‘Look,’ she said. ‘If there’s something you’d like to share with us, Mr Lovell, we can be very discreet.’
He studied her, considering his next move. He opened his mouth to say something, but French made an elaborate gesture of looking at his watch and Lovell’s face closed up. ‘I was working when they found him,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to catch the bastard, before another one turns up.’ His voice hardened. ‘Can’t let them get away with it.’
‘We don’t intend to,’ said French. ‘No way.’ He pasted on his most synthetic smile. ‘Actually, I feel a sudden urge to use the conveniences. Not going to refuse an officer of the law the chance to exercise a basic human right, are you?’
‘Toilet’s broken,’ said Lovell, his gaze pinning French in place. ‘It’s full of shit.’ The police officer blushed but he didn’t reply. The two men stared at each other for a too-long moment until French looked away.
Lovell coughed and loose phlegm rattled in his throat. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve been working for most of the night and I’m going to make myself some breakfast.’
‘Mr Lovell . . .?’ Wildeve could feel his attention slipping and she made a grab for it.
‘Aye?’
‘How long have you had that shop?’
‘More years than you’ve been alive, miss.’
‘Does the name Bridget Sawyer mean anything to you?’
‘Never heard of her.’ But his eyes flickered.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Listen, I’ve been awake for a very long time and I’m tired and I’m hungry, but if you come back later, we can talk then.’ He brushed past them, heading towards his front door.
‘What about your wife – Annie, isn’t it?’ said Wildeve. ‘Can we talk to her instead?’
Lovell became very still. He turned to face them, his movements unhurried and his gaze steady, but Wildeve noticed the hand holding his door key was trembling.
‘I said later.’
‘When?’
He spoke carefully, as if choosing the words most likely to make them leave. ‘This afternoon? Three o’clock?’
‘We’ll be there,’ said Wildeve. ‘In the meantime, if you remember anything, however small, do let us know.’
Lovell touched her arm with a rare sort of gentleness, as if he somehow suspected the horrors she had seen during the last twenty-four hours. ‘I promise,’ he said, and she believed him.
The police officers watched Trefor Lovell go into his house. As soon as the door shut behind him, French turned on Wildeve.
‘We need a warrant. Call Mac. Tell him what’s going on.’
She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘On what grounds? A terrible smell?’ She began walking briskly up the street towards her car. French had to half jog to keep up with her.
‘Oh, come on. He’s dodgy as fuck. Anyone can see that.’
‘I think he knows more than he’s letting on, yes, but we’ll get that out of him this afternoon.’
‘After we’ve given him a few hours to move the body.’
‘He said his toilet is broken.’
French grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. ‘He’s lying.’
Her temper was rising with the heat. She didn’t appreciate being interrupted or manhandled. ‘Maybe. And maybe he’s telling the truth.’ But French had a point. What if there was something sinister inside Lovell’s house? A part of her wondered whether her reluctance to take French seriously was less about distrusting his instincts and more about her dislike of him. She hesitated, unsure about what to do next.
French noticed her indecision. ‘He’s been out all night, he admitted that himself. So what was he up to? Why wasn’t he at home in bed?’
‘He was working, Bernie.’ Her car was a few metres ahead and she upped her pace, needing time to think.
‘Doing what? It’s too much of a coincidence. That, and the stink. How would you feel if he’s got some poor fucker holed up in his house, all ready to dump in the woods tonight, and we did nothing? Because that’s career-ending, and I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet.’
She forced herself to breathe deeply, and dug in her pocket for her keys.
‘I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.’ She turned to face him. ‘Look, I hear what you’re saying but we have no reason to suspect him of that. You can’t just go around accusing people of murder. We’ll take a closer look at his alibi and we’ll go back at three, and talk to him then. And hopefully, his wife. If we’re still uneasy, we’ll raise the issue of a warrant with Mac. Happy?’
‘And give him a chance to hide the evidence? Are you fucking mad?’ French slammed his hand on her car roof. The violent sound surprised them both. ‘I knew you shouldn’t be at work. It’s too soon. It’s skewing your judgement.’
A white heat consumed Wildeve. ‘Don’t you dare.’ The low throb of her anger was palpable, and it grew more intense. All-powerful. Her shout splintered the quiet of the street. ‘Don’t you fucking dare.’
‘Why not? It’s fucking true, isn’t it? Everyone thinks so.’ He was shouting too, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. ‘This is not fucking playtime. This is life and death. You should be at home, before you condemn some other fucker to an early grave.’
His words were like punches. Hard. Fast. Brutal.
She was vaguely aware of a woman walking past, craning her neck to watch them. A desire – hot and immediate – to claw at the skin of his face took hold. She wanted to hurt him. To make him feel pain.
And then DC French’s mobile began to ring.
He stalked away from her, but she could still hear him, loud and overbearing, brusque, full of his own self- importance.
‘What is it, mate? I’m up to my eyes.’
He was in profile, and she studied the outline of his strong-featured face, his aquiline nose. He could have been a good-looking man, but arrogance made him ugly.
He’s a prick, Wild. We both know it.
The warmth of Adam’s voice nearly destroyed her. He’d have listened carefully to her point of view, not shouted at her like French had. Her fury wilted. Sadness, keen and quick, took its place.
French was pacing the pavement, but he stilled and the anger building in his eyes and in the lines around his thin lips began to slide, a landslip of emotion. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards.
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
He threw his head back and laughed, an extravagant sound from deep in his stomach.
‘I knew it. I fucking knew it.’
A pause. And then he threw her a sly look. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘It will give me the greatest of pleasure.’
When he had cut the call, he swaggered back to Wildeve. She knew from the confident strut of his body that this was bad news for her.
‘Go on, then,’ she said.
‘The Assistant Chief Constable’s finally grown a pair,’ said French. ‘We’ve got to go back in. Mac’s been kicked off the case.’
45
Now
Birdie’s remains ended up in the reservoir and I shut the shop for a month. The low humidity and lack of air in the wooden chest had contributed to her mummification. If any of the children had confided in their parents, I hoped enough time had passed for their outrage to weaken. To dismiss it as childish imaginings, and move on.
But that was not the only reason.
I had someone else’s blood on my hands.
Your blood.
And I needed time to process what I had done.
46
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
25 The Avenue – 9.37 a.m.
The smoke alarm would not stop beeping.
‘Mum!’ The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and a coil of smoke rose up from the grill pan. Evan doused a tea towel in water and threw it over his blackened breakfast, like the fire safety officer had shown his class when he’d visited last term. He flapped his arms and shouted for his mother again. ‘I’ve had a bit of an accident.’
He waited a few moments, but his mother didn’t appear. The smoke alarm continued to blare, the sound drilling its way into his head. The kitchen was full of smoke. He was in big trouble. But he’d only made his own breakfast because he was still feeling sulky with his mother. Wearing his goalie gloves and an anxious expression, he ran down the hallway and called to her through the study door.
‘My toast is on fire.’ Strictly speaking, that wasn’t exactly true, but he thought the dramatic sound of it would rouse her from her work.
Silence.
He hesitated, and went in. His mother’s computer was on the desk and the bag she used for work was slung in the corner. Her glasses case was by the keyboard, a thin cardigan draped across the chair’s arm. A notebook with Olivia Lockwood embossed on its front sat next to a silver pen and a coffee mug.
It looked like she had only popped out for a minute.
He called again, irritated and hungry. ‘Mum.’
Evan checked the downstairs toilet, the dining room and the garden. An empty glass sat on the patio table, a wasp crawling across the residue of stickiness at its bottom. The patio light was still on and her Kindle was on the table next to her car keys, as if she had just put them down.
There was no sign of his mother.
Through the open window, Evan could still hear the smoke alarm. He went back inside and stood, uncertain, in the hallway. He switched tack. ‘Dad?’ A pause to see if his call would be answered. ‘Where are you?’ And then he remembered. His father had an all-day job interview in London and had left before Evan woke up.
The boy went back into the kitchen. The smoke alarm had stopped now, but the silence rang. He put the toast on a plate and covered it with a thick layer of chocolate spread. But it didn’t satisfy his hunger, it made him feel sick.
He cast around for a note but the worktops and table were empty.
His mother would never have gone out without telling him.
She would be back in a minute.
47
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
26 The Avenue – 9.41 a.m.
Fletcher Parnell wasn’t just playing with fire, he was sticking his hand into the flames.
He adjusted the finderscope until he was zoomed in on the female police officer. She was shouting at the man with her, and her face was all twisted up. The anger pulsed off her in waves like an asperitas formation. The air shimmered with heat.
They were walking up the road, in the direction of his house. For a moment, she looked straight up at the window and he panicked, swinging his telescope wildly until it pointed the opposite way. He crouched down beneath the sill, his back to the cold radiator, heart in his mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ Dessie was standing in the spare-room doorway, wearing her running gear and a perplexed expression.
He laughed, patted his palms across the carpet. ‘Dropped my cufflink.’
She peered closely at him. ‘You look tired.’ Glanced at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘Shouldn’t you?’
‘Job’s been cancelled, smartarse.’
He laughed and made another performance of looking for his cufflink before standing up and pulling her into a hug.
Her body stiffened, but then relaxed. ‘Seen any good clouds?’ she murmured, biting the lobe of his ear.
‘Clear skies today.’ He nudged her away. ‘I better get going,’ he said.
She followed him downstairs, chatting as he tied up the laces of his brogues. The sun poured through the front door’s stained glass, reds and blues and greens pooling on the hallway floorboards. A sweat was rising on his forehead. Another scorcher.
‘Did you think any more about our holiday?’
Shit.
‘I fancy America. Or Canada. What about Niagara Falls?’ She reeled off several other places she would like to visit.
‘I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get away. Work’s crazy at the moment.’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Everyone deserves a break, Fletch, even if it’s just for a week.’
‘I don’t know where my passport is. I’ve got a horrible feeling it’s expired.’
‘Well, get a new one,’ she said, impatience creeping in. A sudden thought. ‘It’s not money, is it? I mean, it’s not as if you pay me much rent, is it?’
‘It’s not the money.’
‘So you’ll book the time off?’
‘We’ll see, OK?’
Dessie pouted. ‘Sounds like you don’t want to go on holiday with me.’
He pocketed his keys and reached for her hand. ‘I do, it’s just difficult with work at the moment. But I’ll do my best.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Fletcher had a high, tight pain in his chest as he left the house and headed towards the train station. The police officers were climbing into separate cars and he looked away, keen not to make eye contact. If he’d been honest from the beginning, he wouldn’t be in this situation.
He wouldn’t be living a lie. He wouldn’t be full of regrets. He wouldn’t be worrying about paperwork and visa applications, pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
But there was no way he could come clean now.
He flicked his gaze towards number twenty-five. The windows were open and he could hear the urgent call of a smoke alarm. He started towards the house, but as he reached the gate leading up their path, he faltered and turned away.
No, stupid to get involved.
This was his new beginning. He mustn’t fuck it up.
48
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
Major Incident Room, Rayleigh Police Station – 10.56 a.m.
The whole investigating team had been recalled to the incident room for the 11 a.m. briefing.
A metallic taste filled Wildeve’s mouth. Her anger had gone. Now she was wrung out and empty. Her legs felt weak and she gripped the back of a chair to anchor herself.
Voices rose in the airless space. A babble of gossip and rumour. She tried not to look at the bank of photographs on the wall, but she was drawn to Adam.
His pale face. Bloodied eye sockets and their glass imposters.
A tunnel opened up in front of her. A black void. She blinked several times and felt an arm steady her; realized, too late, she had been swaying. She flashed a grateful smile at the female sergeant. Her tongue was thick and dry in her mouth.
French was beside himself, jigging his foot, arms flying about as he talked to Detective Chief Inspector Roger Sampson. Not only had French’s nemesis Clive Mackie been pulled from the case, the replacement was his own chief inspector, drafted across from the Brentwood murder squad.
Parking had been a nightmare and it seemed French had arrived back before her, dripping poison in Sampson’s ear.
Because of the media outcry and the scale of the inquiry, the investigating team had been drawn from four different homicide teams, pooling expertise and manpower, but the divisions between them were clear to see. French had commandeered a chair near the front, leaning back to chat to colleagues behind him. DC Jim Sheridan was sitting on the other side of the room next to Adam’s best friend, PC Simon Quick. They had saved her a seat and she slipped in beside them.
DCI Sampson turned to address the assembled officers. He didn’t beat about the bush. The rigours of the case had been too much for Mac and he was retiring with immediate effect.
A collective gasp spread out across the room. Wildeve and Sheridan exchanged a glance. Sampson had made it sound as if their boss had made the decision himself but everyone in the room knew Mac’s demotion had left him no choice but to leave.
Then it was down to business.
Sampson was meticulous and organized. He allocated every officer a job and a ticket. He wrote each ticket number in his book so he remembered who was supposed to be doing what. He barked orders. He demanded that his best officers go over each of the murders again, starting with Natalie Tiernan, the first victim. He was tough and thorough
and switched-on.
The team began to drift away. All except Wildeve, who was still awaiting instruction.
‘What do you need me to do, guv?’
‘Wildeve Stanton, isn’t it?’ said Sampson.
She was aware of French lingering near the door and turned away from him. ‘Yes, guv.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss. We all are. I didn’t know your husband, but I understand he was an excellent officer.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Clearly, this is an extremely distressing time for you. Why don’t you take a few weeks off? You need a chance to process what’s happened. Come back when you’re ready.’
‘That’s kind of you. I appreciate it. But I’d rather be at work.’
DCI Sampson blew out a long, slow breath. ‘Look, I’m not quite sure how to put this and it’s understandable, of course, but there have been some concerns about your ability to focus fully on the job.’
Her stomach plunged. Adam whispered in her ear. Keep your cool. ‘They’re unfounded, guv. I’m entirely focused. I don’t want to be at home. I know you need officers on the ground and I want to help find Adam’s killer.’
‘It’s not a question of choice.’
His words took a moment to sink in before the penny dropped. He was ordering her to go home. A heat suffused her face and she glanced at French, who smirked before slipping through the door.
‘It was Bernie French, wasn’t it? Who raised these “concerns”. With all due respect, he’s lying, guv. We had a difference of opinion, that’s all. Did he tell you he turned up for work late this morning? That he was driving, still hungover, reeking of alcohol? No, I bet he didn’t.’ The words tumbled from her, the injustice oiling her tongue and her temper. ‘He’s lazy, sir. And indiscreet. He jumps to conclusions. Doesn’t pull his weight.’
DCI Sampson patted her arm.
‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re overwrought and emotional. Unsurprisingly so. I need clear thinkers on my investigation. I don’t care for petty politics between my officers. I want results.’ His voice softened but there was steel in it. ‘Do yourself a favour, Wildeve, and get yourself home.’
The Neighbour Page 13