by E C Deacon
“You knew Gina had a brother?”
“Mrs Lewis had me check him out. She didn’t trust him.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t find anything about his past. Nothing. No NHS number, PNC record, nothing. The guy is like a ghost.”
Everton’s tinnitus suddenly rang in his ears like an alarm bell. “Gina found him through a tracing agency. Surely they must have run checks?”
“If they did they weren’t telling me. Client confidentiality and all that.”
“Who runs it?”
“A woman called Amy Tann. But you’re wasting your time.”
“I can be very persuasive.”
“You’ll need to be. She was murdered ten days ago.”
Christmas common
Kieron’s offer took Laura by surprise. He wanted to visit Gina’s grave and wondered if she’d like to drive up to Wheatley with him to pay her last respects. He thought it might give them both some closure. She was wary at first, but the more they talked about it the more attractive the idea became. Besides, Kieron was right, the press would have long gone and Mrs Lewis wouldn’t even know that they’d been there, so what harm could it do?
At 11.40am, she zipped up her Mountain Warehouse quilted jacket and walked the few hundred metres to the florist in Kew Village. She bought a spray of Lily of the Valley, Gina’s favourite flowers, which she jokingly used to describe as being like her: sweet but deadly. Then sat sipping a latte on the pretty terrace of The Tap on the Line – a handsomely restored railway pub that served all-day breakfasts and seriously good coffee – as she waited for Kieron to pick her up. She was blissfully unaware that two of her Chill Out friends were sitting in police cells after being arrested twenty-four hours earlier.
Laura had suggested that, being new to South West London, Kieron might find the pub an easier place to meet. In truth, she was embarrassed about the condition of her flat, having cancelled the installation of her kitchen, feeling unable to face the upheaval on top of everything else. Jay, the B&Q designer, who looked nothing like his boyband name, warned her, as per script, that the offer would expire. But when she decided to cancel the contract rather than mess them around he’d, as per script, relented and offered to extend the deal.
Blustery clouds scurried across the watery sun like moths across a low-wattage bulb. Laura closed her eyes and let the pale sunlight warm her face. When she opened them again, she saw Kieron watching her from his car on the other side of the street.
“You looked like you were asleep,” he said, as they headed up the on-ramp at Brentford and eased into the West Way traffic.
“No. I was just resting my eyes and thinking.”
“About what?”
“My kitchen, actually,” she said with a rueful smile. “And what a mess my flat is.”
“Is that why you wanted me to pick you up at the pub?”
“No – yes,” she said, hastily correcting her white lie. “How did you know that?”
“Because I’d have done the same thing.”
They both laughed and it seemed to reaffirm the bond they’d felt on their first meeting.
“You know, my wife accused me of being obsessive, because I was so proud of my house and garden.”
“Gina definitely was.”
“There you go – the same genes. But the odd thing is, the minute she left… I just seemed to lose heart… I should really sell the place. It’s too big for me on my own.”
“Where is it?”
“Oh, uh, near a place called Goodwood.”
“I know it. It’s near Chichester; I’ve been to the races there. It’s great.”
“I’ve never been.”
“Horse racing? How come?”
“I hate gambling.” He left the words hanging, like it was a dark secret that he preferred not to reveal. Laura, whose good manners would have usually prevented her from enquiring any further, was intrigued.
“Not even a flutter on the Grand National or the lottery?”
Kieron shook his head.
“Why? I mean, it’s just a bit of fun. It doesn’t harm anyone.”
“Doesn’t it? My father gambled away pretty much everything we ever had. Every Thursday he’d pick up his pay packet and go straight down the bookies and piss it away. And when the bailiffs were knocking on the door, he just packed a suitcase and disappeared… like we were just another bet he could renege on. It took my mother years to get over the shock and even longer to pay back his losses.”
Blessed with an idyllic childhood, Laura felt emotionally out of her depth and thought it best to say nothing. Kieron lapsed into silence and went back to driving. They headed out past Heathrow and took the M25 towards Oxford. Laura passed the time by checking her emails, hoping there would be one from Frieda, who she’d heard nothing from in over two weeks. Finding nothing, she texted her and was about to replace the mobile in her bag when it started up in her hand.
“Ha,” she said. “That was quick.”
But when saw the Caller ID, it didn’t read Frieda but PC Bowe. She switched it off and placed it back inside the zip pocket of her handbag.
“Who was that?”
“Oh, uh, no one.”
“An admirer?”
“No – well, maybe…”
Kieron laughed and said, “You don’t seem very sure.”
“He’s the policeman who’s been investigating Gina’s death… He’s become a sort of friend.”
“Sort of?”
“He’s started getting a bit… overprotective… He even tried to warn me off you.”
“Me? I don’t understand. How does he know about me?”
“I just told him how we’d met, and he started implying that it could have all somehow been set up and that I shouldn’t trust you. It’s just silly.”
Kieron muttered something under his breath and went back to driving. Laura could see from the way he gripped the wheel that he was annoyed and sensed that it was with her rather than Everton. She felt obliged to apologise.
“I’m sorry. Would you have preferred me not to have mentioned you?”
“Yes.”
His curt response and the silence that followed took her by surprise. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry. It’s just… what happened between Gina and myself was precious and I hate to think of the police getting involved and trampling all over the memory of it.”
An image of Everton traipsing over the flower beds outside Gina’s house on the night of her death flashed into Laura’s mind and she instantly understood his concerns. “I don’t want that either, Kieron. That’s why I’ve stopped answering his calls.”
Her response was so genuine that he felt fleetingly ashamed of his anger, and said, “Maybe he’s jealous of me? I know I would be if I were him.”
Laura returned his diffident smile and said, “Thank you.”
She leant across and kissed him on the cheek. And at that moment, Kieron felt what he’d desperately been fighting to suppress: the unmistakable tug of sexual attraction.
They parked the car in Garsington Lane and walked up the path towards the twelfth–century Norman church that stood on top of a hill on the outskirts of Wheatley village. The views were spectacular. Sweeping vistas of the Thames Valley were laid out like an offering before them and in the distance the huge cooling towers of the Didcot power station stood sentinel-like over the Vale.
Kieron opened the wooden gate for Laura and followed her inside. The graveyard wasn’t huge but the irregular layout and trees made it difficult to get a clear view of it. Neither of them spoke as they set about searching for the newly tilled earth that would signify the position of Gina’s grave. They found it in a far corner, in the shadow of a drystone wall.
“They hid her away,” whispered Kieron. “They were frightened of the press and their dirty little secrets, so they hid her away. Their own daughter.”
He dropped to his knees beside the plain headstone that read simply:
GINA LEWIS
Kieron clasped his hands and bowed his head in prayer. Laura watched, surprised by his overt display of devotion, but when he held out his hand to her she took it and knelt beside him. She thought she could hear him praying and realised he was crying. She laid her posy of flowers on the bare earth and allowed herself to join him in his grief.
Kieron smiled, as if in thanks, and helped Laura to her feet and they walked hand in hand out of the graveyard and down the hill to the car. He was still holding her hand when he opened the passenger door for her, and for the first time she registered the large weal in the shape of a bite on the back of his hand.
“Oh, did you hurt yourself?”
“No. It’s a birthmark,” he lied, knowing that soon Laura would see much more of it and that he, Nephilim, would hurt her.
Helen had chopped and mashed her father Frank’s fish fingers into a soggy mush and was now spooning it into his gaping mouth as if she were feeding a baby. Which in a sense she was because he was no longer able to do anything for himself: eat, drink, wash or, worst of all, use a commode. It sat in the corner of his room below the family photos that leavened the bare walls, like a salutary reminder to any visitor of the indignity of old age. Lately the staff had resorted to using disposable incontinence nappies to stop any “accidents”, but removing them and cleaning up the mess left behind was still horrible. Helen hated it, feeling it demeaned them both. She had no idea that her father’s mind had regressed to a time when being fed with a spoon and shitting his pants was perfectly normal.
She and her sister, Delia, had finally agreed that, in lieu of any decision about who should look after their father, Helen would visit the Wilson Hospital twice a week to check on his well-being. But with her investigation having stalled and the interviews with Colin Gould proving unproductive, Helen was under serious pressure. She was not best pleased to discover a dishevelled looking Everton standing in full uniform beside her car in the visitor car park.
“What are you doing?”
“I need your help.”
“No way. Absolutely not. Who told you I was here?”
“DC Coyle. Just five minutes. Please.”
“I don’t have five minutes. My father doesn’t know me. And my sister insists on me wiping his arse, whilst my case goes down the pan – along with my career. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
“I want to help.”
“By intimidating witnesses?”
“I didn’t–”
“You threatened to drown Colin Gould! You’re out of control, Everton. I mean, look at you, you’re a mess. You shouldn’t even be in uniform. You’re suspended from duty. Do you want to lose your pension?”
“Do you want to lose this case?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Everton held up his mobile and pressed PLAY on the video. Helen watched the playback slack-jawed in astonishment.
“DS Clarke has been leaking information to Hoffman to kill the investigation.”
“But… why?”
“Hoffman’s protecting the Lewis’. And Clarke, as you suspected, his career.”
Helen’s mind was working overtime, replaying the recent events. Clarke’s apology and offer to clear the air, sleeping with her, his suggestion to use a profiler, his lukewarm defence of her in front of Teal; it had all been a sham. For a woman that prided herself on being in control the realisation was a devastating blow to her self-esteem.
“You thought you were using him, Helen, and all the time he was playing you.”
She glanced up at Everton and her eyes were like flint. “Are you enjoying this?”
“A bit. But, as you say, I have a lot to lose. I’m assuming you’d like this?” he said, holding up the mobile like a prize.
“Too bloody right, I do.”
“I need something in return.”
“Go on.”
“I need access to a murder scene. A woman called Amy Tann. She ran a tracing agency…”
Helen let out a derisive snort, unlocked her door, climbed in and fired the engine. Everton jumped in front of the car, attempting to block her exit.
“Get out of my way!”
“Colin Gould is not the killer! Ask Hoffman about Kieron Allen, Gina’s brother. They’d been seeing each other secretly for months. Yet there’s no record of him on any birth certificate and no record of Gina’s birth father on hers either. And now he’s been in contact with Laura Fell.”
“Oh, Christ,” groaned Helen. “You’re infatuated, Everton. Let it go.”
She slammed the car into reverse and powered away from him. Everton bellowed after her, “He could have been in the original will, Helen! Check him out!”
They were heading out on the M40 towards London when Kieron suggested to Laura that they take the scenic route back through Henley and stop off for lunch. He’d heard of a pub called The Fox and Hounds near Watlington which TripAdvisor praised for its delicious food and thought they could go for a walk afterwards on Christmas Common, an area of natural beauty nearby that offered stunning views from the top of the Chilterns.
The pub was full of rustic charm and well-heeled locals. They squeezed in beside the huge inglenook fireplace, toasting themselves whilst they waited for their ciabatta sandwiches to arrive. Brie and caramelised onion chutney for Laura and steak, onion and honey mustard for him. Kieron ordered two halves of Brakspear real ale to wash them down and “fortify” themselves for their walk.
“Cheers,” he said. “To us.”
“Cheers,” she responded in kind and winced as she took a sip of the tart, fizzy beer.
“It’s a bit of an acquired taste. Would you prefer wine?”
“No, honestly, I like it,” she lied. “Gina and I got drunk on scrumpy once. I hated the first glass – it tasted nothing like cider – but after the second I absolutely loved it. We had to get a cab home and the next day I couldn’t even remember where I’d left my car.”
Kieron smiled and fell silent, waiting for the Rohypnol he’d surreptitiously dropped into her beer at the bar to do its work. He’d been hoping to use her in his tableaux – she looked like she had a good body and he would have enjoyed playing with her a little before starting the serious preparation – but that wouldn’t be possible now. The black cop she’d obviously been screwing was getting too close and he couldn’t risk contaminating the evidence further. Not if his plan was to work.
Laura watched him as she sipped her beer, wondering why she found him so attractive. It couldn’t just be the bond they shared over Gina; it had to be more than that. He was the antithesis of her usual, extroverted type of guy. Kieron was shy, almost guarded, and despite his efforts to hide it, wore his hurt in the deep frown lines etched onto his boyish face. Perhaps that was it; his pain brought out her nurturing side, her long-suppressed maternal instinct.
He caught her looking at him and said, “Sorry. I was thinking about what you said about Gina and what a shame it was that I’d missed her growing up.”
“I’ve got some photos on my mobile if you’d like to see them?” she said and, without waiting for his answer, took her iPhone from her bag and opened the photo app. “These only go back a couple of years but I’ve got albums full of our earlier stuff at home. Look, these were taken on a walking holiday in Ibiza. We had a brilliant time. That’s a pension we all stayed in. Six of us went. That’s mine and Gina’s room, which as you can see wasn’t big enough to swing a cat in… Formentera, which is beautiful but most of the beaches are full of nude Germans and hippies. And this is Club Lio, which was frighteningly expensive but a riot – oops, you don’t want to see those.”
“Why not?” he said, grabbing the mobile and admiring the photo of Laura taken as she climbed out of the club’s pool in her bra and pants, which the water had turned transparent.
“I should have deleted that.”
“Or posted it online.” He grinned, expanding the picture so that the shadowy triangle of her pubic hair wa
s just visible through her panties. “You’d get a lot of hits. You look like Ursula Andress in that Bond film.”
Laura smiled sheepishly and said, “I don’t think her costume turned see-through.”
“No. Are there more?”
Laura rolled her eyes and reached for the mobile. As if by magic, it started up in her hand. Kieron saw the Caller ID – PC Bowe – and smiled wryly.
“Your friend is very persistent.”
Laura took the phone, switched it off and said, “He’s not my friend, Kieron. You are.”
As if to prove it, she leant across and kissed him lightly on the lips. Kieron flushed in embarrassment and she thought she’d offended him.
He smiled and said simply, “Do you think we should make a move?”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll just pop to the ladies before we set off.”
Kieron watched her go, muttering, “Slut,” under his breath. Then, he deftly unzipped her handbag, took out her mobile and removed the battery before replacing the handset in its original place inside the zip-pocket. When Laura returned a couple of minutes later he’d already paid the bill, in cash, and was waiting for her by the door holding her bag and coat.
Everton ambushed Peter Pitt outside his Isleworth office on his way back from lunch. The solicitor was polite but wary; Everton’s uniform was as creased as his unshaven face and he appeared slightly unsteady on his feet.
“Vertigo. Do you mind if we sit?” said Everton by way of explanation as he slumped down onto the top step and patted the space beside him.
Peter stayed firmly on his feet. Everton looked more like a guy in stag-night fancy dress than a police officer and, cautious man that Peter was, he wasn’t taking any chances.
“I assume you have some form of identification?”
Everton fumbled in his pocket, held up his warrant card and sighed. “Constable Everton Bowe. Lead investigating officer on Gina Lewis’ suicide.”
“I see… Look, don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in my office?”