An Unfamiliar Murder Read online

  The constant secrecy was beginning to engulf Anna. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she answered, “Ross has gone. That’s it.”

  “I just want to help, love.” Stop it. One moment, I’m ungrateful for being adopted and you’ve done me a big favor, the next you want to help. She started to wonder whether her mother genuinely wanted to help or she was just appeasing her own guilt. But Anna’s brain was incapable of giving this much consideration. Her head was full. And it didn’t matter now anyway. What mattered was finding Ross.

  She rubbed her hands vigorously up and down her face and thought of Ross again but still nothing came to her. He was becoming a memory. There was only one place where she could go to get a proper reminder.

  “I’m going out,” she said, pushing the bowl away and standing up.

  “Where?”

  Anna ignored her and grabbed at her jacket as she made her way out of the back door. “Do you want me to come with you?” But Anna never heard the end of the sentence. She had marched to the end of the drive and was now on her way down the street. She was going to find Ross, even if nobody else could be bothered to do so.

  * * *

  Later that day, Kathleen Cottrell sat perfectly still, back straight, hands folded together in her lap. Her appearance was almost fastidious. Short, grey hair was softly curled back from her face, she wore a red sweater with a medium length, gold chain around her neck, from which a heart shaped locket hung. Heart shaped studs decorated her ear lobes and a gold bracelet of hearts linked together peeped out from beneath her cuff. Townsend guessed that she was one of those women who would walk through the woods on a wet, muddy day and come out in a clean wax cotton jacket and shiny wellington boots.

  He was furious. Helen had insisted that they interview Kathleen as a witness, in one of the suites usually preserved for rape or child abuse victims, rather than a suspect. Her reasons behind this were simple: being interviewed as a witness negated the need for a solicitor; the interviews were recorded by DVD and later admissible in Court, should the need arise; the interview rooms were more casual and comfortable than a formal room in the custody block, which may help to draw the requisite information out of her. Townsend didn’t get it. Why should she get such special attention? She had withheld information, hadn’t she?

  He couldn’t be doing with the soft leather sofas, the coffee table and box of tissues, the carpeted flooring, the Monet – Water Lilies print on the wall. As far as he was concerned they needed to come down on her hard. But, he wasn’t in charge. Not yet.

  Kathleen’s eyes flickered from Detective Dark, who sat opposite her, to Townsend and then back again. “Would you mind telling me what all of this is about?” she said sternly, focusing her attention now on Townsend, rightly guessing his seniority in rank.

  “For the purposes of the recording, could you tell us your maiden name?” Detective Dark asked.

  She turned to face her, head raised in a disapproving manner at this woman who looked young enough to be her daughter, as if she hadn’t given her permission to speak. “Gardner,” she replied confidently. “Now what . . .”

  “Have you ever been known by any other names?”

  Kathleen’s displeasure at the interruption was obvious, “Cottrell,” she replied tightly.

  “Before your marriage,” Dark continued, ignoring the attempt at sarcasm.

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “What is the name that appears on your birth certificate?”

  Kathleen gave her a hard stare, betraying her annoyance at the intrusion into her personal life. She unclasped her hands, folding her left arm across her stomach. For a moment Townsend thought she was going to cross her arms defensively across her chest, but instead she rested her right elbow on her left wrist, holding her right hand up and out beside her shoulder, as if it held a cigarette. “I don’t see what relevance that has to your enquiries,” she finally remarked, stiffly.

  “This is a murder investigation Mrs. Cottrell,” Detective Dark said. “Everything is of interest.”

  “I cannot see how my family . . .”

  “Let us be the judge of that,” Townsend cut in, “Just answer the question.” Her eyes switched to him, glaring angrily. The forefinger on her raised hand started to gently pick away at the skin around her thumb nail, a habit that could appear vulgar on some people. However she almost carried it off demurely, appearing not to damage the painted nail.

  Townsend stared back at her. She reminded him of his wife, soon to be ex-wife. They shared the same air of self importance, scratchiness. Bet her house is like a show home too. Just like Judy. He was glad to be rid of her. Glad to be back in Hampton, on home ground. Soon the Super would recognize his talents, realize that he had turned the investigation around. Not like Lavery. Making DCI in ten years on the accelerated promotion scheme didn’t compare to real police work.

  Kathleen sat tall in her chair and took a deep breath. “Gravell,” she answered finally, “but I’m sure you know that already.”

  “Why were you reluctant to tell us?” Dark asked.

  “It is a part of my life I choose to forget,” Kathleen answered. She had regained her composure now. The picking had stopped, although the arm still sat there suspended, the long nails folded delicately.

  “Where were you born?”

  “

  16 Harwell Street, Ripley,” she replied. She sighed dejectedly. “I lived there with my parents for five years, before I was adopted by my aunt, Kate Gardner. She raised me. A few years later she changed my name over to hers. Now I . . .” “Where are you parents now?” Dark cut in.

  She glared at her again. “Dead.”

  “Did you see your parents again, after you went to live with your aunt?”

  “No. They decided that they couldn’t cope with me. So we made a clean break. Aunt Kate became a mother to me.”

  “And where is your aunt now?”

  “She died 2 years ago. But I don’t see what relevance . . .”

  “Were there any other members in your immediate family?” Townsend interrupted.

  Kathleen shot him a suspicious stare. The picking started again, a faint sound of a nail working away at the skin could be heard which she appeared to ignore. “No, just my aunt and myself. She didn’t have any children of her own. And she never married. We moved around a bit – with her work, you know.” She gave a small nod.

  “What about when you lived with your parents at,” he hesitated to look at his notes, although the address was ingrained onto his brain, “

  16 Harwell Street, Ripley?” She picked away at the skin harder now. “I had a brother,” she admitted finally. “He was a baby when I went to live with my aunt.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Aaron.”

  “His full name?”

  “Aaron Gravell,” she coughed mildly, the words sticking in her throat.

  “Did you see him again?”

  “Not whilst I was growing up. No.”

  “What about recently?”

  “What . . .” Kathleen hesitated and took a deep breath as her nostrils flared. “What is all this about?” she asked. “I had a difficult time in my early childhood and I have undergone years of therapy to help me recover and put it behind me. Why reap it all up now?”

  “I’m sorry if this is difficult,” Dark said, “but I need you to answer the question.”

  “I’ve seen him once,” she snapped. “You can check with Edward. He was there.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when was this?” Townsend cut in.

  “I can’t remember the date exactly,” she tossed her head, “earlier this year.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “A few months ago – August maybe. He sent a letter saying that he wanted to meet up, have a reunion. How he found me, I’ll never know.” She shook her head dismissively. “There are no secrets these days.”

  “What did you do wit
h the letter?”

  “Ignored it, obviously,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Then he turned up on the doorstep.”

  “When?”

  “A couple of months ago.”

  “September?”

  “Yes, around the middle of September. Said he wanted to get together, meet my family. I turned him down flat, explained that it was a painful part of my life that I wish to forget. I have made my own life and it doesn’t include him.” Explaining her resolve appeared to relax Kathleen and she sat perfectly still staring back at Detective Dark.

  “How did he react?”

  “I’m not sure really. He seemed a bit taken aback.” She looked away and wrinkled her forehead. “He actually seemed quite nice. In different circumstances . . .” She broke off, staring into space for a moment. “Then he noticed a photo of Anna on the side.”

  “Oh?”

  “He asked who she was and when I explained she was my daughter he said he would like to contact her. Seemed to think he had a right to see her, that she was his niece, his own flesh and blood. He demanded that I tell her about him and gave her the choice of whether or not to meet him.” The picking started again, more vigorously this time.

  “And did you?”

  “Tell Anna – absolutely not! She has no inclination of my early life and I prefer to keep it that way.”

  “So how was it left?”

  “I told him he had no rights to Anna, that she didn’t share his blood because we adopted her. He seemed to lose interest then.”

  “Did you hear from him again?”

  “No, nothing. And I don’t expect to either.” A muscle twitched in her jaw.

  “Kathleen. Do you still have the letter?” Townsend asked.

  She looked across at him. “No, I ripped it up and put it in the recycling bin.”

  “You don’t happen to remember the address do you?”

  “Why would I? As I have explained to you, I have absolutely no intention of either myself or my family being in contact with him again,” she said tightly.

  As Townsend stared at Kathleen Cottrell, he noticed a smudge of blood on the skin beside her nail. It was as if her past had clung obstinately to her for all these years, sitting just beneath the surface, inexorable to all the therapy a purse could buy. Counseling had provided some respite but nothing could make the pain disappear completely.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Anna wasn’t sure how long she had been walking. She reached the end of her parent’s street before turning sharply right and climbing a stile, then making her way over the fields behind her parent’s house, down to the river. Ross loved it down here, she thought to herself. A rope was still hanging from the large Aspen beside the water. The same rope that she had played on as a child, that Ross always swung on when they walked this way. She ambled along the riverbank for a while, looking longingly at the areas where they had picnicked last summer. All those long, balmy afternoons filled with sausage rolls, crisps, wine, before paddling in the river, then falling asleep on the clear areas of the bank. But today there was no sunshine, just bare branches moving mournfully around in the cold, November wind. It seemed the trees shared her desolate mood.

  She reached a large, weeping Willow, its bare branches hanging to the ground, and climbed underneath. Leaning up against the gnarled trunk, she drew in a deep breath, which rattled around in her lungs. This was where they had made love, invigorated by the warm summer sunshine, the tree in bloom providing the perfect curtain, blocking out the rest of the world.

  With a heavy heart she headed back towards the main road. Whilst waiting to cross she looked down into a large puddle. A small streak of oil had leaked into it and was sitting on the surface. It reminded her of Ross’ battered old escort, just the sort of car that would leak oil. Had Ross been here? She looked up and down the street as cars zoomed past. They always drove too fast on this stretch. For years the residents of Worthington had campaigned for speed cameras, but all they had been offered was the odd speed revelation dial and a couple of mornings with traffic cops and speed guns. A gust of wind blew, cutting into her face, forcing her to blink and move on. She would be warmer if she walked.

  As she made her way out of Hampton’s leafy suburbs and into the country, her phone started to ring. She dug deep into her pocket, looked at the screen, sighed disappointedly and answered.

  “Hi, Anna, how are you feeling?” Rab’s voice was flooded with concern.

  “Like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. How about you?”

  A momentary silence followed, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “You sound distant.”

  “I’m on my way into town.”

  “Oh, want to meet?”

  “Not at the moment, thanks. I’m just heading back to the flat, wanted to pick up a few things.”

  “By foot?”

  “Need the exercise.” And I need to look for Ross.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “No, I’m fine really. I need to clear my head. I’ll call you later.”

  “Take care.”

  She rang off without saying goodbye. It was good of Rab to be concerned, but right now she just wanted to be alone.

  Anna continued on into the country, walking past empty houses with bare drives, the owners out at work. Every now and then she would see movement in a house and her head would turn instantly. Was Ross in there? Every time a car passed she scrutinized the driver, the passenger too if there was one, but her search proved fruitless. She was grasping at straws and she knew it.

  Why Ross? Why now? It didn’t make sense. She felt like she knew him better than anyone, maybe even his parents right now – it just wasn’t like him to run away, to go missing.

  What is it that thing that animals tune into? When they won’t enter a home because it’s haunted? Anna didn’t believe in ghosts, but she didn’t disbelieve either. She just hadn’t seen one to confirm the theory so the door was left open. Like with religion, she had seen no evidence yet to show that God existed – she was still waiting for her own miracle to convince her own inner jury that he was real. Sixth sense – that’s it. Anna did believe in a kind of sixth sense, in trusting one’s own intuition. And now her own gut was crying out to her. Ross hadn’t disappeared, gone off somewhere of his own free will. He had to have been taken. But by who? Why? And she just hoped with all her might that he was still alive.

  The light was starting to fade as she reached the sign for Little Hampstead. She suddenly felt cold, as if the temperature had dropped dramatically. Her legs were beginning to ache, but the familiar sight of her home village felt very welcome, encouraging her to pick up speed. More than anything now, she needed to get back to the flat. Even if she couldn’t see Ross in person, couldn’t touch his face, she could look at an image of him.

  Anna turned the corner of

  Flax Street warily, looking around for signs of the press. Relief filled her veins when she found it deserted. She could smell fresh wood as she made her way into the flat, the new lock working like a charm. She left the front door open behind her. The sense of quiet which she used to revel in made her feel suddenly uneasy and she crossed into the kitchen and flicked the switch on the radio. Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol blared out. Anna closed her eyes and swallowed. Typical – it was one of her favorites, one of their favorites. Only last week they were checking the tour dates on the internet. Last week, before this nightmare began.

  Leaving the radio on, she forced herself to walk through the open door into the lounge and switch the light on. It looked very clinical, just as it had the previous day, the absence of pictures and soft furnishings removing its soul. As she moved through the open doors to the bedroom the radio faded into the background.

  At least her bedroom still felt personal. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around at the wine red drapes that framed the window against a background of white walls, the mock red chandelier hung from the ceiling over the top of her black wrough
t iron bed, the black and white photos of Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe on the walls.

  She had read somewhere that a woman’s house was like a window into her soul and it wasn’t until she had placed her individual and special mark onto it, that it really felt like home. In contrast, a man regarded his house as a practical base where renovations and maintenance may be required, but not decorating for the sake of changing a color scheme.

  She thought about Ross. He hated this room. He teased her, calling it a boudoir. He disliked the gothic, fringed drapes over the window most of all. Right now she promised herself that if she got through this, if she got Ross back, she would compromise and change them. Her small concession to him.

  Anna felt uncomfortable, as if her organs were twisted into a mess inside her like a tangled ball of string. Her gut told her that everything led to her. Somebody was punishing her, but she didn’t know who or why.

  She considered the people close to her. The kindness in her father made him incapable of committing an act as brutal as murder. Her mother? Mentally unstable, yes, but capable of murder? She couldn’t comprehend it.

  Then there was Ross. The man with a zest for life that she had practically lived with for the past two years. He was missing. But he couldn’t kill a human anymore than Cookie could.

  What about Rab? She had only known him for two days. Such a short time, but it felt like she had known him for so much longer. Could Rab be a manipulative killer? A psychopathic murderer? Was he charming her, biding his time before she became his ultimate victim? Was he playing a game, enjoying the chase? But DCI Lavery had said he wasn’t a suspect. And why would he want to kill her after spending all this time trying to find her again? It didn’t make any sense. None of it did.

  Anna sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the photo of Ross that sat on her beside table. It had been taken last year, on a trip to Venice, both standing on the Rialto Bridge. He was behind her, his arms encasing her as if she may try to get away, his head resting on her shoulder. And there it was that same, boyish grin.