An Unfamiliar Murder Page 7

  Something was bothering Helen and, as she could hear her team moving around, searching the floor above her head, she realized what it was – the mantle was empty apart from an old fashioned clock that ticked loudly. There were no photos on the walls. The room was devoid of those everyday objects we collect and treasure, those photos that record our memories.

  She walked through to the kitchen. The sink was full of several days’ washing up and an overfull ashtray sat on the work surface in between a jug kettle and a pile of opened post. She flicked through the post, a mixture of junk and bills, which felt strange through her rubber covered hands. She saw a letter touting for house insurance, a bank statement, telephone bill, a letter from the Department of Work and Pensions about income support. Then right at the bottom of the pile she found it. A card in a grey envelope.

  She pulled the card out. It had a drawing of a bottle of wine on the front underneath the words ‘Happy Birthday’. She opened it and read the inscription inside: “Happy Birthday Dad. I’ve found her, and when I come out we’ll all meet up.” It was signed “Rab”. That was it. Not ‘Love, Rab’ or, ‘Thinking of You, Rab’. Just “Rab”. She turned over the envelope to examine the postmark. It read October 2010. She screwed up her eyes to try and make out the obscured franking mark. There was no doubt it was HM Prison – but the envelope was smeared and she was unable to make out which prison.

  * * *

  It was after three o’clock when they finished searching the property and returned to the station. DS Pemberton looked up as she walked back into the incident room. “Ma’am,” he nodded, “anything of any use?”

  “Rubbish.” Before she was able to speak, she heard DI Townsend’s dismissive voice behind and turned around to glower at him. He noticed her expression, shrugged his shoulders and strolled past her silently.

  “The guys have bagged up a few bits and pieces.” She walked into her office and he followed her as she opened her briefcase. “It was all very impersonal really,” she added, “no photographs, no ornaments.”

  “Lived on his own,” Pemberton said thoughtfully.

  “Without a doubt,” she replied, then, changing the subject, “Anything from house to house?”

  “Not yet. Seems he pretty much kept himself to himself. Might get a bit more tomorrow, when the local shops open.”

  “What about in

  Flax Street?” “Nothing. Nobody saw anything. In fact, they all seem to have been out during last Friday afternoon.”

  She sighed. “I found this amongst his post.” She pulled out the birthday card and envelope, lay open and sealed in a plastic wallet, and handed it over. The detective turned it over in his hands.

  “Rab, Scottish for Robert,” he said. He looked at the postmark on the envelope. “This is quite recent. We’ll check back through the prison records.”

  “Do you think we can trace which prison?”

  “Quite possibly,” he replied.

  “Good. Anything back on forensics?”

  He looked up at her. “Nothing yet.”

  Helen frowned. “Keep chasing, will you?” She looked past him, through the open blinds, into the incident room. There was no doubt that they were working, moving around, but with an edge of weariness. It was as if she were watching a film in slow motion.

  Pemberton followed her gaze. “They’re all knackered.”

  “Come on.” She walked out into the main room and rested her right hand on one hip, lifting her jacket slightly.

  “Can I have your attention please?” The muffled chatter quieted. “Thank you for all your hard work this weekend. We have made some real progress,” she tried to sound upbeat, positive, although she knew they would be fully aware that the leads were quickly drying up. She pulled back her cuff and looked at her watch purposely. It was three thirty. “Let’s call it a day. Go home to your families. We’ll start back again tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp.” A roar went up around the office and she smiled to herself as she turned and walked back into her own office to collect her things. Nothing more could be done today.

  * * *

  The first person Helen saw when she arrived home just after four o’clock was Robert. He was sitting in the lounge, playing on his Xbox and his face lit up with a smile when she walked in.

  “Hi Mum!” She bent down to hug him and kissed his forehead, affectionately pushing his unruly, brown curls out of his eyes.

  “What are you playing?”

  He looked back at the screen. “Lord of the Rings. Are you finished for the day or do you have to go back to work?”

  “Done for today, darling. I’m going to cook us a roast dinner.”

  “Wicked!” Robert had always been small for his years and the sofa juddered only slightly as he jumped with excitement. “Can you help me with my homework? Its algebra and I don’t get it.” He looked up at her, his dark eyes shining.

  “Of course, darling. We’ll do it together after tea.” He focused back on the screen now and she realized that she had lost him to his game. She stood up, placed her hand on his head gently and went back out of the lounge bumping into Matthew in the hallway.

  “Oh. Hi, Matt,” she said, resisting the huge temptation to hug him. He wasn’t always in the mood for hugs these days.

  “Alright,” he nodded slightly. She looked up at him, her eyes resting on his practically shaved head. He used to have thick, dark brown hair, which he liked to push up into soft, trendy spikes at the front of head. Until a week ago. Was it really only a week? Last Saturday he had left to go into town, a perfectly normal trip with his friends, only to return looking like a night club bouncer. Helen remembered the moment she had first seen it. She had walked into the kitchen as he pulled his head out of the fridge and gasped, “Wow! What have you done?”

  “It’s my hair!” He replied indignantly.

  “Was,” she said, but her attempt at a joke was lost. He had stomped out of the room. He was right of course, it was his hair. But she had always taken him to the hairdressers in the past. This time he made his own decision, with no discussion. Her mother had been much calmer (although she had openly admitted to Helen that she didn’t like it later, when they were on their own.) “Are you pleased with it?” was all she had asked him as he passed her in the hallway. “It’s OK,” he shrugged, before disappearing to his room.

  Helen was aware that he was growing up, not just physically, but also mentally, hormonally. She never seemed to say the right thing these days.

  “How are things?” she asked, hoping to sound cool, relaxed.

  “Umph. Alright,” he grunted this time, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone.

  “I’m making dinner,” she added brightly.

  “OK,” he said without looking up. She’d lost him. He was already texting, his fingers busily moving over the buttons.

  She walked into the kitchen to find her mother sitting at the table, head stuck in a book.

  “Hi.” She flashed her a weary smile and crossed to the fridge.

  Jane Lavery put the book down. “Hi, darling. How’s the case?”

  “Hectic, drying up, desperately in need of a good lead . . .” She turned to face her, rubbing her forehead. “How was your day?”

  “Not bad actually,” she mused, “beat Matt at Wii bowls. A look of triumph appeared on her face. “What about you?”

  Helen couldn’t resist a quick grin. Jane Lavery was a very ‘hands on’ grandmother. Then, thoughts of her own day darkened her face. “You know, the usual. Frustrating - hindered by the fact that I have an incompetent Inspector who is negative in front of the staff and conspicuous by his absence, most of the time.”

  “Oh. Not good. Anyone I know?” Married to James for the majority of his service, Jane Lavery had become the quintessential ‘police wife’. Together their social circle was dominated by faces or partners of faces from within the force. A circle which reduced slightly after James’ retirement and more so after his death, but there were still a few nam
es that she maintained contact with, from time to time.

  “Townsend. Simon Townsend. Just come back from the Met. He used to work here eight years ago.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Anyway,” Helen said, keen to change the subject, “we are not going to discuss work tonight. I’m making dinner.”

  “I was thinking we should have a takeaway. What about Chinese?”

  Helen looked at her mother in surprise. “You, eat Chinese on a Sunday? Are you feeling alright?”

  She shrugged one shoulder, tilting her head to the side. “Forgot to take the meat out of the freezer.”

  Helen stared at her for a moment. It wasn’t like Jane Lavery to be so disorganized. Her mother was still talking about the meat, the freezer, her day, when Robert walked into the room, breaking her train of thought. “Ahhh, Robert, fancy a Chinese?” Jane asked quickly.

  “Yeah, great!” he said. Helen wondered at how easily her children could be persuaded by the lure of a takeaway.

  “Oh! But I was going to cook . . .” She watched them share a glance, a smile. She felt the conspiracy, could see it in their eyes.

  “Aww come on, Mum,” pleaded Robert.

  “OK, OK,” she replied, lifting her hands in the air. “I’ll admit defeat. Chinese takeaway it is.”

  As Robert dashed out of the room to look for menus Helen’s mother looked back at her, her eyes holding the kind of intimacy you only experience with the closest people in your life. “How are you?”

  “Oh, you know,” she said. “How’s Matty been?”

  “Back to normal. We haven’t let him out of our sight all weekend.”

  “He just grunted at me in the hallway.”

  Her mother rolled her shoulders. “Hormones. A teenager’s prerogative.”

  Just then Matthew and Robert crashed into the kitchen, already arguing over the menu that Robert clutched fervently. It would appear that the takeaway was a very popular idea.

  An hour later, they all sat down to a wide selection of Chinese food, all helping themselves to portions of their favorite dishes, all talking at once. Even Matthew seemed to have relaxed. Helen opened a bottle of red wine and everybody laughed when Matthew balked at the smell. She sat back and surveyed her family. They each looked so happy, so healthy. She thought of Jim McCafferty and his sad life, his bare home. Right now, she felt truly blessed.

  When dinner was over she helped Robert with his homework whilst her mother stacked the dishwasher. Bodies started to disappear. Robert went up to bed and Matthew retreated to his room.

  Her mother finished her wine and placed her glass on the table. “Well, that’s me,” she said, her voice slurring slightly.

  “Sure you don’t want to share the last few drops?” said Helen, holding up the bottle, tilting her head to one side cheekily.

  “I think I’ve had enough.” Jane Lavery rose from her seat, wobbling slightly. “That was a lovely evening. Thank you,” she said.

  Helen chuckled to herself. Her mother had never been able to take her drink. “See you in the morning,” she said as she watched her shuffle out of the room, then called after her, “Take it easy!”

  After pouring the remainder of the wine into her glass she relaxed back into her chair. It had been a pleasant evening. Her family were fed and content. She pressed her lips together as her mind wandered. Family, it’s a funny thing. You can’t choose your blood relatives. In fact, it’s a bonus if you get along with them at all.

  She took another sip of wine and let her mind wander further. What was missing? A partner. Someone to cuddle up with on cold nights, share the last few drops of wine with, someone to have dinner with her family, watch a DVD, go to the theatre, make love – she couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. How sad is that? Over the years she had indulged a few affairs, but they were restricted to quick flings on training courses and petered out soon thereafter. Where would she meet anyone like that? Somebody she could truly share her life with?

  Not in the job, that’s for sure. The police force was well known for its incestuous relationships. It was also renowned for the fact that it had the highest divorce rate of any profession in the UK. No, it would need to be somebody outside of the job, she was convinced of that. And who would want to have a relationship with a thirty six year old widow with two teenage kids who still lived with her mother? Not exactly an exciting prospect. Her sad relationship prospects still on her mind, she reached for her laptop, pulled it out of the bag and switched it on.

  The investigation. They had no real leads, were in pursuit of no recognized suspects. She had seen the concern in her mother’s eyes earlier, recognized that same look before as Jane Lavery watched her own husband, in the midst of a murder enquiry, work painstakingly around the clock in pursuit of that hidden clue, that small scrap of evidence, that would lead him to the killer. What would James do?

  Helen chewed the side of her lip. This was the reason that Helen joined the police force. For this job. She wasn’t ambitious in the material sense. She had never wanted to attend meaningless meetings, making meaningless decisions, chase meaningless statistics to impress her superiors or the politicians that ultimately called the shots. To lead a murder investigation, to catch the bad guy, to be like her dad. But what if she wasn’t good enough? What if she had just been kidding herself all these years?

  Whilst the battery was coming to life she looked up at the kitchen clock. It was ten o’clock.

  Chapter Six

  Cross Keys police station was located just off the main ring road roundabout, a brick built 1980s construction, originally intended to be the new Hampton HQ. However, by the time the building was complete the trend for out of town headquarters had begun. Instead it became a new sub-station to address the needs of a rapidly expanding city. Over the years it had been extended in the form of two portable units, erected on the tennis courts at the back of the building, next to the car park. It was one of these units that housed the incident room.

  By the time Helen had reached the car park a drizzle had started, the result of soft rain clouds moving in overnight. It was that kind of fine, constant rain that deceived you into not using an umbrella, but soaked you in minutes. She crossed the car park quickly and entered at the back door.

  The incident room was dark. She switched on the main lights and made her way into her office, hung her damp jacket over the back of the chair, tucked her wet hair behind her ears and leant down to fish her notes from her briefcase. Resting her elbow on the table, head on hand, she went through her log book from beginning to end, making endless lists and notes that would form the basis of her morning briefing. If she was going to miss anything, it wasn’t for the want of trying.

  Some time later a phone rang in the distance and she looked up to see that, oblivious to her, the office had come to life. So consumed in her work, she had ignored the gentle hum of computer fans, the murmur of voices, the sound of keyboards clicking.

  A few moments later there was a knock on her office door. She looked up as DS Pemberton peered around the door before she had time to respond.

  “Morning!”

  “Morning Sean. What can I do for you?”

  He lifted a pad and read notes from it. “Miss Cottrell called to ask when she can have her bike back, Andrew Steiner phoned from The Hampton Herald and the Super’s on his way over. He flashed his eyes up at her as a warning at the last remark.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” She nodded as Pemberton retreated, quickly moving papers around her desk to represent some kind of tidiness. Although having worked for Superintendent Jenkins for three months, Helen could not claim any more acquaintance with him than on the day they had first met. An acutely private man, he never discussed his personal life. She often wondered if he even had one. His dark eyes penetrated the surface, as if to read your thoughts, but gave nothing away in return. His intensity, only rarely broken by the odd smirk or joke (usually of his own making), and lack of personal contact made for
an awkward working relationship.

  When she looked up again Superintendent Jenkins was strolling across the incident room to her office. In his mid fifties, his head boasted a full head of grey hair which was remarkable in contrast to his thick black eyebrows and lashes.

  “Morning, Helen. How’s it going?”

  She stood and nodded at him. “Morning, sir. Fine, thank you.”

  “You’ve charged your suspect then.” He looked across at her in mock surprise.

  She forced a polite smile and asked, “Did you read the report I emailed you?” as they both seated themselves, either side of the desk.

  “Yes.” He wiped a fleck of dust from the sleeve of his jacket and raised his head to look at her. “Any developments? Some new evidence, a sudden breakthrough, maybe?” A crooked smile tickled his lips. He continued to tease her, although she picked up the serious undertone. It was certainly in everyone’s interests for this case to be cleared from the statistics as quickly as possible – and Superintendent Jenkins was well known for his dislike of protracted investigations.

  “No, sir, no change. We are waiting on forensics and DNA which I have fast tracked so they should be back this morning.”

  “Fast tracked,” he replied, nodding to himself. “Good. “

  “From what I understood, this looked like an open and shut case,” he said, his brow creasing as he adjusted his position and crossed one leg over the other, a gesture which made his body appear at an angle.

  “As you can see there appears to be much more to it,” she replied.

  “Your report was certainly very detailed.”

  “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure whether or not this was a compliment.

  “Why don’t you brief me on what I need to know?” His eyes, now serious, fixed upon her.

  He hasn’t read it, she thought. She considered mentioning that she had stayed up until midnight preparing it, but decided against it.

  Helen sighed inwardly, then relayed an overview of the case. As she finished she added, “We are now looking at the possibilities that our victim may have been killed by a third party, since Anna Cottrell appears to have a substantiated alibi. We are building up a profile of the victim and looking into Miss Cottrell’s background . . .”