The Truth Will Out Page 17

  A low flying plane droned overhead. She held a hand up to shield her eyes and watched it, listening to the sounds of the purring engine as it disappeared into the tufts of cloud. The emptiness it left behind flushed her brain injecting clarity of thought. She needed to rejoin the land of the living.

  Instinctively, Eva placed her hand in her jacket pocket and foraged around. Her heart sank. Her mobile was back at the guest house. She’d bought a new charger in Glasgow and charged it overnight. But having been switched off for so long, she had taken to leaving it behind - in stark contrast to her previous life where she carried it everywhere with her, accessed her emails, Facebook, the internet, sent endless texts. It was time to pick up the threads of her previous life and mend them. She turned on her heels and hurried back in the direction of the guest house.

  ***

  Helen arrived at the station just after eight and felt her heart drop at the sight that greeted her. Parked diagonally opposite was George Sawford lifting his briefcase and coat out of the boot.

  Last November, on her first murder investigation with the homicide squad, Jenkins had suggested that Sawford be brought in to assist and share the wealth of knowledge he’d gained through managing serious criminal cases over the past nine years. Helen didn’t doubt his competence. What concerned her intensely was his agenda. Nicknamed ‘Celebrity Cop’, Sawford played golf with most of the chiefs he worked with, entertained local councillors and MPs. His political persona was more important to him than the jobs he worked on, or the colleagues he worked alongside. Getting a result was all that mattered.

  Fortunately, his visit was brief. Helen had located the killer within a day of his arrival. Although he appeared outwardly pleased, his tight mannerisms had betrayed his true feelings. He didn’t like to be beaten to the finishing line.

  Her mind raced. The last she heard, Sawford was on secondment with Police Professional Standards Unit. What was he doing here?

  He shut the boot and turned to face her. “Helen!” He closed the short gap between them in seconds. A whiff of musky aftershave brushed the air around her.

  “George.” She lifted her head in acknowledgement and shook his proffered hand. His fox-like face creased into a smile. He was probably the only male officer in the station smaller than her. “So, what brings you to Hampton?”

  “Just checking in on my team,” he said. He juggled his overcoat, as it fought to slip down his arm.

  Helen creased her forehead. “I thought you were with PPSU?”

  “Oh, short term,” he said, waving his arm dismissively. “Just on secondment to examine a particular case whilst Bellows was on paternity leave.”

  Helen pondered inwardly how the PPSU would have suited him. Even though they shared the same rank, he would love to think that he was working on cases that were far too important to share with the likes of her.

  “Anyway, now I’m with MOCT.”

  She managed to quash her surprise before it showed. He didn’t seem a likely boss for Dean. “Oh, I hadn’t realised.”

  “Yes, been with them since the middle of January. Acting Superintendent. Come down to congratulate them on their result. Wonderful news.”

  Their result. “Mmm.”

  “Quite surprising. All happened rather quickly from what I’ve heard?” He extended his free arm towards the door, gesturing she walk with him. Right now, she wanted to move in the opposite direction, yet approaching the station anyway, she was out of options. “I understand you played a part.”

  Helen fought to keep her composure and said nothing.

  They reached the door and he paused, holding it open for her. “Perhaps you’d fill me in?”

  She glanced across at him as she passed through the entrance, wondering what he was up to. Previous experience in working with Sawford combined with anecdotes from colleagues had taught her a valuable lesson: he played games and pulled peoples’ strings as if they were a puppet, always with his own agenda. Well, she wasn’t going to be played. “I think your inspector is better versed to do that since he’s taken over the case file.”

  Sawford didn’t react although Helen was convinced she saw the glimmer of a smile tickle his lips. They climbed the stairs together. “Interesting, though,” Sawford said thoughtfully as they reached the corridor. The warmth of the building had produced a ruddiness in his cheeks. “And with the ballistics news linking the gun with the Stratton case, it all seems very tight.”

  Helen stopped in her tracks. “Pardon?”

  George turned back to face her. “I didn’t realise you hadn’t heard. The results just came through. The gun used in the Stratton shooting shared the same characteristics as that in the Naomi Spence murder.”

  Her jaw tightened. “No, I hadn’t heard.”

  “I’m sure your team will fill you in.”

  They reached the second floor. George stopped. “Good to see you, Helen.” He twisted on his heels and pulled open the door that led to the MOCT suite.

  Helen stared into the empty air behind him, feet fixed to the spot. Leon Stratton’s shooting was one of her unsolved murders. How could this discovery not have reached her?

  Just as the door was about to close, a hand wrapped around the edge. Sawford’s face appeared above it. “Helen, just one question, how do you find DI Fitzpatrick?”

  The question, out of the blue as it was, knocked her sideways. Was this something to do with her previous affair with Dean? Was he aware of it? If so, how many others were? Or, was he questioning Dean’s detective skills, his judgement?

  She decided to play it safe. “Well, it’s only been a couple of days, George. You’ll need to judge that one for yourself.”

  He nodded and disappeared. Helen stared at the door. It seemed like an odd question. But, as she trudged up the stairs to the incident room, the investigation and the cold cases swamped her mind, pushing any questions about their relationship to a far corner.

  The incident room was quiet on her approach. Most of her team had taken advantage of a Saturday off, the urgency of a homicide investigation now passed. Only Pemberton and Dark were present. He hovered over a map of Roxten on the far wall. She tapped away at her keyboard. Having delivered the news to Naomi’s parents yesterday, no doubt she was putting the finishing touches to her family liaison officer’s report for Dean’s team.

  Dark looked up briefly as she entered. Pleasantries exchanged, Pemberton turned to face her.

  “I understand we’ve had some more news?” Helen said.

  “You’ve heard about the ballistics results then.”

  “Sawford told me on the stairs. When did we find out?”

  “Them, or us?”

  Helen felt frustration clawing its way back in. “What are you talking about?”

  “Dean’s team knew yesterday,” he said. “I found out on the grapevine this morning.”

  Helen looked at him, incredulous. She wasn’t only being pushed aside on the Spence murder, but on the cold cases too. What was Dean up to? Seeking brownie points? She knew that MOCT funding would be reviewed shortly. Maybe he thought if he could gather results like this, there was a better chance of securing it. But on her patch? How could he?

  Once again, she had let down her wall and let him in. And once again she had regretted it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Molly, the guest house landlady, was kneeling in the hallway, tidying the information leaflets when Eva opened the front door.

  “Hello dear. Oh, don’t you look better!” She pushed wisps of grey hair out of her face as she hauled herself up. “The fresh air has brought the colour back to your cheeks.” She ushered Eva in, squeezed past her to close the front door. “I’ve just made drinks. Would you like one?”

  Eva immediately felt the warmth of the house wrapping around her. The air was loaded with the smell of freshly filtered coffee. “No, thank you.”

  “There’s been a man here looking for you.”

  Eva jolted. “What?”

  “A pol
iceman actually, although he wasn’t in uniform. Stayed and chatted awhile. He was just checking to see if you are okay.” She tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “It sounds like somebody’s worried about you.”

  Eva stared back at her, feeling the air squeezed out of her lungs.

  Molly seemed to sense her anxiety. “Don’t worry, dear! He was such a nice young man. Just concerned. Left a note. Now, where did I put it?” She rummaged in her pocket, retrieved a creased piece of paper and unfolded it. “No, that’s not it. Wait there.”

  Eva watched her amble into the kitchen. As soon as she was out of sight, she took to the stairs, two at a time. How did they find her?

  As soon as she reached her room, she crossed to the bedside table and retrieved her mobile phone, still plugged into the charger. She switched it on, willing it to life.

  The door knocked. She jumped, like a child caught peeling wallpaper from behind the settee. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, dear,” Molly cried out.

  Eva opened the door and Molly handed her an A5 piece of paper, folded neatly in half.

  Eva stared at it.

  Molly smiled at her gently, touched her arm. “Are you okay, dear?”

  She fought to get the words out. “Yes.”

  “Are we staying another night?”

  “No… Thank you. I think I need to get back.”

  Molly gave her a knowing nod.

  She closed the door, rushed to her bedside and reached out for her phone, her final bastion of hope. The screen lit. It was searching. She prayed there would be a signal. Yes, two bars! A plethora of messages sprung up from a past life. A life without fear.

  As she scrolled through the messages she saw it, a message from Naomi, her best friend. Nothing unusual in that. Except the message was sent the day after she died.

  The room turned hazy. She cast the phone aside, sat back onto the bed, a hand clasped to her temple. Slowly her vision cleared. The phone rested on her bedside table and she stared at it, as if it was a grenade ready to explode.

  The note sat on the bed next to her. She snatched it, unfolding it slowly. It bore a crested emblem with Strathclyde Police printed below, alongside a telephone number:

  PLEASE CONTACT DC GILMORE AT STRATHCLYDE CID ON THE NUMBER BELOW AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE.

  THIS IS A ROUTINE ENQUIRY. NOT AN EMERGENCY.

  Eva turned the paper over in her hands. It certainly looked legitimate. But anybody could produce something like that on a home PC. Anyone could copy and paste the logo.

  She reached out for her phone. Tentatively, she stroked the screen. It lit up. She viewed her messages again, and gasped. Naomi’s number was top of the list. Another message, sent a minute earlier. Goosebumps pricked her arms. She blinked back tears and clicked to open the message:

  You can’t run forever.

  Eva’s body began to shake. A sudden thought struck her. It was possible to trace somebody through the GPS on their mobile phone. With trembling hands she leapt forward and switched it off.

  ***

  Nate surfaced at around nine o’clock the following morning. He pulled on his joggers, made his way downstairs into the kitchen, opened the fridge and glugged juice out of the carton. As he shut the fridge door, he felt a presence. He turned. The kitchen was empty.

  He wandered through to the living room. Dressed in a black t-shirt and boxer shorts, Chilli sat on his chair at the far end, staring into space. He looked as though he’d been there all night. He didn’t acknowledge Nate, his gaze fastened to a black bin liner sitting beside the table. A red stained Manchester City football shirt, just like the one Richard Elsdon, one of their runners wore, spilled out of the top. Spatters of blood marked the surrounding carpet.

  “They think I’m too old for all this,” Chilli said, without looking up.

  Nate scanned the sofa, curtains and coffee table for more blood. There was none.

  “That’s the problem when you get to the top,” Chilli continued. “Everyone wants your crown.”

  Nate stared at Chilli as his uncle finally made eye contact. He stood, approached his nephew and slapped him on the back, affectionately gripping his neck. “You’re the only one I can trust now, Nate. That’s why we’re special.” He turned to leave the room. “I need you to make that disappear. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

  ***

  Helen was still seething as she exited her car in the road behind Karen Paton’s garden. How could Dean do this to her? How dare he? The sound of her mobile interrupted her thoughts, and she stopped to answer it, surprised to hear Spencer’s voice at the other end of the line. At Jenkins’ bequest, she’d reluctantly leant Spencer to MOCT as they wrapped up the Paton case.

  “What’s up, Steve?”

  “Ma’am, you asked me to contact you personally if we received anything on Eva Carradine?”

  A shot of adrenalin whipped through her. Finally. “What do you have?”

  Spencer cleared his throat. “Strathclyde Police located the guest house where she is staying in Scotland and left a message for her to contact them. Although we cancelled their assistance the message didn’t get through to the field. Anyway, Miss Carradine responded and they referred her to us.”

  “She called the incident room?” Helen balanced the phone precariously between her chin and shoulders as she rummaged through her bag for her notebook and pen.

  “I’ve just put the phone down to her. She asked to speak to someone in charge.”

  With the case now under Dean’s jurisdiction, Spencer would normally pass this to him. Helen was grateful for his loyalty. “Thanks, Steve. Who else have you informed?”

  “Nobody yet, ma’am. She isn’t a suspect here. I thought I’d let you make that decision.”

  As far as Hampton management were concerned, the murder was solved, the enquiry being closed. Both Dean and Jenkins had made it perfectly clear that Eva wasn’t a suspect. There was no evidence linking her to Naomi’s murder and, even though the informant’s call was made so close to her home address, there was nothing to indicate Eva made that call. But Helen couldn’t rest until she’d spoken to her. “Right. Thank you.” Helen hesitated. She didn’t want to get Spencer into trouble. “Allocate the action to me, would you? I’ll speak to her and report back if anything further is required.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  Eva had called from a guest house near the Scottish town of Callander. Helen jotted down the details quickly before she rang off and dialled the number.

  The call was answered on the second ring, as if somebody was standing beside the phone.

  “Hello.”

  The voice sounded fragile, timid.

  “May I speak to Eva Carradine please?” Helen replied.

  “Who is this?”

  “Is that Eva?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Helen Lavery from Hampton force. You asked to speak to someone in charge?” The line fell quiet, a few short shallow breaths, the only indication of a presence. “What can I do for you?” she said gently.

  “I need your help.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Can we meet? Alone?”

  Helen turned this over quickly in her mind. Jenkins himself said there was no evidence to suggest that Eva was linked to the murder enquiry and he didn’t want resources wasted on finding her. But he couldn’t object to her meeting Eva alone. She grabbed her pen and leant her notebook against the fence. “Okay, where are you?”

  Another pause. “I’m in Scotland, but I’m driving back to Hampton today.”

  They agreed to meet at a motorway services just outside Hampton. Helen didn’t want Eva to cross the county border, drive through the town, approach her home, until she’d spoken to her.

  Her spirits bolstered by the phone call, Helen marched up the alleyway beside Karen Paton’s house and knocked on the door. No music blasted from her neighbour today, no sound of children playing.

&n
bsp; It was several moments before she heard footsteps up the hall. The door opened. A slim elderly lady with bushy, white hair and striking eyes stared back at her. “May I help you?” A thick Northern Irish accent weighed in her voice.

  Helen flashed her card. “I wondered if I could have a word with Karen Paton?”

  The woman leant into the card, examined it carefully. She looked up at Helen, suspiciously. “She’s sleeping at the moment.”

  “And you are?”

  “Marian. Her mother.”

  “May I wait?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “How is she?”

  “As well as can be expected. Look, I think I know what this is about and I don’t think she is ready for more questions about her late husband at this stage.”

  Helen nodded. She hadn’t told anyone back at the station about her visit which meant she couldn’t afford to press the point. “I’ll come back at a more convenient time. How are the boys?”

  Marian looked taken aback for a moment at the personal nature of the question. “I don’t think they really know what’s going on. Certainly the youngest doesn’t. Keeps asking when his daddy’s coming back from heaven.”

  Helen pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry.” She turned to go.

  “So am I,” Marian shouted after her. “Just hope you catch them.”

  Helen turned back. “Pardon?”

  “The beggers who did this. They might not have been living together, but my son-in-law idolised those boys. The last thing he would do is take his own life, whatever mess he’d got himself mixed up in.”

  Helen heard the squeak of footsteps on floorboards above. Marian gazed up. “I have to go,” she said and closed the door.

  Helen hovered on the doorstep a moment. A chink of light peeped through the dark clouds overhead. The suicide note. She knew something was strange about it - Jules hadn’t mentioned his boys. A loving father would be sure to mention his boys. Wouldn’t he?

  ***

  The white Mercedes crawled past Helen as she pulled out of the estate. She didn’t need to view the personalised plate to see who it belonged to. Chilli Franks had been a teenager when his family moved to the rabbit warren. He immediately saw opportunity in Jimmy Percival’s interests and ingratiated himself with Jimmy’s crowd. Later, when he took over the reins to Black Cats, the club flourished and he expanded his empire and moved to the new estate nearby, just a stone’s throw away. Situated on the corner, one of his bedroom windows overlooked the rabbit warren, another reached across to the trading estate opposite. With his obvious wealth, Chilli could easily have afforded to leave the area, take a home on one of Hampton’s more affluent estates. But that would take him away from his insidious operations. These days, it was not only home to the city’s red light district, but intelligence officers estimated that more drugs came out of the rabbit warren in a single month than the rest of Hampton city in an entire year.