Читать книгу Her Deadly Secret - Chris Curran - Страница 12

Loretta

Loretta made a point of straightening her shoulders and smiling at Tony, the desk sergeant, as she walked into the nick. ‘Morning, Tony. How’s it going?’

‘Morning, Loretta. Can’t complain.’ He wasn’t a bad guy, but when she pushed through the double doors, it was just her luck to collide with Maggie and Les.

Maggie looked Loretta up and down. ‘Like the jacket, Lorry. Suits you. Must be nice to get out of uniform.’ She was the one who’d thought up the nickname, pretending it was affectionate. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Loretta’s such a mouthful.’ And the cartoon – stuck on the noticeboard on Loretta’s birthday – of her face on the front of a truck with a bulbous arse in place of the back end. The wording, ‘Many Happy Returns to Our Lovely Lorry’, doing nothing to disguise the malicious intent – they knew they wouldn’t get away with anything openly racist. Now Les, the sidekick, stood smirking, waiting to see her reaction.

‘Thanks. Yeah, it does make a change. You should go for the FLO training yourself, Maggie. What with your people skills.’ Smile, show you’re not bothered. It was what she told her kids, but it wasn’t easy. Thank God for Andy, coming out of the Gents with a big generous smile to match his big generous body. He bumped her with his shoulder as they walked towards the DCI’s office, letting her know he was on her side. But he didn’t speak till they were out of earshot of Maggie and Les.

‘Did Philips call you in?’

‘Yeah, do you know what’s up?’

‘The main man from The Children of Light is in there with him. Not too happy by the look of him. Have you been to see them?’

‘’Course not. I’m sticking with the family.’

‘Oh, well, you’re probably all right then.’

She didn’t feel all right and she stood outside the office for a long minute, wondering what she’d done. She took a deep breath and knocked, waited, then knocked again, before opening the door. ‘Sir, I …’

Although Philips was flapping his hand at her and saying, ‘Yes, Constable, come in, come in,’ it was the other man who attracted her attention. As she walked into the room, he stood and held out his hand. She resisted the urge to wipe her damp palm on her trousers.

She’d seen this man: Pastor Jerome, they called him on those posters The Children of Light plastered up in various places in the town. He was on the Internet too, but she hadn’t realized how tall he was. Close on six five, at a guess, and broad, though not fat.

He gestured to a chair, but she looked towards Philips. ‘This is Pastor Jerome, Constable. Constable Loretta Peterson, sir.’ He paused while they nodded at each other, Loretta very aware of the pastor’s eyes sizing her up.

‘Sit down, Constable, this concerns you too.’ The edge on Philips’s voice told her she needed to be wary.

Although he was a huge man, the pastor didn’t stretch his legs or splay them out, invading her space the way some guys did. She was very aware of his breathing and the heat of him, but forced herself to focus on Philips.

‘The pastor has come in about the Lily Marsden case. Apparently, Mr Marsden visited The Children of Light’s headquarters yesterday, asking questions. He was quite aggressive. Seems he found out Lily had been there and—’

‘I gather Joe had been told about Lily’s connection with us by you,’ the pastor said and his chair creaked as he turned to her, but she kept her eyes on Philips: he hated to be interrupted. But Jerome was clearly used to taking charge of a conversation. ‘And, Loretta,’ his use of her first name startled her into meeting his eyes, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but we don’t much care for formalities in our group. When Lily joined us she was adamant that her family shouldn’t be told.’ His smile flashed like a blade.

‘That’s hardly relevant now, sir? And a 14-year-old shouldn’t be encouraged to keep secrets like that. Joining a sect is a serious business.’

The pastor pulled his feet back under his chair, and his fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to clench into fists. Philips was needling him and getting the upper hand. Loretta might have enjoyed it, but she was all too aware that as soon as Jerome left she could be in the firing line. Oh well, might as well go for it.

‘What we’d like to know, sir, is about her boyfriend, Samuel Barnes, who is part of your group. Can you tell us where to find him? I’m sure you realize he could be a vital witness – to her state of mind and so on.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve been misled. Samuel may have met Lily, but that’s all. We don’t encourage anything more than respectful fellowship between the sexes. Our unmarried members remain celibate and youngsters are always chaperoned.’ This was addressed not to her but to Philips, their eyes still locked together.

‘Lily’s friends are sure Samuel was her boyfriend.’

Jerome turned to her, making a show of the fact that she had his complete attention. ‘Well, Loretta, have you thought that maybe Lily used Samuel as a way to explain her joining our group? It can be difficult for our young converts to admit an attraction to something so different from the normal teenage interests.’

Philips was getting impatient. ‘What do you know about Lily’s biological father? We gather she was born when her mother, Hannah, was one of your group.’

‘Yes, Hannah Leigh, as she was then, was pregnant when she arrived and never spoke about the father. We certainly didn’t press her on the subject.’

‘Still, we will need to talk to this …’ Philips looked down at a piece of paper on his desk. ‘Samuel Barnes. And to interview anyone who knew Hannah, or Lily, at your organization.’

The pastor smiled. ‘Of course, we’ll cooperate. As far as our rules allow, that is.’ Philips let that one go. ‘But, Samuel, I’m afraid, is no longer with us.’

‘No longer at your farm, or no longer one of your members? Perhaps living at one of your other houses?’ Loretta asked.

Jerome swivelled to face her again, still with that superior smile. ‘Now there you have me. I’ll need to check on that.’

* * *

‘Not so fast, Constable.’ Loretta had hoped to get out as soon as the pastor left, but Philips obviously wasn’t finished with her. ‘What were you up to, telling the father about the girl’s links with that lot?’

‘I thought he would know about the boyfriend already.’

‘Well, next time think a bit more carefully, will you. He’s still the most likely doer, so it’s down to you to get information out of him, not to let him pump you.’

‘OK, sir. Sorry.’

‘Right, just watch it. The Children of Light is a powerful organization and the pastor has the money and the contacts to make our life difficult.’ Loretta nodded and he continued. ‘You need to focus on the parents. Get the name of the real father out of the mother for a start. I’ll bet it was one of those characters the blessed Jerome is so adamant are celibate. So, stop farting about and get her talking.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Best to say as little as possible when he was in this kind of mood.

‘And really work on the husband too. There’s fibres and DNA all over her clothes, so someone was up close and personal. Let’s hope we can match them to Joe Marsden. Unless, of course, she tracked down the real father. If he is one of The Children of Light and she found him and threatened to expose him as not quite so celibate after all, that would put the frighteners on him well and truly.’

‘The dad, Joe, was in Cumbria doing a land survey for the three days before the murder, though.’

‘Working on his own in the middle of a field. Yeah – great alibi. And he’s self-employed so there’s no boss we can check with. If you and forensics would just pull your fingers out, we could have this sorted in no time. Get on with it, will you?’

Joe

The only place he could relax a bit these days was in the shower, and as he stripped off, Joe thought he’d never been so clean. In here, with the warm water hissing over him, he could think and even allow himself to feel. And he needed to do that right now. The FLO had been with them all day, trying to get Hannah to tell her who Lily’s real dad was. He’d tried to eavesdrop, but Loretta took Hannah into the living room and closed the door.

Hannah stayed in there when Loretta came out, just staring at the wall, as far as he could see. Loretta asked him to make them all some tea, then started on at him. Going over the same old stuff; asking the same things in different ways. Always with a casual smile, so you couldn’t let your guard down for a minute.

How did he and Hannah get together?

He saw her walking down a country road in the pouring rain with a baby in a buggy and gave her a lift.

Why didn’t they have more kids?

It never happened and Lily was enough for both of them.

How did he feel about Lily getting a boyfriend?

Like he said before, he didn’t know, but he would have been OK with it.

And on and on until they both became aware of a phone ringing inside her bag. She grabbed the bag, scrabbled to get the phone just as it stopped, took a quick look, and said, ‘Sorry about that, Joe.’ But it gave him the chance to get up and open the fridge, making it clear he had things to do.

She sighed. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Then grabbed her coat, her bag and waved her phone at him as she dashed out. ‘Call me if you think of anything more, or if Hannah needs me.’

They thought it was him. However concerned Loretta pretended to be, however many times the Chief Inspector or Detective Sergeant Davis told him the questions, and the DNA tests, the searches of his computer, his bank statements and whatnot, were just to eliminate them from our enquiries, it was obvious they wanted to catch him out.

The sobs came then. And he stood with the water gushing over his face, washing his tears down the drain, which was where they belonged, for all the good they did. And that was the worst of it: the helplessness. It was all right for them. If they locked him up, put him away, they could say they’d got a result and could forget about Lily too.

He switched off the shower, sitting, still wet, on the edge of the bath – ‘Oh, Lily’ – his hands clenched on the cool enamel as he swayed back and forth. He’d lost Hannah too, lost the woman he loved. Because the bastard who killed their lovely girl had destroyed them. Killed everything that mattered to them.

He stood and pulled a big towel round him. Thinking like this was no use. He rubbed his hair and face. The towel didn’t smell too good; he’d have to do some more washing. Had to look after Hannah.

He never wanted to come out of the bathroom when he’d finished. But then he would get into a panic, thinking Hannah might have done something desperate while he wasn’t there to keep an eye on her. But when he opened the door this time she was just outside, holding his towelling dressing gown.

‘Hannah, love, you gave me a shock.’ Please, don’t walk away. Talk to me.

She was looking at the carpet, but she gave him the dressing gown. ‘Here, you need this.’ Her voice was barely there, but at least she was speaking to him and, as he shoved his arms into the sleeves, she stayed where she was. When he tied the belt, and let the towel slip to the floor, she picked it up. ‘Towel needs a wash. I’ve been leaving it all to you. I’m sorry, Joe.’

‘It doesn’t matter, sweetheart. I’m just so scared when you won’t talk to me.’ He swallowed. ‘Hannah, you don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?’

Her eyes met his, her hand at her mouth. ‘Is that what you’ve been thinking? Oh, no, of course I don’t. Oh, Joe …’ And there, in the little hallway, with the bathroom door handle pressing into his back, she came into his arms and rested her head, where it fitted so naturally, into the hollow under his shoulder.

Rosie

As her mum pulled into the car park of the modern block of seafront flats in Bexhill, Rosie came back from her memories. This was where she’d lived with Marion in the years after it happened as they’d tried to make some kind of life and forget all about Rosie’s father. Marion said that was the only thing they could do. Remember Alice and forget her killer.

But a few months ago, she’d announced she’d been to visit her ex-husband in jail, that he was getting out and that – unbelievably – he was coming to live with her. ‘Because, after talking to him, I realize he didn’t do it and now we’ve got the chance to make amends.’

Neither Rosie nor Oliver could understand what had happened. Oliver said the old man must have spun Marion some line. She said he looked terrible, so maybe a mixture of pity and guilt had made her willing to believe any rubbish he told her.

But what on earth had made Rosie agree to come? The complete change in her mother’s attitude baffled her, but she knew nothing her father said could make a difference to the way she felt. She scrabbled in her bag for a bottle of water and swigged at it, making Marion wait to lock the car.

Rosie’s legs felt weak as they toiled up the three flights of familiar stairs to the flat, and outside the door, as Marion fumbled with her key, she had to steady herself on the wall.

The door opened straight into the living room. And there he was.

His eyes were closed, thank God, so she could look at him before he saw her. What she’d expected she wasn’t sure, but he seemed hardly to have changed. His shoulders filled the winged armchair and his long legs, clad in jeans, were stretched out in front: just the way he always used to sit.

He was 63 and her mum said he’d been ill, hinting he might even be dying. Although he was thinner he looked healthy enough to Rosie. Except for his hands, which had been turned into swollen-knuckled claws by the arthritis. The arthritis that forced him to retire from playing the violin and leave the orchestra. The start of all the bad times.

Marion gave his arm a gentle shake. ‘Look, dear, it’s Rosemary come to see you.’ She spoke as if to a child, or someone senile, as she plumped a cushion on the sofa facing his chair. ‘Sit down, love, and I’ll get us all some tea.’ Rosie carried on standing, arms crossed.

When Bernard opened his eyes, she could see changes there. They looked opaque, as if he had cataracts, and a web of fine lines covered his face. But he pushed himself up to sit higher in the armchair with a vigorous movement.

‘Well, this is a surprise.’ His voice brought the past back so vividly that Rosie felt herself flinch.

‘Hello, Dad.’ What else could she say?

He had the grace to look down and run his crooked fingers through his hair. He still had hair, she noticed, although it was thinner and iron-grey with no traces of brown.

‘Rosemary, it’s good to see you. I didn’t expect …’ He glanced towards the kitchen where water splashed and crockery clattered.

Rosie tried to slow her breathing. She told herself she was an adult now. ‘I just came to ask what you’re playing at. You see, I’m confused. First, you spend years denying everything, letting me and Mum go through all kinds of agony, then you admit it. And now you’re saying you were innocent all along. It just doesn’t make sense.’

He shifted in the armchair. ‘It’s been hard on the two of you, I know.’

Rosie felt his eyes on her, but refused to look at him, gazing instead over to the picture window at the silhouette of a boat moving across the grey sea. She was tired and longed to sit down, but – no – it wouldn’t do to come down to his level.

The view was the only thing she had ever liked about the flat, but today the sea was still – a strip of corrugated metal – and when the boat moved out of view there was nothing else to look at. She stayed where she was as her dad kept talking.

‘You see, at the end, when your mother came to visit me, I realized I had to get out. And if you keep maintaining your innocence, they say you’re in denial and the parole board won’t even consider recommending you for release.’

Rosie couldn’t hold back a tiny laugh. That tone, so superior, how well she remembered it. She forced herself to look hard at him. ‘You told them you did it so you could get out, but at the same time you were saying you were innocent to Mum? I don’t suppose that had anything to do with the fact that she wouldn’t take you in if she still thought you killed Alice?’

As he shook his head she realized there had been a slight tremor there all along, so maybe he was ill. She stopped the thought. His health has nothing to do with any of this. ‘With Mum going on about it these last weeks, I’ve been thinking back and I remember worrying because I might have got you into trouble, somehow, by saying the wrong thing. You seemed very keen to make sure the police thought we’d got back home at more or less the same time. Why was that?’

Marion was beside her, sliding a tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits onto the glass table in front of Bernard. She sat on the armchair next to him, so close their knees touched, reaching out to take his hand.

But he carried on looking at Rosie: unblinking. His only movement was that gentle shake of his head. The silence and the look seemed to go on forever as if he wanted to read Rosie’s mind. ‘I was trying to protect you. To make sure they didn’t upset you.’

Marion broke the silence. ‘Go on, Bernard, love, tell her.’ Then, without waiting for him to speak, she turned to her daughter, eyes wide, lashes flicking furiously. ‘He’s got proof. He can show you.’

Bernard placed his other hand on top of Marion’s for a moment. Then moved both hands away and folded them under his chin, the way he used to when she or Alice asked for extra pocket money. ‘I’m sorry, Marion, my love. I’m sorry, Rosemary, but I don’t think I should say anything more.’

Rosie turned to leave.

‘No, darling, don’t go … Bernard, tell her,’ Marion said. ‘About the letters.’

Her mother was pulling at his sleeve like a little girl, but his eyes were still on Rosie. He spoke slowly and steadily. ‘I got a series of letters, while I was inside. As time went by it became clear they were from someone who knew the truth.’

Rosie allowed herself to meet his eyes. A long moment passed. ‘OK, let me see them.’

His voice was very soft. ‘Can’t you take my word? Mine and your mother’s?’

Marion’s head jerked round to look at her. ‘I’ve seen them. It’s true. You’ve got to believe us.’

This was ridiculous. ‘But they censor mail in prison. Someone would have seen.’

He smiled at her very gently. ‘They were brought to me by my solicitor and, anyway, they were too vague for anyone who wasn’t involved to understand the subtext.’

Subtext, Christ, he was giving her a lecture. ‘But not too vague for you or Mum?’

Marion, now, her voice breathy. ‘That’s right. The final letters anyway. It was obvious to me.’

Rosie’s throat seemed to have closed up, but she managed to say: ‘What was obvious?’

‘That whoever wrote them could prove your dad was innocent.’

It had felt draughty where Rosie stood near the door, but suddenly the room seemed stifling and she wanted only to get out, to get away from here, but she had to go on. ‘So who wrote them? Who did they say did it?’

Instead of answering, her mother made a little noise and turned away. Her husband touched her hand, looking steadily at Rosie. ‘The letters were anonymous, and they didn’t identify the killer.’

Her mother’s voice was gruff. ‘But it was clear they knew. And yet he’s prepared to leave it like that. Didn’t even want me to tell you.’

Her dad’s eyes were unwavering. ‘Your mother got herself into a bit of a state. And I don’t want you to go through that.’ He looked back at Marion and rested his clawed hand on her knee. ‘It’s past history and digging it up will do more harm than good.’

For some reason Rosie wanted to cry. Why were they still keeping things from her? What did they have to hide? ‘Is that it? Well then, I’m sorry, Mum. If that’s the best there is …’ She willed him to meet her eyes again, but she might have been invisible. ‘It’s just not enough.’ As she turned there was a whimper from her mother.

Before she closed the door she heard her father’s voice, not a tremble in it. ‘It’s all right, darling. Let her go.’