The Truth Will Out Page 12

  Up until this moment, Eva had supported her friend in her moments of crisis and battled to keep her opinions to herself. But she’d grown to detest Jules’ presence, his stake in her friend’s life, the way he tarnished her world. And now this? This was unforgiveable. She drew a deep breath and when she spoke her voice was steely, “Who else knows we brought that car in?”

  He looked puzzled. Shook his head. “Nobody.”

  “Then there won’t be any repercussions?”

  She watched realisation dawn on his face. “Of course. N-no. I’ll make sure of that. You guys are safe.”

  A deer at the side of the road made Eva blink and brake suddenly, jolting her back to the present. Safe. How wrong could he have been? The deer turned to look at her with soft brown eyes, before disappearing into a nearby copse. Eva ran a hand through her hair. Jules, where are you?

  He would be with Naomi, at the hospital. Yes. Despite their toxic relationship, Jules still loved Naomi. He just couldn’t wean himself off the coke. But he would look after her. Wouldn’t he?

  Eva pressed on as the sun played peek-a-boo through picture book clouds. On the approach to the town she saw a sign for workmen in the road. A traffic light ahead switched to amber, then red and she halted. For a few moments she watched three workman standing over a large pothole on the side of the road. They appeared to be discussing it, one pointed to the edge of the hole, the other shook his head.

  Instinctively, she reached for her mobile. Having lost her BlackBerry on holiday, she bought this Nokia when she got paid last Monday, a cheap ‘pay as you go’ until the insurance paid out. Thank goodness she’d taken the time to fill out the contact lists already. She switched it on. The screen stayed blank. Frustration clawed at her as she remembered… She had stopped at the services on Wednesday morning to phone work and when she tried to turn her mobile on, it was dead. She’d had to use a phone at the services. And in her haste to pack she’d left the charger behind. Her stomach dropped.

  There was no landline at the bungalow either. Eva remembered her disappointment, as a teenager, her stepfather annoyingly saying that modern appliances spoilt the peace and tranquillity of the place. She glanced across at the neighbouring field. It seemed to go on and on, meeting the horizon in the distance. She would have to wait until she reached Aberfoyle and find a payphone.

  Time stood still up here. Everything slowed down. Apart from Eva’s mind which, right now, raced faster than ever.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Helen glanced around Eva’s lounge. After the discoveries in the incident room that morning, Pemberton contacted St Anne’s services. He traced a security guard who confirmed he had seen someone that matched Eva’s description asleep in a Ford KA early Wednesday morning.

  With Jules and Eva missing, Helen couldn’t rule out the possibility that they had worked together on Naomi’s murder. Both had disappeared and failed to answer the press and Facebook appeals and both were unreachable. She applied for warrants to search their houses in the hope of finding something that either linked them to the murder, or presented a clue as to their whereabouts, and arranged for two separate teams to search each property - she led Eva’s, and Pemberton Jules’.

  A faint sweet smell tickled her nose, like crushed up rose petals. Helen looked at the brown, leather sofa, the hessian rug, the desk at the far end, the DVDs stacked untidily beneath the flat-screen television. The old fireplace had been boarded up, covered with a modern chrome electric fire, although the original wood mantle still hung over the top. Helen wandered over. A mirror hung on the wall, wooden models of the ‘three wise monkeys’ adorned the shelf. Something stuck behind the far monkey caught her eye and she squinted, drawing her face closer to look. An unframed photograph sat there, a large white border around the edge, as if it had been printed out from somebody’s computer before they had a chance to size it correctly.

  The photo was of the heads of two women, both smiling, posing for the shot; one was definitely Naomi, the blazing hair a giveaway. Helen looked at the other girl. Although she wore sunglasses, she matched the description of Eva given by Naomi’s work colleagues. She also bore a resemblance to the girl that appeared in the photograph at Naomi’s house. She turned it over in her hands, hoping for some inscription on the back, but it was bare.

  Helen looked up as Dark entered the room. “Not much in the bathroom. Toothbrush and paste are missing and I can’t see any make-up lying around. I’ll check the bedroom.”

  Helen nodded and moved into the kitchen. As she passed through the door she instinctively touched the side of the kettle. Stone cold. It hadn’t been used in a while. She glanced around at the ring of dried coffee on the side, the used mug in the sink, a pile of clean plates on the side. Something niggled at her. She crossed back to the lounge.

  The arrangement of furniture wasn’t quite right: the rug was wonky, the sofa and the coffee table sat at a strange angle. It was as if they had been knocked about and then thrown together in a hurry.

  She crossed back to the kitchen. She pulled open a couple of drawers and rummaged through a mass of receipts in one, another full of different kinds of bills in no particular order. The drawer next to the sink contained Eva’s passport sitting on a pile of papers, some of them curled and torn at the corners. They looked as though they’d been pushed in haphazardly and caught on the gap at the back of the drawer.

  She opened the passport, leafed through the blank pages and sighed. Since the opening up of Europe, British passports revealed little these days.

  She worked through the other papers: a water bill, a scrunched up receipt for a local store dated Monday, an Indian takeaway menu. Her hands halted at an airport boarding pass from East Midlands Airport to Milan Bergamo dated Saturday third of March. One way. Where was the return? She lifted a leaflet on Reiki massage from a salon called Serenity. Below was a car deck location card for P&O Ferries from Calais to Dover on Friday ninth of March. Helen glanced from the ferry card to the flight pass. Why fly out and drive back? And where did they pick the car up from?

  ***

  Jenny Wilson noticed the time and jumped up. Almost ten thirty. She opened the back door and gazed around her back garden. It wasn’t like Boots to be late. Jenny had grown accustomed to her arriving at the door, usually around eight thirty in the morning, crying for her food. Never having fed the cat before, she marvelled at how it adapted to a new routine so quickly. In fact, Jenny quite enjoyed it. She would love a furry friend, something to keep her company on these long days at home since the children had left. A cat would be nice, but Stuart refused point-blank whenever she raised the subject. He always maintained that he was allergic, although she’d never heard him sneeze or wheeze once in Boots’ presence.

  She grabbed her coat, slipped her feet into her rubber gardening shoes and trotted out into the garden. “Boots!” she called at the top of her voice. All she heard was the sound of a pigeon cooing nearby. She stood and looked around the garden for a while, then heaved herself down the steps and through the break in the hedge that led into Jules Paton’s garden. “Boots!” she called out again. For a brief moment she thought she heard a softened cry but, whatever it was, it was soon muted by the sound of the wind rustling through the magnolia beside her.

  Jenny slid the key into the lock. The back door clicked open. She stepped forward, peered into the kitchen. The cat was nowhere to be seen. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, as if she were intruding, Jenny walked up Jules Paton’s hallway. “Boots!” she called. “Where are you, honey?”

  She stole a sideways glance into the lounge through the open door to her left. Nothing. Jenny made a few more steps. She reached the front door. All was quiet. She resisted the temptation to lean down and collect the pile of post and was just about to climb the stairs when she heard a definite meow. It was coming from the garden. She turned on her feet. When she got to the back door she called out again and waited, straining her ears.

  Yes, there was the reply. It was Boots’ high
-pitched meow, she was sure of that. She followed it down to the far end of the garden and halted at the edge of the lawn in front of the garage.

  “Boots?” The meow came again. It was coming from inside. She glanced down at the battered old door. There was a gap at the bottom, where the wooden panels had rotted away, barely big enough for a fist. Silly cat, she thought.

  She looked up and down the door. Half way down there was a doorknob next to a keyhole. More in hope than expectation, she lifted her hand and turned the knob. To her surprise, the door opened.

  Before she had time to focus in the darkness, a white cat with four black legs meowed loudly, skipped over and rubbed itself around her ankles. She looked down. “Aren’t you a silly girl, getting stuck in here?” She bent down and stroked her head affectionately.

  A strange smell filled her nostrils. A damp patch of fur on Boots’ back caught her fingertips. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. It smelt like… ammonia. She moved back to it, running the pads of her fingers over the warm clump. “What have you done here?” she asked, gently.

  An arthritic pain shot through her knees. Jenny winced as she stood. Then she raised her eyes and saw the legs dangling in the air in front of her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Smatterings of shiny sunlight bounced off the blue water as Eva cornered the loch on her way back to Kinlochard. After much searching, she managed to locate a payphone in The Forth Inn on Aberfoyle’s main street. She’d phoned Naomi, then Jules, listening as both phones rang out before they switched to voicemail. Where were they?

  Freddie Mercury’s voice filled the car with ‘Who wants to live forever… ’ Eva leant forward and hiked up the volume. Queen was her mother’s favourite band. She remembered watching a Queen concert with her mum as a kid, allowed to stay up late on one of the odd occasions her stepfather worked nights. She wondered if her mum was touring South Africa now listening to them on the iPod Eva bought her last Christmas. She thought Eva was back in Hampton at work right now. Not driving past Loch Ard, listening to the same music.

  As she swung the car into Kinlochard and rose up the hill through the village, an idea pushed into her mind. Perhaps the Macdonald hotel up the road had Wi-Fi. Most hotels did these days. She could call by the bungalow, pick up her laptop, head back to the hotel and check Facebook. Rarely a day passed when Naomi didn’t make some entry. Buoyed up by her new plan, Eva pressed on.

  She sang along with the radio, the decibels in her voice releasing their own endorphins. Maybe she could persuade Naomi to come up and join her for a few days. Take a short break to recover.

  She crossed the undulation in the road before she saw the police car, flaunting its presence outside her parents’ bungalow.

  The shock hit her like a bucket of ice water. She slowed, gazed across as she crawled past, ready to accelerate at any moment. The car was empty.

  The sound of the radio was drowned out by the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears. She sped up, slamming her Ford KA around the bends.

  Finally, she pulled over. She was in the heart of the mountains now, surrounded by a forest of fir trees. She rubbed her forehead. If the police car was empty, where was the officer? She imagined him knocking at the door, peering through windows, going around the back to take a look. The curtains were all undrawn, the bed unmade, her clothes strewn over the chair…

  Eva struggled to swallow the sickly bile that rose in her throat.

  At that moment the clouds merged, swallowing the last of the sunshine. What should she do? Go back to meet the police? But why were they there?

  She opened the window and drank the fresh air. A strong smell of pine trees flushed her airways. Gradually the mist in her head started to clear. Right now she needed to get as far away from here as possible. Once again, she was on the run.

  ***

  Helen stood on the pavement outside Eva’s house and peeled the latex gloves from her hands before she answered the call.

  Pemberton didn’t introduce himself, “Ma’am, I’ve good news and bad news.”

  She looked up. The clouds had thickened in the sky, plugging any hope of sun in Hampton for the rest of the day. “I’ll take the good news first.”

  “We’ve located the friend.”

  Helen felt a frisson of excitement. “Where is she?”

  “At her parents’ bungalow in Scotland. A small village called Kinlochard, an hour north of Glasgow. Local police are there now.”

  “Is she with them?”

  “Not yet, looks like she’s gone out. But they’ve looked through the windows and can see clothes and personal items, so they’re just waiting for her to return.”

  “Brilliant! How did you find her?”

  Pemberton described how a local Kinlochard girl named Millie Buchanan was a friend of Eva’s on Facebook. Millie had seen the appeal that morning and alerted her grandmother who contacted Strathclyde police.

  “Okay, what’s the bad news?”

  “The news delayed us slightly,” Pemberton said. “We’ve only just arrived at Jules Paton’s house for the search.”

  “What’s up, Sean?”

  “Jules Paton has committed suicide. His body was found by his neighbour this morning.”

  Helen started. “Where’s the body?”

  “In the garage, hanging from the rafters. And you’ll never guess who’s here.”

  ***

  Back in her office, Helen stared at the photos of Jules Paton’s body hanging from the central rafter in his garage. He was tall, about six foot two she guessed, and thin. A white shirt covered his torso over pale denims coated in faeces. The colour had drained out of his face leaving a pale grey tinge. His eyes hung open, dry and desperate.

  She clicked to another photo, taken from a different angle. In the corner of the still she could see a kitchen chair on its side beneath the body. Hanging was one of the most common forms of suicide. A feeling of sadness washed over her. Suicides always left her feeling hollow.

  Having just come from Eva’s house, Helen couldn’t attend Jules Paton’s house in person. Everything about the scene, complete with note of admission, smacked of suicide. But Eva was still missing. If she was involved, or worked with Jules on Naomi’s murder, CSI may find forensic evidence at the scene, in the garage, nearby, indicating her presence. The last thing she needed was a defence barrister arguing that hairs and fibres belonging to Eva had been transferred by Helen or her team that morning.

  At times like this, Helen was grateful for the expertise of Pemberton. They thought the same way, adopted the same hands-on approach to policing. As soon as she’d processed his call earlier, she’d set him into action; tasked him to go through the scene with a fine-toothed comb, note everything, however insignificant it may initially appear. He took photos of the garage, then recorded the scene on his mobile phone and emailed her the footage. The CSI photographs would eventually be available, but Helen wanted to see the scene through Pemberton’s eyes. It was the next best thing to being there herself.

  Helen looked past the body in the photo. Cardboard boxes were stacked in the corner, a wooden workbench down the side, cluttered with various tools and garden accessories; a lawn mower and edge cutters leant against the far wall alongside a metal stepladder. There was a hole at the bottom of the door where the wood had rotted. This is where it was suspected that the cat crawled in. The cat that drew the neighbour’s attention to Jules’ dead body.

  The footage continued into the house. A single piece of paper rested on the kitchen table. The suicide note.

  SO SORRY FOR WHAT I’VE DONE.

  NAOMI DIDN’T DESERVE THAT.

  IT WAS THE DRUGS TALKING.

  I CAN’T LIVE WITH MYSELF.

  She stared at it awhile then pressed play and moved on. The front room looked as if it had been preserved in a museum, completely untouched. A stash of post still sat by the front door. She scanned through until she got to Jules’ bedroom. A black leather jacket rested across a pine rocking cha
ir. The camera zoomed in on the label, Toujours, and on the area that should have housed the second button up from the bottom, which was missing. He’d photographed a Baikal handgun, encased in a clear evidence bag, recovered from beneath the bed.

  Earlier, Pemberton explained that when he arrived at Jules Paton’s house that morning, he’d been surprised to find CSI crawling over the property. He immediately phoned the control room inspector who told him they’d taken a call at ten thirty that morning from Jenny Wilson, reporting the discovery of Jules’ body. When he asked them why his team wasn’t informed, the inspector was sheepish. The controller had missed the markers on Jules Paton and Operation Aspen, and referred it to local CID.

  Pemberton later discovered that Inspector Fitzpatrick’s team had seen the log and offered to deal, as Paton was linked to their enquiry. The duty detective sergeant was only too happy to oblige. With a major affray in Hampton centre last night, local CID were tied up dealing with multiple offenders.

  Anger clouded Helen’s vision. It seemed Inspector Fitzpatrick hadn’t informed her team. She had the distinct feeling he was muscling in on her enquiry. She grabbed the phone and dialled.

  Dean answered on the fifth ring, just before the voicemail kicked in. He sounded distracted.

  “What’s going on, Dean?”

  “What? We’re at Paton’s house. He committed suicide this morning…”

  “I know that! You didn’t think to call me?”

  The line crackled. “What?”

  “Jules Paton is a potential suspect in my murder investigation. We had a warrant to search his property this morning.”