She put her hand on his arm. ‘Bad shift?’
The pencil scratched gently across the paper. Aaron’s fingers relaxed around the narrow stick as he shaded in the corner of the window frame with the shadows that lurked from the night outside.
‘Aaron?’ Lisa prompted.
He let out a breath. Quiet and slow.
‘You’re tired?’ She leaned sideways onto the table. Looked at her husband. ‘The kids are in bed. Talk to me.’
The scratching on the paper soothed him. The soft sound of lead on the 100 lb acid-free drawing pad. He should answer her. He knew that. He finished the shading. The night creeping into the room. The light from above fighting for dominance. The light and shade coalescing.
‘I didn’t think I would be this tired.’ He kept on sketching. Adding details.
‘You’re recovering from a heart attack, what did you expect?’
‘I expected to go to work and be able to do my job.’
Lisa sighed.
Aaron kept on drawing.
‘And were you not able to do your job? I thought, from speaking to you earlier, that the day had gone well.’
‘The day was fine.’
‘What happened?’
‘My body is what happened.’ He didn’t stop. ‘The job is fine. My body let me down. I couldn’t keep up, Lisa. I really couldn’t keep up. I wanted to just stop. Stop what I was doing and curl up into a ball and sleep.’ He stopped. For a second. Looked at her. ‘Right there at the crime scene, I wanted to curl into a ball and sleep right there on the ground of the crime scene. I was that tired. No matter that there was a poor woman there dead. Murdered. I just wanted to sleep. And I couldn’t do a thing to stop the feeling.’
He turned back to the image. Added a couple more wisps of steam as they straggled out of the mug.
‘Oh, love. That must have been so hard for you.’ She leaned in to him. Rested her head on his arm. Smelt the lingering fragrance of sandalwood from his soap, the smell of him after a long day of work. His warmth. She inhaled him. Felt his body gently vibrate as his right hand moved with the sketching and shading. How she loved this man.
‘I know how to be a cop. It’s difficult to gauge people sometimes. But, in the main, the job suits me. Especially in Major Crime. It’s more analytical. More step based. I’ve found something that fits me, as a person. I’ve also found someone who gets me. You know how rare that is.’
‘Hannah.’
‘Yes. Hannah. She wasn’t happy with me.’
‘Why ever not?’ Her tone was sharp.
‘I didn’t tell her I was on a phased return.’
Lisa bit her lip, she wanted to laugh. It was so like her husband. He would do as he wanted to do. And then when the repercussions happened, he would be surprised. Instead of answering she nodded into his arm.
‘I can’t lose this job, Lisa.’
‘I know, love.’
‘I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to leave the department.’
42.
Several vehicles were parked outside Lacey’s home, but a vehicle check had identified which one was hers and we then were able to determine a previous registered address. A voters check had a Mr and Mrs Nettleton living there, Stephen and Shelley.
We had Lacey’s parents’ address.
As SIO it was my role to go, let them know I was running the investigation and that we would do everything we possibly could to bring their daughter’s killer to justice.
It was the most difficult task in the department.
The house we were parked in front of was a neatly kept semi-detached property on Broom Road at Calverton. It was dark, lights twinkled behind curtains up and down the road. Here there was a light on downstairs and one in an upstairs window. They were still up.
I knocked on the door and Ross frowned. Like me this was a part of the job he hated. We all did. My stomach twisted as we waited for the door to be answered, as we waited in that split second, those few moments before the world separates into the before and after. Before their world breaks and after it has broken. When it will never be the same again and we were the ones who would do that to them.
Yes, my head knew that wasn’t technically true. That the person who had squeezed the life out of Lacey Nettleton was responsible, but, in the here and now, it was me, me and Ross who were the ones who were about the rip apart the seams of this couple’s existence.
There was movement behind the door. A deep male voice asked who was here. Cautious.
‘Police, Mr Nettleton, can we have a word with you and your wife please?’ I answered. My voice calm. Even. Giving nothing away of what was to come.
Ross shifted on his feet, kicked at the floor. I looked at him and he straightened himself up. This wasn’t about us. This was their grief, we had to hold it together.
The door opened and an anxious face looked out at me.
‘What is it?’ he asked immediately.
‘Can we come in please? Better in the house than on the doorstep.’ I showed him my warrant card. He glanced at it but didn’t take it in. Already a suggestion of what was to come was starting to nibble away at his subconscious.
He opened the door wider and I could feel the warmth from the house with the light that flooded the doorstep.
‘Who is it, Stephen?’ A voice from above, at the top of the stairs.
We stepped into the house and Stephen Nettleton closed the door behind us.
‘It’s the police, love. Do you want to come down?’ He didn’t sound as sure of himself as he did when he first opened his door but he hadn’t asked us why we were here.
Shelley Nettleton walked down the stairs fastening a dressing gown around her waist as she did so. She was a slim woman. Her dark hair tied away from her face into a ponytail at the back of her head. It gave her a youthful look.
‘What is it?’ she asked directly. Worry etched on her face.
‘Shall we go and sit down,’ I said and we moved silently into the living room. Stephen and Shelley close, sitting down next to each other. Silent, waiting.
Ross and I seated ourselves on the remaining seats near them and I spoke. I confirmed they had a daughter, Lacey Nettleton, and her age, and as I did this I saw the photographs scattered around the room, of her growing up through the years. Alone, and with her parents and family and friends. There were some of what I presumed were her Instagram shots framed because they were square and they resembled the style I’d seen when I’d checked her account out before coming to the address. She really had been beautiful and quite artistic.
One photograph stood out from all the rest, it was larger and framed in a simple dark wood, a birthday party, with a cake in the foreground, a single candle in the middle and sitting behind the cake was an elderly woman. She looked to be about eighty years of age, her hair white and curled around her face which was flushed with happiness and lit up with joy. There was a blur of people behind her in the image, but it was Lacey at the side of her that this photo was framed for. Lacey who was leaning in and kissing the elderly woman on the cheek with such a gentleness and tenderness. A hand wrapped lightly on her other cheek as if the pressure from the kiss might just be too much. The love that fizzed between these two was clear to see. It was a beautiful scene.
I turned back to the couple before me. Shelley clutched at Stephen as I mentioned Lacey. She grabbed his hand and held on, her knuckles whitening with the power of her grip. The words were not yet out but the fear was there and was crawling over their bones.
‘I’m sorry to have to come into your home and tell you this tonight,’ I started to speak. My stomach tightened and I dug the nails of one hand into my palm, I had to stay calm for them. ‘We believe we have found the body of your daughter this evening.’
There was silence. A brief moment as the words worked their way around this couple’s minds and were processed and then it happened. It registered. The words I had spoken hit them for what they were. That their daughter was dead and would no
t be walking through their door to see them ever again. There would be no more family photographs, no more memories. Their life together, her life, it was over.
‘No.’ Stephen Nettleton said a single word but the power behind it said it all.
A lump formed in my throat. I swallowed and pushed it down. I had to be here for them.
‘She was found by a couple of boys in Nottingham earlier this evening. We have opened a murder investigation,’ I said to them, drip feeding them information.
A small sound escaped from Shelley, a whimper, like a dog who had been left outside in the rain and wanted to come back in. The sound didn’t stop, it changed and escalated in volume as what we were saying sank in.
Mr Nettleton stood, leaving his wife alone on the sofa, unable to sit with himself and the news of what had happened to his only child. ‘No, no. No, you have this wrong. It’s the wrong girl. The wrong girl. You think it’s her. She’s well known, so you think it’s her, she’s well…’ tears filled his eyes, his face was grey and he sank back into the seat he had just vacated. Shelley was openly wailing now and he turned and grabbed her roughly, pulled her into him and wrapped his big strong arms around her, pushed her head into his chest and stared at us without managing to see us.
She allowed herself to be man-handled. Her fists clawed at his T-shirt and she grabbed hold of him and cried harder. She called for her daughter, for Lacey.
Ross and I waited. My muscles ached as I held myself together. Still and quiet. The lump in my throat a constant struggle I had to fight against. This was not my grief, this was not my time. It would not have helped them in the slightest if they had seen me break down with them, for me to involve myself in their grief. I was there to be the one who would do my everything for them. They needed our strength.
We needed to speak with the couple, but first they needed to do this, to feel the first flush of grief before the long haul set in. This was the raw unadulterated emotion and it hurt me every time we did this. My heart ached in my chest as Shelley clawed at her husband in an attempt to hold onto something solid and he held on to her as tightly as he could. Disbelief and horror etched on his face. Each line telling the story of his pain. He would never go back to the man he was before he answered the door, before we broke the news of his daughter’s murder.
I nodded to Ross and he silently rose to look for the kitchen to make some drinks. They would need something to hold on to when the questions started. Even if they didn’t drink a single drop, the act of holding on and keeping it level so nothing spilt would be enough to hold their attention for the short period of time I needed them. They would have questions for us and we had questions for them. And afterwards, when we left, life would never be the same for this couple ever again.
43
I sat with Evie in my living room, a large glass of wine cupped in my hands.
I felt drained after the visit to Lacey’s parents. My limbs heavy and tired. My arm throbbed. Her parents had broken and crumbled before us. We had promised that we would do what was in our power to find out what happened.
As far as being able to help us with our inquiries into what had happened to Lacey that evening, they had not been able to help. They had last seen their daughter the previous week. They gave us the key to her apartment and I let them know a family liaison officer would get in touch with them and be their link between them and the investigation.
‘One more,’ I said to Evie as we drank red wine, ‘and we’ll have a serial killer on our hands.’
‘Jesus, that’s grim.’ She swirled the drink around in her glass.
‘I know Knight was technically a serial killer, but it was a product contamination case, it felt different,’ I said referring to a recent case.
Evie nodded as I spoke.
‘This guy, he’s actually hands-on killing people.’ I took a deep swig. ‘And he’s doing it at speed. I mean, what the hell is up with him?’
‘A serial killer in Nottingham.’ She nearly laughed. ‘It sounds so American. You know we’re in the UK, right? And nothing ever happens north of London.’
I tried to focus on her. I was tired. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t make it three and we don’t have to use that word.’
‘I have a question.’
I raised an eyebrow at her.
‘What’s with the online victims? What’s his point? And,’ she pointed a finger at me, ‘why do we always presume it’s a male killer? What if it’s a female?’
‘Is that a serious question?’ I put my glass down on the coffee table.
She looked puzzled. ‘Which one? The online victims or the female serial killer?’
My upper arm throbbed and I rubbed it. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’ I kneaded harder.
Evie watched me. She knew what I was doing. She worried about me.
‘I asked myself that same question earlier, about the online thing. As far as identifying him as a him, it’s because it’s incredibly rare that a woman is this kind of hands-on killerish. If that’s even a word.’
I picked up my glass of wine.
‘Okay, but the question needed–’
My phone started to vibrate. I picked it up from the floor, looked at the caller ID.
‘Baxter?’ I said to Evie, confused. ‘He can’t be calling for an update, I gave him one before I left.’
The phone rang off before I had a chance to answer it.
‘Well, you won’t know now because you missed it, too busy asking me why he was phoning, you idiot.’ She slapped my knee.
I looked at the phone in my hand. It started to vibrate again and Baxter’s name flashed up once more. Persistent. This wasn’t good.
‘You going to answer it this time?’
‘I’m not on call.’ I looked at the glass of wine. ‘Not officially anyway,’ I said under my breath. We were in the middle of a double murder investigation. Shit. There can’t be another one. Not already. We would sink.
I pressed answer. ‘Sir?’
‘Hannah. I just called you.’ His tone was accusatory. I rolled my eyes at Evie and put Baxter on speakerphone.
‘I’m at home, Sir. I updated you before I left.’ As though he didn’t realise this. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Is there a problem?’ he bellowed, cracking up in the air above the phone.
Evie frowned at me. I shrugged. I had no idea what could be wrong. I had done everything we could possibly do before we left for the night.
‘Sir?’ I prompted again.
‘Those two boys.’
‘The boys who found Lacey?’
‘Yes. Those boys. What other boys do we have?’ He was really wound up. There was a serious issue. Was one of the boys responsible for the murder? I didn’t see how that was possible. In any case, we had seized their clothing before releasing them and had their fingerprints and swabs for elimination as they had walked in on the scene. We had taken every precaution.
‘What’s happened, Sir?’ To say he was irate, it was like dragging a huge rock out of a well with a piece of string. The pressure against me was immense.
‘One of the boys took a photograph of the girl–’
‘Lacey,’ I interjected, not liking where this was going.
I heard him growl. Evie’s eyes widened. She sipped on her wine.
‘He took a photo of the girl, of Lacey. And not long ago, when he was finally alone, out of his parents’ way, he uploaded it to the internet. Our second murder scene has gone viral, DI Robbins.’
Jesus Christ.
Evie put her glass on the table at the side of mine. She pulled her phone out of her bag and started tapping at it. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head and she nodded at me.
For fuck’s sake. ‘How the hell?’
‘That’s what I want to know!’ he exploded.
He ranted for a good five minutes. Evie sat, legs crossed, opposite me, listening and reading the comments on Twitter. She showed me the feed for the hashtag #LaceyLane and the ensuing outcry.
With images.
‘The boys said they found the body and fled the garage. That was the account from the boy Pasha and Martin interviewed.’ I tried to appease Baxter, but it wasn’t going to happen. Not with this. Not with another image of another murder scene.
‘I’ve spoken to his parents,’ he said.
‘Which boy?’
‘The one who wasn’t interviewed.’ He let out a long breath as though conveying this to me was wearing him down.
This just got better. I suppressed a groan at the thought of Baxter, in this mood, making contact with the boy’s parents, especially with how difficult they had been at the scene. Who knew what damage he had caused the investigation with his brusqueness?
‘They said he told them he had entered the garage with his mate and ran out terrified, as they told us. He went back inside with his phone while they waited for police to turn up. His mate waited outside, which is why there was no mention of this in the friend’s account. Though, obviously he did omit to tell Pasha and Martin that the other lad went in.’ He let out another breath. It was like listening to a balloon go down.
‘So, he went back in,’ he was less annoyed now, more into telling me what had happened. ‘Creeped up to the girl. Took some quick snaps and then shoved his phone back in his pocket and ran back out. It wasn’t until later when he was alone that he checked the photos and realised who the girl was. It was then that he uploaded one of the images. He wanted to be popular. To have people at school think he was something.’ Another sigh. ‘What do kids think, Hannah?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. I had to have Ross tell me about this Lacey girl today. It was the first I’d heard of people earning their money by doing nothing other than what the rest of the country’s youngsters are doing.’
The balloon must be practically deflated now as a low short sigh escaped. ‘We have a real farce on our hands now. The country is in uproar. I have a message from Walker who has been contacted by the Chief. This isn’t good, Hannah.’
So he was rolling the shit downhill to me.
The Twisted Web (Detective Hannah Robbins Crime Series book 4) Page 14
