‘You have it all planned out,’ said Mrs Pullman with a sigh.
‘I do. I need to be closer to my kids.’
‘Of course you do. And they need their father.’
Alan couldn’t meet her eyes, fearing that if he did she’d see how choked he was. He didn’t deserve her kindness. He’d allowed her school to be exploited and abused by the greed of others. He had let her down.
‘I should get back to work now,’ he said. ‘I need to get the lunch tables out.’
‘I shall bid you a good weekend then,’ she replied, getting to her feet. ‘I shan’t be here this afternoon as I’ve decided to go to the funeral of the police officer who died on Hawley Ridge. I want to represent Rushbrooke and pay our respects. It feels like the least I can do.’
92
‘I can’t go in,’ said Maggie tearfully. ‘I can’t do this.’
Umpire slipped his hand into hers. They were inside his car, in the crematorium car park. Climbing out of vehicles around them were dozens of officers from across their force, pinch-faced but purposeful as they readied themselves to say goodbye to their colleague.
Maggie still couldn’t believe Renshaw was dead.
In her attempt to grab Poppy Hepworth on Hawley Ridge, Renshaw had shoulder-barged Maggie onto the grass, causing her to lose her grip on the girl. What Renshaw had failed to take into account, however, was Julia Hepworth being right behind her, gaining fast – and determined to protect her daughter. Julia had cannoned into Renshaw’s back, sending her flying towards the wall, and in doing so had managed to reach out and grab Poppy’s arm and yank her to safety. Maggie, dazed on the ground, saw Renshaw correct her balance, but then Ewan started to topple backwards and he’d reached out in desperation and grabbed Renshaw . . . and pulled her over the side of the viaduct with him.
Renshaw died instantly and by landing first had broken Ewan’s fall. He was now recovering in hospital with a broken pelvis and multiple leg fractures, under police guard after being charged with the murder of Violet ‘Ruby’ Castle.
‘This will be one of the hardest things either of us will ever have to do, but we must,’ said Umpire, his voice thick with emotion. ‘We owe it to her family.’
The thought of Renshaw’s parents prompted a fresh wave of tears. Maggie had spoken to them a couple of times on the phone since they’d learned of their daughter’s death and their bewilderment at her passing was heart-wrenching. Anna had left their home in Newcastle to return to Mansell after telling them she’d been called back in to work, so to discover she was still on compassionate leave at the time of her death was baffling. Why had she gone to Hawley Ridge that day? Maggie had tried her best to explain that, however misguidedly, Renshaw had simply been trying to do her job, but they still didn’t understand.
‘Come on,’ said Umpire. ‘Let’s go and wait with the others.’
Maggie kept her head down and her hand clenched in Umpire’s as they walked slowly across the car park to the entrance of the crematorium, to the slip road where the hearse would draw up. There must’ve been at least three hundred mourners there. So many faces, many of them strangers, but plenty she did recognize: Nathan; Burton; Pearl and Omana, the CID admins; Imogen Tyler and her mother, Grace. Julia Hepworth had wanted to come but had been advised against it: emotions were too raw for it to be acceptable for her to attend. The CPS were presently deciding whether it was in the public interest to charge Poppy with Benji’s involuntary manslaughter but to widespread surprise his mum was petitioning against her being prosecuted. Imogen felt Poppy had already been through enough at the hands of her father.
Glancing up, Maggie saw DI Gant, the FL Coordinator, approaching. Normally reticent, he gave her a hug and when they moved apart she could see he was choked up too.
‘Such a waste,’ he said sadly.
She nodded, too upset to speak.
‘I never told you this but I approached Anna a few years back to see if she had what it took to be a FLO. Fair play to her, she turned me down saying she wasn’t nice enough to be one.’
Maggie managed a smile at that. They could never accuse Renshaw of not being honest.
‘She was a great DS, though,’ she replied. ‘I keep thinking, if she’d been in charge still, if I hadn’t been Acting DS . . .’
Gant stared at her beadily.
‘Maggie, you can’t blame yourself for her death.’
‘But if I had handled the situation better and got Poppy away from her dad sooner –’
‘Ifs and buts don’t do anyone any good. I know it sounds harsh, but you need to stop with the self-recrimination and move on from this. Talking of which –’ he lowered his voice – ‘our conversation the other day about you joining the Met . . . well, I made some calls. There’s a position going with the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, at one of their units based in north London. They’re after a DC who’s a fully trained and experienced FLO. I told my contact all about you and he wants you to apply.’
Despite the solemnity of the occasion, Maggie couldn’t suppress the surge of excitement she felt. After everything that had happened, the prospect of leaving Mansell was suddenly an appealing one. Everywhere and everything reminded her of Renshaw and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was responsible for her death due to being in charge that day. A clean start with a new force in a new city might help exorcize some ghosts.
‘Are you interested?’ Gant pressed.
Maggie glanced round to see where Umpire was and saw him deep in conversation with someone. Would he be supportive of her moving to London? Deep down she knew he wouldn’t stand in her way, but what would it mean for their relationship? Umpire caught her looking at him and flashed her a smile. She turned back to Gant.
‘Yes, I am. But please keep it quiet. I don’t want anyone else to find out. It might not come to anything,’ she said.
‘I’ll let my contact know you’re keen. Call me in the morning and I’ll give you his details for applying.’
Gant clammed up as Belmar and his wife, Allie, arrived. It was the first time Maggie had seen Allie since Belmar had shared the news of her pregnancy and the sight of her prompted another stab of grief: Renshaw had spoken often about wanting to have children and now she would never have the chance.
‘How are you doing?’ Allie asked, after they’d hugged.
Maggie blinked back tears. ‘For such a long time me and Anna couldn’t stand the sight of each other, but this past year we got on well. I grew to really like her. I can’t get my head round not ever seeing her again.’
‘Me neither,’ said Belmar. ‘Wait up, she’s here.’
They stood back as the hearse slowly pulled up beside them. Maggie’s stomach gave a lurch. Resting against Renshaw’s coffin was a garland of pink and red flowers spelling out the word ‘Daughter’. She felt Umpire’s hand find hers again and she clung to him as Renshaw’s parents emerged from the car that had followed the hearse, their postures and expressions stiffened by grief. A young man climbed out after them and it shook Maggie to see how similar he was to Renshaw, from the winsome button nose and thick eyelashes right down to the same shade of red hair.
‘I didn’t know she had a brother,’ Belmar whispered in her ear. ‘She never talked about him.’
Nathan, who was standing with them, nodded. ‘His name’s Ben,’ he said in an undertone, as the family walked into the crematorium. ‘He’s only twenty-one and still at uni. I don’t think they were that close.’
Walking past, Ben caught Maggie’s eye – but there was nothing friendly about the way he looked at her. Did he know she’d been in charge that day on Hawley Ridge? Or was it her guilt making her assume the worst? Either way, her instinct was to recoil from his stare.
Then a fourth person suddenly emerged from the back of the car – and to everyone’s surprise it was ACC Marcus Bailey. He hurried inside to catch up with the family, head bowed to ignore the obvious stares.
‘Her parents are a lot more forgiving than I
would be,’ remarked Nathan sourly. ‘After the way he cheated on Anna I would’ve banned him from coming.’
‘Renshaw loved him,’ said Maggie, her throat tightening again. ‘I think she would’ve wanted him here.’
The melancholic strains of classical music began to float through the open crematorium doors and the mourners started to file inside. Their group was among the last to go in. Umpire put his arm around Maggie’s shoulder and kissed her tenderly on her cheek, which was wet with tears.
‘It’s time to say goodbye.’
Acknowledgements
I am, as ever, indebted to the many brilliant and talented people who helped me get this book into your hands. Special thanks to my editor, Vicki Mellor, whose encouragement and tough love elevated the book to beyond even my expectations, and to everyone at Pan Macmillan for their support, in particular Natalie McCourt for erasing my mistakes and James Annal for designing another zinger of a cover. Also to Catherine Richards, for starting this one off. Thanks must also go to my agent Jane Gregory, for never doubting I could finish this one when I seriously doubted it myself, and to colleagues old and new at the agency’s new home with David Higham Associates. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Julie Seddon for patiently taking me through the process of juvenile arrest and prosecution, and for helping me nail a crucial piece of plot! Any mistakes are mine alone. Likewise to Matt Johnson, for the police insight. I sincerely apologize to friends and family for having to put up with the vagueness and distractedness that descends like fog when I’m writing – please know that even though I’m lost in a world of my own I still think the world of you and your support is what keeps me going. Finally, to Sophie, for being (mostly) understanding when writing gets in the way of Lego assembling, and to Rory, for being the best sounding-board and for always telling me what I need to hear, even if I don’t always like it! I love you both more than Arsenal.
Keep reading for an exclusive extract from the thrilling new novel featuring DC Maggie Neville, publishing in 2019
DEAD GUILTY
Fifteen years ago a young British woman was brutally murdered in Mallorca while holidaying with her parents and fiancé. Her killer was never caught, despite a major joint investigation between the British and Spanish police – and the fact that the girl’s mother was one of the Met’s highest-ranking female officers at the time.
Now, as the anniversary of Katy Pope’s death approaches, the family return to the Spanish island to launch a fresh appeal for information, taking the now-skeletal team of Met officers looking into Katy’s murder.
For DC Maggie Neville, recently seconded to the Met team, it’s her first opportunity to work on an international investigation. But nothing is ever straight forward and when another girl is found murdered, Maggie and her team have to consider the possibility that Katy’s killer has returned . . .
1
Philip Pope stood at the end of the bed and surveyed the chaos. A week’s worth of his wife’s knickers lay strewn across a mound of T-shirts that had slipped from their folds on the journey from drawer to bed, and on top of them was a flip-flop that had lost its mate. Then, jumbled alongside, he counted three dresses in prints his wife loved but were too lurid for his taste, a pair of similarly bright shorts and two pairs of sunglasses minus their cases.
Laid neatly upon his pillow was his own packing: two pairs of cream shorts, both knee-length, two pairs of lightweight stone-coloured trousers, five polo shirts for the daytime, all white, three short-sleeved shirts for evenings, striped, and enough underpants to last the trip.
Missing from both piles were his trunks and his wife’s swimsuit. Patricia was insisting there should be no swimming or sunbathing; it would be improper, she argued, no matter how inviting the pool was, or how much they longed to warm themselves beneath the sun’s glorious rays. They had an image to project in the coming week and ‘carefree tourist’ was not it. Philip gazed down at the bed and wondered how the brightly coloured dresses and shorts fitted in with her vision.
The bedroom door swung open and Patricia entered carrying two folded beach towels. He winced as his wife threw them down on the bed with the rest of her stuff. For someone who had spent her entire professional life being orderly, and demanding the highest of standards from those she managed, she had all too willingly embraced chaos in retirement. It drove him mad.
‘Why haven’t you got the suitcases out of the garage yet? I asked you ages ago.’
Impatience nipped at her words, making them sound brittle and unfriendly. Philip mentally counted to ten as his counsellor had taught him, and his irritation at being nagged ebbed by the time he reached the end. It’s the stress of the occasion making her like this, he told himself. Don’t rise to it.
‘I’ll get them now,’ he said. ‘I was sorting my clothes out.’
Patricia eyed the neat stack on his pillow.
‘Is that all you’re taking?’
‘What else do I need?’
‘You don’t want to be photographed wearing the same thing every day.’
‘I don’t want to be photographed at all, I told you.’
‘Oh please, don’t start that again,’ said Patricia, sweeping across the bedroom to her glass-topped dressing table and picking through the bottles of scents and creams lining the top of it. Philip resumed his counting as she lobbed her selection onto the bed.
‘You know how important it is that we make ourselves as accessible as possible to the media throughout the holiday.’
‘I thought this wasn’t a holiday,’ said Philip. ‘What was it you said? “A holiday implies relaxation and fun and time to gather one’s thoughts away from the demands of daily life. This trip will provide none of those things”.’ He quoted her primly, like the art curator he had once been.
She turned on him, her blue eyes flashing with anger. Forty-nine years ago those eyes had stopped Philip’s seventeen-year-old self in his tracks outside a Soho coffee shop: Patricia was sitting with her friends, had looked up as he’d passed and smiled, and that was it, he was smitten. Age might’ve dulled their colour, but his wife’s eyes could still pin him to the spot all these years later.
Their daughter’s had been the exact same shade.
‘You’re twisting my words. I know we’re not off on our jollies, but you could at least act as though what we’re doing out there isn’t the worst thing imaginable.’
But in his mind it was.
On the back of the bedroom door, snuggled together on the same hanger for convenience, was a knee-length black dress Patricia had purchased especially for the trip and Philip’s most formal suit, dusted free of mothballs. Binding them together at the neck of the hook was a loosely knotted black tie. These clothes would go in last, carefully laid out over the shorts and the flip-flops and the bottles of sun cream Patricia had bought in bulk from Boots. They were to be worn only once – as they honoured their daughter’s memory at the place where her remains were recovered.
‘This week is about reminding people that Katy’s killer is still at large,’ said Patricia.
Philip was suddenly assailed by a memory of the four of them sitting at a table in that lovely Italian restaurant on the Pine Walk, faces tinged pink from too much sun. It was their first evening in Puerto Pollensa and Katy’s fiancé Declan had treated them to champagne and they’d laughed and chatted and marvelled at the view across the bay as the sun languidly melted below the horizon and stars as ripe as diamonds filled the sky.
It had been the most idyllic holiday destination, until it wasn’t.
‘I – I don’t think I can go,’ he stuttered.
Patricia looked across at him, and for a fleeting moment he saw in her expression the sorrow she’d held at bay for the past fifteen years by focusing every ounce of her energy on finding whoever had murdered their daughter. The campaign had distracted her from her grief and given her purpose, but privately Philip wished she would, just occasionally, give in to tears and, in doing so, let him comfort her. Then perhaps
she might do the same to him.
His wife gathered herself, pushing her desolation back down from wherever it had sprung.
‘Don’t be silly, it’s all arranged,’ she said briskly. ‘We can’t cancel now. What would the police think after all the fuss we’ve made?’
She had a point. Once they – well, Patricia – had decided to go ahead with the trip and memorial service, she’d begun pressuring the Met to send officers to join them. Katy’s case was still open, under the name Operation Pivot, and Patricia had argued that a British police presence was needed on the island for the anniversary to remind everyone, particularly the Majorcan police, that the search for the murderer was still ongoing. The Met had eventually conceded – possibly, Philip suspected, to shut Patricia up and avoid any more negative press.
Indeed, Philip suspected Operation Pivot only continued because of Patricia and her previous standing as one of the highest-ranking female officers in the Met. She was a chief superintendent in line to be made a borough commander when Katy was murdered on their family holiday in September 2004. Returning after an extended period of compassionate leave, she found she couldn’t pretend to care about solving other crimes while their daughter’s death remained a mystery and had accepted early retirement.
Since then she’d devoted all her time to keeping Katy in the public conscience with endless appeals, headline-grabbing speculative claims about who might be responsible, and fierce, relentless criticism of the joint investigation by British and Majorcan police for failing to meet her exacting investigative standards.
However, in spite of her exhaustive efforts, the ranks of Operation Pivot had dwindled from the dozens of officers deployed at the start. Now the team was down to a detective chief inspector, two lower-ranking detectives and a family liaison officer, the most recent of which had been replaced a month ago because Patricia felt she was becoming over-familiar. They had yet to meet her replacement, a DC called Maggie Neville, but she was to join them on the trip.
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