Their Fatal Secrets

by JANICE FROST

  “Name’s Brian Carlyle,” the man said.

  "Brian Carlyle.” PJ wrote down his name, thinking it would be a miracle if his fingerprints didn’t appear somewhere in a police database.

  “Just one more thing, was Leanne in contact with her father? And do you know his present whereabouts?” Tom asked.

  “That’s two things.” They waited patiently while Tina recovered from her joke. “An’ yeah, I do know of his whereabouts.” She paused and smirked at Brian. PJ guessed what was coming. “’E’s out back. Buried ’im in the garden ’bout six years ago. Riddled with cancer, bless ’im.”

  “Right, well, thanks for your time, folks.” Tom turned to PJ. “Any more questions, Detective Jenkins?”

  PJ shook her head. She thought of asking Tina if she had ever loved her daughter, but the answer was depressingly obvious.

  They saw themselves out, sidestepping the prone wheelie bin and its trail of slimy inhabitants.

  Tom let out a low whistle of relief when they saw that the car was still where they had left it. PJ strapped herself in while Tom did a quick check for scratches. Thank goodness her Steve wasn’t so precious about his car.

  Their next destination was Leanne Jackson’s last known address. They had obtained her address from the electoral register. When PJ and Tom arrived, forensics were going through the property. The landlord was hovering around but he soon made himself scarce.

  PJ had once rented a terraced house similar to this with a friend, and the layout was familiar. The door opened into a narrow hall with stairs on one side and a door leading into a small living room overlooking the street. The room was minimalist rather than homely, furnished throughout with items from IKEA. Tom ran his fingers over the books on a shelving unit. PJ guessed he was someone for whom books held no more than a passing interest.

  “All arranged alphabetically by subject, by the looks of them.”

  “What did she do for a living?” PJ asked.

  “She worked for a trust that provides training and employment for people with mental health issues and learning disabilities or recovering from illness, addiction, that sort of thing. The Yeardsley Trust. It’s on a small industrial estate off Stonebridge Road.”

  PJ nodded. “I know it. Actually, my neighbour’s brother used to go there. He’s got bipolar disorder. He did carpentry and made stuff that the Trust sold.” PJ gazed at a rectangular outline in the dust on a small beech desk. “Forensics have already taken her laptop, I see.”

  They moved to the kitchen. The work surfaces were completely clear of clutter. Leanne had not been absent for long, and there was some food in the fridge that was still fresh. Tom opened a couple of cupboards. Everything was lined up and grouped by type.

  “She liked her tuna fish.” PJ eyed the neatly stacked cans. Upstairs they found two small bedrooms. One, barely roomy enough to accommodate a single bed, was being used mainly for storage. An ironing board stood in one corner with a basket of clean laundry on the floor by its side. All neatly folded up, waiting to be ironed. Items of underwear and tights and a couple of pairs of jeans were hanging, completely dry, over a clothes horse. A white Billy bookcase was neatly stacked with storage boxes and files.

  PJ peered into one of the boxes. It was full of different coloured A4-sized plastic wallets, all with printed labels indicating what was inside — insurance policies, energy bills, certificates, instruction manuals. PJ thought of the chaotic state of her own affairs at home and reminded herself to get organised.

  Tom picked up a loose folder and held out a single sheet of paper. “Look at this. Only thing that’s not tidied away.”

  PJ joined him and peered over his shoulder. It was a list of names in alphabetical order. All of them were highlighted in yellow and encircled by a huge question mark. At the top of the page was the word, ‘Victims?’

  PJ frowned. “Chantelle Clarke. I remember reading about her in the Courier last month. My auntie Susan showed me the article. She was a friend of Chantelle’s mother. Terribly sad case. She committed suicide. Had a history of depression and self-harming and had attempted to kill herself several times.”

  “What method did she use?” Tom asked.

  “Pills. Anti-depressants.”

  “Do you recognise any of the other names?” Tom asked.

  PJ read them out. “Alyssa Ballard, Michaela Howard, Ruby Kennedy, Corinna Masters.” She shook her head. “What is this list anyway? Is it something Leanne’s brought home from work, do you think? Chantelle could well have attended a place like the Yeardsley Trust. We should probably check out the other highlighted names, just in case.”

  “Absolutely.” Tom rolled his neck as if releasing tension. He looked around. “Leanne had a touch of OCD, d’ye reckon?”

  “Maybe. Maybe that’s why she chose to work at a place like the Yeardsley. She’d feel she fitted in.”

  Tom pocketed the list. “Let’s go. There’s nothing here that’s shouting at me.”

  * * *

  Ava asked the bartender to open a tab so that she could buy drinks for her colleagues as they trickled in. After the day’s dark proceedings, a few drinks would go a long way to lightening the general mood. PJ smiled at Ava over the top of her glass, and beckoned her over to the table where she was sitting with Tom Knight and Dan from forensics. Jim Neal was expected to make an appearance at some point in the evening, though Ava suspected it would be brief. His son, Archie, tended to take priority over social gatherings, and she knew that his friend, Jock, was visiting from Scotland.

  Ava sipped her cocktail through a thin, pink straw.

  PJ fumbled in her handbag, accidentally elbowing Ava’s arm so that her drink slopped.

  “Oops, sorry, Ava. Bit too eager.” PJ had a reputation for being klutzy, which was sometimes endearing, sometimes exasperating. She passed Ava her notebook, open at a list of names.

  “Tom and I visited Leanne Jackson’s place earlier. She had a place for everything and then some. This was the only thing we found lying around.”

  Ava skimmed through the list of names.

  “We wondered if Leanne got herself killed over something she was trying to find out.”

  PJ, newly appointed to her role as detective constable, was eager to show that she deserved the title. Was she jumping to fanciful conclusions? Ava’s eyes sought Tom’s but he was non-committal.

  “Hmm . . . Got anything more to support your theory, Peej?”

  “Don’t you recognise any of the names on the list?”

  Ava ran her eyes over the list again. “Er . . . nope.”

  “Chantelle Clarke?” PJ prompted. Ava gave her friend a blank look. Sometimes PJ forgot that not everyone had lived in Stromford as long as she had. She would pick up on items of news because she knew someone who knew someone who had been affected by the issues. PJ explained about Chantelle’s suicide, but it was the suggestion that she might have attended the Yeardsley Trust that piqued Ava’s interest.

  “Forensics have got Leanne’s laptop,” said Tom. “I’ll check in with them tomorrow to see if there’s any more info on the names on the list.”

  A couple of drinks later the mood became lighter. Ava found herself knocking back drink after drink as her colleagues repaid her generosity behind the bar. At one point there were four cocktails lined up in front of her. It wasn’t long before she began to live up to her surname.

  Ava declared she was “thoroughly pissed.”

  “Serves you right for being so popular,” PJ observed.

  Ava performed a couple of Lady Gaga songs on the karaoke. Amidst cries of ‘encore’ and cheering, she got up to perform a third. She’d kicked off her shoes, stripped down to her red strappy top, let her blonde hair tumble from its ponytail and was drunkenly twerking away when a movement at the door caught her eye. Ava turned in time to see DI Neal’s stern face rearrange itself into an awkward smile that threatened to become a laugh.

  “And my next number is for Jim Neal!” Ava yelled, drunkenly. “L
et’s hear it for the boss!”

  Before she could launch into her next song, someone wrestled the microphone from her grasp.

  “Let’s hear it for Detective Sergeant Ava Merry.” PJ’s voice filtered through a sort of fug. At the sound of hearty hand-clapping and cheering, she took a bow and, leaning heavily on PJ, made it back to their table. “Glad you could make it, Jimmy Boy!” She gave Neal a hearty slap on the back. PJ rolled her eyes, Dan grinned and Tom Knight smirked.

  Ava reached for her glass but PJ swiped it deftly away. “Come on, Ava. You’ve had enough for now.” Ava was about to protest when the whole room started to spin and she felt everything fall away backwards.

  She clutched PJ. “Oh no! I think I’m going to puke.”

  Tom Knight was on his feet in a flash, not in gallantry, but to avoid the vomit he evidently feared was on its way.

  PJ grabbed Ava by the arm. “Oh no, you’re not. You just hold that a minute till we get to the Ladies.” She steered Ava expertly across the floor. Moments later she was obligingly holding those blonde tresses out of the way while Ava threw up.

  “Bloody hell, Ava. At least try to get it in the pan.”

  “S . . . sorry. Oh God, Peej. Have I made a complete arse of myself in front of everyone?”

  “Only in the last five minutes or so, if you don’t count your Lady Gaga impersonation. Oh, and belting DI Neal on the back.” She handed Ava a wad of toilet paper. “Here. You’ve got sick on your chin.”

  When they made it back to their seats, the three men nodded politely. PJ picked up Ava’s jacket and draped it around her friend’s shoulders. “I’m going to call Ava a cab.”

  Neal began to stand up. “No need. I’ll drive her home.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” PJ asked.

  “No problem, PJ. Is that alright with you, Merry?”

  “Yessir. Thank you, sir.” Ava just hoped she wouldn’t throw up in his car.

  Outside, the fresh air made her feel slightly better. “I don’t normally drink a lot. Must have lost count. People kept buying me cocktails. I couldn’t very well not drink them, could I?”

  Neal smiled. “It would have been impolite, I suppose. Here we are.” He helped her into the passenger seat and leaned over her to fasten her seatbelt, brushing against her breasts as he did so. Ava gave a little moan and smiled at him.

  “You’re a very sexy man, Jim Neal.” She leaned back against the headrest, thinking it would be nice if he were to kiss her, but it would also be nice if she could focus on his face properly.

  “And you’re very drunk,” Neal replied. He started up the car. Ava was asleep in seconds.

  * * *

  Neal was glad to see a light still on when they arrived at her cottage. He left Ava sleeping in his car while he went to the door and knocked.

  He and her brother Ollie helped Ava inside the cottage and onto a sofa. Neal suspected she would sleep there until morning.

  Back in his car, straightening the seatbelt on the passenger side, he thought of the moment when he had brushed against Ava, and how she had given that little moan of pleasure and it made his pulse quicken. It would have been so easy to lean over and kiss her. He was sure she wouldn’t have remembered it in the morning.

  Neal arrived home around midnight and, as he expected, his friend, Jock Dodds, was still up, drinking whisky and evidently in maudlin mood.

  “I’m in love with Maggie.”

  Neal sighed. It was hardly a shocking revelation. Jock Dodds had held a torch for Neal’s sister Maggie since he was a boy of sixteen. A few months before, Maggie, who lived with Neal and his son Archie, had nearly died at the hands of a crazed killer. Neal had been wondering if this incident would give Jock a kick up the pants and make him act on his feelings. And about time too.

  “Aye. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  Jock held up his glass. “Half full, or half empty?”

  “Just talk to her, man.” Neal could understand Jock’s dilemma. Lose a friend or gain a lover? Neal reckoned the odds were in Jock’s favour.

  Jock sighed. He lifted his glass with his left hand and conveyed it awkwardly to his mouth. The arm was encased in plaster. He had been involved in an accident a couple of weeks before and had required surgery on his arm and shoulder. There was the possibility of nerve damage. “I’m thinking of changing my specialism.”

  Neal nodded. “Psychiatry?”

  “Aye. It’s not just this.” Jock looked down at his arm. He had spoken before about his interest in psychiatry. Neal suspected the injury was not the sole deciding factor. No wonder his friend was drunk. He was up against two major life decisions.

  “It would mean a bit of retraining, of course.”

  Neal sensed Jock wanted to talk. He was happy to listen. After the sudden death of his parents in a car accident, Jock’s family had taken him in. He and Jock had become more like brothers than friends. Maggie had gone to live with an aunt, but they had all been close growing up.

  These days it was rare for them to spend time together. The demands of their careers meant that neither had the time to travel between Stromford and Edinburgh. There was the odd walking trip whenever they could fit it in, but Neal also had parental responsibilities and free time was a luxury.

  This time Jock had no need to rush back to Edinburgh. He was on sick leave, awaiting further surgery on his arm. “Stay a bit longer,” Neal urged. “Maggie will be delighted.”

  Jock smiled and held up his glass. “Half full.”

  Chapter Five

  Home for Jess was a small flat in a Victorian conversion on a long sloping street lined with cherry trees and parked cars. She had been surprised to discover that the rent was just within her budget. She’d been lucky with her neighbours too. The house had been split into three flats. Magda, a Polish woman, lived on the ground floor, opposite Jess. She worked as a care assistant at a care home. The first floor flat was occupied by a woman in her fifties, Pam Hollis, who had recently left her husband and was renting until her divorce was settled. Pam’s current soul mate was a three-year-old chocolate Labrador called Bunty. Jess loved Bunty almost as much as Pam did and enjoyed their long walks across the west common on Saturday mornings. If Magda wasn’t working, she’d come too, and more often than not the three of them would end up in a little coffee shop on the edge of the common.

  Feeling troubled after hearing of Leanne’s death, Jess felt a sudden need for company and decided to call on Pam. She climbed the stairs to Pam’s part of the house. Pam was delighted to see her.

  “I hope I’m not keeping you from working,” Jess said.

  “Absolutely not. I need a break before I get started.” Now in her mid-fifties, Pam had reinvented herself as a writer, self-publishing romantic fiction that Jess often had the privilege of reading first. Jess stepped inside and made a fuss of an excited Bunty, while Pam put the kettle on.

  Pam’s flat was bigger than Jess’s and reflected a lifetime of gathering objects around her. She had a lot of books and had invited Jess to borrow whatever took her fancy. Jess followed Bunty into Pam’s living room and was drawn immediately to the big bay window looking out over the west common. Pam’s writing desk was positioned to take full advantage of the vista from the window. With a view like this, Jess marvelled that Pam ever got any work done. The west common was a vast swathe of grassland extending outwards from the city into the surrounding countryside. Ponies roamed freely across its wide expanse, which was dotted with shrubberies and recreational facilities, and of course dogs and their owners. Miraculously, it still managed to look wild and unmanaged.

  “Admiring the view?” Pam smiled. “Bunty’s been gazing longingly at it for the past half hour. I think I’ll have to quit working and take her for a walk after our coffee.”

  When Jess turned from the window, she was blinking back tears.

  “Are you alright, sweetie?”

  “Two students found a young woman in the river last night,” Jess answered.


  “Yes, I heard about it on the news earlier.” Pam looked at Jess.

  “I knew her. Her name was Leanne Jackson. I was at school with her. She was kind to me when the other kids weren’t.” Jess had told Pam about the bullying she suffered at school, but she had never mentioned Leanne. So she told Pam about the time in the school corridor when Leanne had intervened on her behalf. “It wasn’t just the once, either. She always seemed to be nearby when the other kids were taunting me.”

  “She sounds like a kind person. You say she wasn’t exactly a model student? She was disruptive? Her behaviour was probably masking some trouble of her own.”

  “I think she had a pretty difficult home life. There were rumours that her mum was an alcoholic or a junkie.”

  Pam looked at her. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Reluctantly, Jess told her about the two occasions she had ignored Leanne when she was in trouble.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” Pam reassured her. “I understand why you feel guilty, but you couldn’t have helped her on either of those occasions. Leanne put herself in those situations.”

  “It’s not that, you know it’s not. It’s the fact that I pretended I didn’t even know her. I looked away. She smiled at me and I looked away. Twice. That’s not the way a good person behaves.”

  “It’s the behaviour of a normal person. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Jess.”

  “They’re saying it was murder. I’ve been down to the river where her body was found. There were frogmen and they found something that everyone was saying must have been the murder weapon.”

  “Well, you don’t know that for sure. It hasn’t been announced that the police are treating it as murder. Obviously it’s suspicious, but it’s more likely to be some sort of tragic accident. You say it was near the marina? There are a lot of bars along the waterfront area there. Leanne might have had too much to drink and fallen into the river.”

  Somehow that didn’t help. “Well if it was murder, I’m going to find the person who did this to her.”