Don't Trust Him

by Lisa Cutts

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve even looked twice at someone, let alone, you know . . . It’s difficult for me to get involved with anyone, or at least it has been for a while.’

  Sophia looked away out of the side window, desperate to say more, yet unwilling to leave herself any more vulnerable than she already had.

  ‘Whoever he was, he was clearly bad news,’ said Dane. ‘And he’s left you a warier person for it.’

  Her head snapped round at this comment.

  ‘Seriously, how are you able to make such a quick judgement?’ she said. ‘Is it because I slept with you? Does that somehow, in your head, mean that you have insight into my deepest, darkest feelings and, even more impressively, you’re able to decipher the entirety of my personal life?’

  She finished her sentence breathing more heavily than she would have liked, annoyance surging through her.

  ‘Sophia, I’m sorry, okay. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  As much as she didn’t want to appear like she was surrendering, she nodded.

  Dane pointed at the junction ahead and said, ‘This is our turning. We’ll get the statement done at this address and then we’ll talk.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I think we should.’

  Sophia knew she’d made a terrible mistake sleeping with Dane and now she’d have to face him at work on a daily basis. The second she had answered her phone to Harry that morning, had felt Dane kissing her shoulder, it had dawned on her that Dane had come along when she was feeling low and vulnerable.

  She only hoped he wouldn’t turn nasty on her when she told him it was over before it had even got started.

  Chapter 25

  The driver turned off at the ‘Welcome to Merridown Holiday Park’ sign, and from Milo’s reaction, Sean Turner assumed it was the last place he expected to be heading.

  ‘Here?’ was all Milo asked.

  ‘Here,’ replied Turner. ‘It’s discreet, it’s cheap and, best of all, it’s full of villains.’

  ‘Haven’t been anywhere like this for decades,’ said Milo as he looked out of the window at the chalets and the London/Essex overspill mooching around in vest tops and shorts.

  They pulled up outside the clubhouse, which according to the sign over the door doubled as both the reception and check-in.

  ‘Stay here with the car,’ said Turner to the driver. ‘We’ll walk; take in the ambience.’

  Milo opened the door and got out. Turner walked around the car and joined him.

  ‘You’ve done a good job for me over the years,’ said Turner, taking a couple of steps in the direction of what the sign promised to be a ‘Wondrous Nature Trail’.

  ‘Thanks very much, boss,’ said Milo, mildly surprised at the unusual praise. He kept up with his employer’s brisk pace.

  Turner continued walking, following the shingle pathway around the side of the site. The sun was shining down from an almost cloudless sky, birds were singing in the trees, and for the briefest of moments, it appeared to be turning into a beautiful day.

  Turner called over his shoulder to Milo, ‘I thought I’d show you my latest acquisition.’

  When they reached a stretch of a dozen or so of the less run-down chalets on the outskirts of the holiday park, Turner came to a stop, waiting for Milo to join him.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder, both looking at the balcony of a holiday let that most wouldn’t hesitate to rent if they were planning on escaping to the countryside. Especially with a bingo hall and amusement arcades only an empty beer can’s throw away – if that was your thing.

  Pacing up and down the far side of the wooden balustrade was a young man dressed in black, shoulders rounded, chewing his fingernails. A motorcycle was parked beside the three wooden stairs, complete with helmet on seat.

  As they got closer, the young man halted, turned suddenly and, even from the distance of fifty feet or so, looked startled.

  ‘You and I need a little debrief with our courier here,’ said Turner to Milo.

  They trudged towards the chalet where the young man, who currently looked as though he was about to wet himself, was standing.

  ‘They didn’t get me,’ he said as they came to within earshot.

  Turner put up a hand to silence him.

  ‘Let’s go inside, shall we?’ he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and removing a single silver key, with a large metal keyring telling everyone it was ‘16’.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Turner to no one in particular. ‘No wonder crime’s so bloody high. Who puts their door number on their keys?’

  He tutted and shook his head before unlocking the door and going inside.

  ‘Come in,’ he said over his shoulder, as he walked into the kitchen-diner area of the chalet. The open-plan living room was empty of other signs of life. There were only two ways in or out, and one of those was the empty balcony they had just walked along.

  The other door, leading to what must have been the bedrooms and bathroom, was closed.

  Turner faced the reckless young courier who had failed to realize that the police were keeping watch in the very house he had been sent to. He watched him steal a glance towards the door. He had every right to be nervous. Undoubtedly, he had a punishment coming, that much he would expect.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ said Turner.

  ‘Caleb,’ said the courier, tongue darting out in a wasted attempt to moisten his lips.

  ‘Caleb?’ said Turner with a nod. ‘Good, strong, biblical name. That’ll probably come in handy.’

  Turner picked up the kettle and filled it from the tap.

  He flicked the switch and, after a couple of seconds, the noise of the water boiling was the only sound in the room.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you two alone now,’ he said, standing in front of his failed apprentice. He placed a hand on his shoulder. Pale-faced and sweaty, Caleb recoiled from the touch as if he’d had an electric shock.

  ‘I’ll see you in an hour, Milo. Don’t make too much mess.’

  Chapter 26

  Head still reeling from his earlier encounter with Ron Bloomfield and his family, DI Harry Powell sat in an interview room inside the walls of HMP Stanley.

  He was unsure whether the man he was visiting would even come out of his cell, let alone talk to him. Regardless, Harry sat with his open notebook in front of him.

  Harry perched on the edge of his seat in the tiny room, glass panels either end, one side leading to the inner workings of the prison and the other leading to freedom.

  Mesmerized, he watched as a prison officer walked to his cubicle, paused at the door and unlocked it with a key from a bunch chained to his belt. It was the man behind him who caused Harry to stare so intently.

  Aiden Bloomfield, a man he had sat and watched in the dock while on trial for murder, who was now serving a life sentence, was peering at him with a look of such intensity that he felt his eyes burning right into him.

  Harry saw him hesitate as the prison officer pushed open the door and stood aside.

  ‘A visitor for you,’ he said, nodding in Harry’s direction. ‘Tap on the glass when you’re done and I’ll come back.’

  For a second, Harry thought Aiden was going to start banging on the glass before he had even sat down.

  Instead, he kicked out the chair tucked under his side of the table and threw himself down into it.

  ‘What?’ he said to Harry.

  The transformation of the young man he’d met all those months ago was astounding; long gone was the fresh-faced, scared yet hopeful young man. The person in front of him, quite frankly, just looked cruel.

  ‘Hello, Aiden,’ he tried. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Harry Powell. We met some time ago at East Rise police station.’

  ‘Yeah, I do remember.’ He gave a harsh laugh.

  ‘Harry Powell,’ echoed Aiden. ‘I’d forgotten your name, but not your face. That was the weirdest fucking time of my life. Still, I get to
use the gym every day, I’m studying, and I’ve even got my own cell now. It’s small, but I get left alone, so life could be worse.’

  He leaned back in the chair, arms folded across a chest encased in an unflattering grey sweatshirt, yet it was still clear to see that the daily workouts were paying dividends.

  Harry took a deep breath, unsure how to broach the main subject without causing the hostile young inmate to storm off, or at least as far as the locked door would take him.

  He didn’t relish the idea of being trapped with him, he knew that much.

  ‘I’m here about your mum.’

  Harry paused, let the seriousness sink in. Aiden was far from daft: he understood the nature of his department’s work.

  He shifted in his chair, feet tapping, fingers drumming.

  ‘Haven’t seen her in months,’ he said, eyebrows raised, expression set firm. ‘Now, let me think . . .’

  Aiden tapped at the side of his head.

  ‘Mmm, oh yeah, that’s right. How could it have slipped my mind? The last time I saw my dear old mum was just after I got sent down for murdering Linda Bowman and she walked away scot-free.’

  This time he slapped his forehead and shouted, ‘Such a fucking idiot.’

  Harry wanted to look away from him, but felt he had to hold his ground.

  ‘No one’s seen her, Aiden,’ he said, his words barely audible. ‘That’s the point, no one, not even your dad.’

  The mention of his father brought forth a scoff.

  ‘It’s been, what, six months since the trial ended?’ he said. ‘Not to mention the time I was banged up on remand, waiting for the trial. And all for something I didn’t even do. I didn’t hurt Linda; she was my best mate’s mum. Anyone with a brain would have been able to see that.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, between you lot, the judge and the twelve fucking idiots on the jury, no one actually did have a brain. To top it all off, the only one who could actually have vouched for me and told everyone that I didn’t smash her head in, was my mother. My mother, who I’m pretty sure was having a sordid affair with someone and has now conveniently run off with him.’

  The tension ran the length of Harry’s spine. Most of the incident room had worked on Linda Bowman’s murder, including Pierre. Linda had been married to a police officer and she was a friend of Harry’s. In fact, it was Harry who had found her body lying on her kitchen floor. Everyone had been under suspicion at one point or another. Harry knew that some even had their doubts about him.

  If they’d got it wrong, they had well and truly messed up. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘The last time anyone saw your mum,’ said Harry, ‘was the day she was released from the court.’

  He let the information sink in.

  ‘There’s no easy way to tell you this,’ he said to the young man opposite him. ‘We recently found her body in some woods.’

  Aiden’s mouth hung open. He blinked several times, but still said nothing.

  ‘Your mum left the court building that day and never went home,’ said Harry in a softer tone. ‘She hasn’t used her credit cards, bank account or her mobile phone since. Please help us – can you think of anything you know that might help us find who did this?’

  Aiden leaned forward, elbows on the table, face a mask of hatred. ‘Or what? You’ll bang me up for life?’

  He gave a harsh laugh, pushed himself up from his seat and said, ‘And if I do help you, what then? You put some other poor innocent bastard in prison because they’ll fit the bill to solve your fucking murder.’

  With that, Aiden Bloomfield hammered on the glass, shouting to be taken back to his cell and away from Harry.

  Chapter 27

  Not for one second was Harry’s determination to find out who murdered Jenny fading, but he had to admit he was worn out. Everything seemed to be getting him down and under his skin.

  He glanced across his office at his framed certificate of office presented to him along with his warrant card all those years ago at the Magistrates’ Court, when he was sworn into the office of constable. Frame after frame of Judge’s Commendations, Chief Constable’s Commendations and Assistant Chief Constable’s Commendations lined the walls. But at the end of the day, what did it all add up to?

  It seemed pointless in the grand scheme of things, and it was all marred now whatever the future brought.

  It was with a heavy heart that he’d gone to HMP Stanley to speak to Aiden Bloomfield. If Jenny Bloomfield had been murdered as soon as she was released from court, then not only was it unlikely to have been her son behind it, but it meant that they had probably convicted the wrong person.

  Even worse, the real killer was still out there.

  This was a colossal balls-up of epic proportions. Retiring wasn’t even an option if he had any chance of discovering who was really behind it all. Harry knew he wouldn’t be permitted to actually head up the investigation, especially if his department had got it so wrong in the first place. But he figured that if he worked it right, then maybe they would allow him to work on the periphery. Even better, he’d work away in secret. By the time anyone knew it would be too late.

  There must be something he was continuing to miss throughout all of this. The only problem would be discovering what that actually was.

  Perhaps he was being too negative, and with everything that had happened he simply couldn’t see the wood for the trees any more. Harry found himself searching for a positive in the current situation. A new member of staff on his team was something to be grateful for. They were always so short of staff, any addition made a difference. Except . . .

  There was something about Dane Hoopman, something that Harry couldn’t pinpoint. Perhaps he simply seemed too smooth and too blameless.

  The guy was either a genius . . . or hiding something.

  Harry had seen the way Dane and Sophia had behaved around each other. Perhaps it was as simple as Dane having a wife and kids at home. It wasn’t as if these things never happened.

  The two of them working at headquarters was possibly a mistake, but he was their detective inspector, not their dad. Besides, he didn’t really have a say in it at the end of the day. As long as no one else was murdered, raped or kidnapped in the next couple of weeks, the department would probably last another payday.

  He picked up his phone to call Sophia then realized what a daft idea it was. She was on another operation with another department and, above all, Harry trusted her.

  Even though he knew he was worrying unnecessarily, he couldn’t help himself. He knew that he had let Pierre down, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

  His death had hit them all, not only because he was such a brilliant, kind and well-loved member of the team, but because it could just as easily have been any one of them on duty who never returned home that day.

  Then

  Well, the new job turned out to be a right turn-up for the books. Reluctant as I was, I had done what the boss demanded of me: I had mostly kept my head down, hardly nicked a thing and was welcomed into the fold.

  At least a couple of the people I was working with were all right, and we all regularly went out for drinks. ‘Team bonding’, apparently. Fucking laughable, but I rarely turned down alcohol, especially when Hannah would be joining us. I had my eye on her; beautiful, sweet Hannah.

  From the moment I met her, I appreciated all of her traits – face, body, personality . . . gullibility.

  We had all agreed to meet in the local Wetherspoons, and once part of the small crowd gathered at the back corner of the Guy Earl of Warwick, I set about positioning myself next to Hannah. It took me two pints to get next to her and even then I had to elbow some other numb-nuts out of the way first.

  From the other side of our small circle, I saw Carrie give me a look. She wasn’t shooting a glare of longing, at least not in my direction. If anything, my money was on her having the hots for Hannah. Jealously was unattractive, especially in a woman as old as Carrie.

&n
bsp; I gave Carrie my most beguiling smile. Usually it worked, although not on this Friday night in a packed wonderland of noise. I had to admire the business model: fill it full of people on a cheap night out, make sure they couldn’t hear, making them shout louder, and as a result drink more to compensate and ease their sore throats. Fucking genius.

  Carrie, who had been responsible for teaching me all I needed to know for this new job, shot me a look that would normally have worried me. But not tonight. I knew I was going home with Hannah.

  Numb-nuts tried to get in between us again. We were standing in a polite little circle celebrating the end of our training and he was getting me down. I moved to my left, out of the corner of my eye making sure that Carrie was witnessing my generous mood.

  She had called me aside once or twice over the weeks and told me that I needed to watch my step, and apparently my attitude.

  Stupid bitch.

  If anyone should watch their step, it was this bloke trying to push his way between me and Hannah.

  I decided to get everyone a drink, including the imbecile who thought he could encroach on my territory. Little did he realize, the pint I ordered for him contained a large shot of vodka, as did the one after that.

  There was bound to be a set of stairs or a speeding car between the pub and our next port of call.

  Chapter 28

  Sophia and Dane sat patiently in Mrs Armstrong’s living room, waiting for her to tell her pitiful tale.

  Several times she broke off to wipe away the tears, almost as many times as she said, ‘Sorry, sorry. Daft old fool like me should have known better.’

  Her liver-spotted hands twisted away at the handkerchief she held between her fingers, the ticking of a clock on her mantelpiece the only audible sound in the room when she stopped talking and silently cried.