Twenty-Seven
I’m juggling my phone and a flat white with a shot of vanilla as I enter the incident room; I need caffeine and sugar, as I’m feeling less than refreshed after my night of broken sleep. Fi has replied to my text message:
‘That would be lovely. 1 p.m.? Fi x’
I go to take a sip of my coffee but don’t quite make it. Shit. I’d forgotten about arranging to meet up. I fire off a quick response – ‘Great. See you then’ – and immediately feel conflicted.
‘Morning, boss. You look knackered.’ Murray doesn’t sugar-coat it.
‘No, please, say what you really mean, Murray, and yes, well-observed.
‘So, we’ll let Murray kick things off,’ I address the team. ‘Bring me up to speed.’
‘The Millses’ phone and email logs from the techs,’ Murray explains, ‘they make for insightful reading.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Lots of heartfelt outpourings to the deceased from his wife, going back a long way. They may have been Mills, but their marriage certainly wasn’t Mills and Boon.’
I give a little head tilt in appreciation of the pun and I hear someone say, ‘Boom, boom.’
‘It’s pretty depressing reading actually, Gov, but there’s nothing there. No direct threats made against his life, nothing that would raise any alarm bells. But it’s clear that Laurie Mills was one heartbroken lady, tormented by her husband’s affair, or should I say affairs.’
If Murray expects me to register surprise she’ll be waiting a while because this is far from a revelation. Everything I have learned about Robert Mills thus far suggests he had ‘womaniser’ written all over him.
‘The deceased, however, well, let’s just say he wasn’t exactly contrite. In fact, I’d say he wasn’t in the least bit sorry about his indiscretions, judging by some of his replies. A right callous bastard if you want my opinion.’ She shoots me a derisive look. ‘It’s clear he held Laurie Mills in contempt most of the time, despite what she’d been through. Although occasionally he threw her a few crumbs of hope for reconciliation; the odd lifeline here and there, which is probably why she hung on. Pretty cruel really, promising her a fresh start when he had zero intention of it, telling her he still loved her… stringing her along with a load of bullshit and false promises. Not surprised it sent her off her head. If that had been my old man, I’d have kicked him to the kerb the moment I found out he’d been doing the dirty. But it appears Laurie Mills was the forgiving sort. Very forgiving. She still wanted the marriage to work, even after all the lies and deception and that terrible accident.’
‘Trauma bonding,’ I say. ‘Stockholm syndrome. It’s not uncommon in abusive relationships.’
Murray sighs and places the folders on my desk. ‘Most of the texts sent from Laurie Mills’ phone have been traced back to Robert or the friend – Monica Lewis, is it? And there’s a few to a Sarah Wells – seems to be her therapist. Well, anyway, she deactivated all her social-media accounts around eighteen months ago, following the accident it looks like. There were a couple of home-video clips on her PC that might be worth you having a look at though. Some wedding footage, and a fairly recent clip at what looks like a house party with the deceased, when she was obviously pregnant.’
I nod. ‘Has Robert Mills’ PC thrown anything up?’
‘Ah well, slightly different story there, Gov.’
I had a feeling it might be.
‘Countless emails, phone and text exchanges between himself and the mistress, Claire Wright… although it appears she wasn’t the only lucky lady on the scene. Our Mr Mills was something of a player by all accounts: lots of flirty emails with women he associated with through his job, models and stylists and the like, women he kept in touch with on social media, exes he ‘met up’ with occasionally. He certainly liked to keep his options open where women were concerned. There’s one in particular, Leanna George. Looks like something went on between them and got rather nasty.’
I scribble the name down on my notepad. ‘Where can we find her?’
‘Her number’s on the file, sir.’
‘Good. Call her. Ask her to come in for a chat.’
Murray nods. ‘Search history is nothing unexpected; mostly relates to work, a couple of porn sites, nothing too sinister. The techs are trying to retrieve his trash folder now. Maybe we’ll find a few gems in there. His social media is very much active though. Posted almost daily right up until the day of the murder, mainly images of stuff he was shooting for work, although there were some personal images too, lots of images of himself, lots of banter and flirtatious comments to women. Interestingly, his relationship status reads “single”.’
We exchange knowing glances.
‘Well, let’s keep an eye on it if it’s still active, check the sympathy posts for any leads.’
‘Yes, Gov. Notably, there are no photos of him and Laurie anywhere on his Facebook or Instagram accounts, not one, not even going way back. It’s like she didn’t exist, like she never existed in his life at all.’
‘And the pièce de résistance, Murray?’ I ask. She looks at me a little blankly. I roll my eyes. ‘The text messages, on the day of the murder?’
‘Yes, Gov, of course.’ She flushes. ‘Well, there’s one the day before the murder.’ She locates the page in the folder with one hand, placing her pen between her teeth. ‘Robert Mills texted his wife at 9.37 a.m. She replied a few minutes later. That was the last exchange between them. But’ – Murray’s eyes light up and she’s smiling now – ‘later on that day he sent two messages and made one phone call. The texts were to Claire, the mistress, and to his mother, and the phone call was to an unknown recipient.’
‘An unknown recipient?’
‘Yup.’ Murray looks pleased with herself. ‘The number isn’t listed in his contacts list. But, get this: in the space of the last three months this unknown number shows up at least twenty-eight times.’
‘Great stuff. Let’s get onto the phone company and trace it.’
Murray nods efficiently. ‘Times check out on Laurie Mills’ phone on the night of the murder. She called his number at 10.38, 10.39, 10.40, 10.42 and 10.45 p.m. All of which went unanswered, like she said.’
I pause thoughtfully. Woods isn’t going to like this. We’ve not got enough to present to the CPS, not yet – certainly not now that she’s got an alibi and that her timings check out.
‘Any word on forensics yet, the knife?’
‘Nothing yet, Gov, chasing them up,’ Harding says. ‘We’re going through the CCTV that we collected from the neighbours. And we’ve got hold of the CCTV from the supermarket and the camera along the parade of shops where the hair salon is, where Laurie Mills had her hair done.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing from the neighbours’ houses yet, boss, sorry. There’s a fair bit still to go through though. But the supermarket and hair-salon footage show her arriving and leaving at the times she claims.’
I go to pick up my desk phone but it rings before I get to it. It’s Vic Leyton. She needs me to come down to the pathology lab. Apparently, she’s got some ‘interesting’ news.
Twenty-Eight
The sound of the intercom buzzer makes Claire jump and she curses. It’s after 11 p.m. She hurriedly peeks at Matilda in her Moses basket. The noise has caused her to stir. She’s only just got her off to sleep as well. She stomps towards the intercom.
‘Who is it?’ she hisses. If it’s one of those bloody reporters again… like vultures circling a carcass they were – Robert hadn’t been dead for twenty-four hours before they’d starting blowing up her intercom and phone.
There’s a slight pause.
‘Is this Claire Wright’s apartment?’
She doesn’t recognise the voice. ‘Who wants to know?’
Another pause.
‘Is that you, Claire?’
She wraps her dressing gown around her chunky frame, the one she’s been wearing for three days solid. She doesn’t want any visitors. She doesn’t want to
see anyone. She’s too distraught, too tired, too everything. She has hardly slept since the police visit and she still can’t take it in. Her Rob: murdered. None of it felt real. It couldn’t be real, could it? Other people get murdered, people off the telly. Not people you know. Not people you love.
Claire had never experienced death of any kind in all her twenty-nine years so far, except for when her dog had died when she was nineteen, and that had been traumatic enough. She’d needed a week off work to cope with the grief. Now, however, she had a small human being to care for and she had no choice but to force herself to get out of her bed and carry on. But she was barely functioning and had gone into a state of denial. It was easier to deal with if she could pretend it wasn’t really happening. So far she hadn’t done a bad job of convincing herself, but when her mum had switched on the TV and Robert’s murder had been reported in the local news yesterday, she had spiralled into complete meltdown.
The reporter, a middle-aged woman with a severe haircut who reminded her of an old school teacher she’d once had – and never liked – had addressed the camera with a grim expression. She was standing in Cedar Close, outside Robert’s house, she presumed. Rob had never taken her there. She supposed it had made it easier for her to completely disassociate herself from that part of his life, from Laurie and the house. She had never seen or been near either of them and hadn’t wanted to. That way they weren’t really real.
In fact, she didn’t even know what Robert’s estranged wife looked like – she’d never even seen a photograph. Initially she supposed she’d been a little intrigued but Laurie Mills wasn’t on any social media so there was no way of looking her up. Apparently she’d got rid of it after the accident because she couldn’t deal with the outpouring of sympathy, or something like that. Although this struck Claire as odd, since Rob had always told her how much Laurie loved to play the victim card; she would’ve thought the mad cow would welcome all that sympathy and pity.
She had a mental picture of what Laurie might look like, largely gleaned from the derogatory comments Robert had made about her over time. Apparently, she had long dark hair, ‘like a witch’, and was ‘anorexic skinny’, which had kind of bothered her a bit at the time when he’d said it, because she battled with her yo-yoing weight and was always trying to shift a few extra pounds, not least since she’d given birth. Rob had always assured her that he found her attractive though, referring to her voluptuous figure as ‘delicious’. She supposed that because Rob had always spoken so negatively about Laurie, ‘his psycho ex-wife’, she’d never had cause to feel threatened by her and, as such, the need to see what she looked like had never become overwhelming. Fact is, whatever that nutjob looked like, he didn’t want Laurie. He wanted her. And Matty. And that’s all that had mattered.
Her mum had tried to switch Claire’s TV off so she wouldn’t have to watch the case unfolding but she had snatched the remote from her and increased the volume.
‘A man was found brutally murdered in his own home in North London last night,’ the reporter’s clipped voice rang out through the TV. ‘Mr Mills, who had worked as an interiors and fashion photographer for the likes of John Lewis, was about to turn forty in two weeks’ time. He was pronounced dead at the scene. A thirty-seven-year-old woman, believed to be the victim’s wife, was taken into custody for questioning and later released without charge.’
‘Released without charge!’ she’d screamed at the TV. ‘She murders him and they’ve let her go!
Her mum had tried to calm her down.
‘Claire, love, come on, turn it off. You’ll only upset yourself more.’
But Claire had sobbed herself into an inconsolable mucusy stupor until her mother had been forced to physically put her to bed.
She leans against the wall next to the intercom; she’s so exhausted that it’s a struggle to stand. ‘It’s late. Who is this? I’ve got a baby sleeping, you know… Just go away. I don’t want to see anyone or speak to anyone.’
‘I know it’s late and I’m sorry.’ The woman’s voice sounds apologetic. ‘My name’s Abby King. I’m from the North London Enquirer. Please, Claire, can I come up and speak to you? It won’t take five minutes. I want to talk to you about Robert, your partner.’
Just as she’d thought, another reporter sniffing around, like flies to shit they were. But the woman’s use of the word ‘partner’ stops her in her tracks for a second. Yes, she was his partner, wasn’t she? The fact that this has been recognised, and by the press no less, feels good. She had been Robert’s secret for so long.
‘Look, you knew Robert better than anyone,’ the voice continues. ‘You’re the mother of his only child. I know you probably don’t feel like talking right now but I just need a bit of background on him, on the pair of you. I know this must be a dreadful time for you and I’m so sorry, truly. But I was passing by on my way home and thought… Look, you can help, Claire. You knew him best. Help us to draw a picture of Robert, what he was like, the kind of father he was. This is a terrible, awful tragedy and a brutal killing of the man you loved. We want you to be able to express to readers just how this has affected you, and your daughter. We know his wife was questioned… that she blames you for the demise of their marriage—’
The comment inflames her. ‘Blames me!’ Claire gasps in outrage. ‘She’s a freaking psycho-murdering bitch! Blames me! Rob couldn’t stand her. He couldn’t get away from her. She stalked him, you know, wouldn’t leave him alone, couldn’t get over the fact that he wanted me and us, and…’ Claire realises she’s shouting into the intercom and stops herself. ‘Look… okay, come up. But five minutes is all you’re getting.’
‘Believe me,’ the voice says, ‘five minutes is all I need.’
Twenty-Nine
The woman at the door looks weirdly familiar, like Claire’s seen her somewhere before but she knows this can’t be possible. She’s just tired. Her brain isn’t at its sharpest right now. It’s a struggle to think beyond the next few seconds.
‘Suppose you’d better come in,’ she says, ushering the woman inside. ‘Get this over with.’
The woman flashes her a grateful smile.
‘Abby, you say your name is?’
‘Yes, King – Abby King from the North London Enquirer. I’m a crime reporter. I promise this won’t take up too much of your time – and thank you, Claire. I know how difficult this must be for you.’
‘Do you? Why? Has the love of your life been murdered by his ex-wife too then?’ Claire hears how horrible she sounds but she can’t help it. She’s angry and in pain and exhausted.
‘But she wasn’t his ex-wife though, was she? They were still married.’
‘Only on paper.’ Claire directs her to sit down on the sofa, irritated by her remark. ‘If we can speak quietly I’d be grateful. I don’t want to wake Matty up. She knows something is wrong and hasn’t been sleeping well ever since we found out about…’ A sob catches in her throat and she comes a little undone. ‘Every time I look at her I see his face.’
Abby nods sympathetically at the crib. ‘Can I have a little peek?’
‘Okay, but please don’t wake her. I’ve only just got her off.’
Claire watches as the woman peers into the Moses basket.
‘She’s gorgeous,’ she whispers, cooing softly at the sleeping baby as she picks up a photograph next to the crib of the three of them together, Robert, Claire and Matty. ‘She has her daddy’s eyes.’
‘Look, I’m sorry to be rude but can we hurry this up?’ The woman’s presence is already beginning to irritate her jangling nerves. She just wants to go to bed, to sleep and wake up in the morning and find out it’s all been one great big nightmare.
‘Yes, of course. Like I said, I’m a reporter and I just need a bit of background on the deceased, your relationship to him, how you met, what he was like, stuff like that – as much as you can give me. Obviously, it’s a terrible tragedy, a young, first-time father being so savagely, senselessly murdered. Our reade
rs will want to know what he was like, who could’ve done such a thing to him and why. We’re working with the police on this, if that makes you feel any better – well, you know what I mean, more reassured. Sometimes we share information, the press and the police, and they feed us things we can print in the hope that we’ll trigger something, jog a memory perhaps…’
Claire sighs. Suddenly she realises how she must look, dressed in a dirty dressing gown, unwashed and puffy-eyed from all the relentless crying she’s been doing. She hopes the reporter doesn’t want a photograph too. ‘Please excuse the way I look. The past couple of days have been the worst of my entire life. Rob, he is – he was – the love of my life. I can’t believe… I just can’t believe he’s gone.’ Claire falters as the pain rises up through her chest once more. ‘And to have died in such a horrible, horrible way… it’s unbearable.’
The reporter is staring at her, nodding earnestly as if she understands her pain. ‘I can only imagine. Tell me about him, the love of your life—’
‘Rob? Oh God…’ She shakes her messy hair. It hasn’t had a brush through it for days. ‘He was… just so loving, so caring… so romantic.’
‘Romantic?’ The reporter gives something of a wry smile. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. He was always buying me gifts. Little things, thoughtful things… things he knew I would love. He once surprised me with a trip to Venice too, before Matty came along – that was pretty amazing, completely unexpected. Just told me to pack a bag one day and whisked us both off…’ She loses herself in the memory for a moment, adding, ‘I think that was the weekend we conceived her actually.’
‘Was it really?’ the reporter asks rhetorically, as if she’s thinking about something else.
‘He was just so… alive, you know? Everyone loved him; he walked into a room and lit it up with his smile, his banter, his jokes. You couldn’t not love Rob. He was so talented too, such a brilliant photographer. He took pictures of me all the time, said I was perfect model material.’
The Couple on Cedar Close Page 15