An Eye for an Eye (Detective Kate Young)

by Carol Wyer

  The office was empty. Kate slumped into her seat and drank in the silence. She’d never been good left to her own devices; she worked better when she was part of a team and could bounce ideas off others. Alone in the cramped quarters, she was overcome with an irrational panic. Her palms began to sweat and, in spite of her efforts to focus on the investigation, she couldn’t. A vision of the train carriage began to materialise in front of her eyes. She needed Chris. She rang his mobile and once again got the answering message telling her his voicemail box was full. She tossed the phone on to the desk and forced back the swelling dread. She couldn’t run to her husband every time she had an attack. She had to learn to handle it.

  She wiped her hands up and down on her thighs and attempted her breathing exercises. In for five counts . . . hold for six . . . out for seven.

  Pop!

  A body slumps forward, head resting on the table.

  She shook herself free of the scene. Her forehead was clammy. The pills. She needed her pills. She delved into her bag, hunting for the foil packets, only to be halted abruptly by the door being thrown open with force. Emma marched into the room, accompanied by Morgan.

  ‘We’ve interviewed Bradley’s pupils, and all the times check out. We also tried Brown’s Café. The barista still doesn’t recall seeing him. To be fair, the lad isn’t the sharpest tool in the box. All of which means, between 11.00 a.m. and 1 p.m. we don’t have any clear idea of Bradley’s whereabouts.’

  ‘We need to establish if the Mini was his. Bring Bradley in. Emma, you can interview him.’

  ‘Don’t you want to, boss?’

  ‘You can take the lead on this. I’ll handle Lisa.’

  ‘Is she still in the frame?’ Morgan asked.

  Kate screwed up her face in uncertainty. ‘Could be.’

  Morgan crossed the room and turned on his computer. ‘There was something niggling me about her Facebook photos, the ones she supposedly took when she was abroad with Alex. They’re all too professional and she didn’t take a single selfie in any hotel. For somebody who snapped endless photos of herself, you’d have thought she’d have posed for a few in a swanky hotel. I most certainly would. Piccies of myself in the posh bathroom, or helping myself to the minibar, or sunbathing by the pool. Anyway, I searched online for images of the hotels she claimed she visited and came across the exact same photos, taken from the same angle – they were all official photos, copied from the hotel websites. If she did accompany Alex to the Burj Al Arab in Dubai and the Mandarin Oriental in Hong Kong, she definitely didn’t take those photographs. So, not only did she doctor photos of her with her boss, and apparently stalk him, she made up all this shit too.’

  Emma snorted. ‘She’s a female Walter Mitty.’

  Morgan shook his head. ‘Lisa’s more than a daydreamer or somebody who fantasises about escaping her mundane life. She’s a pathological liar. I think she would lie through her teeth about anything.’

  Emma leant over Morgan’s shoulder and stared at the Facebook page. ‘You think she could have killed Alex?’

  ‘I think it’s possible anybody willing to live in such a fantasy world might be capable of more than just lying.’

  ‘Maybe so, but we can’t speculate. We work facts. Come on, Morgan, we’d better round up Bradley and bring him in for questioning,’ said Emma.

  Morgan vacated his seat and followed Emma. Kate rooted once again for her pills, took them with a large swig of water and waited for the jack-hammering in her chest to desist. Lisa wasn’t the only person living a lie.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SATURDAY, 5 JUNE – AFTERNOON

  Ian Wentworth was dozing in his La-Z-Boy chair when the whispering voice brought him to his senses with a jolt. He heard his name being called in an eerie, hissed sing-song way that made his flesh crawl. ‘Ia-an.’ With eyes now wide open, he remained immobile, trying to get a handle on what was happening. He’d turned off the radio to better concentrate on an interesting article about stenting frontal sinus mucoceles in the British Medical Journal, so the sound wasn’t coming from that. There was someone in the room with him.

  This thought filled him with such dread he wanted to curl into a tight ball, as he had done most nights, many years before, when as a child terrified of the dark he would hide from monsters lurking in his wardrobe or under his bed.

  There was no wardrobe in this room. It was an open-plan space, incorporating the living, eating and kitchen areas in the apartment. Ian had paid a top designer to imbue it with maximum wow factor. It had style in abundance: a white floating staircase that seemed to hover in front of floor-to-ceiling white bookcases, a huge living space dominated by a grand Steinway piano; white Italian-designed round chairs with kingfisher-blue cushions, and a mock log fire inset a third of the way up the wall. The living space was separated from the kitchen with its bespoke fittings by a black marble T-shaped breakfast bar, against which were eight leather-padded stools. There was nowhere for anyone to hide.

  He strained to hear any noise. There was nothing. He must have imagined the sound as he drifted out of consciousness. He was tense because of the jar at the cottage. The police had responded quickly to his phone call. His concerns about being broken into had been duly noted, but since nothing had been stolen, and he had no idea why somebody would have left a jar containing an eyeball on his desk, there was little for the police to go on. An officer with a lived-in face had thought it most likely to have been the work of pranksters who’d discovered he was an ENT specialist, and suggested the eye had come from an animal. Ian had patiently explained he wasn’t an eye surgeon, but his words were wasted on the policeman, certain this was no more than a practical joke played on Ian because of his profession.

  He stilled his pounding heart. His mind was playing tricks. The front door had a self-locking mechanism and nobody could get in without a key. In spite of his reasoning, he had a sudden urge to draw the little-used bolts across the top and bottom, just for peace of mind. He stood up and spun around, and then let out a half-hearted laugh. There was nobody in sight. The papers he’d been reading were on the floor. They’d tumbled from his lap. He collected them and placed them on the table, his hands trembling slightly. Goodness, he was jittery.

  The room was immense. He’d chosen the apartment for that very reason. He needed space around him. On warmer days, he’d open the door from the master bedroom to a private terrace on the roof and sit up there, hidden from view behind an ornate stone wall, listening to the sounds below him. It was perfect up there for sunbathing, enjoying a quiet meal or an aperitif, although Ian never invited anyone here: not business colleagues or even friends. He always arranged to meet elsewhere, in cafés, restaurants, hotels or other public places. This place was sacrosanct, and he would never consider sharing any part of it, which was why he’d purchased the house near the Peak District National Park. Raven Cottage was for entertaining his boyfriends, although given what had happened, he might have to consider moving it on. If the locals were going to hound him, he might be better off cutting his losses and looking for another place, sooner rather than later. Who knew what tricks they’d get up to next?

  He walked towards the front door, past Alexandre Cabanel’s painting Fallen Angel. It was an authentic reproduction of the original and one of Ian’s most precious pieces of art. He loved the naked male’s angry mien and dark gaze. He paused briefly to gaze at it, and froze to the spot. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the front door was slightly agape. He had not pushed it firmly to, as usual.

  The drumming in his chest began again. He edged towards the door and slammed the palm of his hand against it. It shut with a click, just like he was sure it had when he came in earlier. He’d been carrying a plastic bag of groceries as well as his briefcase, and he’d shoved the door with his foot. Had it clicked shut? He couldn’t remember. His head had been filled with Raven Cottage and he’d been cross Jazz hadn’t contacted him, not even to apologise for standing him up. Ian had been frustrated and
tired. Maybe he hadn’t thrust hard enough. He lurched forward and slid the bolts into position for good measure. Nobody could enter.

  He turned back round, eyes flitting from one corner of the space to the other, before approaching the kitchen area to pour himself a drink. He needed to unwind. He pulled out a bottle of Montrachet from the wine cooler and uncorked it. Searching for a glass in a cupboard above him, he halted once more, arm upstretched. There was a white plastic card, the size of a credit card, on the breakfast bar. It wasn’t his. He withdrew, one step at a time, edging back towards the door he’d locked. His brain scrabbled to get leverage on the situation. Someone had broken into his apartment, using the plastic card. He had to get out – escape immediately. He wasn’t going to confront the intruder. Instinct told him he was in danger. He took another step backwards, almost level with the painting of the fallen angel, when his mind fired up in wild panic as he registered the cloakroom behind him, to his right. It only housed a few of his coats and an umbrella, but it was still large enough for a person to hide in.

  For a second, he was a small boy again, under his covers, afraid of what was behind his wardrobe door. This time, he was alone with his fears. His mother wouldn’t come into the room and tell him not to be scared. She wouldn’t open the door and show him there was nothing lurking behind the clothes. She wouldn’t hug him and tell him it was all going to be all right. Ian was on his own.

  He felt the presence rather than heard it – a warmth behind him. The bogey man was coming to get him after all. He opened his mouth to yell, only to have all sound cut off by a quiet voice that hissed in his ear.

  ‘Boo!’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SATURDAY, 5 JUNE – AFTERNOON

  Bradley Chapman sat stiffly in the chair, arms folded, and glared fiercely at Emma, who was conducting the interview.

  Unperturbed by his hostility, she began. ‘Mr Chapman, would you please go back through your version of events for Thursday morning?’

  ‘I already told you my movements.’

  ‘Yes, and I have a note here in front of me of what you told us, but I’d like you to go over them again, bearing in mind we have evidence pointing to you being near your daughter’s house.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I left Yeatsall Lane in Abbots Bromley at about eleven and drove directly to Lichfield.’

  ‘Which route did you take?’

  ‘The most direct one, passing through the centre of Abbots Bromley – the B5014.’

  ‘How long did it take you to get there?’

  Bradley’s head moved from side to side as he weighed up the question. ‘I suppose it was about twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘Where did you park?’

  ‘On a side street near Stowe Pool.’

  ‘What was the name of the street?’

  His face scrunched up. ‘For heaven’s sake! Is it an important detail?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I don’t recall its name.’

  ‘I’d have imagined, as a driving instructor, you’d remember street names.’

  ‘Generally, I do, but I don’t have many students who come from the Lichfield area, on account of there being numerous other driving schools in the city. I tend to attract clients who live in the country, so I don’t often visit Lichfield.’

  ‘But you must drive there to give them practice of city driving,’ Emma said.

  Bradley thumped the desk with his fist. ‘Look, this is irrelevant. I don’t remember the name of the fucking road, okay? If you come with me, I’ll be able to show you the exact spot I manoeuvred into, but I genuinely don’t know what it was called.’

  Emma backed down. ‘According to a witness, you turned into Lea Lane at eleven thirty on Thursday morning.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Are you denying that, following your lesson with Sierra Monroe, you travelled from Yeatsall Lane, over the reservoir and turned into Lea Lane?’

  ‘Damn right I am. Your witness is mistaken,’ he said evenly.

  Morgan slid the three photographs one after another across the table, lining them up under Bradley’s nose. He studied them without a word.

  ‘Is this your driving-school vehicle?’

  He rubbed his lips together before speaking. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Did you go to your son-in-law’s house on Thursday morning?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You realise by answering “no comment” we have little option but to suspect you had some involvement in Alex’s murder?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to hold you for further questioning, Mr Chapman. It might be advisable for you to seek legal advice. My colleague will show you to a telephone.’ Emma scraped back her chair and left, head held high. Outside in the corridor, she kicked the wall hard before stomping towards the office, where she found Kate glued to her screen.

  ‘The bastard won’t talk.’

  Kate cocked her head. ‘Won’t talk at all?’

  ‘He was sticking to his story of going to the café, but the second we showed him the photographs of his Mini turning into Lea Lane, he clammed up.’

  ‘How did he seem when you brought him in? Keen to help or reluctant, or argumentative?’

  ‘He seemed okay, although he wasn’t thrilled about it and said if we were going to try and pin Alex’s murder on him, he’d request a lawyer and complain about us.’

  ‘Did he ask for legal representation as soon as he arrived?’ Kate asked.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘How did he behave before you showed him the photos? Reluctant to answer?’

  ‘No. He insisted he’d driven directly to Lichfield and, although he couldn’t remember the name of the road, he volunteered to show me the exact spot where he’d parked up. He became uptight after we suggested he drove from Sierra’s house to Lea Lane. He categorically denied it until we showed him the photos, then he wouldn’t make further comment.’

  Kate lifted a finger and waved it as she spoke. ‘Let me get this straight. After he saw the picture, he refused to answer any more questions, or even any accusations?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘The photos prove he was lying, so my best guess is he doesn’t know how to answer without incriminating himself because you caught him off-guard. He’d have had no idea his car would be photographed, especially at the Lea Lane turning, and hadn’t prepared for that possibility. Let him cool his heels for a while. We’ll tackle him later.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m pissed off all the same.’

  ‘He’ll talk. Give it time. Time usually breaks them down.’

  ‘Superintendent Dickson was keen for us to get results quickly.’

  ‘I know he is, but we don’t want to make mistakes. We’ll talk to Bradley later. In the meantime, why don’t you check out the Corbys’ gardener, Rory Winters? We haven’t spoken to him yet. We’ve no idea when he last attended to the Corbys’ garden.’

  ‘Yes, sure. I’ll get on to it.’

  Kate went back to her work, one eye on Emma. Emma was a good officer, keen to do her duty, but Kate wouldn’t allow her, or any of them, to be pushed along. Dickson might demand rapid results, but working too quickly sometimes resulted in mistakes, and she wasn’t going to make any. She paused, her pen in mid-air as a thousand imaginary ants marched up her forearms, raising the gooseflesh on them. Mistakes. Was Dickson hoping she’d slip up? The answer was obvious; absolutely, he was.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SATURDAY, 5 JUNE – AFTERNOON

  Although she was convinced Lisa was lying about the assault, Kate followed her usual pattern of conducting exhaustive research on her suspects before questioning them further. It had served her well in the past and, as much as she wished to quickly solve this case, she couldn’t waver from her punctilious methods.

  Kate had always been a planner. It had come from her childhood spent alone with her policeman father, one in which she ran the house and their lives because his job gave him lit
tle time to handle housework or cooking, and what time they had he wanted to spend with his daughter. As an adult, she’d still write out shopping lists on a magnetic pad affixed to the fridge, adding to the list daily to ensure nothing would be forgotten. Before the advent of GPS, she would plan a journey or trip in a notebook with military precision, working out arrival times or stops along the way, and when it came to work, no one was more methodical than Kate Young. Chris was the yin to her yang, with a devil-may-care attitude and a zest for spontaneity. They balanced each other: he lifting her from too solemn an outlook on life, and she grounding him whenever he had a wild whim to do something so utterly crazy it bordered on foolhardy.

  Her world was full of order. Some found her too serious-minded and were irritated by her attitude. Others, like William Chase, praised her for it. It got results.

  In this instance, her exhaustive efforts had paid off. She’d uncovered an important piece of evidence from a CCTV camera outside a pub opposite Rugeley Trent Valley station, only four miles away from where Alex lived. Lisa’s car was plainly visible parked outside the pub, at the time she claimed to have been at work on Thursday. Kate made a note of the times it arrived and departed, and then, using the UK electoral-roll website, discovered the name and address of Lisa’s ex-boyfriend, Robbie Davenport, a postman who also ran a mobile-disco business.

  She dialled his number and introduced herself before explaining the reason for her call.

  Robbie let out a snort of derision at the mention of Lisa’s name. ‘That woman is off her nut,’ he said.