by Vicky Jones
“If you must. But there’s nothing more to tell on this story. Goodbye.” Thompson hung up.
“Right, he’s my last hope of getting to the bottom of this case,” Rachel said as Chloe appeared at her door. She ran a hand through her tousled dark hair and began chiding herself. “How could I have forgotten to go and speak to him? I don’t know where my head’s at sometimes.”
“He didn’t exactly sound like he was full of sparkling conversation,” Chloe remarked, half smiling.
“No. Anyway, I really want to wrap this case up. Mum’s visiting this weekend.”
Chloe’s face beamed. “Lovely. You planning some nice things to do together?”
“Not sure yet. Lunch probably, then maybe a walk around the Albert Dock? I’ve not had a proper look around there yet, and you keep banging on about how cool and hip it is there.” She flashed Chloe a mock weary smile.
“A cheeky Miller and Carter, then on to Revolution bar? What’s not to like? I’ll take you there one night if you like? Give you the guided tour? Might even take you to the Panam if you play your cards right, boss?” Chloe added with a cheeky sidelong look as she left Rachel smiling at her desk.
Chapter 23
The façade of 35 Hancock Street was noticeably more dilapidated than the rest of the Victorian semi-detached properties in the leafy suburban street in Allerton. Rachel pulled her car into Bill Thompson’s cobbled driveway next to a battered and rusty silver Vauxhall Astra that occupied half of the driveway and half of a front garden, which was overgrown with weeds and bits of rubbish. The black paint on the wooden window frames was flaking and one of the grimy panes of glass had a hole the size of a fist in it. It looked as if a rock had been thrown through it. Rachel walked up to the front of the house, passing a little stone wishing well water feature a few yards from the black-painted wooden front door. She walked up to it and rang the doorbell. Several seconds passed without an answer so she knocked loudly using the green-speckled brass effect door knocker. She waited a few seconds more and then knocked again.
“Mr. Thompson? Are you there?” Rachel called through the letterbox. “It’s Detective Inspector Morrison. Remember I said I’d be here at three? Hello?” Still nothing. She stepped back and looked around the area for options. The rubbish bins at the side of the house were overflowing with takeaway boxes and beer cans, some of which had spilled over the lip of the bin and had beetles and other bugs crawling all over then. As well as the unkempt nature of the property, Rachel caught the scent of fetid rubbish and burning in the breeze floating from down the side of the house. Curious about the latter smell, she pushed open the rickety metal side gate and walked into the back garden. There, to her horror, she saw a huge metal barrel, cut in half and raised onto a wooden stand, full to the brim of burning material. The flames licked around the rim of the barrel, kicking out plumes of thick acrid black smoke.
“Shit!”
She unwrapped the chiffon scarf she was wearing and clamped it against her face, coughing and almost choking as she got closer to see what was in the barrel. She stopped dead when she saw a petrol can next to it. She took her phone out.
“This is Detective Inspector Morrison. I’m at 35 Hancock Street, Allerton. I need the fire brigade…” As she turned around to face the back of the house, she almost dropped the phone. She suddenly realised why Bill Thompson hadn’t answered his front door.
“And an ambulance. Now.”
Facing the open back door of the conservatory, her eyes were drawn up to the lintel above the doorway into the house. There she saw the grim sight of Bill Thompson’s hanging corpse. A wooden stool was lying on its side underneath his dangling legs. His bloated and grotesque face was blue and veiny, his dead eyes wide and staring, and mottled with tiny red specks. The chafing mark from the rope around his neck was as red and angry-looking as the fire that was now raging behind her.
The fire had been relatively easy to put out, once the fire brigade had assessed the scene and set to it. Scene of crime officers moved carefully and methodically around the house and garden, wearing white zip-up suits, face masks, and blue coverings over their shoes. One officer walked past Rachel carrying five square plastic tiles, laying one at the entrance to the conservatory and the next one on the dirty grey floor tile in the entrance in front of her. Two uniformed police officers stood at the side gate, lifting the yellow and black crime scene tape for attending officers, two of whom were approaching Rachel now.
“What the hell is going on here?” Jenkins roared. His combed-back grey hair shook with the force of his voice. His eyes fixed Rachel with his hardest stare. Behind him was the welcome sight of DC Chloe Sharp. She mouthed ‘are you OK?’ to Rachel, who nodded.
“Suicide, sir.”
“I can see that, Detective Inspector Morrison,” he spat back, emphasising her rank in a sneering tone. “I’ve been on the force for twenty-seven years. I know what a suicide looks like. What I want to know is why you are here.”
“I called it in.” Rachel jutted her head towards the now-smouldering charred barrel. “There was a fire, so I investigated. That’s when I saw Thompson’s body.”
Jenkins pressed his face close to Rachel’s, covering her with his stale coffee breath. “I know that too, Morrison. What I want to know is why you are here in the first place.”
Taking a step back, Rachel looked him full in the face. “I had some questions I wanted to ask Thompson. About the Mollie Spencer case. Just before I wrap it up,” she added, as Jenkins was about to rail against her. “He agreed to see me, but just before I got here, he topped himself.”
“He was probably suffering from PTSD, and here you come, bowling in, raking up something terrible from his past that has been closed by the fucking police. Have you got no sense? This might be how you do things in the Met, or even down in Cornwall. But it’s not how my coppers behave.” He stepped closer again, checking around him to make sure no one could hear him. “Now you listen to me. Both I and Clifford told you to drop this case and get on with what you’re paid to do. But you are constantly disobeying us. You will stop this. Now.”
“Why was he burning things?” Rachel said. Jenkins recoiled.
“What?”
“In the barrel. It is full of charred remains of clothes, photographs. There’s even what looks like videotapes in there. I’ll have it all bagged, of course. But why would someone, with nothing to hide, burn loads of personal effects just before a police officer comes around to speak to him about a death he witnessed?”
“Are the videotapes playable?” Jenkins asked, his tone softer.
“I don’t know yet. I’ll send them to the lab. But the fire was accelerated with petrol, so I doubt it.”
Jenkins was stuck in thought for a moment. “Go home, Rachel. You have a few days’ leave owing. I suggest you take them. Now.”
No sooner had Supt. Jenkins returned to his office and thrown his coat and police hat down on his cluttered desk, ACC Clifford stormed in behind him.
“Is what I’m hearing correct? Morrison is still disobeying orders?”
Jenkins shook a weary head and exhaled at length.
Clifford set his lips and put his hands on his hips. “I allocated a budget to put to bed misper cases that have clogged up that archives room for years, and try and get this force’s reputation back on track. Tell me, why on earth is that budget getting blown on cases already closed?”
“Sir, if I could just explain…”
“First the complaints from the vicar and the therapist, then I hear about this suicide. This ‘supercop’ I was promised is becoming a bit of a liability.”
“I know that. I’ve sent her home. She needs to reassess her priorities.”
Clifford balked. “You’ve sent her home?”
“Yes. I thought it was best. Cool her off a bit. Give her some thinking time.”
“Great,” Clifford bellowed. “So, not only am I paying for her to investigate cases that I never asked her to, but now I am payin
g for her to sit on her behind at home?”
Jenkins swallowed hard, realising Clifford made a sound point.
“It’s you that needs the thinking time, Graham. If this all goes tits up, I will be blaming you.” Clifford’s booming voice reverberated around Jenkins’ office, matched only by his heavy footsteps as he marched out, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 24
The weather forecast was pleasantly accurate for that Saturday morning, so Rachel thought as she sat on a bench in the middle of Sefton Park. The sun was warm on the back of her neck, the wind light and ruffling up her light yellow summer dress. She had picked her mum up on Friday evening from Lime Street and spent the evening talking over the events of the last few weeks since Rachel had moved up. Now, after a hearty breakfast at a café in Lark Lane, and a meander around the Palm House, mother and daughter sat in the park watching a group of pigeons fighting over a scrap of sandwich a picnicker had dropped moments before.
“Are you OK, love?” Rachel’s mum asked, after staring at her profile for a few silent minutes. The concern in her light blue eyes was tangible. She was in her mid-sixties, her greying hair a similar length now to Rachel’s. She was wearing a pale green dress and light summer jacket. By her side was a white tote bag containing her purse and a couple of bottles of orange juice.
“Yeah, fine,” Rachel sighed. Her gaze was fixed on the expansive lush green grass as far as the eye could see. A group of cyclists were trundling along the far perimeter path, clad in bright green and yellow Lycra. She couldn’t help but wonder if Chloe Sharp was among them. “Just a lot going on at work. Nothing new there then,” she added, smiling sidelong at her mother.
“Are you enjoying the job? Being up here?”
“I guess so. It’s not forever, is it? And it’s a change of scene. You always said that would be good for me.” Her thoughts drifted back to the note that had been left on her car windscreen just before she’d left Lizard. I know what you did. Don’t worry, it’s our little secret. To this day, she still had no idea who had left the note. Could it have been from someone caught up in Amanda Walker’s trail of destruction? The mystery of it had often kept her awake at night, sometimes even had her waking up in a cold sweat after a particularly vivid dream about the day Amanda had her head blasted open. Being hundreds of miles away had taken the sting out of the words in the note, but Rachel still couldn’t help but feel a cloying sense of pressure around her. Especially lately.
“I don’t know where I fit in anymore, Mum. I don’t know what I came here looking for.”
“To make a difference. It’s your motivation in everything you do. Has been since you were little.”
“But with this latest case, all I’ve done is cause destruction. I feel like I’m losing my judgement.” She exhaled at length. Her mother clamped a well-manicured hand over hers. Rachel continued, “I don’t know why I came up here, Mum. Was it because I was running away from the situation with Adam because it was too painful to deal with in our home? Or was it because I needed to feel the same high of the praise I was getting for solving the Kynance Cove murders? I don’t know who I am anymore, or what I want. My head is such a mess.”
“Even if you were doing it for the praise from the bosses, or the adoration from the young pups of the force,” her mother said in a soothing voice, “that doesn’t make you a bad person. There are worse things in life to be motivated by than wanting to do a good job and wanting people to like and appreciate you for it. People will love and respect you for who you are, not what it says on your badge. You just need to open up to people more. Make some friends. Now Adam’s gone, you might even meet someone who makes you smile again.”
Rachel exhaled at length, her eyes fixed on the horizon and the little group of cyclists.
“How was your weekend with your mum?” Chloe Sharp’s bright voice piped up over the top of her cubicle partition as Rachel swished past her.
“Lovely, thanks. I’ve just dropped her off at Lime Street for the early train home.” Rachel’s smile was wide but it hadn’t reached her eyes. Chloe noticed.
“You seem a bit down. I bet you were sad to see her go.”
“No, it’s not that. I just feel I’ve neglected you all, while I’ve been banging the doors down on the Spencer case.” She looked at Chloe with keen eyes. “I should have been paying more attention to you. And Bradley and Mags,” she added.
Chloe felt a warmth rush to her cheeks. Supressing it, she grinned. “Well then, neglect us no longer, boss. Let’s get cracking.”
“Excellent. Go and muster the troops and tell them I’d like a catch up in five minutes in my office. I just need to make a call to Katie to tell her about Thompson, and that we’re closing the case for good this time.”
“Good,” Chloe said, nodding. “She needs to put this all behind her. The past is past. Everyone is entitled to a fresh start.” She held Rachel’s gaze for a moment before turning and heading over to DC Bradley’s desk to tell him about the meeting.
Katie’s phone had vibrated against the dashboard and after seeing it was Rachel calling, she fumbled across the seat to reach it, pulling the wheel as she did so.
“Hello? Rachel?”
The car swerved, causing Katie to drop the phone with a thud into the passenger side footwell. She fought to right the car. It swerved the other way and skidded along the grass verge of the main road. With her foot stamped hard into the brake, Katie grimaced as a tree appeared large in front of the car. Bracing herself for the impact, she closed her eyes and smashed into the thick trunk of the oak. The car now crushed in at the bonnet and smoking from the engine bay, Katie lifted her head from the air bag that had deployed and cushioned her impact into the steering wheel. Her phone had stopped vibrating now, and the back light was now dark. Groaning, Katie put her shaking hand to her forehead and felt the warm sticky liquid that had pooled on her skin, matting her hair down. She broke into a fit of sobs, shrieking at the silent air around the deserted road.
“Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I remember?”
Unbuckling her seatbelt, wincing as she did so, she tried to reach down to the footwell to retrieve her phone, but in lowering her head, the blood rushed forward and sent her into a faint. She slumped against the seat, the drips of blood from the gash in her forehead pooling on the centre console.
Waiting for the beep, Rachel composed her message in her head. “Hi Katie, it’s Detective Inspector Morrison. If you could call me back when you get this message. Thanks, bye.” She pressed the end call button just as Chloe Sharp burst into her office, her characteristically buoyant face now serious.
“There’s somebody here to see you, boss. Says it’s urgent and he won’t talk to anyone else but you.”
Rachel looked up wearily, rubbing her eyes. “Who is it?”
“Robbie Reynolds. He said he’s ready to talk.”
Chapter 25
With her heart in her mouth, Rachel flew down the stairs from the incident room to reception. Robbie Reynolds sat there, wearing the same dirty jeans and wool jumper he’d worn the day Rachel met him up on his nan’s farm. He looked up at her, his face an unshaven mess.
“Robbie, hi. How are you?” Rachel said. She reached out her hand to shake his, but he remained staring at her. “Shall we go and find a quiet room?” Leading the way, Rachel sat Robbie down in an interview room just behind the front desk. She slid the vacant sign on the door over to make sure she wasn’t disturbed.
“Can I have a drink of water, please?” Robbie said. He licked his dry lips and coughed.
“Sure.”
Rachel filled a beaker from the water cooler next to the door and placed it on the table in front of Robbie, who had now sat down. He put his trembling hands on his knees and swallowed hard, before taking a huge swig from the beaker of water. He coughed again and wiped his mouth with a dirt-encrusted sleeve.
“Why are you here, Robbie?” Rachel asked. She had taken her seat opposite him and was now looking at
him with keen brown eyes.
“I saw in the paper that the investigation into Mollie Spencer’s death might be reopened. I remember the first investigation, and how shit it was handled.” His voice was shaky, his scouse accent more prominent now than it had been back when she’d met him in Scotland. “I can’t let that poor girl go through this anymore.”
Rachel leaned forward. “What are you talking about, Robbie?”
He looked up from the table, his stare now hard. “I know Katie got the blame for Mollie’s death. Everyone in the street thought it was her. But the papers weren’t allowed to print anything, and Katie was sent away. They hoped it would all go away, just reporting it as accidental death.” He clenched his teeth. “But it wasn’t an accident.” He paused and looked down at the table, his fists now clenched. “Mollie was murdered. And it’s all my fault.”
“Robbie?” Rachel prompted.
“Katie Spencer did not kill her sister. I know because I was there.”
Rachel returned to the interview room with a strong black coffee which she’d put four large sachets of sugars in. As soon as Robbie had told her about Mollie’s death being murder, he’d broken down into a fit of hysterical crying, throwing the chair back and crouching in the corner like a wounded animal. Letting him calm down, she left the door open to keep an eye on him while she popped into the corridor to get him a drink. The desk sergeant flashed her a concerned glance, as if to ask her if she needed back up, but she waved it away. She looked back into the room and saw Robbie now standing and picking up the chair to slot it back underneath the table. He sat down as if his outburst had never happened.
