An Eye for an Eye (Detective Kate Young)

by Carol Wyer

  She stepped back from the pavement to avoid a toddler pedalling a bike, pursued by an older child on a scooter. Their mother yelled at them to slow down and threw Kate an apologetic look as she scurried past. A few doors down, a motorbike fired up and backed out of a driveway, revving all the while before it sped off. The estate was quiet enough, but the constant hum of traffic on the main road from Rugeley to Stafford was audible and the properties here were nothing like the swanky mansions Fiona was used to living in. It seemed doubtful she would have swapped lifestyles to move here.

  The Audi’s sidelights flashed as the car unlocked and she slipped into the driver’s seat. Of course, there was a chance that Fiona and Rory had arranged Alex’s death together but, if so, it left a question mark hanging over the second Mini and where it fitted in all this.

  She glanced at her phone before starting the engine. She’d missed a call from Ervin, but he’d left a message.

  His voice sounded urgent. ‘Kate, could you drop by the lab as soon as you get this? There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

  The car burst into life. Hopefully, Ervin had some evidence that would give her the breakthrough she needed.

  Kate jogged up the steps up to the forensic laboratory. The security guard on the desk checked her ID and buzzed her through into the restricted area. Her footsteps rang out as she marched briskly down the corridor and stopped in front of the intercom.

  It was Ervin’s new assistant who opened the door and greeted her. ‘Sorry. You missed Ervin. He got a phone call and raced off.’

  ‘I had to drop these off anyway,’ she said, passing over Rory’s buccal swab and fingerprint card. ‘He wanted to discuss something. Do you happen to know what it was?’

  Faith glided towards a desk and lifted a thin manila file. ‘It was about this. We received the toxicology report on Alex Corby.’

  Kate took the folder and opened it. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Ervin persuaded them to prioritise the case, and I believe orders came from higher up, too.’

  It could take days or weeks to get a report. Kate wondered if Dickson had been involved in the process. It seemed logical, especially given his friendship with Alex.

  Kate read through it. ‘Traces of gamma hydroxybutyrate, GHB, or date-rape drug . . . ?’ She looked up at Faith.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But Alex wasn’t raped, was he?’

  ‘No. There was nothing to suggest so at the scene of the crime, although we haven’t seen the pathologist’s report yet.’

  ‘How did the GHB get into his system?’ Kate asked.

  ‘That’s what Ervin wanted to discuss with you. We don’t know. We found no traces of GHB at the house, so the attacker either removed whatever they used, or cleaned it thoroughly and replaced it.’

  ‘But you believe Alex was drugged with it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It certainly explains why he had no defence wounds and didn’t try to fight off his assailant.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. Sorry we couldn’t give you any more than this.’

  ‘No, this is useful. Thank you.’

  ‘How are you getting on? Any suspects yet?’

  ‘We’re chasing some leads at the moment. How about you?’

  Faith blew out her cheeks and swept a hand in the direction of the table tops, which were covered in plastic evidence bags. ‘Ploughing through this lot. We’ve still got a team at the crime scene, but we’ve found nothing helpful yet. Killer’s a ghost. Left no trace.’

  ‘They must have left something. There must be a hair or DNA or something.’

  The young woman shrugged slim shoulders. ‘Not so far, Kate. We’ll keep working on it, though.’

  ‘It’s tough when it’s a case like this – no time to yourself. You got family here?’

  Faith shook her head. ‘My parents are both dead. I have a sister back in Zimbabwe, but we don’t get along too well.’

  ‘There’s a coincidence.’

  ‘You too?’

  ‘Yeah. Lost my mum when I was five years old. My dad died in 2017. I’ve got a stepsister, but she lives in Sydney. We talk now and again.’

  ‘You don’t visit her?’

  Kate looked at the toxicology report again and tried to keep her voice light. ‘We had a major fallout. We’re only just getting over it.’

  ‘I understand that. Family, eh? Good thing we have our careers to keep us focused.’

  Kate warmed to the woman perched on her stool, who exuded an air of sadness yet also empathy. ‘Yes, it is, and you are so serious about yours that you travelled all this way just to work in Stoke-on Trent with the great Ervin Saunders.’

  She was rewarded with a beaming smile. ‘He’s a cool guy.’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of the best. Okay, I’d better get off. It’s late and I have to sort out some stuff before I go home.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to be presumptuous, but if ever you feel like a chat, you only have to shout out.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  Kate meandered back along the corridor. She got along well with Emma, but they had little other than work in common, and Emma spent a great deal of her free time training at her brother’s gym. Even when they did go out for a drink it was always in a group with other officers. Kate’s life had been predominantly male-orientated, so it was a pleasant change to connect with another woman who’d gone through similar experiences to herself.

  She said goodnight to the security guard and headed outside.

  She barely noticed the late-evening traffic on the road or the drunk slumped against a wall, and she was so engrossed in a theory that Alex had entertained somebody who drugged him that she didn’t notice the man in jeans and blue shirt who was waiting by the entrance to the station.

  He homed in on her as she started towards the door. ‘DI Kate Young?’

  She paused, caught off-guard by his pleasant manner before a sixth sense kicked in. ‘No comment,’ she said, heaving the door open and marching through it.

  ‘Kate. Give me a break. I worked with Chris—’

  His words faded behind her as she stomped past the front desk, which was manned by a female officer.

  ‘Any more journos about?’ Kate asked, gesturing in the direction of the man.

  ‘I thought they’d all gone after DCI Chase spoke to them. Sorry. I didn’t spot that one.’

  Kate grunted a response and headed once more to her office. Her heart had begun the familiar jack-hammering she associated with a panic attack, but she wasn’t going to succumb to the white pills. She was getting closer to the answer. The evidence was jumbled, but she’d unravel it thread by thread.

  William Chase called out to her as she passed his door. ‘Kate. In here, please.’

  She drew to a halt. William’s voice was heavy. Had he decided to remove her from the case after all? She sidled into his office, a small room for such an important man. With boxes of files on shelves and a desk offset in front of a window, there wasn’t much space for the man himself.

  He stood up to face her and rested the palms of his hands against his desk. ‘I want you to know it didn’t come from me. I don’t know who passed on the information.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘That you’re heading up the investigation into Corby’s death.’

  The hairs on her arms lifted. Chris had taught her to look past lies, and suddenly she wasn’t sure if she believed William. She couldn’t challenge him. To do so would be to give the game away. Instead she reacted as he’d expect. ‘Oh shit, William! I can’t work if I have a pack of newshounds breathing down my neck. I hate the sodding spotlight. I can’t do it. You’ll have to find someone else. Get one of the DIs from Stafford to handle the investigation.’

  ‘Kate. We’ve been through this. Don’t quit. What’s the alternative? You can’t hide in your house for ever. Your father would never forgive me if I turned my back on you now and let you walk away.’

  Kate
’s father had loved William like a brother. William had been there when Kate’s mother had died, and again when her stepmother, Ellen, had upped and left to join Tilly and Jordan in Australia. Surely, William would only ever have her best interests at heart.

  ‘Don’t run away from this.’

  His words stung. She’d never run away from anything, had she . . . ?

  She staggers from the train, incapable of thought or speech. William’s hand is firmly around her upper arm, guiding her away from the horror in the compartment. She has no conscious awareness of the ground beneath her, and they drift along the platform like two spectres. She feels nothing but his grip, fingers digging into her flesh, and when she turns to look into his eyes, she sees nothing there but blackness.

  Was William toying with her emotions, also determined to break her? What would Chris tell her? His journalistic cynicism was second to none and he wouldn’t hesitate to claim William was playing her. Who did she believe? Chris or William? The answer was her husband. He was the only person she could truly trust. She had to play the game.

  She took a second to make her decision. ‘Okay. But I’m going to need you to help smooth the ride.’

  ‘Always, Kate. Always.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SATURDAY, 5 JUNE – LATE EVENING

  When Kate reached her own makeshift office, she paused by the door. Both Morgan and Emma had their backs to her and weren’t aware of her arrival.

  ‘I overheard her muttering to herself in the corridor earlier.’

  ‘What was she saying?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure she mentioned Chris.’

  ‘Oh shit! I thought she was over that.’

  ‘Maybe she isn’t. We thought she was managing fine until she had that breakdown on the train when she almost attacked a civilian.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Nah. She’s not having another meltdown. She’s fully focused on this investigation, I’m sure of it. She’s worked all day, non-stop. She’s heading a high-priority case. She’s going to be stressed. I talk to myself sometimes when I’m trying to reason things out. You might have misheard.’

  ‘No, he’s right about muttering aloud,’ said Kate. ‘I’ve been preoccupied with the case and not had much sleep. Sometimes, things make more sense when you actually voice them. I didn’t mention Chris, though.’

  ‘Shit! Sorry, Kate. I wasn’t trying to suggest—’

  ‘Forget it. We’re all under pressure. But don’t worry. I’m perfectly fine. No more breakdowns, meltdowns or bad calls.’

  Emma stood up, cheeks bright red. ‘We’re concerned. That’s all. Both of us.’

  ‘You have no need to be. Right, let’s get back to this investigation. Where are we on it?’

  Emma cleared her throat. ‘Fiona’s mother, Gwen, met her friends, Barbara Jones and Wendy Barrington, at Palm Leisure Centre on the outskirts of Uttoxeter, where they’d booked a “bums and tums” workout class and were then going to take an aqua-aerobics session in the pool. The class finished at ten thirty, but Gwen couldn’t face the second. She claimed to have a bad headache and said she’d go into the sauna instead, possibly follow it up with a massage, and meet her friends at the restaurant on site for lunch. Gwen didn’t show up at twelve, and at twelve fifteen Barbara received a text from her saying her headache had turned into a migraine, so she’d gone home to sleep it off.’

  ‘Did she book in for a massage?’ asked Kate.

  ‘I don’t know, because the club’s shut until tomorrow morning. Shall I pull her in for questioning?’

  It was late, and Bradley would undoubtedly protest loudly to her superiors about hounding the grieving family. She weighed up the repercussions against what they’d uncovered. With Dickson watching her every move, she had to be careful how she responded. If Bradley complained about her, Dickson would have grounds to remove her from the investigation.

  At last she agreed. ‘We definitely should talk to her, but go gently. She’s in turmoil and she might have a perfectly innocent explanation. Tread cautiously. We don’t know for certain what time she actually left the leisure club or if she was driving the Mini.’

  Morgan let out a derisory snort. ‘If it wasn’t her behind the wheel, then I’m . . . Jack Sparrow.’

  ‘Jack Sparrow? Is that the best you could come up with?’ said Emma in disbelief.

  ‘He’s a cool guy. What’s wrong with being Jack Sparrow?’

  ‘Whatever. Are you coming? I might have to fight off those dogs. I could do with your peg leg to feed them, Sparrow.’

  ‘Jack Sparrow doesn’t have a peg leg,’ said Morgan, following her out.

  Kate heard drifts of conversation and a laugh. They were, for all their tomfoolery, a conscientious and positive pair of officers. She trusted them to make the right call.

  Ignoring the noises coming from her stomach trying to remind her she hadn’t eaten for most of the day, she fired up the computer. Gwen might have some answers for them, but the possibility that she’d strapped Alex to his dining-room chair and murdered him didn’t seem plausible. They had to dig deeper. With that in mind, she typed Rory’s name into the escort website and began reading through the testimonials.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SATURDAY, 5 JUNE – LATE EVENING

  The contents of Ian’s stomach swirled in protest as he battled his way back to consciousness once more. It was no longer light outside, so he’d been out of it for hours. The angel of death floated before him, merging with the white bookcase and hovering in front of him. Death, he mused, didn’t wear black. It wore white. A giggle attempted to force its way up his throat but stuck in his gullet, confusing him. His mouth was wide open and his throat dry. His efforts to close his lips together were in vain. His mouth remained agape like a flip-top-bin lid. The muscles in his jaw ached dully and as the drowsiness drained from him, the white angel stooped over him, nothing of his face visible other than a pair of dark, furious eyes, so like the eyes of the fallen angel in Ian’s favourite painting.

  There was an obstruction in his mouth – a metallic-tasting sharp object that stretched against the roof and simultaneously pressed his tongue down so low in his jaw it hurt in places he’d never experienced pain before. He made a gargling noise. The divine being swooped towards him.

  Ian blinked away tears of pain as whatever had been inserted into his mouth dug further into the soft palate and caused trickles of moisture to run down the inside of his cheeks and his throat. It wasn’t moisture. It was blood. Ian’s eyes widened in terror. The angel of death placed a white finger against an invisible mouth.

  ‘Shush! Calm down. Take gentle breaths, or you’ll choke on your own blood.’

  Ian could barely hear the whispered words. He stared at the angel and pleaded silently for mercy. He was lying back in the La-Z-Boy, but his hands were fastened behind him so tightly that whatever was holding them together had cut into his flesh. He’d never break free. His feet were similarly tied.

  The seraph floated away from view and Ian was left staring up at the top of his wonderful staircase. The cantilever stairs with no support between the treads created an illusion of floating steps. Steps to heaven. His mind fought to make sense of the situation. Was this a nightmare?

  ‘Alex Corby struggled.’ The angel was still close by. It hadn’t disappeared at all. ‘Try to remain still.’

  Fuck! This was no nightmare. This was happening. Ian’s heart hammered wildly against his ribs.

  ‘I’m afraid Alex died a slow and agonising death, but not before he told me what I needed to know. He held out for quite some time, but I can be persuasive. He told me everything.’

  The seraph shot back into view and held up an apple. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘Why?’ The word Ian tried desperately to articulate came out as an angry caw that amused the angel.

  ‘Did you like my present?’

  Ian blinked in confusion. His jaw ached badly and the back of his throat was so dry he thought
he’d gag.

  ‘I left you a gift in your cottage – a little taster of what is to come.’

  The eyeball in the jar. Ian made another noise, this time akin to a pig’s squeal, and blinked repeatedly. This creature wouldn’t . . . it wouldn’t torture him the same way, would it?

  ‘Ah, I see you remember. Yes, it was Alex’s eye. I thought it only fitting to send it to one of his dear friends he shared so much with.’

  The pounding in Ian’s chest intensified. The angel disappeared for a moment, only to pop up again in front of his face, this time holding a sharp knife, which it wielded in front of Ian’s eyes.

  Ian fought back another scream and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

  Muffled laughter mocked him. ‘I’m not going to dig out your eye, Ian. I’m going to feed you some supper. I’ve cut you up some nice juicy apple. Ideal for your poor dry throat. Come on, open your eyes. Pronto! Or I will gouge them out.’

  The being was offering him a plate – one of his own pristine white china plates. On it were microscopic pieces of food. He frowned in confusion.

  ‘Count them, Ian.’

  There were twelve pieces. A slightly larger piece dropped on to the plate.

  ‘Now, how many are there?’

  Ian’s heart juddered in his chest. He hoped it would give out soon. Anything would be better than the torture about to be inflicted on him. The angel glided in and out of view and finally settled above him.

  ‘Time for supper. Open wide. Oh, you already have.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SUNDAY, 6 JUNE – EARLY MORNING

  The door to the carriage begins to slide open and Kate slips through the gap, mind focused on what she has to do. The hiss of the door opening is masked by the pop of the gun and muffled sobbing. She mustn’t look at anybody. She has to concentrate fully on the task in hand. It feels like a lifetime since she saw the blood splatter against the glass door but, in reality, it’s been less than a minute.

  The man wielding the gun is only a metre or so ahead, his broad back to her. His long hair is black and slick. His dark blue jacket hangs loosely on his lithe frame as he moves forward with intent.