by Isaac, Jane;
‘Pause there a minute, will you?’ she asked.
Pemberton finished the call and re-joined her. She pointed out the screw.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Can you get the footage emailed to the incident room please?’ he asked the officer. The CSIs would take photos at various angles when they arrived, but he was keen to share the film to give them context. ‘So, she’d driven over a screw, given herself a flat. Could have been working its way in there for days before it punctured.’
‘Or somebody planted it.’ Helen gazed at the surrounding fields. The sky was spotted with stars, like tiny torchlights diluting the darkness. ‘No sign of a struggle?’ she asked the officer.
He shook his head.
‘Sinead’s call records have come through to the incident room,’ Pemberton said. ‘Last call she made was to Blane at 10.23 a.m.’
Helen frowned. ‘Yes, Blane mentioned her calling him to check on the children. He didn’t say she mentioned a flat tyre though. It’s odd she didn’t phone him back, attempt to change the tyre or call a breakdown service to help.’
She looked back across the surrounding fields. The pathologist estimated time of death between 2.30 and 6.30 p.m. Sinead was last seen by Blane at 10.00 a.m., which meant they had a four and a half to eight and a half hour gap to fill.
‘It has to be a good few hours walk to Hampton centre from here,’ she said to Pemberton. ‘Even further to Billings. We know she had her mobile. So, either someone was in the car with her and they used their phone to get help, or somebody picked her up here or nearby.’ She was mulling this over when her own phone rang. It was DC Dark.
‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am. We’ve arrived at the victim’s house to do the search and the next door neighbour’s kicking up a real fuss. Asking to speak with a senior officer. Now.’
CHAPTER 7
The O’Donnells lived at number 21 Richardson Close, on Hampton’s modern Langlands Estate, in a row of semi-detached houses at the bottom of a cul-de-sac. Driveways divided each set of houses. There was no garage and in the obliging moonlight Helen could see down the driveway and into a back garden contained by a white picket fence, with a park beyond.
The curtains of number twenty-one were open; lights shone from every room and she could see officers milling about inside. The soft hue of lamplight was shrouded by curtains in many of the houses nearby, residents recently disturbed by the house-to-house inquiries. While she hadn’t wished to disturb residents in the middle of the night, they needed to establish if anybody had witnessed a disturbance at the O’Donnells’ recently, or seen anything unusual in the area that day, and with the clock ticking, these questions couldn’t wait until morning. It was still possible the killer could be somewhere nearby.
DC Spencer emerged from the neighbouring front door as they climbed out of the car.
Helen nodded towards the O’Donnells’. ‘How’s the house search going? Any sign of spare car keys?’ It would be easier for the CSIs to access the car rather than risk contamination by breaking in and, since Blane didn’t have the keys, she was hoping there was a set at the property.
Spencer shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen anything obvious yet. They don’t have a key rack or cupboard.’ Not unusual for cops. Most didn’t have key racks, a legacy of dealing with so many burglaries where key dishes and cupboards were on show. ‘Dark’s with the neighbour,’ he said. ‘An Yvette Edwards. She’s very distressed.’
‘Are you sure there’s no one else available to see her?’ Helen asked. On the car journey over, she’d requested urgent checks on the residents of number nineteen and the Police National Computer and force intelligence records were clear. This was a family not known to them, not accustomed to police presence, and there was no suggestion they were involved in Sinead’s murder. But, still, she’d much rather another senior officer, without case contact, responded.
‘The shift sergeant’s tied up with a disturbance in Hampton centre.’ Spencer rolled his eyes. ‘Some old boys went heavy on the beer after a darts match and started a brawl. Multiple offenders, apparently.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ She turned to Pemberton. ‘Do you want to get back to the station, see if there’s any news on cell-siting Sinead’s phone? I’ll get a lift back.’ Pemberton’s face eased as he moved off to the car. He clearly didn’t fancy placating a hysterical woman at one o’clock in the morning. Neither did Helen. But she was curious. Neighbours often shared confidences. If she calmed her down, something might slip into the conversation.
Helen avoided the doorbell, instead tapping on the pane of stained glass that ran the length of the front door. Almost immediately, Dark appeared.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said.
‘No problem. Is she alone?’
‘Yes, her husband’s a security guard at one of the food factories in Hampton. Works nights. I’ve called him, explained the situation. He’s just waiting for someone to relieve him before he can come home.’
Dark led her through to a sitting room at the front of the house, where a blonde woman, who looked to be in her early thirties, sat in a white flannel dressing gown. She sniffed into a tissue and looked up as they entered.
Rosa introduced them both and excused herself to make tea.
A lamp in the corner cast shadows over the mint-green walls and was reflected in the mirror above the fireplace, giving the room a cosy feel. Two landscape watercolours adorned the far wall, a family portrait of a child and parents was surrounded by enlarged holiday snapshots on the wall behind the sofa.
‘May I?’ Helen pointed at the sofa beside Yvette.
The woman nodded for her to sit down.
‘You asked to speak with a senior officer,’ Helen said kindly. ‘I’m heading the investigation. How can I help you?’
Red-rimmed eyes looked across at her imploringly. ‘I want to know what happened.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than my officer told you earlier,’ she started, although the sheer look of desperation on Yvette’s face immediately softened her tone. ‘Let me go through things again for you.’ Helen explained where Sinead had been found, careful not to detail the injuries or divulge any more than necessary. It was always useful to hold back. You never knew when a snippet of information might drop out in interview, indicating guilt or leading them in a different direction.
‘How was she killed?’ Yvette asked when she finished up.
‘We believe she died from a wound to her neck,’ Helen said. ‘Do you know whether she knew anyone from Billings or had any connection there?’
Yvette shook her head. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said absently. ‘I saw her this morning, packing up her car. She was excited about her trip.’ She pressed the soggy tissue to her cheek.
‘Did you speak with her?’
‘Only to say have a lovely time. I was on my way back in.’
‘On your way from where?’
‘Dropping off my daughter, Amy, at Brownie camp. It’s her first holiday away from home.’
Helen gave a rueful smile. Perhaps that explained her reaction. The first holiday was a difficult time for any mother. She remembered Matthew, her eldest’s, first school trip to Wales in Year Five. He’d cried the night before, said he didn’t want to go. She’d put him on the coach the following morning with mixed feelings, bitten her nails to the quick during the week he was away, and when he returned on the Friday, the first thing he’d said was, ‘Can I go again next year?’
She glanced at a photo of a girl in school uniform beside the television. The child was petite with blonde hair, a younger version of her mother. ‘I’m sure your daughter will have a great time,’ Helen said reassuringly.
‘I hope so. I’m glad she’s not here with all that’s happened.’
Scratches and footfalls filtered through the walls as officers searched the rooms next door.
‘How long have you known Sinead?’ Helen asked.
‘We met the O’Donnells when we moved into the
close two years ago. Their children were babies then. Blane was often busy, so Sinead and I shared a coffee occasionally when she wasn’t working. Last year, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had to have a mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy and radiotherapy. She was a rock, helping out with Amy, my daughter. Taking me shopping when Mum wasn’t free. Sinead’s like that. Drops everything for a friend in need.’ She cast her eyes down. ‘Or she was.’
‘You knew her quite well then?’
‘I suppose. We looked after each other’s children. She doesn’t have any family nearby on her side, not any that are able to help anyway.’
‘Oh?’ Helen settled back into the sofa. She was already familiar with Sinead’s family set-up from Blane, but she needed to cross-reference the details. Differing accounts at this early stage in the investigation often exposed crucial clues.
‘Her brother was in the Irish Defence Forces, killed in action before she moved here. Her mother has early onset Alzheimer’s. Sinead moved her across from Ireland, to a nursing home in Hampton about four years ago, after her father died. The disease is aggressive. I don’t think there’s much left there now, poor soul.’
‘What about friends?’
‘She mentioned some colleagues at work, I gave the details to the other detective earlier.’
‘How has she seemed recently?’
‘I haven’t seen a lot of her, to be honest. Blane’s been away, working on his mum’s house. What with the kids and work, she’s been too busy.’
‘When did you last see her to talk to, apart from this morning?’
‘Oh, goodness.’ She lifted a trembling hand, touched her chin. ‘Must be a couple of weeks since we had a catch-up.’
‘Can you remember what she talked about then?’
‘The children. Her mother. She was more interested in asking me how I was doing. Sinead didn’t like talking about herself. Whenever the conversation moved to her, she made a joke and changed the subject. It took me a year to discover her mum had Alzheimer’s and then I only found out by mistake. It’s a shame. If anyone needed someone to talk to, it was her.’
Helen eased forward. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She had so much on her plate.’ Yvette reached across, pulled a fresh tissue from the box beside her and blew her nose. ‘I did hear her crying in the bathroom the other night. The walls are paper-thin in these houses.’
‘When was this?’
‘Sunday.’
‘Did you go and see her?’
‘It was late. I sent her a text and she replied to say she was fine. The following day, I asked her about it when I saw her on the driveway. She claimed it was Ava, throwing a tantrum because she couldn’t get her own way. But it was Sinead crying, I’m sure it was.’
CHAPTER 8
Helen stood in front of the small mirror in the ladies’ toilets and brushed her hair. They’d stayed with Sinead’s neighbour until her husband arrived home, and taken a brief account from him. It was after 4 a.m. when she got home herself, barely time to take a quick shower and don a fresh suit for the early-morning press conference.
The picture Yvette Edwards had painted of Sinead as a busy mother under pressure, struggling to hold down her full-time job while raising her children and caring for her own mother, might explain the tears she’d heard. But the extent of Sinead’s injuries, the brutal torture, suggested she was involved in something more sinister.
Both Yvette and her husband claimed they were home all day. He was sleeping off his night shift and rose around 4 p.m.; she was home doing her chores. There was no reason to suspect them. Yvette’s request to speak to a senior officer appeared to be a reassurance exercise, but, still, she was a friend who lived close by and her description of Sinead as someone who avoided discussing private matters left Helen uneasy. Why the need for so much secrecy?
Helen tucked the brush in her bag and checked the zip on her trousers. She’d lost weight this past couple of months, even with her mother’s attempts at feeding her up, and her size 12s were hanging off her. She cast one last glance in the mirror and then wandered out of the ladies’.
‘That’s better!’ Vicki Gardener, the press officer, said. With her caramel French plait and smart suit, Vicki was one of those women who always looked perfect, no matter what the hour of day or night. She reached across, straightened Helen’s jacket and swept a loose hair off her shoulder, then handed her an A4 sheet with two typed paragraphs, double-spaced, and a list beneath: the press brief, along with potential questions.
‘We need to reach the early-morning news,’ Vicki said, her Australian accent dragging out the words. ‘It’s all about encouraging witnesses to come forward, while giving the press enough to quash the speculation. Let’s keep it short, tight and stick to the brief.’ She pointed at the A4 sheet and motioned for Helen to follow her down the corridor.
They turned the corner and immediately the sound of muffled voices and chair legs scraping the floor could be heard from the conference room; the hacks had made an early start to their day, ready to catch the low-down on the night’s events. Helen spotted Jenkins in the middle of the corridor in a slick black suit, alongside the chief constable. The gold buttons of the chief’s blazer glinted under the fluorescent lighting.
Chief Constable Adams was the first to greet Helen. ‘Good to see you back at work,’ he said. ‘Shame it isn’t under better circumstances.’
Jenkins gave her a nod of awkward acknowledgement.
‘Okay. Everyone ready?’ Adams said.
He opened the door and the noise intensified. A wave of camera flashes followed them as they took to a temporary stage that Vicki had put together for the occasion. Adams stood in the middle, sandwiched between Helen and Jenkins. Out of the corner of her eye, Helen could see Vicki’s watchful gaze beside the door.
Adams tapped the microphone twice. ‘Thank you.’ The room instantly hushed. He went on to announce their sadness at losing one of their own officers in such tragic circumstances and express the force’s condolences to the family.
Jenkins shared the address of where Sinead was found. Helen then appealed for information about the kids seen running from the factory and any sightings of Sinead on the day she disappeared. She also asked for witnesses who’d seen the car to contact them and finished by echoing the condolences, passing her thoughts on to the family and asking the press to respect their privacy at this difficult time. The media could be so intrusive; the last thing she wanted was for them to camp outside Blane’s mother’s house, seeking an exclusive photo of the distressed family for their next news piece.
As soon as she finished, a hand rose from the back of the room. ‘Andrew Steiner, Hampton Herald,’ the man said and stood. ‘I understand the officer was tortured. What can you tell us about that?’
Helen felt Jenkins’s knee twitch beside her. These details hadn’t been released to the press, which meant another leak. That was all they needed. ‘The officer suffered extensive injuries,’ Helen said. ‘I don’t know where your information is coming from, but I’m not at liberty to say more until a full autopsy has confirmed the details and the family have been informed.’
‘Torture suggests a need for information. How can you be sure your officer wasn’t compromised?’
Helen hooked his gaze. ‘As I say, until I have a medical opinion, I can’t add anything further. And I’d ask you to respect that until the family are updated. The circumstances will be fully investigated.’
Another man in an oversized jacket, with a thatch of grey hair, stood beside her. ‘Chris Watts, The Evening Chronicle,’ he said. ‘This is the second police death this year. What steps are the force taking to protect other officers?’
‘The safety of our officers is always of paramount importance,’ Adams cut in, his deep voice crushing the murmurs gathering in the room. ‘From what we’ve seen so far, this is an isolated incident, but, of course, our officers will be following the usual protocols.’
‘What about members of
the public? Should they be taking precautions for their own safety?’
‘We always suggest that people are extra vigilant after an attack like this,’ Adams continued. ‘I can assure you we will be allocating every available resource we have to track down the offender, as we do in every serious crime we investigate.’
Vicki gave an abrupt nod.
Adams raised his hands. ‘Right, thank you everyone. That’s all we have for now.’ He ushered Helen and Jenkins out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, Adams rounded on them both. ‘Where the bloody hell did that leak come from?’ he hissed.
Jenkins looked at Helen. ‘The incident response officer who discovered Sinead put it out on open police radio,’ Helen said. ‘It could have come from anywhere.’
‘Anywhere within the force. Christ, as if we haven’t enough to deal with, losing one of our own. I’ll be trusting you two to smooth this one over,’ he said. ‘Keep your information close.’ Adams checked his watch. It was still only 6.20 a.m. ‘Okay, I’m relying on you both here,’ he said. ‘I want regular updates throughout the day. We need to shut this one down quickly.’
Silence fell upon them as he moved off down the corridor, closely followed by a harried Vicki. Helen pulled her phone out of her pocket. The house search would be complete, her team back at the office. She scrolled down, about to press call to check for an update when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
She looked up at Jenkins’s thick grey hair, the contrasting dark eyebrows.
‘Coffee,’ he said.
‘I need to be getting back.’
‘A few minutes won’t hurt.’ He strode off towards the back stairs.
Helen sighed inwardly and followed him.
When they reached the floor below, they were met by a line of officers streaming out of the canteen and down the corridor to the lifts. She followed Jenkins, nodding acknowledgements as she passed familiar faces, wondering what was going on.
