A good result, Lou thought. It didn’t feel like one. Ten years ago, Lou had been there when a fifteen-year-old was taken away to a life of abuse and violence, and her younger sister was left behind with two abusive parents. Ten years of hell, for both of them. And Lou hadn’t done anything to stop it.
LOU
Tuesday 5 November 2013, 20:25
She stayed late to make sure everything was finished. All reports filed, all taskings and abstractions authorized, everyone told what they were doing for the next couple of days. While she was busy, she didn’t have to think. She didn’t have to give in to the tidal wave of crap that was hurtling toward her, waiting for her to acknowledge it.
Les Finnegan, and whatever was going on there. Something definitely was, and, while it might not be that bad—might be a little lapse in judgment, a lucky guess, Jane’s misunderstanding—it would need further consideration. She would have to watch him. She would have to be careful.
And those who were suffering, had suffered, most of all: Scarlett and her sister, Juliette. The law was the law. What they’d gone through might, to some degree, be taken into account. In the meantime they had to be charged, detained on remand and tried, just like everyone else who was responsible for committing a violent offense.
Was it fair?
And Buchanan and his attitude had just about finished her off. Where was the compassion? The sensitivity?
Outside in the car park the damp air was misty and smelling of fireworks and effort, a hundred wet leafy bonfires around south Briarstone failing to light. Despite the smell and the intermittent bangs and crackles, her mind was bouncing between misery and fury and exhaustion, and she had to drive with both front windows down, the wind blasting her hair around her face, just to make sure she got to Queens Road awake and in one piece.
He probably wasn’t expecting her. She hadn’t called, or sent a text, and it was possible he was out. She was making a big assumption that he even wanted to see her, still, despite what he’d said last night, despite his invitation. She had not only been pissing him off without fully knowing why or how, she had hurt him by default, by not making him a priority. By assuming he didn’t mind.
On the doorstep she hesitated because for some reason she had started crying. The tears were pouring down her cheeks and she didn’t even know why. Standing there in the darkness, not wanting to ring the bell until she had things under control again, until she could trust herself to smile and speak. . .
I thought I was stronger than this. . .
And then the door opened without warning, and Jason stood in the light of the hallway, wearing his sweats and a T-shirt, and he was the most beautiful thing Lou had ever seen. So strong, so perfect, so real.
“Hey,” he said, and with bare feet he walked straight out onto the rain-soaked November driveway and put his arms around her and held her so tightly against his chest that she couldn’t even hear her own sobs.
“Come inside,” he said after a moment.
In the hallway he started asking what was wrong, what had happened, but the crying thing was happening again, only this time she managed to stop it by kissing him. When she paused for breath she took him by the hand and led him upstairs. By then he had got the idea, but he let her lead him. Lou pushed him firmly back onto the bed, pulled his sweatpants down, pulled her skirt up and her knickers to one side. Fully dressed, she fucked him because it had suddenly become desperate, urgent, like a reminder that she was alive and he was alive and all the people she cared about most in the world were, for this moment at least, alive and safe.
He was too surprised to do anything but lie there, mouth slightly open in awe at her, while the anger in her silenced the small voice of shame that told her she was being selfish, she was using him for the purposes of relief, and how was that supposed to make him feel? But she didn’t want to stop.
When it was over she fell off him awkwardly, lay beside him on the bed, breathing hard.
Say something, you silly bitch, she thought. He must hate you right now.
“I just—” she began. “I just . . . needed you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
No, that isn’t right.
She turned onto her side, so she could see his face. His eyes were closed.
“I never saw you cry before,” he said.
“I don’t let anyone see me cry.”
He turned his head toward her and opened his eyes. The tears had started falling again, this time at her own stupidity, her own failings, the sudden inability to say the right thing, to say what he needed to hear.
“Hey, no, don’t . . .” He cupped her cheek, wiped at the tears, covered her face with kisses. Whispered, “Don’t, Louisa. It’s okay, it’s okay. Shhh.”
He held her a long time before she could speak, and even then the words sounded ridiculous. All the things she could think of to try to make him understand—Scarlett’s life and how it had nearly ended, the injustice of it; not being able to help all the other Scarletts and Juliettes who were still being abused, in Briarstone, in the county, in the country, in the world. How she couldn’t stop any of it, not really. It was like standing in front of the rising tide.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Lou said, at last.
“What?” Jason asked.
“The Job,” Lou said, and admitting it turned into a sob again. “I’m so tired. I just . . . I’m so tired of it all. Of not being able to help.”
He pulled her tight against his chest, rocked her. “Are you kidding me? You’re the best detective I’ve ever worked with. You care, Louisa. Of course it’s going to hurt sometimes when you can’t fix things. But you have to let it out, not keep it all knotted up inside.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” she said at last.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you hate this,” she said. “You hate me being so wrapped up with work all the time. And you’re right; it’s just . . . this is the only way I know how to do it. I’ve never had someone else there waiting for me to come home. I don’t know how to make it better.”
“Don’t tell me what I hate,” he said gently. “And I know what it is you need to do to make it better.”
“What?” she said.
He stroked his index finger down her cheek, looking intently into her eyes. “You need to let me in.”
SAM
Tuesday 5 November 2013, 17:20
Clive Rainsford’s body had finally been removed and taken to the mortuary at Briarstone General, pending a post-mortem. The forensics team was still working, though—probably would be here for another couple of days. It was dark and raining, a persistent drizzle that soaked through clothing quickly. Sam felt for them, spending all day out in this. Against the hedge, a few bunches of flowers had been left as a mark of respect for Clive and Annie. Two tealight candles were sitting, extinguished, in a puddle.
Sam spoke to the PCSO who was standing at the cordon and asked to speak to one of the CSIs. A few moments later a woman appeared, dressed in full protective gear. At least it gave her some level of protection against the rain. When she pulled down her mask, Sam recognized her; she’d met her on many occasions.
“Astrid, hi! I was wondering if I could take a look in the back garden.” Sam squinted against the rain.
“Anything in particular you’re after? We’ve covered it already. You can look, but you’d need to get suited up.”
They stood together in the shelter of the hedge at the front of the Rainsfords’ house, looking at the scene tent that had protected much of the front lawn from the elements for the past two days. From where she stood, Sam could see the low, dark clouds being illuminated with reds and greens, the noise of small explosions amplified by the buildings all around them.
“Bloody fireworks,” Astrid said miserably. “I hate them, I do. My poor dog will be shivering under the bed.”
“I won’t keep you,” Sam said. “It’s just, when I was here on Sunday morning I noticed that someone had
removed some shrubbery at the back. Looked like it had been put through a wood-chipper, or something.”
“Yes,” Astrid said. “And the rest.”
“Something else?”
“Bits of plastic in among all the wood chips.”
Sam groaned. “I thought it was weird. I wish I’d had a look. They’d been away on holiday, and the first thing he does when he gets back is some heavy-duty landscaping? They hadn’t even unpacked. What was it, can you tell?”
“We found a chip, little bits of circuit board. My guess is a laptop. No sign of the shredder—probably hired or borrowed, or tossed into someone’s skip. It’s going in the report, anyway.”
“Thanks.”
Sam headed back to the car and sat in the driver’s seat while she waited for the fan to clear the windscreen. There was nothing she could do now, of course. The laptop, with whatever it contained, was gone. What a panic Clive Rainsford must have been in, with Scarlett’s unexpected return. He must have thought she had come back to tell the police all about what he’d done to her and her sister. The worst of it was, if destroying his laptop was so urgent that he’d had to do it before he’d even unpacked, it must have contained something bad.
By now Scarlett would probably be in an interview room, maybe with Caro, maybe not, talking about all the things she’d been through, all the times she’d trusted people and been let down, hurt, abused.
All the missed opportunities, Sam thought. So many chances they’d had to help them, all gone.
LOU
Saturday 23 November 2013, 20:52
Lou was sitting on one side of the dance floor with her hand on the white cotton tablecloth, looking across to one of the tables on the other side of the room. Jason Mercer was sitting next to her dad, their heads together as if they were deep in conversation. Every so often Jason would look up and flash her a smile.
“What on earth are they gossiping about?” Jasmine said.
“I have no idea. Dread to think.”
“He seems nice . . . what is it? I know, darling, I know you’re tired. We’ll go home soon, I promise.” Lou’s sister, Jasmine, cradled her youngest child, who was fractious and arching his back dramatically, his head dangling over the back of Jasmine’s knee.
“He is nice.”
“Serious, then, is it?”
Lou had had this question several times already from just about everybody in her immediate family and quite a few other people too, some of whom she wasn’t even sure she knew.
“We’re taking it one step at a time.” Lou had been thinking about getting these words printed across her forehead, and maybe Jason’s too.
Jason was crossing the room toward her. “Are you going to dance with me?” he asked.
“Why not?”
His arm went around her back, his fingers skimming the bare skin then coming to rest, his touch assured, firm. She held his hand and he brought it up to his mouth to kiss her fingers, then back to his chest.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” she said. “This is easier than I thought it would be.”
“Sure it is. Things are only what you make of them. It’s all easy when you relax about it.”
“What were you saying to my father?” Lou asked.
“Oh, that was your dad?” he said. “I was telling him how we’ve actually been sleeping together for more than a year. I didn’t realize who he was.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Hey. I’m kidding. He was asking me how we met, that kind of stuff. Whether I’m going to do the right thing by you, whatever that means.”
That was no better.
“You’ve tensed up,” he said. “Louisa, it’s okay. You don’t need to worry. All he wants is for his beautiful daughter to be happy, and, funny as it sounds, that’s exactly what I want too.”
“But you deserve to be happy as well,” she said.
“Sure,” he said. “And right now I am.”
Lou shook her head, not entirely certain whether she should believe him. “I know they’re a mad bunch. You’ve been very brave.”
“Well,” he said, “you’ve got to meet my folks yet. That’s going to take ‘brave’ to a whole new level.”
Shit.
“Mom’s looking forward to meeting you.”
“You think she’ll like me?” Lou asked, already dreading the prospect.
“You kidding? She’ll love you.”
His hand was on her back.
“Let’s get some fresh air, shall we?” Lou asked.
Outside the air was still and cold, despite the patio heaters under the canopy that were keeping the smokers warm. “You want me to get your jacket?” he asked.
“No,” Lou said. “I just wanted a minute. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay,” he said.
There was no point rambling about. No point trying to find a way to make it sound casual. “Well, I wondered if you wanted to move in with me. You know, see how it goes.”
He tried to keep his face neutral but he’d been drinking and so he couldn’t quite manage it. And she loved the big soppy grin and the way he hauled her into a bear hug of suffocating pressure.
“So that’s a yes?” she said, not wanting to make assumptions.
“Hell, yeah. So can we go back inside? Freezing my nuts off out here.”
“Your nuts will be fine.”
“They better be. I kinda promised your mother we’d make a start on grandkids before the end of next year.”
“Oh, you are joking.”
“Sure,” he said.
But she wasn’t convinced.
Date: 27 November 2013
To: DS Samantha HOLLANDS, Major Crime
From: DC Terry CARTWRIGHT, Special Branch
Re: Op Diamond—“YELENA”
Further to your inquiry with regards to Scarlett RAINSFORD’s interviews, I have been in contact with colleagues in Hungary facilitated by Interpol. Their records show that the body of a female was found at a truckstop near Kistelek on the E75 motorway on Monday 25 August 2003 at 05:45.
The female had been shot once in the head. The subsequent investigation failed to provide an identity for the woman, who was estimated to be between 18 and 25 years old. Due to the nature of the injuries (head/facial), efforts at identifying the female were focused on the clothing she was wearing, which suggested she may have been of Ukrainian nationality. Regrettably, further cross-border inquiries did not reveal anything of use, and the investigation was closed in 2005.
I am in the process of completing a full report for DCI Waterhouse which I will copy you on. Now that contact has been established with the Hungarian police it may be that the Cold Case team or maybe a few of us at SB could liaise with them to get the investigation reopened in the light of RAINSFORD’s cooperation.
Regards,
Terry
Acknowledgments
Completing this book has felt like a real team effort (this is good: I am at my best working as part of a team). Whilst the story is mine, the finished version you’re reading now has been immeasurably improved by the contributions and assistance of a number of people.
Firstly my brilliant editors, Jennifer Barth at HarperCollins and Lucy Malagoni at Sphere, who molded and shaped my plot into something very exciting indeed. My wonderful copy editor, Linda McQueen, checked everything far beyond the call of duty. Through the long process of editing I had great inspirational plot discussions with all three of these genius editors, for which I am most grateful. To the brilliant team at HarperCollins who worked so hard to make this book something I’m so proud of: Amy Baker, Dori Carlson, Heather Drucker, Kathryn Ratcliffe-Lee, Mary Sasso, and Erin Wicks—thank you all, you’re amazing!
Scarlett’s story was inspired in part by Sarah Forsyth’s excellent book Slave Girl, based on her own experiences of sex trafficking. Whilst I’ve attempted to give some insight into the terrible things that are happening to victims of trafficking in writing Behind Clos
ed Doors, violence, sexual assault, rape, and slavery are still rife; not just in developing countries, not just in other parts of Europe, but right here in the United Kingdom. There are no easy solutions, but ignorance and denial are a big part of the problem.
I have tried to make the police investigation as realistic as possible, and my former colleagues have been incredibly helpful in answering my questions. In particular I’d like to thank Lisa Cutts, Mitch Humphrys, Janice Maciver, Mick Hayes, Claire Hayes, Colin Kay, Alan Bennett, and Maxine Painter who helped with everything from how intelligence reports are phrased, to the provision of operation names, to procedures for helping a person in crisis. I’m very grateful for their generosity and would like to make clear that any mistakes in the book are definitely mine.
Thank you to Cat Hummel, Judy Gascho-Jutzi, Shelagh Murry, Jeannine Taylor, Bruce Head, and my wonderful sis, Heather Mitchell, who helped me to make Jason sound Canadian, whilst Joan Gannij and Peter Out kindly checked my Dutch at very short notice. I’d also like to thank Chris Kooi for the explanation of why the rush-hour traffic around Antwerp is so awful, and Giles Denning, for explaining everything I needed to know about haulage across Europe. I’m sorry I had to make Barry into a bad guy, Giles.
Behind Closed Doors was originally written during November for National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org) and I appreciate the invaluable support provided by the site and the wonderful participants.
Special thanks to my lovely friends Samantha Bowles and Katie Totterdell for plot suggestions and encouragement. I could not have written this book without you.
Lastly my gratitude to my family, and my David and Alex in particular, who gave me the space to work and think. As always, you’ve been amazing.
About the Author
Photo by Ryan Cox
ELIZABETH HAYNES is a former police intelligence analyst, a civilian role that involves determining patterns in offending and criminal behavior. She is the New York Times bestselling author of Into the Darkest Corner, which was Amazon U.K.’s Best Book of 2011; Dark Tide, Human Remains, and, most recently Under a Silent Moon, the first installment of the Briarstone crime series. She lives in a village near Maidstone, Kent, with her husband and son.
Behind Closed Doors Page 37