscoll,’ she said, watching for a reaction on the other woman’s face. ‘Do you recognise the name?’

  ‘Graham Driscoll?’ Mrs Wyatt repeated with a slight shake of the head. ‘No, sorry … I don’t know him. Was he in on this as well? You know, the amount of time Michael spends at work, you’d have thought he’d know what Gareth’s been up to.’ She paused, assessing the detective’s neutral faces; expressions that were obviously being held carefully in place. ‘This isn’t about Gareth, is it? Would one of you please tell me what on earth is going on?’

  ‘Could you call him for us, Mrs Wyatt? We’d like to know where your husband is.’

  Mrs Wyatt eyed them sceptically before disconnecting her phone from the charger by the side of the cooker. She unlocked it, found Michael’s number and called him, putting it on loudspeaker so that Alex and Chloe could hear. ‘I told you where he is,’ she said as they waited for the call to connect. ‘He’s at his office.’

  The call went straight to answerphone.

  Alex could feel her impatience rising. She didn’t care about the fraud. She didn’t care about Gareth Lawrence. All she wanted to know was where Wyatt was. ‘Does your husband own an air rifle?’

  Mrs Wyatt turned sharply. The question was unexpected, but she also seemed affronted by the mention of the rifle, obviously aware of its existence if nothing else. ‘Yes. He used to be a member of some sort of shooting club, but the novelty soon wore off.’ Her expression changed, her eyes darkening with the realisation that they suspected her husband of something. ‘Why are you asking about the rifle?’

  ‘Do you know where he keeps it?’

  The woman looked from Alex to Chloe and back. ‘What’s this about? You need to tell me now or I’ll be calling our solicitor. Should I have somebody here with me?’

  ‘Do you know where your husband keeps his air rifle, Mrs Wyatt?’ Alex’s tone had changed, the blunt repetition and snipped syllables making it obvious that any politeness was now over.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she snapped back. ‘In the garage, probably. Can someone please tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘I need you to take us to the garage, please.’

  Mrs Wyatt stepped aside, blocking Alex’s path. ‘Don’t you need a search warrant for that?’

  ‘If the air rifle is in the garage as you say, then we’ll have no need to get one, will we?’

  The two women locked gazes for a moment, staring each other out defiantly. Mrs Wyatt was the first to weaken. Reluctantly she made her way to the back door, the two detectives following.

  The garage was everything the house wasn’t: dark and chaotic, tools and rubbish lying in every available space. Scanning the room, Alex’s thoughts darkened further. An array of shovels and picks lined the far wall.

  ‘Your husband a keen gardener, Mrs Wyatt?’ she asked, gesturing to the tools.

  ‘We employ a gardener,’ the woman answered defensively. ‘He uses what we have here.’

  She went to a cupboard at the back of the garage: a tall metal storage unit with double doors held together by a padlock.

  ‘I don’t know the code.’
r />   Alex raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  ‘I never come in here,’ she said defensively. ‘I’ve got no reason to.’

  Alex turned to Chloe. ‘Get hold of Dan – tell him we need a trace on Wyatt’s phone. What car is he using?’ she asked, turning back to Mrs Wyatt. There were two on the driveway, one presumably belonging to the woman and the other to her husband. ‘Mrs Wyatt!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she snapped, putting a hand to her head and running her fingers through her wet hair. ‘He was using one of the works vans, I think. I don’t know what you think Michael’s done, but you’ve got it wrong. I haven’t seen that rifle in years – he’s probably got rid of the thing for all I know.’

  Reaching into her pocket for her mobile, Alex checked the screen for missed calls. She hadn’t expected Jake to reply, but the longer he failed to get back to her, the more she was beginning to suspect that something was very wrong. He was stubborn, but he had enough intelligence to have made it on to the team. He wouldn’t willingly ignore this many calls, of that much she felt certain.

  She could hear Chloe outside the garage, talking to Dan. She tried Jake’s number again. It rang through to the answerphone.

  ‘What other vehicles does your husband have access to?’

  ‘I don’t know. Any of the work vans, I suppose – there are a few that are registered to the company. Will you please tell me what he’s supposed to have done?’

  Alex left the garage and went outside. Chloe was on the driveway, her phone in her hand. ‘He’s on to it,’ she said.

  ‘We need to find Jake.’

  ‘You think he’s in danger?’

  ‘Oliver and Kieran were both young gay men. They were targeted. Wyatt’s already aware of Jake – he watched him with Kieran. Now that Jake’s been here …’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘What the bloody hell was he playing at?’

  She glanced back at Mrs Wyatt, who was standing at the garage door listening to the conversation. She was looking at them as though uncertain of where she was: as though she had come home that evening in the midst of one life and had now suddenly been transported against her will to another.