by Karina Evans
Mark leaned over and touched Isobel’s knee. She stared at it for a moment before moving her leg to shake it off.
“I need to know who those women are… and Ollie? Who is Ollie and what the fuck did he have to do with Archie?”
Mark stood up and walked over to Isobel, putting one hand on the bar beside her and the other on her shoulder. His face was so close to Isobel’s that she could smell the whisky he’d been drinking all afternoon.
“Don’t want me to touch you these days, eh? Like that, is it? You drive my wife away, disappear for decades and then saunter back in like you’ve done nothing? Where the fuck do you get off, you whore?”
Isobel shrugged her shoulder, freeing herself of his hand.
“Your mum said your kid isn’t talking to you. It’s no bloody wonder — must have her Dad’s brains, not yours,” Mark continued, putting his hand back on her shoulder. “Her Dad is that posh twat, right? And as for you — you’re back because you want something, of course you are; why else would you be here?” Mark squeezed Isobel’s shoulder so hard that Isobel winced, feeling bruises forming under his fingertips. He gulped down his drink, picked up the two glasses and turned as though to walk through the door, unsteadily spinning back at the last minute.
“I stood up for you, Isobel. I cleaned the writing off the back of the doors — I talked people down from coming to find you. Angry people — really bloody angry. You sliced through marriages like butter, abandoned your own baby, and you have the nerve to come back here and ask for help. I always wondered what could have been and now I know — I’m relieved you left. Fucking relieved. So, fuck off back to whatever big town you came from, you pathetic little woman. You’re not welcome in Shorestone.”
Isobel took a moment to gather herself before walking back through the main barroom, stopping at the table where the two women were still sitting, each nursing a pint of beer.
“Who is Ollie?”
“Ollie?”
“You know, you said that Ollie gave Archie the drugs that killed him. Who is Ollie?”
The women looked at each other nervously.
“Ollie Marchant,” said the older of the two, shaking as she attempted to roll a cigarette.
“And where does Ollie Marchant live?”
The woman gave up rolling, instead concentrating on picking up strands of spilled tobacco off the beer mat in front of her.
“I honestly don’t know. Give your number and I’ll see what I can find out. Sorry, I didn’t mean you to hear all that.”
“Clearly.” Isobel took a pen from her pocket and wrote her phone number on the beer mat. She picked up the discarded cigarette paper, reaching over to fill it with tobacco from the woman’s open tin, deftly rolling it and placing it in the woman’s hand before turning away from the table. As she reached the door of the pub, she turned back to face the table.
“Never let me catch you gossiping again. Find out what I need to know, and then shut the fuck up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Isobel headed back to the B&B, feeling anxious, despite her bravado. Mark’s anger had surprised her; she had hoped that the negative feeling and frustration had faded over the passing of time, and the people she had crossed would have had time to reflect and move on. Clearly not, and Isobel knew that this could mean there would be tricky times ahead, if she needed to question any of them in the process of the Shorestone Killer case.
As Isobel walked away from the pub, her phone rang, immediately sending waves of anxiety through her. Shorestone was already turning her into an emotional wreck, and she wouldn’t be sad to see the back of it once this case was over.
“Hello?’
“We have a letter for you at front office, Isobel. Want to grab it now?”
“Can you pop some gloves on and read it to me?”
Heidi read the letter out to Isobel, who held her head in her hands as she did so. “So he is asking me if I want him to kill again? He is trying to push the blame onto me… to somehow justify his actions. Ok, photograph it, ping me the image and send the original over to forensics. I’m out now but back on shift tomorrow.”
Isobel sat on a low wall, taking her phone out and refreshing her email until finally a message from Heidi arrived in her inbox.
Dear Isobel,
My patience is wearing thin. I enjoy this game — a traditional cat-and-mouse, but I am keen to meet with you and move our relationship forwards — perhaps I need to kill to get your attention and strengthen our bond. I worry we are in danger of becoming strangers when all that I want is for us to be together, whatever shape that may take. Have you read Silence of the Lambs? Inspiring.
I appreciate the complexities of a killer/cop relationship — such love is clear between the two characters in the aforementioned book and, although they may not touch, they are together in mind, aren’t they? I am manifesting this for us. Catch me. Don’t make me kill again.
Regards
Her heart pounding, Isobel took the scenic route along the seafront, feeling pangs of nostalgia in her stomach as she passed through areas charged with memories. To the left was the arcade in which she used to hang out with her friends, nestling between two newsagents from which she would steal penny sweets. Half a mile ahead loomed the town’s pier, its Victorian structures having seen better days; peeling paint and rusting steelwork a reflection of the town’s poverty. Isobel stopped to look at the row of shops on the opposite side of the road, trying to recall which outlets used to trade beneath the now-boarded windows. She got as far as a hairdressing salon and a tattoo parlour before giving up and moving on.
She felt drawn to the pier, despite its derelict state, and headed through the wrought-iron gates, nodding to the security guard who monotonously informed her that half of it was closed due to storm damage. She sat on a bench looking out to sea and closed her eyes, listening to the waves crashing against the 150-year-old supports beneath her. If she concentrated, she could hear the sounds of the merry-go-round that used to be a summer fixture on the front of the pier, and she could almost smell the sticky scent of candy floss: one pink, one blue; one for Isobel, one for Archie. That day with Archie had burrowed into Isobel’s mind almost as deeply as the day he died.
Archie and Isobel were both allowed on the merry-go-round, twice — once on the horse and once in the carriage, as neither could decide which they would prefer. Their mother was clearly feeling generous that day and gave them a shiny red helium balloon each. “Now, tie it to your wrist,” her mum said, bending down to wrap the string around Isobel’s five-year-old arm. When Elizabeth stood up, Archie was nowhere to be seen and Isobel felt the panic rising and falling like the waves beneath her feet, churning and swelling, as her mother tensed and screamed her son’s name, over and over and over. She grabbed Isobel’s hand too tightly and Isobel tried to wrench it free as her mother dragged her through crowds, towards the open sea, further and further until finally they saw him. Archie, seven years old, standing on the railings of the barrier at the end of the pier, reaching high into the sky towards his beautiful red balloon that was floating heavenwards, calmly and peacefully, swooping and curling and balancing on nothing but air.
Elizabeth approached Archie slowly, as one would a predator, gently, stiffly, stealthily, her palms flat and open, her stature upright and tense. “Archie, boy, come here, baby. It’s ok,” and this boy, her baby boy, her kid, was standing on a rail two-inches wide and he was screaming at the sky. “Archie, Mama will buy you another, balloon, baby, please just come here. Jump down, Archie boy,” she said in a low, controlled voice, as Archie bent down to support himself while he dismounted. The crowd that gathered to watch this spectacle took a collective gasping intake of breath while little Archie ran into his mum’s arms and, shaking, she walked him to the booth to buy another balloon, Isobel following obediently behind. The rest of the town stared at the sky towards the balloon, flying so freely, until it was no longer visible and they forgot all about the little boy who screamed at the sky and the ballo
on that made a bid for freedom.
Isobel opened her eyes and walked to the barrier that separated the opened and closed areas of the pier. She glanced around her and, seeing the security guard was facing the other way, climbed over the thigh-high barrier, making her way towards the end of the pier where they had found Archie that day. She climbed onto to the bench that Archie had used as a step and turned her face towards the sky, feeling the cool night air fresh on her skin. For just a minute, Isobel felt connected to Archie, to that little kid who had screamed at the sky and enthralled a crowd of strangers. Only when he died, would he again demand that level of attention, with national journalists picking up on his tragic demise, using it to highlight the despondency and desperation of seaside living. ‘From Decadence to Death’ ‘From Hedonism to Heroin’ ‘Smacktown’ screamed the headlines, showing faded images of suave gentlemen with their arms swung casually over the shoulders of perfectly groomed ladies, lining the edges of the Victorian ballroom in the 1960s, watching a band that would later achieve international recognition and everyone in Shorestone would cry, ‘Oh, them! I saw them on Shorestone pier in the sixties. How wonderful if our town returned to its glory days, if they reconstructed our pier, if our council cared about us again,’ but the photo next to it on the front page of the national newspaper showed today’s story — a needle on the floor, a foggy horizon, a town that once had everything, but was now too far gone to achieve anything other than a glorious history.
Isobel climbed down from the bench and walked to the other side of the pier, noting the alleyway in which she had smoked her first joint, the flat that Robert had bought but she had never stayed at, the rip-off London Eye Ferris wheel that was funded by local businesses to lure people away from the city and back down to Shorestone, the seagulls swooping on the over-filled bins, and the entrance to Market Square, which led to the alleyway in which Millicent Norton was attacked, and Ruby Dixon’s bag found. Isobel looked around for the security man, again noting that he only cared who went in and not what they did when they had gained access, and leapt back over the barrier. “Have a good evening,” she said cheerfully to the guard as she left the pier, breaking into a sprint as she crossed the road to have a nose around Market Square and the alleys behind it.
The usually bustling Market Square was mostly deserted, other than two teenagers sitting on a bench in the middle, laughing and taking selfies. Isobel smiled to herself as she walked past them — they reminded her of herself in her teenage years, before her world fell apart. The square looked just as it had when Isobel was a teenager, other than the closure of some of the older shops. Isobel walked through the far end of the square, following the road as it narrowed into the Market Street alleyway. The alleyway had a crossroads-type junction in the middle, allowing people from the surrounding roads to join it in the middle, where it was known as the Stanley Street alley — the name of one road that sandwiched it. Isobel could make out a female figure at the Stanley Street end of the thin alleyway; despite police advice for lone females to stay home after 6 pm and only use the narrow adjoining paths if absolutely necessary. Isobel realised the irony in her stalking the area alone in the late evening, but surmised that she was more than capable of fighting off pretty much any attack, thanks to both her police training and years of building strength at the gym.
Houses lined the narrow paths, which were covered in tarmac, meaning that footsteps fell softly. Lighting was absent, other than dim glows from the back of the houses either side, and Isobel made a mental note to speak to the local MP about installing lighting and CCTV. As Isobel walked slowly down the alleyway, she heard footsteps in the adjacent road and stopped in shadow, with her back against a wall. A man appeared at the junction, and Isobel held her breath as he looked left then right, before stepping slowly into the Stanley Street end of the alleyway while fumbling in his pocket. The female was still visible, nearing the end of the path, and the guy picked up pace, walking more quickly towards her. Isobel couldn’t see his face, but he was a tall man, strong-looking with greying hair. He was wearing a thin canvas jacket over a light-coloured t-shirt and a pair of what look like cargo trousers with multiple pockets. Isobel moved from her place in the shadows, just as the guy slowed down and the female reached the end of the alleyway, turning the corner into the well-lit road beyond.
“Hey,” Isobel called, and the male stopped and turned to look at her. “What are you doing, lurking in alleyways at night?”
Isobel searched the man’s face with her eyes and, as recognition set in, her stomach somersaulted. No amount of defence training or weight-lifting could have prepared her for this moment.
“Nothing, just realised I had forgotten my wallet and thought I’d cut through to grab it… Isobel? No way! Isobel Hester… is that you?”
Isobel’s heart thumped and, her legs weak and face numb, she muttered to the father of her daughter, “Yes, Robert, yes, it’s me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Him
He had printed the letter to Isobel on his last piece of paper. There were no stationery shops locally, and he was feeling worried how he would write further letters to Isobel should the urge take him. He could cut the words from old magazines, he thought, leaving her to piece the words together one by one. Or he could steal some paper from the college, but only if he assessed the risk as low — he was sure that a spell in the cells for shoplifting wouldn’t be at all alluring to DS Isobel Hester.
It was Robert. After all these years. He still had the suaveness that had attracted Isobel all those years ago, his salt-and-pepper hair and laughter lines adding to his sophistication. For the first time in years, Isobel felt vulnerable, out of control of her own body, her thumping heart, her weak legs, the unnerving shivers that were playing up and down her spine. Robert placed his hand on her arm, further weakening her, and she shook it off.
“Can I give you my number, Isobel?” he asked softly. “I have so much I need to say to you.”
“Ok, yes.” Isobel fumbled in her pocket for her phone. “Here. Put it in here. And stop hanging around alleyways or you’ll get into trouble.”
Robert punched his number into Isobel’s mobile, quickly calling himself from her device and saving her details. “Thank you, I’ll call soon,” and with that, he went, as quickly as he arrived, his trainer-soft footsteps almost imperceptible as he walked back down the alleyway towards the junction, the direction from which he had appeared earlier. Isobel inhaled deeply. “Robert? Don’t you need your wallet?” Isobel shouted, trying hard to keep her voice steady.
“Oh yes! God, you’ve got me all in a spin.” Robert turned back, following the path back to the road.
Isobel leant back against the wall, trying to focus her mind on something real, something concrete, something other than the way another human being had taken control of her body.
When her heart had finally slowed, she stood upright, shaking her head as though to free her mind, rubbing memories from her eyes, smoothing her hair. Feeling almost normal again, she headed back to the B&B to pour herself a double measure of vodka and coke and a long, relaxing bath.
She opened the front door to reception and saw a female at the desk, leaning on it for support. Isobel walked past her, turning back to look at her when she reached the first stair.
“Are you ok?” Isobel asked.
“Yes, just being silly. I used the cut-through alleyway on my way home from work tonight and thought I was being followed. Stupid, really. It was probably nothing, but I feel shaky.” She held her hand out to Isobel to show her, who walked back to the desk.
“Ah, yes, I saw you.” The woman looked at Isobel quizzically. “I mean, it was me who called out to the guy — he’s ok, a local. I’ve known him for a while. But it’s not a good idea to use the alley anyway, so stay clear.”
“I will. I definitely will. Thank you. I’m Olivia, by the way.”
Olivia appeared to be about the same age as Isobel, but exuded a drabness that felt deliberate, as
though she were trying to be anonymous. She wore a navy blue quilted jacket, despite the warmth of the summer evening, over a black polo shirt and navy trousers. Even her navy trainers blended in; her entire outfit was as characterless as it was possible to be, which Isobel found intriguing.
“What do you do, Olivia?” Isobel asked.
“I’m a care worker. I often walk through the alleyway on my way home from work, so this was a bit of a wake-up call. I used to chat to Violet Taylor sometimes; she would hang around the top end, sorry… look at me waffling.”
“No problem. I’ll let you get off. By the way, I’m Isobel. DS Isobel Hester.”
Isobel watched as the colour drained from Olivia’s face. “I’ve got to go. Busy day. Good to meet you, bye,” she gabbled, spinning round and speeding into her room next to the desk. Isobel stood staring in disbelief as she heard the key on the other side of the door, scrabbling, trying to lock the door from the inside. Trying to keep Isobel out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Why were you hanging around the alleyways?” asked Dominic, worried. “I had you down as someone a little cleverer than that; we have all these tools and gadgets and DNA and forensics, and you decide to catch a killer by hanging around in an alleyway? What is this? The 1950s?”
“There’s nothing like BEING in a place to get a feel for how an event occurred,” retorted Isobel, still feeling vulnerable, and a little affronted by Dominic’s comment. “If you think I’m so shit at this, why did you call me in to help?’
