by Kerena Swan
‘Not yet. Sergeant Wallis is looking into it. The CSI team and pathologist are on their way.’ In fact, they might be there already.
A line of vehicles, parked precariously up a steep grass verge, appeared up ahead. Paton stopped to let Cheryl out of the car then pulled in behind them. The car tilted and the hedge scratched the wing mirror. The lane was too narrow for two cars to pass each other.
He climbed awkwardly out of the car, trying not to scrape the door on the ground. ‘Looks like they’ve sealed off the track to the cabin.’ Paton could see a figure bent over, taking pictures of tyre marks.
Blue police tape fluttered across a rutted road to the right and three people, hunched in thick coats, stamped their feet nearby. ‘Bloody press,’ Paton muttered. ‘Come to feast while the body’s still warm. Who tipped them off?’
They rushed forward as Paton and Cheryl walked towards the police officer guarding the outer cordon.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’ a man asked, a watery drip wobbling under his red nose. He grabbed a tissue from his pocket and rubbed it away.
‘Do we know who the victim is?’ A woman in a fur-trimmed hood stood in front of Paton, notebook at the ready, her fingers blue with cold.
‘You probably know more than me at this stage. Excuse me,’ Paton said. Stepping around her, he strode away with Cheryl following.
They gave their names to the officer who wrote them in the crime scene log. Behind him a man in a white suit was taking photographs of the mud and stones, swearing as the snow obliterated his evidence.
‘You need to get suited and booted, and take a spare pair of shoe covers for indoors,’ the officer said, running a finger around his collar and hunching his shoulders as large snowflakes melted against his neck. ‘Are you both on the fingerprint and DNA databases?’
They nodded.
‘When you’re ready, follow the path marked out by the tape.’
Paton was puffing by the time they reached the cabin at the top of the hill.
‘Maybe you should join my gym,’ Cheryl said.
‘I’m too old for all that nonsense. Besides, I do get exercise,’ he said.
‘Oh yeah? What?’ asked Cheryl.
‘Bowling with Tommy,’ he said, with a grin.
As they crested the hill the log cabin came into view, nestled between tall conifers. It was constructed of what appeared to be whole pine trees stacked on top of each other, the corners overlapping and sticking out like a giant game of Jenga. A porch ran across the front, the entrance barred with yellow Crime Scene – Do Not Enter tape. Paton looked around at the wide lawns and spiky shrubs. There were no other properties in sight. Just hills, trees and a distant view of the loch.
He ducked under the tape and opened the door to the cabin. ‘Is it okay to come in?’
A short woman in white barrier clothing, with only her serious brown eyes visible above a face mask, nodded and beckoned them forward. A man in the same attire stood in the lounge writing notes on a clipboard.
‘I’m Yvonne, and this is Frank, the pathologist,’ the woman said. ‘Please keep to the step plates. We can’t have footprints or blood spatter evidence being contaminated. The body’s in here.’
She led the way through the wooden-walled L-shaped room, across square metal stepping plates to a back bedroom. Yellow markers were placed next to potential pieces of evidence – a bloodied tea towel, a mobile phone and a paperback novel. ‘Close the door behind you,’ Yvonne called over her shoulder as Cheryl followed them in. ‘We don’t want debris blowing in from outside.’
Paton braced himself to face the corpse. Despite having many years of service behind him, he’d seen few dead bodies in his career, one of the bonuses of working in such a rural area. He could never admit it, but they made him feel lightheaded and sick, like the time he’d found a dead fox in the woods when he was eight. He’d rolled it over with a stick and its glassy eyes had stared at him as maggots crawled from the gaping red hole in its stomach. Horrified, he’d thrown up, much to the amusement of his sister. Unfortunately, he’d never grown out of feeling sick or faint at the sight of death and blood.
He trod carefully across the step plates to what must be the bedroom, and forced himself to look. This one tested his self-control and he swallowed excess saliva, briefly wondering how Cheryl was coping.
A man lay on his back on the floor, wide eyes suggesting surprise at what had happened. His left hand gripped a fistful of blue bedspread hanging off the bed, but his right hand clutched at a knife protruding from his chest as though trying to remove it. It was the blood, though, that made Paton’s stomach lurch ominously. There was so much of it. The man’s clothing was saturated and the floor to either side of him was covered in dark pools of thick liquid. It had dried around the edges but the middle had a shine to it. It was still wet and the smell was overpowering to Paton’s sensitive nose.
The Crime Scene Investigator was speaking but Paton struggled to hear her over the rushing in his ears. Something about unexplained blood spatters and drips from a height. She pointed at small, perfectly round drops of blood on the floor and was saying they were about to take samples to see if they were from a different source when Paton felt his stomach heave and the room sway. He needed fresh air.
He turned for the exit abruptly, and in his haste barged into Cheryl who stumbled off her step plate, her foot landing squarely on the blood drips the CSI officer had just pointed out. Paton heard a gasp and a profanity but didn’t wait to see what trouble he’d caused. He ran along the step plates and across the porch before putting his hands on his knees. He bent his head as low as he could and gulped down lungfuls of the cold afternoon air.
What a fool he’d made of himself. How could he face the team after this? They’d tease him mercilessly and make him buy the cakes for weeks as his punishment. He’d never live it down.
Chapter 3
The Following June | Jenna
I could happily spend all day in here. It gives me the same feeling of delight I got when we visited the sweetshop as kids and saw all the brightly coloured jars lined up on the shelves. There are no jars here but travel brochures instead. Row after row of them. I stand in the middle of the travel agents and turn slowly to take them all in. Shafts of bright sunshine from the plate-glass shop window illuminate the room and my heart sings with joy.
I can’t wait to see more of the world. It’s full of so many exciting places. I gaze with longing at colourful pictures depicting panoramic views of rivers, old palaces, bustling cities, smiling people in exotic costumes and elephants. I love elephants and they’re one of the reasons I’m in here.
‘Hi, Jenna.’ Nisha appears from the back of the shop, neat in her work outfit, her dark hair in a long, shiny plait. She takes in my colourful dress and layers of beads.
‘The feathers are a nice touch.’ she says.
‘You know me. Never one for convention.’ Grinning, I pull a handful of dreadlocks over my shoulder to twiddle with the bright blue and green feathers entwined in my dark hair.
‘Were the brochures helpful?’ she asks.
‘Brilliant. They’ve inspired me.’ I beam at her. ‘I don’t think I’ve saved anywhere near enough money yet, though, and now I’ve looked at all these fantastic places, I want to go for more than a year.’
I could research all this stuff online but it’s much more exciting to share my dreams with my enthusiastic old school friend. When I mention travelling to my family they roll their eyes as if to say, ‘Here she goes again. Can’t she talk about anything else?’
‘I found out some stuff on animal sanctuaries.’ Nisha bends down behind her desk and pulls out a pile of bright leaflets. ‘I printed them off for you.’
‘Wow, thanks!’ I sit down and pull them towards me.
‘How’s that crazy horse of yours?’ she asks after a while.
‘He’s great, although he seems to have developed a fear of carrier bags. There was one in the hedge the other day and he n
early spooked sideways into the road. Lucy said he was a danger to the public and I should have him put down.’ I’d been horrified when my sister said that after I regaled her and Mum with the carrier bag story.
‘She just likes winding you up. It’s what sisters do.’
‘I suppose.’
Lucy’s never been a fan of Merlin anyway. She thinks I should be building a future for myself instead of throwing my wages away on a horse, especially as I’m not exactly rolling in money. I’m going to miss Merlin horribly when I go travelling. Luckily his expenses will be covered when I’m away as I’m loaning him to a friend who I know will take excellent care of him. If I ever get enough money together for travelling, that is. I need more income. I look around at the brochures again. ‘Any vacancies here?’ I’d far rather work in a travel agency than do more child-minding and bar work.
‘Sorry. You’d need at least a Level 2 in Travel and Tourism.’ Nisha gives me a twisted smile. She knows I struggled to apply myself at school and left Equestrian College after two terms. ‘Besides, now there’s so much travel information online, our customer base is shrinking to the few who don’t have the internet or can’t fathom it out.’
I sigh then return my attention to the leaflet. ‘They say you’re a volunteer on these trips but really you’re just another paying tourist.’ I turn it over. ‘Start at six-thirty and finish at five? Maybe it’s not a holiday.’ I hate getting up early. I’m more of an evening person.
My phone rings and I glance at the screen. Lucy. Oh God. What does she want now? She’s bound to be moaning about something.
‘Hi.’ I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice.
‘Did you go to the card shop and get the invitations?’
‘Yeah, I’m good, thanks.’ I roll my eyes at Nisha and she grins. She knows Lucy won’t have asked how I am. ‘Not yet, but I will.’
‘Huh. Where are you anyway? Not in the bloody travel agents again?’ Lucy’s voice is like a knife squealing across a plate. ‘You are, aren’t you? For Christ’s sake, Jenna. You’re supposed to be helping me. I can’t organise this whole party on my own.’
‘It was your idea.’ A bad one, in my opinion. I don’t begrudge the fact that it’s eating into my savings because Lucy insists we should each pay half of the costs. I’m just not sure Mum will actually enjoy a surprise sixtieth birthday party. I suspect she’ll hate it. I don’t say so out loud but Lucy picks up on my feelings anyway.
‘Mum will love it,’ she insists. ‘We all need some positivity in our lives.’ She doesn’t say ‘after losing Dad’, but I hear it anyway.
‘Did you organise the marquee?’ she asks then.
Damn. I’d forgotten about that. ‘Er…’ I picture Lucy bristling at the other end of the phone.
‘You haven’t done it! Oh, my God, I can’t trust you to do anything.’
I hold the phone towards Nisha’s ear and pick up the leaflets again. She stifles a giggle. I half-listen to the tinny voice as I read about washing elephants then pull it back to my ear as I hear Lucy getting more irate.
‘Jenna? Are you still there? Stop being a brat. Damn, I’ve got another call. I’ll ring you back in a minute.’
I switch the phone to silent then lay it face down on the table. ‘Have you read about this Gibbon Sanctuary in Phuket?’ I say to Nisha, who leans forward to look at a leaflet with me. ‘It’s terrible what some people do to the adult gibbons to get their babies. All for the sake of holiday photographs.’
I feel my anger rising at the thought of innocent creatures being slaughtered to make money from tourists. I can’t wait to travel, to find a good cause where I can make a difference to the lives of helpless children or animals – to finally do something worthwhile. I spend another happy half-hour chatting with Nisha then pick up my phone. Five missed calls from Lucy. Blimey, she’s not usually that persistent. And two from Grace, who cleans for Mum and prepares her lunch, who’s become more of a family friend in the short time she’s been with us. Or should I say referee? She’s always trying to keep the peace between Lucy and me. Lucy’s probably asked her to intervene.
‘Better go,’ I tell Nisha. ‘Thanks for the brochures.’
I gather up my stuff and head for the door. I step out into the bright June sunshine and call Grace.
‘What’s she saying about me now?’ I ask, laughing.
‘Jenna, you need to come home.’ Grace sounds panicky. ‘Your mother collapsed. I put her to bed but I’ve got to go and I can’t leave her. Lucy won’t get here for another hour.’
Chapter 4
The Previous February | Sarah
I’m convinced the engine’s misfiring and losing power. Come on, I urge, not much further. I slow right down to get as much distance out of the remaining fuel as possible. A huge lorry looms behind me then overtakes, the driver gesticulating rudely as he passes. My hands are sweating when, a few minutes later, I pull into the forecourt of a petrol station. I’ve never been so relieved to see one.
I park away from the pumps and look around, praying the car will start again so I can move it to the petrol pumps. I have to find a toilet first. There must be one. Yes! Over there. I scurry off to relieve the discomfort in my bladder, keeping my head down and my furry-edged hood pulled up to cover most of my face so the cameras won’t identify me. I give my hands a thorough wash, cleaning the blood from around my nails then I rinse strands of hair. For a moment I see again the spray of blood and feel the warmth of it on my skin. I shiver as goosebumps rise on my flesh. Back in the car, I pull my make-up from my bag and carefully cover the bruises blooming under my eyes. I squirt some perfume onto my neck and open my parka jacket to spray my jeans and black sweatshirt before carefully fastening it again.
I manage to refuel my little car but don’t fill the tank right up. I only have £50 in cash and I can’t risk the police tracking my debit card. I head to the shop for a drink and snack with my hood still up. Thankfully the weather is cold so I don’t think I look suspicious.
I’m back on the motorway within ten minutes. The dark snow clouds are behind me now and I feel safe from pursuit but the tedium of the road and traffic is giving me too much time to think. I picture the bedding bundled into the boot of my car, stripped in a moment of panic at the thought of them finding my DNA. The folds of linen must be smeared with our lovemaking.
Perhaps I should have cleaned the cabin more thoroughly. Hoovered the floors, maybe, to get rid of hair and fibres. But there must have been plenty of other people passing through there – loads of different DNA. Robert led me to believe he owned the place when he said he had a cabin in Loch Tay. The perfect place for us to spend a romantic week and plan our future together. I’ve been so gullible. Again. Let down by myself as much as Robert. I rub at a bruise where he’d grabbed my arm. He was no better than all the others in the end. He was just like my father, in fact.
A police car with flashing lights approaches on the other side of the motorway and my guts twist with anxiety. I run through my movements so far. I got on the motorway at a junction further away so hopefully they won’t link me to the area and I’ve travelled at a steady pace so as not to trigger a speed camera. Cameras. Shit. What about automatic number plate recognition cameras tracking my plates? Will they know where I get off the motorway and where I go after that? I need a way to disguise my car. Wait. I suddenly remember what my dodgy neighbour did. I rummage through my door pocket, pushing aside used tissues, old black sunglasses with a crude repair where the arm snapped, and loads of sweet wrappers. I know it’s here somewhere. I used it to fix the sunglasses and my cheap headphones when the lead frayed.
‘Yes!’ My voice seems loud in the quiet car. I’ll get off at the next junction. I don’t travel far before I see a sign and a slip road. I leave the motorway and drive until I spot a remote country lane then look for a gateway I can pull into. I use the black masking tape on the front number plate first then turn the car around and use it on the rear. I’ve watched the neighbo
ur do this on his driveway and it’s surprisingly simple, yet effective. Instead of PU59 FTL my number plates now read RU58 ETE.
By the time I reach the outskirts of Milton Keynes my neck aches and my right calf is stiff from pressing the accelerator, but I don’t feel as tense as I did. The town shines with orange streetlights as I navigate one roundabout after another. A sudden clattering of hail against the windscreen makes me jump. I’m an exhausted wreck and I hope my welcome from Mum is going to be warmer than the weather. It must be two years since I last saw her, and we’ve barely spoken.
I turn into the Netherfield estate and my spirits slump further as I cross a grid of streets lined with rows of flat-roofed boxes. I try to imagine cosy interiors and happy lives being played out, but fail miserably. For me, this place signifies pain, rejection and hopelessness. I regret not staying in Manchester now, but I can go back there tomorrow. I’m too tired to contemplate driving any further tonight.
Getting no reply at the front door, and seeing that the lounge curtains are closed, I drive around the back of the terrace and pull up into the carport. The gate is difficult to unlatch and creaks in protest as I go through to the back garden, cold rain stinging my face. I press the little torch on my keyring and look around. A broken table leans like an injured pub brawler against the fence, chairs are scattered on the long grass nearby and a rusted barbeque rains flakes of orange metal to the ground. Bags of rubbish are heaped one on top of another near the back door and broken pots spill soil and dead plants onto the green-stained patio.
Not much has changed then. I follow the concrete path to the glass door and peer in, holding my torch against the window to light the kitchen. The scene is no better inside. Piles of dirty crockery fill the worktops, soiled washing is slung on the floor in front of the old washing machine and the table is littered with bottles. Lots of bottles – Vodka mainly. Jesus. Where is she and what state is she in?
