Wyn took her coat, placing it over the back of the chair.
The DI gazed through the glass facade. The setting sun cast a gorgeous, amber reflection on the water of the lake. She eased her feet out of stilettos, relaxing in her seat as the waiter took their drinks order.
“I think we made a good choice.” Wyn unbuttoned his shirt sleeves, rolling them up to his elbows.
She nodded, closing her eyes and exhaling. "This is what I need, Wyn. A quiet meal with a friend."
“How’s the case progressing? Got a long list of suspects?” He took a sip of his beer and grabbed two copies of the menu, handing one to Yvonne.
“We've matched fibres to an ex-admirer and close friend of Nicole Benoit. Trouble is, I don't believe he killed her. They haven't finished testing but, to be honest, I’m not that hopeful. I think none of the people we've looked at are capable of murder.”
"Anyone can commit murder, Yvonne." His eyes were on her face. "Under the right circumstances."
Yvonne pursed her lips. "Or, the wrong circumstances. We’re not talking about a crime of passion, or even murder motivated out of greed or envy. These murders represent more than that." She turned her gaze to the window. "Our killer takes pleasure in terrorising whole neighbourhoods. He’s shown, even after several years, he still considers those victims his property, to use or display as he sees fit. It's ego, control, and a love of the macabre. I mean, there's dismemberment, and then there's," She frowned. "what he does. It's as if he enjoys the processing as much as the murder itself. Perhaps, more so. He must spend days at it. Cleaning and threading. Our killer has a love of the gruesome."
“Any connection between his victims?” Wyn took another sip of his drink.
“No. Well, only that they were his victims, were female, and they came from within a fifty-mile radius of each other.” She sighed.
“I’m having the steak.” Wyn grinned.
Yvonne sat upright. “Oh god, Wyn. I’m so sorry.” She blushed. “Here I am, banging on about work. We should eat, drink, and enjoy a night off.”
“It’s no problem. What do you fancy?”
She perused the menu, struggling to choose. She plumped for Plaice Veronique, a fillet of plaice, grilled with butter and flour; served with a white wine and grape-cream veloute.
“You haven’t touched your wine.” Wyn accused, shaking his head.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Wyn Sealander?” She tutted, smiling as she took a sip of her oaken-chardonnay.
The food was excellent and Yvonne understood why the restaurant, on a golf course, had such a good reputation.
After they finished, Wyn asked for the bill.
“I’ll pay half. I always pay my way.” Yvonne picked her bag up from off the floor.
“This is on me.” Wyn stated, his face set. “You can pay next time.”
“Next time?” Yvonne laughed. “What makes you think there'll be a next time?” she teased.
“Won’t there?” He appeared crestfallen.
“We’ll see.”
“Come on.” He took her hand. “Let’s go walk by the lake.”
The water had taken on the reddish-purple hue of the sky, as the sun had all but disappeared from view. There was a lot more cloud cover, compared to that when they arrived.
They dawdled by the lake, taking in the smell of grass, mown that day. Yvonne leaned into him and he took her hand.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked, swinging her hand backwards and forwards.
She gave him a wistful smile. “I was just thinking it’s so nice to get away. Even, if only for a few hours.”
“You spend a lot of time alone?” he asked, turning around to once more walk beside her.
“More time than is healthy for me.”
“You have friends?”
She nodded. “And family. I should see them more often. When I’m working complex cases, days become weeks and weeks become months. I realise I haven’t seen them for so long…” She grimaced. “I spend half my life feeling guilty.”
He nodded. “It can happen to the best of us.”
“What about you?” she asked, pushing stray hair behind her ears. “Do you have a family?”
“I do. I don’t see them enough, either. Look, over there…” He pointed.
Yvonne strained to see but didn’t spot what he was pointing at. She had the distinct feeling he had changed the subject. “What did I miss?”
“A large fish broke the surface. May have been a pike.”
A crack reverberated around the sky.
“Oops.” Wyn looked up, pulling a face.
The rain began in a sudden gush. Large, punishing drops.
Wyn took off his jacket and draped it over her, grabbing her hand, as they dashed back to the restaurant.
He stopped in the doorway, pulling his jacket back to expose her face and hair. “You know,” he said, his voice soft, “yours are the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Yvonne blushed. “Oh, they’re just eyes.” She tried to avert her face.
He gripped her chin, moving it back so he could stare down at her. “They are deepest blue and surrounded by a dark ring of browny-green. They are stunning.” He placed a kiss on her lips before opening the door so they could get into the warm and dry.
After the taxi had dropped her off, the DI ejected her shoes in the hallway. She paused, before entering the lounge, confusion flooding her mind.
She told herself it was just the wine. After several glasses, she felt a little tipsy. At least, she didn’t have to worry about work the next day, it being Friday night. She was glad that Wyn had been a gentleman, and that she hadn’t had to fend him off.
She remembered what he'd said about her eyes. Were they that striking? She crossed to the hallway mirror and peered into it.
She remembered what Susan Denham had said to her and ran through the lounge to the notepad on her kitchen island and jotted down two notes to herself. Call Tasha, and contact Mrs Denham on Monday morning to ask about her daughter’s eyes.
Following this, she took a brief shower and ascended to bed.
“Tasha Phillips.” She sounded rough.
“Hi Tasha, it’s Yvonne. I was wondering how you were?”
Her friend’s tone lightened. “Yvonne. Good to hear from you. Well, I’m having a lot of fun here, in my cottage. Not.”
“What happened?”
“We had a massive storm and water's coming into the cottage. I’ve tried stopping it with sandbags, but the storm coincided with high tide and my defences were pathetic. I’ve got almost a foot of water in here.”
“Oh, Tasha. I’ll come right away.”
“Don’t do that.” Tasha sighed. “There’s little you can do. I'll wait for the water level to drop before doing a cleanup and book into a bed-and-breakfast for a day or two, once I’ve telephoned my insurance company.”
“I coming down right away. Don’t argue with me.” She hung up the phone.
Yvonne parked her car in a lay-by, on the road above Tasha’s cottage, and got her wellies and a large flask from the boot. The drive had been interesting, there being a lot of water on the windy roads, between Newtown and Aberdovey.
She picked her way down to the cottage, through mud, water, and debris, and knocked on the door. The water was half-way up her boots and it was difficult to tell if it was receding or still rising.
Tasha came to the door, muddy streaks on her face and sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
“Oh, Tasha.” Yvonne threw her arms around her friend and Tasha burst into tears.
Yvonne continued to hold her as she sobbed, waiting for the shaking to calm down before pulling back to look into the psychologist’s face.
She had never witnessed Tasha crying before. It surprised her, tugging at her heartstrings. The psychologist appeared lost as though she wasn’t sure what to do next.
Yvonne felt her hands. “You’re cold… Right, come on, I’ve got homemade chicken soup in this f
lask. It’ll warm you through.”
Tasha sniffed. “It’s not that cold, but I’ve had no power and no way of cooking or boiling a kettle, the last couple of days. The cold has crept into my bones.”
Yvonne poured soup into the cup from the top of the flask, keen to get warmth into Tasha as soon as possible.
“That smells good.” Tasha blew across the top before drinking.
The DI peered into the cottage behind. Tasha had put a lot of her possessions on high surfaces, but the water had ruined much of her furniture. It smelled of a mixture of sea and sewage.
She swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, After all the hard work you put into this place, it's devastating.”
Tasha rolled her sleeves down. “I couldn't believe it, watching all that water coming in. I know it’ll get sorted, but it's time and hassle and some of my furniture is beyond saving.”
“Finish your soup and grab what you need to bring with you. You won’t need much, you can use whatever you need of mine. You’re coming home with me. We can deal with your insurance company and coordinate your cleanup from my place.”
“You’d do all this for me?” Tasha replaced the cup on top of the flask.
“Without hesitation. You're always there for me and I won't let you face this crisis on your own. You’re in no fit state to drive, so I'm taking you in my car and I'll bring you back whenever you need me to, okay?”
Tasha hugged her. “I can’t thank you enough. You’re a wonderful friend.”
18
The eyes have it
“Can I come in?”
Susan Denham stepped back into her hallway, allowing Yvonne to go inside.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me again at such short notice.” Yvonne followed her through into her tiny kitchen.
“I wasn’t expecting another visit, so soon.” Susan crossed the kitchen, to fill her kettle and switch it on. “Cuppa?”
“That would be nice.” Yvonne nodded.
“Who killed my daughter?” Susan asked, her back to the detective.
Yvonne shook her head. “We don't know yet, Susan. I wish we did. I came here to ask you something.”
Susan poured water on the tea bags. “Do you have sugar?”
“Just milk, thank you.”
Yvonne waited until Susan Denham returned to the kitchen table with the tea.
“What did you want to ask me?” she placed the mugs on coasters and took a seat.
“When you examined the reconstruction of your daughter, you stated it was an amazing likeness.”
“I did…” Susan’s eyes narrowed, her head tilting to one side as though trying to work out where this was leading.
“You appeared struck by the eyes, in particular.”
Susan nodded. “They were amazing. Your guy had really captured my daughter’s eyes.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Sorry?”
“Her eyes. If you were to describe them what would you say?”
“Katie had vivid blue eyes. Blue irises with a grey ring around them. Her eyes would change with the weather. Sometimes blue, sometimes more grey, but always vivid. Why do you ask?”
Yvonne pursed her lips. “I was wondering if that was why the killer chose her… for her striking eyes.”
Susan shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The DI stayed while Susan showed her photographs of Katie, puffing up at the ones with school trophies.
Yvonne struggled to engage because of the ideas tumbling like washing in her head.
As soon as she was able, she said goodbye, and drove as fast as was legal back to the station.
“Dewi, can you get Nicole Benoit’s family on the telephone? Ask them about her eyes and what colour they were.”
“Ma’am?” Dewi raised his brows.
"I want specifics, Dewi, as accurate a description as possible. If they can send us a photo, even better. Ask them if they were mixed colours and if there were any imperfections. Oh, and I need the information as soon as possible."
"What are you up to?"
"I'll tell you when I'm sure of myself."
Dewi found her staring out of the office window, her brow furrowed in thought.
He pulled out his notebook. “Okay, you ready?”
The DI swung round. “Go for it.”
“Well, according to Yvette Benoit, Nicole’s mum, Nicole had bright-amber eyes with tiny black flecks in them. She said there was no other colour, but in bright sunlight, they appeared yellow. They stood out.”
“Thank you, Dewi.” Yvonne returned to the window.
“Ma’am? Is something wrong?”
“Give me a minute. I’ll come and find you.”
“Right.”
Yvonne ran her hands through her hair, chewing her lip, going over conversations and seeing the faces of Nicole Benoit and Katie Denham in her mind.
She grabbed her car keys and took the stairs two at a time, picking up the spare key to the workshop from Steven, before heading out.
She gave the door two raps and waited.
No answer.
Just in case he hadn’t heard her, she knocked again, louder this time.
Still no answer.
She twisted the key in the lock.
The familiar smell of wood, paint and clay greeted her. She chided herself for feeling like she was breaking and entering.
With trembling hands, she lifted the sheets that lay over each of the reconstructions, standing back to take them in.
There they were. Nicole, with bright amber eyes. She peered more closely. Tiny black flecks. She drew a sharp breath.
Then, to Katie, whose blue-grey eyes appeared just as her mother had described.
A knot formed in her stomach as with hands, even more shaky than before, she replaced the covers on the models and retraced her steps to the door.
As she headed to the car park, her head wrestled with the mashed-up thoughts fighting within. Things making sense. Things not making sense.
Wyn’s address was on the outskirts of Llanfair Caereinion. She took out a piece of scrap paper from her pocket and typed the postcode into her satnav. Finally, pocketing the note, she fired up the engine and set off. All the while, her heart banged in her chest.
19
Confrontation
The more she thought about it, the more plausible it became. And yet, she didn’t want to believe it. As she parked her car close to Wyn's country cottage, she called it in. There were risks and ridiculous risks. He may be innocent, but if he wasn’t?
She telephoned Dewi at the station.
“What? What are you doing out at Llanfair? And, why am I not with you?”
She could see Wyn’s car from where she was parked. He was home. “Dewi, I’m outside Wyn Sealander’s home address. I’m in my car. I’ll wait for you to come. This may be something or nothing, but I would appreciate your presence, when I talk to Wyn.”
"What are you up to?" Dewi's voice deepened. "This sounds ominous."
“You know how impressed everyone was by the accuracy Wyn’s reconstructions? Well, I wonder if they were too accurate. He had painted their eyes in exact detail, even before we knew who the girls were. It may be nothing, but I want to speak to him about it.”
“Is that why you asked me to talk to the Benoit family?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t go there on your own. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Give me half an hour. Don’t go in there.”
Yvonne nibbled her fingernails as she watched for any signs of movement at the house. She pressed the window down just a little, listening for any sound.
The front of the cottage looked sedate, even pretty. White-painted sash windows, flowers in the borders of a well-trimmed lawn. Red-painted front door. A stream gurgled nearby.
Feeling foolish, she planned how she might duck down below the dash if the door opened, or she saw movement at the window.
She remembered their walk by the lake. The way he b
ent to kiss her. His comment about her eyes.
‘Tap. Tap. Tap.’
She jumped in her seat, heart banging against her rib cage. Wyn Sealander was peering through her side window and smiling at her.
She stared back. Frozen. Not sure of what to do next.
He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. “Yvonne?”
If she didn’t get out, she would give herself away. He might make a run for it or, worse, might try to attack her.
She took a deep breath and opened the car door. “Wyn.”
“DI Giles. Well, I wasn’t expecting this. I mean, I missed you and I hoped you missed me, but…” He moved closer. “Hello, again.” His boyish grin had her doubting herself.
“I was passing by,” she said, her voice husky. She cleared her throat. “I thought perhaps you’d put the kettle on?”
He grinned, his eyes flicking over her face. “A cup of tea, it is.”
He led her into a medium-sized sitting room, with a low ceiling.
A putrid smell, like rotting meat, hit the back of the throat. The odour of death. She suppressed her gagging reflex, putting the back of her hand to her mouth and turning her face away.
He caught her looking toward the flower-patterned, sofa. “Rented place. What can I say? The furniture came with the cottage.” He shrugged, his eyes studying her profile.
“It’s cosy.” She forced a smile and perched herself on the edge of the sofa, pulling her skirt over her knees.
“I don’t get disturbed here,” he said, before leaving the room.
She swallowed hard. A faint ticking emanated from somewhere in the room. She looked for the clock. Dewi ought to be there within twenty minutes. She fumbled for her mobile phone and pressed the redial.
“There’s no signal I’m afraid.” Wyn was back, hands in his pockets. “Waiting for the kettle to boil.” He explained. “You could use my landline, but it’s not connected.”
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