Bridge to Burn

by Rachel Amphlett

  ‘Will he be okay?’

  ‘They’re remarkably resilient creatures,’ said Adam. ‘He’ll adapt in time – he’ll probably lean to the left like he is now for the rest of his life, but other than that he’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Kay’s stomach rumbled and she turned away from the glass case. ‘Sorry, but I’m starving. Are you okay to put this lot away while I go and get changed?’

  ‘Go for it. I’ll be dishing up in half an hour.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Kay headed upstairs, hanging up her suit jacket before stripping the rest of her clothes from her weary body and stepping into the en suite shower.

  As she let the jet of hot water pour over her scalp and scrubbed the day’s grime from her skin, her mind turned to the recent anniversary she and Adam had chosen to keep to themselves.

  Two years ago, Kay had returned to work after a Professional Standards investigation by Kent Police had left her bereft – and childless.

  Only her close team, and her mentor – DCI Devon Sharp – knew the full extent of the personal trauma she and Adam had endured after she had been unfairly targeted.

  An ache tore at her chest as the memories resurfaced, her relaxed state releasing the numbed grief she kept to herself. She wiped her eyes, tears lending a salty taste to the water that cascaded over her cheeks and lips, and then turned off the faucet.

  After towelling off her skin with a fierceness that left her arms and legs red, Kay released her hair from the top knot she had tied and wiped the condensation from the mirror above the basin.

  She scowled at her reflection, pulled the cord to switch off the lights, then moved across the bedroom to a chest of drawers and dragged out a favourite sweatshirt. Pulling on a pair of jeans, she combed her hair.

  As she turned to leave the room, her eyes fell upon the plastic bottle of sleeping tablets on her bedside table.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and Kay forced down the sense of panic that bubbled at her stomach.

  Fear threatened, hard on the heels of the grief that had lowered her resilience.

  She had faced death a year ago, fought against an adversary who had wrapped his hands around her throat and tried to extinguish her life.

  It was only the quick thinking of DCI Sharp that had saved her from the clutches of Jozef Demiri. She still bore the internal scars from the ordeal to which the organised crime boss had subjected her, and refused to take any prescribed medication for fear of losing her job.

  For Adam’s sake, she had continued to take the homeopathic remedy on a daily basis but a sense of unbalance gripped her.

  It was all she could do not to thrust her hands out to the side as she descended the stairs.

  Thirteen steps, but every one of them loaded with guilt.

  She hadn’t told Adam about the nightmares that had returned since the summer.

  She hadn’t spoken to Dr Zoe Strathmore following her initial appointment earlier in the year, instead assuring the psychiatrist’s receptionist that she was fine; that she was too busy; that her calendar was too full for any follow-up appointment.

  For nine months.

  A trembling wracked her calves and Kay grasped the bannister, sinking onto the penultimate tread as the spasm enveloped her.

  She fought down the sensation, her chest constricting as she drew her knees under her chin, her eyes finding the blinking lights of the security panel to the right of the front door.

  It hadn’t yet been activated; she or Adam would initiate the sequence before climbing the stairs to bed, but its presence calmed her. There would be no-one breaking into the house tonight.

  Kay lowered her forehead to her knees. ‘I am not a victim,’ she muttered. ‘I am not a victim. I can do this.’

  Movement over her shoulder shook her from her meditation and she launched herself to her feet, ran her fingers through her hair and patted her cheeks.

  She felt the colour return to her skin as Adam emerged from the kitchen, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

  ‘I thought I heard your voice. Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ She forced a smile and followed him back into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve opened the Pinot.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kay sank onto one of the bar stools at the central kitchen worktop and took a sip from the glass of wine Adam had poured for her. She watched for a moment as Adam returned to the stove and checked the pots steaming on the hob, and then cleared her throat. ‘When was the last time you visited Elizabeth?’

  Adam froze, the wooden spoon held aloft.

  ‘What?’

  Adam balanced the spoon on one of the saucepan handles and then moved across to where she sat. He frowned. ‘I’ve been so busy with the practice over the past few weeks – no, months.’

  Kay watched as he bit his lip, his shoulders slumping.

  ‘About ten weeks, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t talk about her anymore. It’s like, once Demiri was out of our lives, everything to do with him went as well. Including our daughter.’ Kay reached across the worktop and clasped his hand. ‘Why?’

  He squeezed her fingers, and then walked around to where she sat and enveloped her in a hug before kissing her. ‘You’ve been busy, too. It doesn’t mean we don’t care.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ He sighed, and rubbed her back. ‘Life goes on, whether we like it or not. People depend on us.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you? This isn’t just about Elizabeth, is it?’

  Kay sniffed, and tried to ignore the stinging sensation at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Lucy from admin was in the office last week. It’s the first time she’s been in since she went on maternity leave. She brought her baby, a little boy. Stephen.’ She wiped at her cheeks, a shuddering sigh wracking her slight frame. ‘She looked so happy.’

  ‘Come here.’

  He enveloped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head while she cried into his soft cotton shirt, fighting against the utter wretchedness that engulfed her.

  After a few moments, she raised her gaze to his. ‘Thank you.’

  A faint smile teased his mouth. ‘It’s a bit shit, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  She eased away from his embrace and reached over the worktop to a box of tissues, then dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

  She turned to see Adam eyeing her warily. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look after yourself, Hunter. I worry about you.’

  Seven

  A blustery wind tugged at Kay’s coat the following morning as she followed Barnes from the pool vehicle across a muddy construction yard towards a pockmarked building marked “site office”.

  A biting chill nipped at her ears, and she cursed under her breath before hurrying over the threshold leaving Barnes to close the door behind them, and then tugged at the scarf at her neck while a bemused-looking woman stared at them from behind a reception desk.

  ‘You should have been here last March,’ she said. ‘Like flipping Antarctica out there, it was. What can I do for you?’

  Kay held up her warrant card. ‘DI Kay Hunter and DS Ian Barnes, here to see John Brancourt.’

  ‘Ah, right. No problem. Take a seat – the heater’s on over there – and help yourself to tea or coffee from the machine. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Kay turned to see Barnes already making his way to where a small fan heater had been placed on a rug between two chairs and hurried to join him, holding out her frozen hands to the hot air being blasted through a tiny vent at the top.

  The detective sergeant jerked his chin towards the window and a row of construction equipment lined up in the yard outside. ‘Obviously spends his money on those rather than the central heating,’ he muttered.

  Kay smiled. ‘Probably why the business is still successful after all these years trading.’
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  ‘Detective Hunter?’

  She turned around.

  Kay estimated the man to be in his late fifties, his stocky frame offset by a shock of light brown hair.

  ‘I’m John Brancourt,’ he said, wandering over to where they stood, his hand outstretched.

  Kay shook hands and introduced Barnes. ‘Thanks for seeing us, Mr Brancourt. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  ‘Of course, come on through to my office.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and led the way past the bemused gaze of the receptionist and down a narrow unlit corridor.

  At the end, he stood to one side to let Kay and Barnes pass before closing the door and gesturing to two chairs next to a cluttered desk.

  ‘Have a seat. Excuse the mess. Sandra out there keeps pestering me to tidy it, but I’m not sure I’d find anything if I did.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kay, and waited until Barnes had settled and pulled out his notebook. ‘I presume you’ve heard about the body that was discovered in the Petersham Building on Monday morning?’

  ‘I heard something on the radio driving into work yesterday, yes. That’s Alexander Hill’s building,’ said Brancourt, a frown creasing his brow. ‘I worked on it over the summer.’

  ‘We’re aware of that, Mr Brancourt,’ said Kay.

  ‘Call me John. What do you need from me? I’m afraid I don’t have the final plans for the building to record what was done – Alex will have to give you those. We’re still waiting for him to approve them. These things can take a while.’

  ‘Actually, we were hoping you could tell us anything you might know about how that body might have got there in the first place,’ said Kay. ‘I have to insist that anything we discuss here isn’t mentioned to the media, but we’re trying to find out who the victim is.’

  ‘Haven’t you identified him?’ said Brancourt.

  ‘We can’t say much about the case or the victim at the present time,’ said Barnes. ‘Not until the post mortem examination has been concluded. We wondered whether you were aware of anyone who had been threatened during the construction phase – particularly before the carpet fitters began work?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of, no.’

  ‘How long have you run the family business, Mr Brancourt?’ said Kay.

  He brushed an imaginary piece of lint from the breast pocket of his shirt, the movement drawing attention to the embroidered logo across it, and then set his shoulders.

  ‘I started working here with my father when I was old enough to walk,’ he said. ‘Started my apprenticeship in the yard out there when I was fourteen, worked all hours and in all weather conditions until my father called me into a meeting on my twenty-first birthday.’

  ‘You’ve been running it ever since?’ said Barnes.

  Brancourt shook his head, a smile creasing his features. ‘No, I had to wait another six years until he thought I was capable of that, but it was enough to know I’d impressed him and that he’d be passing it down to me like his father before him. Even when he retired when I was twenty-nine, he kept working for the business in a part-time capacity. He knew what reputation was worth, and he was determined I’d be as successful as he’d been. Both my grandfather and great-grandfather took over the running of the business before they were thirty, so it’s a running tradition. My son, Damien, will do the same before his thirtieth birthday.’

  ‘And, have you been successful?’

  ‘We’ve had our fair share of ups and downs, I’ll admit,’ said Brancourt. He sighed. ‘It was hard ten years ago, and like a lot of businesses we struggled and had to lay off some of our workers. But we kept the apprentices, and we kept the men who had been with us since my father’s time – I wasn’t so short-sighted to lose the key people I’d need to run this business when work picked up again and, sure enough, we turned things around.’

  ‘Any financial issues during that time?’ said Kay, and then held up her hand as Brancourt opened his mouth to protest, and rephrased her question. ‘Would anyone have any reason to hold a grudge against you or your company? Or your employees for that matter?’

  The construction manager sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment before speaking.

  ‘I can’t think of anyone, no. We were very lucky when we did have that quiet spell because we were able to pay off all the contractors we had working for us. We only kept the full-time employees, like I said. And with all the contractors, we assured them we’d be in touch as soon as work became available. They were all good people and many did come back here if they hadn’t found jobs elsewhere. I’m always very careful not to sully my reputation in this business. Everybody knows everybody.’

  ‘Did you hear any rumours on site, any indication that there might have been a disagreement between other contractors involved in the works?’ said Barnes.

  ‘If there was, it was kept away from me,’ said John. ‘I attended a site meeting every week once work got underway, which is routine practice. If there were specific items that needed addressing then I went there to oversee things to make sure it went smoothly, but no – I never heard anyone talking about any other issues. It was just the usual day-to-day stuff that comes with running a redevelopment project like that.’

  Kay caught Barnes’s attention and then rose from her seat and held out her business card. ‘All right, Mr Brancourt. Thank you for your time. If you do think of anything that could help us with our investigation, please phone me.’

  ‘Let me see you out.’

  He gestured for Barnes to lead the way back along the corridor to the reception area, then shook their hands and followed them to the door.

  Kay turned to see John Brancourt appraising the busy yard before his eyes met hers.

  ‘You understand, Detective Hunter,’ he said. ‘It’s all about reputation. Without it, we’re nothing.’

  Eight

  That afternoon, Carys and Gavin stood at the perimeter of a council-run car park and squinted against the horizontal rain towards their target, a nondescript two-storey building on the opposite side of the A2.

  Even from her position, Carys could see the brass plaque that labelled the office as belonging to Alexander Hill, member of the Architects Registration Board and whatever letters followed after that.

  ‘Tell me why you couldn’t just phone him again,’ she said as she battled with a flimsy umbrella that was determined to turn inside out for the third time.

  ‘Because he doesn’t answer his phone and I’m sick of leaving messages.’

  ‘Not playing golf in this weather, was he?’

  ‘God knows, but his receptionist told me that he’s in the office until four o’clock today so I thought it’d be a good idea to pay him a visit and bring to his attention we’re dealing with a dead man at one of his properties.’

  Satisfied that she’d have a modicum of protection from the elements, Carys led the way across the busy road, negotiating a puddle she suspected disguised a deep pothole with a quick side-step, and then stood on the pavement outside Hill’s property development business.

  ‘Okay if I lead this one?’ she said.

  Her colleague frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s ignoring you. So, I’m thinking he’s got something to hide. You can push him, I’ll charm him. Sound good?’

  Gavin’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Okay, yeah. That makes sense.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to steal your thunder if he’s guilty of something.’

  She grinned, then turned and pushed the door open before he had a chance to respond, dropped her umbrella into a stand by a strategically placed doormat, and then moved towards the reception desk.

  ‘Afternoon.’ She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, before holding out her warrant card. ‘My colleague here spoke to you earlier, I believe?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, he did.’ The receptionist’s eyes widened, and she put aside the book she’d been reading. ‘Can I help?’
r />   ‘We’d like to speak to Alexander Hill, please.’

  ‘He’s busy, but I can—’

  ‘Now, please.’ Carys smiled. ‘DC Piper has left several messages over the course of the past forty-eight hours, but your boss seems to think his golf handicap is more important than a murder investigation. If he’d like to accompany us back to Maidstone police station to attend a formal interview instead, that’s fine, but—’

  ‘I’ll get him for you.’

  The receptionist pushed her chair back and hurried towards a door behind her desk, pulling it closed behind her.

  Carys turned to find Gavin shaking his head at her.

  ‘You’re something else, Miles.’

  ‘It worked, didn’t it?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the one playing nice, remember?’

  Approaching footsteps prevented any retort from Carys as the receptionist pushed through the door moments before her boss.

  Alexander Hill peered through bifocal glasses at his intruders, sniffed, then beckoned to the two detectives. ‘I suppose if you’re here you might as well come through.’

  Carys hurried after him, catching the door as it swung shut behind the property developer who set a brisk pace along an uneven corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs.

  The treads creaked under Hill’s footsteps, his large frame blocking the light from an upstairs window and creating a shadow over the carpet under her feet.

  She raised her gaze as she followed him, wondering whether tweed was actually still in fashion, and noting the way he wore his hair in a spiky manner similar to the colleague who traipsed behind her.

  The man was a motley collection of contradictions.

  Hill paused at a doorway at the top of the landing and gestured for them to go through, before moving to a chair behind a desk covered in receipts and spreadsheets.

  ‘My apologies, detectives. You find me at a stressful time – my book-keeper left us last week due to poor health and I’m trying to get my head around this year’s accounts before the tax year ends.’