by Adrian Wills
Blake had listened, impressed, as she’d flirted shamelessly with the soldier who’d answered her call, and persuaded him to give out details about Jake Stone he should never have divulged. She handed him a scrap of paper with the address she’d scribbled down and minutes later they were in the car and on their way.
‘Stone knows who I am,’ said Blake, as they drove. ‘You’ll have to go in on your own and get him talking.’
‘Lucky my gym kit’s in the boot,’ said Parkes, rolling her eyes. ‘Not that I’ve had much chance to use it since this case started.’
‘Great. Go make friends.’
They turned off the main road into a side street lined with low-rise commercial units where you could hire construction plant or source auto parts. The gym was housed in a squat, white building with a large car park at the front.
‘Call me if you run into problems.’ Blake killed the engine. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’
‘I could get sacked for this,’ said Parkes.
‘If Claire Hopkins is innocent, you’ll be doing the right thing.’
‘And if she’s not?’
‘Just get Stone talking. Ask him about Iraq and watch his reaction closely.’
Parkes hooked a sports bag from the boot and headed into the gym without a backwards glance. Blake flicked on the radio, scanning through the stations for something mindless, and settled on a local station churning out hits from the eighties.
Just after the seven o’clock news headlines, his phone buzzed. ‘I’m not having much luck,’ Parkes whispered loudly. ‘He’s been on the treadmill plugged into headphones ever since I arrived. I’m struggling to even make eye contact.’
‘Stick with it,’ said Blake.
But ten minutes later, Jake Stone strode out of the building, his face glowing. He blipped open a dark coloured saloon parked in a bay near the entrance and hopped in.
Parkes ambled nonchalantly out thirty seconds later as Stone reversed out of his space and drove off.
‘What happened?’ asked Blake, as Parkes threw her bag on the back seat.
‘Nothing.’
‘Okay,’ said Blake, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice.
‘But I did overhear him on the phone arranging to meet someone in The Crown for a drink. I reckon it will be easier to get his attention in there.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In the town centre.’
‘Right, let’s go.’
As they drove, maintaining a safe distance behind Stone’s car, Parkes ran a hairbrush through her hair and applied fresh make-up, brushing powder over her cheeks and expertly lining her lips with gloss. They followed Stone into the central pay and display car park by the river, and on foot towards The Crown pub, a traditional stone pub at the top end of the town.
‘How do I look?’ asked Parkes, running loose fingers through her hair to give it more volume as they stood outside. She undid a button on her blouse to reveal a little more cleavage and stood with her hands on her hips, pouting.
‘Like a million dollars,’ said Blake, genuine in his compliment. If she couldn’t turn Jake Stone’s head looking like that, he was a lost cause. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Let’s just get it over with, shall we?’ she said, shrugging off her jacket and handing it to Blake.
‘Tell him you love a soldier with combat experience. See what he says.’
Parkes pulled a face. ‘Any more cheesy lines?’
‘You could ask to see his scars.’
‘Great, thanks.’
‘I’ll follow you in and keep an eye on how things go. Any problems, I’ll be right there.’
‘My hero.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
The clunk of a heavy bolt made Claire Hopkins jump. The cell door swung open and an overweight female officer appeared, her hair scraped back from her face and her ill-fitting uniform clinging to generous bumps and curves in all the wrong places. It wasn’t a flattering look, Claire thought as she twisted the remains of a soggy tissue around her fingers.
‘Get up. The DI wants to talk to you.’
Claire stood and immediately thought her legs were going to give way. Nobody had told her anything since two detectives had turned up at the house, slapped her in handcuffs and warned her she was being arrested on suspicion of Kyle’s murder. They’d brought her to the same station where she’d braved a room full of journalists. Except this time, they took her through a back entrance and into a custody suite in a windowless basement. Cold and unforgiving. Not a place she ever wanted to see again.
They’d taken her fingerprints and shoved her into a claustrophobic cell with stained white walls, a thin sliver of plastic for a mattress and a stainless-steel toilet pan fixed to the wall. As the door slammed shut, she’d consoled herself with the knowledge they’d made a big mistake. They’d realise soon enough. Smiles and apologies all round. But the longer she’d waited, the more fearful she’d become, letting the tears flow, worrying about the children. Who was looking after them? And had anyone told them what had happened to their mother?
She couldn’t understand why they were talking about murder. Had they found Kyle’s body? In the back of her mind, she’d feared Kyle was dead, but how could they possibly think she had anything to do with it?
A man with tufts of white hair on an otherwise bald head and dressed in a dark pin-stripe suit was waiting in an interview room. He introduced himself as the duty solicitor appointed to represent her legally until she was able to find her own lawyer. But his limp, moist handshake immediately filled her with doubt about his competency.
They sat silently until the grey-bearded detective, who’d been so supportive during the press conference, entered the room. No smiles of encouragement this time. No words of sympathy. No light touch of his hand on her back for reassurance. Only cold, hard eyes and an air of detachment.
He was joined by a female detective Claire vaguely recognised. Smart trouser suit. The merest hint of make-up around her eyes. Citrus perfume. ‘Tell us about your relationship with Steven Fielden,’ the woman asked, flipping open a notebook as the male detective watched her with his head cocked to one side.
Claire shook her head. ‘What’s going on? Why am I here?’ she asked. ‘Have you found Kyle?’
‘Just answer the question please, Mrs Hopkins.’
She looked to the solicitor, but he only nodded, encouraging her to answer.
‘He’s a teacher at the school,’ she said, clinging to the hope they were still in the dark. ‘I knew him from a few social events the PTA have organised. That’s all.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you conducting an affair with him?’
Claire let her gaze drop and she focussed on what was left of the ragged tissue, unable to hold eye contact with the officer. They obviously knew everything. She thought about denying it, but said, ‘Yes,’ the word clawing in her throat.
‘Louder for the tape please, Mrs Hopkins.’
‘Yes.’
The male detective cleared his throat. ‘Mr Fielden is currently in surgery in Plymouth. He was stabbed multiple times at his home this evening.’
‘What?’
‘It’s touch and go whether he’ll make it. I’m sorry.’
It was as if a hole had opened up under Claire’s chair and she was falling into a bottomless pit. ‘I don’t understand,’ she murmured.
‘A friend of yours, Sergeant Jamie Dobson, has been arrested in connection with the stabbing. Do you have any idea why he might have attacked Mr Fielden?’
Claire blinked to clear the mist blurring her eyes. ‘No, of course not.’
The female detective flicked through her notebook and read from one of the pages. ‘He says you confessed to him about your relationship with Mr Fielden and was acting out of loyalty to Kyle.’
Claire glanced at the solicitor at her side. He had his head down scribbling notes on a pad of lined paper. Fat lot of goo
d he was. She wanted to speak, to set them right, but the words wouldn’t form.
‘Mrs Hopkins?’ the female detective prompted.
‘I think he heard something he misunderstood.’
‘He says you asked him to collect some sports kit for the children this afternoon, and when he arrived at the house overheard a conversation between you and your liaison officer about the affair. He stormed off, obviously upset, but called you a few hours later to talk about it.’
Claire shook her head, puzzled. ‘No, that’s not true.’
‘During that phone call, you confirmed the affair to him and told him you and Mr Fielden had planned your husband’s murder.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘You told him you were planning to leave Kyle, but he was threatening to fight for custody of the children and keep the house.’
‘None of that’s true. I don’t understand why Spider would say that.’
‘But the truth is, you were having an affair and you were planning on leaving Kyle, weren’t you? You’d fallen out of love with him and he was running up debts you couldn’t begin to pay, and yet he was refusing to let you go.’
‘This is insane. Stop!’
‘So what happened next? Did Mr Fielden lure him onto the moor to kill him?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Were you there?’
‘No.’
‘Claire, where’s Kyle’s body?’ When the male detective spoke his voice was devoid of emotion.
‘I don’t know! I don’t even know if Kyle’s alive or dead!’
Why had Spider said those things? He was supposed to be her friend. He’d been so good helping out with the children, supporting her when she needed it most, and now he’d tried to kill Steve, and was framing them for something they’d not done. But why? Just because he found out she’d been seeing someone behind Kyle’s back? Jealousy? Was that it?
She’d never really considered that Spider might have feelings for her. He’d never tried anything on, not really, and never when Kyle was around. There’d been the odd look, the lingering hand on her shoulder. But that was it. Nothing substantial to suggest he thought about her in that way. But what else could it be? For a long time he’d had a key to the back door, and she wondered now how many times he’d been in the house when she was out, going through her things, her clothes. She shuddered at the thought.
Of course, Spider had never had many girlfriends. The odd one-night stand, but nobody special in his life. She thought it was just the way he was. She used to blame it on Iraq, and the damage it had done to them all. It was obvious that each of them was broken and traumatised in their own way, although none of them ever talked about what had happened and what they’d been through.
Kyle was the same. She was sure his mood swings, the gambling, the emotional detachment were all symptoms of that bloody war. But she’d learnt better than to bring it up. Of course, she’d had to lie to that man from MI5 who’d been asking questions about Kyle’s state of mind. It was none of his business and wasn’t fair to Kyle to be talking about it with a stranger. Besides, it had nothing to do with his disappearance, did it?
In the first few months after Kyle had returned, she’d tried getting him to open up. She’d read online that bottling up emotional trauma was the worst thing you could do. She wondered now whether they should have sought professional help for him. She was no shrink, but it was obvious he’d been suffering some kind of trauma. Maybe Spider too. In the end, it was easier to sweep it under the carpet and pretend it wasn’t a problem.
But it was a problem, and who could blame her for finding solace in the arms of another man with everything she had to deal with at home? He might have been married, but she knew Steve loved her, listened to her, made her laugh, and didn’t carry the weight of his past on his shoulders.
They’d discussed a future together, but Steve was never going to leave his wife, despite his cheap talk. Besides, she couldn’t bear the thought of taking the kids away from their dad, or risk Kyle finding out. At times he could be volatile and unpredictable, his anger flashing up from nowhere, although she knew at heart he didn’t mean it. Sure, he’d raised his fist to her a few times, but only when she’d provoked him. It wasn’t his fault, and it was nothing a thick layer of cleverly applied make-up couldn’t conceal.
Although she’d been terrified of Kyle finding out about Steve, she never imagined it was Spider she had to fear the most.
‘Did you plot with Steve Fielden to kill Kyle Hopkins, Claire?’ the male detective asked.
‘No,’ she said, tears running down her cheeks.
‘Were you an accomplice to his death?’
‘No.’
‘In which case, Jamie Dobson is lying. Can you think of any reason why he would do that?’
Claire shook her head, sobs of anguish racking her body. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Blake counted to twenty and followed Parkes into the pub. It was noisy, hot and sweaty, brimming with bonhomie and high spirits. He ambled to the bar with his head down and his shoulders hunched, trying to blend in with the crowd and hoping Jake Stone wouldn’t spot him. He ignored Parkes ordering a glass of white wine to his right and scanned the room while he waited for the barman’s attention.
Stone was sitting at a table with Fletcher’s staff sergeant. Sean van Dijk’s back was to him, but his military grade haircut and rigid posture gave him away, even though he was out of his army fatigues and wearing a tight-fitting grey t-shirt and jeans.
Parkes brushed past Blake without so much as a sideways glance, and stood in the middle of the pub, sipping her drink, looking around as if to find somewhere to sit. Her gaze settled on the soldiers taking up two seats at a four-seater table. She wandered over, leaned in and said something which resulted in the two men shifting sideways and inviting her to join them.
Blake smiled over the top of his pint of beer at how natural she’d made it look. Within a few minutes, the three were laughing and chatting easily. Parkes was hanging on their every word, throwing her head back at their jokes. Textbook stuff.
Blake relaxed in the corner, tucked in at the end of the bar on a stool next to an irritatingly loud fruit machine. Nothing he could do but watch, wait and hope Parkes was able to get them to open up.
After thirty minutes, she gathered up her handbag and left the table. Blake followed as she squeezed her way to the toilets at the rear of the pub.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked, as they slipped into a cubicle together and locked the door.
‘Not great.’
‘You seem to be getting on well.’
‘They’re friendly enough, but every time I ask them about the army they steer the conversation away. I’m not getting anywhere.’ She looked despondent.
‘You’re doing fine,’ said Blake, gripping her arm for encouragement. ‘But I have another idea.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Look, you were right, I don’t analyse data. My skill is analysing people.’ Blake spoke in a hushed whisper as the door to the ladies’ crashed open and high heels clacked across the tiled floor. ‘I’m an interrogator. I’m paid to make people talk.’
Parkes looked aghast. Why did people always assume he meant physical abuse? ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘So why did you lie to me?’
‘I’m sorry. I can explain everything later. All you need to know right now is that I know how to get inside people’s heads and get them to confess their darkest secrets. Get me ten minutes alone with Stone, somewhere we won’t be disturbed, and I’ll get him singing about everything that ever happened in Iraq.’
‘Right,’ said Parkes, frowning.
Blake took a deep breath. She’d been great up to this point, but he needed her to go further. ‘Do you think you can persuade Stone to go back with you to the hotel?’
Parkes’ eyes opened wide as it slowly occurred to her what Blake was asking. ‘You want me to try to s
educe him?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Blake hissed. ‘I don’t care how you do it. Promise to show him your collection of shoes. Anything. It doesn’t matter. Just get him to my room and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll leave a key at reception.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It might be our only chance of working out what the hell is going on and getting Claire Hopkins off the hook.’
‘Fine.’ Parkes straightened her blouse. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘I’ll be waiting in my room.’
Blake gave her a full minute’s head start, enough time for anyone to reasonably assume they weren’t together, then forced his way back to the bar, finished his drink and headed for the exit.
Parkes had picked up where she’d left off, her eyes glistening, fingers running through her hair and one hand on Stone’s arm. She had them in the palm of her hand, and Blake had no doubt Stone would take little persuasion to leave with her that night.
Chapter Thirty-Five
As Blake walked through the hotel reception, he smiled at a young brunette behind the counter. ‘My wife’s joining me later,’ he said. ‘Could you let her have a key to my room when she arrives. I’m so tired, I’m going straight to bed and she may be late.’
‘Of course, Sir,’ said the receptionist.
In his room, Blake swept the bathroom clean of all his male toiletries and checked he’d not left any clothes around. He smoothed the duvet flat and emptied the contents of the bin into a plastic bag which he tossed into the back of the wardrobe. He switched on a lamp beside the bed, killed the main lights and turned off his phone before squeezing into the closet, bending at the waist and crooking his neck to cram his head under a shelf and coat rail. It was a claustrophobically tight fit, but there was nowhere else to hide.
Twenty long minutes passed with every muscle in his neck, back and sides aching, before he heard giggling outside the door and someone fumbling with a key card. Through a crack in the wardrobe doors, he watched Parkes spill into the room carrying her shoes in one hand and a bottle of something bubbly in the other.
