by E C Deacon
Everton elbowed in to have a look. She was right. The feather under the bright light and magnification was the palest pink.
“Just like the other three samples,” said Teddy, producing a set of ten-by-eight blow-ups of the feathers found on the blanket by the river.
Helen was still confused. “And that’s significant?”
“Possibly. This feather comes from the underwing plumage of quite a rare breed of dove, a Steinbach.”
Everton’s hangover was forgotten. Maybe they were actually on to something. “So, what you’re saying is that finding these matching feathers is not likely to be just a coincidence?”
“It’s unlikely. I wouldn’t go farther than that. If I feather-sex them all, we may get lucky and get a DNA match. Then you’ll know for sure.”
“How long will that take?”
“A couple of days. We have to use a PCR enzyme to break it down and then set it into an electrophoretic gel before–”
“Basically, it’s easy to get false readings,” Teddy cut in, realising Noonan was losing them again. “We’ll need to double-test our findings.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Teddy nodded and moved off. Noonan started to follow him. Everton stopped him with a touch to his elbow.
Noonan reacted like Everton was contagious and drew his arm aside. “If you need any further information, I suggest you contact the Professional Breeders Association or, failing that, the homing and racing pigeon clubs. Some people use them for racing. They’re larger than the common dove and have good homing instincts. But they’re also used in displays or at weddings and funerals; they’re similar to the ones you see released as symbols of peace and purity.”
Everton pursed his lips, suspecting the donkey work was going to be all down to him. Noonan saw it and, cracking a smile, appeared to relent a little. “I’ll make a couple of phone calls. But I can’t promise anything.”
Daniella, or Dani as she called herself, had the face of an angel and the mind of a whore. She professed to be nineteen and had come over from Brazil to study English at Megan Howell’s college on a student visa. Megan suspected she was older than she claimed and the moment she left the room to freshen-up, Megan took the opportunity to check her passport, which she’d seen poking out of her woollen tote bag.
DANIELLA CORTEZ 25-05-95.
She was right. She was twenty-four; she had lied to get the visa. Megan photographed the page on her mobile and quickly replaced the passport. Then settled herself, primed if she needed to be, to wait for her reward.
She flicked through the selfies of her and her ex-students on her mobile, wondering why she found them so attractive. It wasn’t just physical. It ran deeper than that; it had to do with respect. As deputy head of the school she had a given status but she listened to their problems and, in doing so, earned their trust and respect. They felt comfortable opening up to her emotionally and physically. In her mind that wasn’t exploitation.
“Megan! You come now.”
She smiled, hitched up her pencil skirt, pulled down her panties, tossed them onto the sofa and walked into the bedroom. It was a surprisingly feminine room, full of antique lace and bedside lamps draped in silk. Dani stood naked at the French windows, staring out over the balcony. Megan walked up behind her and bit the back of her neck.
Dani screamed and pushed her away, pointing in horror out to the balcony. Where Gabriel Oak, Megan’s Spaniel, lay dead; his swollen black tongue lolling like he was drinking from a pool of his own bloody vomit.
Tessa Hayes took a lot of persuading before agreeing to take part in the reconstruction. Only agreeing after Helen explained that if it unlocked something in her memory, it would not only benefit her but possibly three other missing women.
They showed her the bar’s CCTV footage, which Helen had uploaded onto her iPad. Then, seated her in the same seat, at exactly the same time she’d arrived at The Botanist. Everton sat in the alcove where her dark-haired abductor had. Nothing. They walked through the scenario after they left the bar. Her being shepherded across Kew Green by her attacker towards a blue Mercedes, parked in the same position. Nothing. Tessa Hayes went through the reconstruction in mute horror, because although she’d seen the evidence of what had happened and her body still bore witness to it, she had absolutely no recollection of meeting her attacker or what he’d subsequently done to her.
She grew more and more distressed, feeling she was letting them down. Helen assured her that she wasn’t but found it hard to hide her disappointment. Finally, she suggested that Everton drive Tessa home, explaining she had an appointment with the manager of the Wilson Hospital about her father.
Everton shot her an old-fashioned look. “At eight thirty at night?”
The journey back to Farnham passed largely in silence. Everton suspected it was the longest time Tessa had ever spent alone with a black man who wasn’t an employee of some sort. He was surprised when she insisted he stay for a cup of tea and a sandwich, as a thank you for driving her home. He declined but thanked her for her help and her courage. Leaving, he felt embarrassed about how easily, and crudely, he’d stereotyped her.
Helen hadn’t totally lied. She wasn’t at the Wilson Hospital but at a soulless pub, The Greenkeeper, next door to it.
Nora, the ward manager, had texted her to ask if they could meet off the hospital premises, unofficially, to find a solution to her father’s care problems. She arrived accompanied by a bearded man in his forties, who was wearing an expensive three-piece suit, a yellow tie and black brogues.
“Thomas Bayne,” he said, offering his manicured hand and seating himself in one smooth movement. “But please call me Thomas.”
“Detective Constable Lake,” replied Helen, sticking to her formal title. “You’re joining us?”
“I’m sorry. This is my trust manager,” said Nora, by way of explanation. “He is aware of the situation.”
If the explanation was supposed to reassure Helen, it didn’t. But she held her tongue and waited to see what would unfold. Bayne laid his calf-skin briefcase on the table and reached inside for his matching wallet. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No thank you. I’m driving.”
“Of course. Nora, would you mind? I’ll just have a Red Bull.”
Nora took her cue and the wallet and made her way over to the bar.
Bayne smiled, held up his hands in a gesture of openness and said, “I should explain. Nora and I are a couple. I’m telling you that because I want you to be reassured that my involvement in this is completely open and above board.”
Helen nodded but thought, Then, why are we meeting in a pub?
“I understand that you have an issue regarding your father’s care whilst he’s been a patient at the Wilson?”
“Lack of care would be a more accurate description.”
“And that you have photographic evidence of this,” continued Bayne, unwilling to get mired in semantics.
Helen took out her mobile and showed him the photographs.
“Do you mind?” he said, taking the mobile and slowly flicking through them; totally ignoring Nora, who stood behind him holding the drinks, obviously under instructions not to interfere. “I’m sorry. This must have been very distressing for you and your sister.”
“And my father.”
“Of course. But these photographs are hardly evidence of maltreatment and certainly not enough to justify a full-scale police investigation.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Constable Lake,” he said, leaning forward and clasping his delicate hands together as if to emphasise the importance of what he was saying. “Please don’t let the press turn this into another care scandal when there isn’t one. It’s taken us years to get this hospital reopened. We still struggle for Trust recognition and finance. Something like this could be extremely damaging.”
He smelt of breath freshener and cologne. Like an expensive brief. But Helen wasn’t buying any of it, or him.
“That’s your responsibility. Mine is my father’s welfare.”
“As it should be. Look, Nora will confirm that I’ve ordered an enquiry and a full review of our geriatric care. And I can assure you that the wellbeing of your father, as with all our patients, is our top priority.”
Either they have something to hide, thought Helen, or they genuinely want to make amends. Either way, she knew they wanted to make a deal. She did the selfish but pragmatic thing and offered them one: “Nora said my father may have to be moved.”
“Your father’s care is secure at the Wilson Hospital for as long as it’s required,” said Bayne with conviction, offering Helen his firm, open hand as proof.
Helen weighed up her options and took it.
The team were grouped around one of the wipe boards in the detective’s room, sipping anaemic tea and devouring slabs of bacon sandwiches, as they waited for the DCI’s briefing to start.
It was always the worst part of Teal’s day, because in his mind the pleasure of the crisp bacon, fresh white bread and salty butter was like sex, but its pleasure was now denied to him by his furring arteries. He blew the smell of it from his nose into one of the paper napkins on the desk, and said, “The Merc. You got nowhere tracking it.”
Helen wondered how he knew, and then realised it must have come from DS Clarke, which meant that he must have been accessing her case notes, trying to cover his arse. She fixed him with a knowing look. Clarke ignored her and continued to work his way methodically through his plank of a sandwich.
“That’s true, guv, but we’ve come up with something else–”
“First things first. The reconstruction. Negative?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I don’t think we’re going to get any further with Tessa Hayes. She’s suffering from post-traumatic shock.”
“Which makes a successful prosecution all but impossible. Even if you find the guy in the bar, the CPS will never go for it,” interrupted Clarke.
“I’m aware of that. But if we can tie him in to the other three murders–”
“How are you going to do that without bodies?”
“If you let me finish, I’ll tell you. And you might want to wipe your chin. You’ve got ketchup all over it.”
Clarke tossed the rest of his sandwich into the metal bin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Continue,” growled Teal.
Helen did, laying out everything that they’d discovered, first about the feather Everton had found at Gina Lewis’ and then Noonan’s subsequent blank enquiries with the Breeders Association and pigeon clubs.
Clarke interrupted again, “I’m sorry. You’ve tried – and failed – to tie in the Tessa Hayes abduction to three other missing women. And now you’re trying to suggest that Gina Lewis’ suicide could be connected to her as well?”
“I’m aware it sounds implausible–”
“Implausible? It sounds bloody ridiculous.”
“Jack. Let’s hear her out–”
“Oh, come on. This is all just circumstantial bullshit–”
“Sergeant!”
Clarke held up his hands theatrically and sat back down on the edge of his desk. Teal turned his attention back to Helen. “This better be good.”
Everton stole a glance at Helen, fearing she’d already given them everything they had. He was wrong. He detected the glimmer of a smile as she picked up a large buff-coloured envelope stamped FORENSIC and handed it to Teal.
“As ridiculous as it may seem, the feather found in Gina Lewis’ house is a perfect DNA match to one that we found on the blanket with Tessa Hayes at the River Wandle.”
The stunned silence that followed was finally broken by the crack of Teal’s peppermint. “Are you saying that Gina Lewis was murdered by the same man?”
“No. The autopsy confirms that she committed suicide.”
“Then what the hell are you saying?”
“I’m saying that whoever attacked Tessa Hayes was also in Gina Lewis’ home and was therefore probably known to her.”
“You don’t know that. It could have been there for months, been brought in by anyone–”
“Unlikely. Miss Lewis was extremely house proud. The place was pristine.”
“Interesting,” said Teal. “But Jack’s right. It’s still just supposition.”
“But worth further investigation, considering that Gina Lewis’ body hair was also shaved. And that Laura Fell insists she saw someone else in the house. We know from Gina’s mobile records that she made dozens of phone calls to an unknown number in the days prior to her death.”
“Have you checked it out?”
“Laura Fell phoned it. A man answered and immediately hung up. It’s now dead. Everton checked the number; it’s a pay-as-you-go phone. And we haven’t been able to find her mobile or laptop. It’s the same MO for Tessa Hayes and the other missing women, guv. Their mobiles and iPads are missing too.”
“Okay. I agree it can’t be just coincidental. So, what’s next?”
“Start interviewing Gina Lewis’ family and friends. But that’s going to take time.”
“Fair enough. Jack. You’ll be overseeing but Helen will head the team. And I stress the word team.”
Helen was elated. It was as close to a compliment as she’d ever received from Teal and, better still, it was a nail in the coffin of DS Knobby Clarke’s ambitions.
When Everton phoned Laura with the news, she was elated too, feeling vindicated that she’d been proved right and that someone at last believed in her. The feeling was so overwhelming that almost immediately after replacing the receiver, she fell into a deep dreamless sleep on the sofa. It was 9.20am.
An hour later, she was woken by the harmonic ping-pong of her doorbell and a man’s voice calling her. In her confusion, she thought it must be the police arriving to interview her. She stumbled to her stockinged feet and down the stairs, checked her puffy reflection in the less-than-flattering hall mirror, gave her tangled hair a finger-comb and opened the door. It wasn’t the police; it was Don Hart.
He was standing at the front door, shoulders stooped against the cold, wearing a blue windcheater with its hood pulled over a black baseball cap and sunglasses, even though the sky was weepy and grey. Laura lied and told him that she was expecting visitors but he begged her for just a few minutes of her time. Eventually she relented, feeling guilty that she’d just dumped him without an explanation, and invited him up for a coffee.
They sat like strangers on separate seats; a sign of the demise of their intimacy. Don stared down into the dregs of his instant coffee like a clairvoyant looking for an answer to his problems. Laura sipped her peppermint tea and wondered why he was still wearing his coat and gloves inside but decided against mentioning it for fear it would look like an invitation for him to stay longer. Finally, he spoke in a voice so hesitant and low that she could barely hear him, apologising for letting her down and not being there on the night of Gina’s suicide, and confessing that he felt dreadful about her having to cope with it all on her own. But Laura was past being angry and told him simply and directly that she had no hard feelings, she just needed to move on. Don minutely adjusted the seams on his brown leather gloves as he listened and seemed genuinely upset.
“Look, I know I’ve made some mistakes… and some of your friends think I’m not trustworthy–”
“It’s not that.”
“No. They do. It’s okay. And sometimes I think you do – or have. I just want you know I’m sorry if I made you feel like that… and that it’s got to end like this… You’ve been an important part of my life, Laura. The only real friend I have apart from my son and he’s a complete mess. Do you know the real reason I wasn’t with you that night?”
“Don. It doesn’t matter–”
“Please. It does to me. He got involved in a fight. A guy tried to mug him. He had a knife. Richie ran into a shop and phoned me.”
“God,” said Laura, momentarily thrown. “I mean, that must have been f
rightening.”
“He was terrified. The guy was hanging around outside waiting for him.”
“Why didn’t he just phone the police?”
“He did. A cop turned up and let the guy go.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He’d thrown the knife away, claimed that Richie tried to mug him.”
“Why would the police believe him?”
“Richie’s got form with the police. He doesn’t like them and they don’t like him.”
Laura, who’d never heard this before, said, trying not to appear shocked, “Was he hurt?”
“His face was a mess. I had to take him to A&E,” Don lied, “and now, would you believe, he’s in there again. The police raided my house, I was staying with my mum – she’s had a hip replacement. Anyway, they kicked the front door in and went in mob-handed with a dog. Richie got bitten on his legs.”
“I don’t understand. Why would they raid your house?”
“They said it was drugs. But when my solicitor started making noises about suing them over Richie’s injuries, they changed their tune. Started saying they were investigating a betting scam. The whole thing’s a farce. They’ve even got pictures of you and me at Walthamstow.”
“Us? What have I got to do with anything?” said Laura, appalled at her sudden involvement.
“Nothing. I told them that. Nor have I. They’re just trying to scare me into dropping the complaint.”
“The police wouldn’t do that–”
“Laura. I know this is hard for you to understand. But where I was brought up, they do shit like this every day. Read the papers. Some cops are as corrupt as the criminals.”
Laura was lost for words. The whole concept of any corrupt authority figure seemed completely alien to her after her upbringing. But she remembered her first bruising encounter with Everton and how he’d subsequently changed.
“Anyway,” said Don. “I just wanted to let you know personally and… well, apologise for all this… and any hurt I may have caused you. You’re a sweet person, Laura. You deserve better.”