by Karina Evans
The detectives nodded and one reached out to take the papers from Isobel, who pulled them back at the last second. “As soon as you get a lead, call me.” They both nodded, silent and in unison.
“Isobel? Sorry to call so late. My name is Shannon; I was at the Shorestone Trader the day you came in and… I was, well, chatting with a friend. Anyway —” she trailed off, clearing her throat before continuing. “I’m still so sorry for gossiping about your brother and about Ollie…. I thought you’d want to know that I found Ollie… the dealer… I have an address… I have the address… are you there? I’m sorry.”
Isobel leant against the wall of her B&B room, her work bag still on her back, forming an uncomfortable barrier between her back and the wall. She sighed, stood up again, removed her rucksack and sat down on the bed.
“Go ahead, Shannon.”
“It’s a B&B on the seafront. Room one. The one run by the old bat — Cara. I think it’s called —”
Isobel had already hung up.
She thundered down the stairs, skipping two or three at a time, feeling as though her feet were flying. She banged on the door of room one with the side of her fist.
“Open up, Ollie. Ollie, open up. DS Hester. Open up. Open up. OPEN UP.”
Olivia Marchant opened to the door a crack, taking a deep breath when she saw who was standing behind it. Exhaling, she said, “Isobel. You found out. I’m so sorry.”
Isobel pushed open the door with force, making Olivia stumble backwards. She righted herself on a shelf, knocking over a collection of textbooks, as Isobel strode to the middle of the room, making herself the centre of the situation.
Olivia’s room was smaller than Isobel’s and dark — the curtains were closed and the room clearly hadn’t been cleaned for some time. Isobel walked towards Olivia, who was righting the textbooks on the shelf without saying a word.
“Olivia… Ollie. They said your name was Ollie… Jesus. I assumed you were a guy.”
Olivia’s eyes dropped, eventually resting on a stain on the grimy carpet. The books on the shelf behind her fell down again, one hitting the floor. Nobody moved.
“If it’s any consolation, I haven’t forgiven myself so I can’t expect you to forgive me.” Olivia wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m still angry. I still punish myself. Every day I wonder where I would be if I hadn’t taken that turn in life — if I hadn’t met that guy and agreed to sell those drugs, if I hadn’t… I was so young, you must realise that—”
“Olivia… so was my brother. My brother was still a CHILD. I… I don’t know what to say. Don’t feel sorry for yourself. You KILLED my brother. Your actions have shaped my entire fucking life. You’ve ruined me. My mum… ruined. My dad…. ruined. You’ve —”
“DO YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?” Olivia thundered with a strength she didn’t feel. “Why do you think I’m living here? Why do you think I’m working a minimum wage job?” She gestured towards the books on the shelf. “I read these to make myself feel important, worth something, as though my knowledge will somehow change the way I work, the way I live, the way I look after my clients. The people in these homes… nobody else gives a shit. Except me. I care for them, really, I do, but nobody else does. The other carers, they turn the old people from side to side in bed to stop them getting sores, and they talk over their old bodies to each other, forgetting they’re people, I’m the only person who talks to them. What happened to your brother led me to a job that nobody loves except me… I’m making my mark in his name.”
“Don’t you dare talk about my brother. What gives you the RIGHT to talk about my brother? He would rather be alive than be the fucking inspiration behind someone’s fucking nine-quid-an-hour job that a fucking monkey could do. And ‘what happened to your brother’ was YOU. YOU happened to my brother. You KILLED my brother. You are fucking worthless, Olivia. Worthless. You may as well die; nobody would fucking miss you… look at the state of you.”
“Why do you think I wear no make-up and awful clothes? Why do I live on instant bloody noodles and shitty microwave burgers? I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because I killed a boy. On paper, I’m worthless; you’re right. A few years back, I tried to kill myself and couldn’t even manage that. Imagine that! I was too fucking chicken to remove myself from a pointless existence. But I’ll tell you something now, Isobel; I have survived. I survived those feelings, and I bettered myself. Ok, I may look and live like shit, but at work I make those people smile. I bring joy to people’s lives. I am worth something.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. I wish you sadness. I wish you were dead.” Isobel felt a frustration and rage she had never felt before — the grief she had hidden and disguised over the years bubbling in her chest and suddenly she was out of control, suddenly she was lunging towards Olivia and they were both crying, screaming, pulling at clothing, scratching at bodies. And as fast as it had risen, the rage subsided and Isobel came to, staring at Olivia, who had tears streaming down her face. Olivia took a deep breath, pushed past Isobel, and left the building, slamming the door behind her.
Isobel stood, shaking, still in Olivia’s room, and looked around. She took in the dirty cups in the sink, the instant noodle pots in the bin, the dark, anonymous clothes strewn on every available surface. She ran her finger along the shelf, feeling the grimy dust sticking to her fingertips. She pulled back the curtains to reveal filthy nets, stained with nicotine, from the cigarettes Olivia must have smoked out of the window. The shape of the detritus on the floor, and on the bed and shelves, echoed the form of Olivia’s own grief — a mound of feelings with no names; no perceptible impact on the world that surrounded them other than the mess in this room and within Olivia’s mind. Isobel felt Olivia’s pain; her guilt and shame. She saw how it had moulded her life; pressed into her; shaping her into the sad, round-shouldered, loveless being she had become. Olivia’s poor decisions had ruined so many people, and Isobel thought that maybe the time had come to move on.
Him
He had planned to kill a woman that day. He couldn’t kill Scarlett yet, and so he had walked the streets until he found someone who deserved to die.
Usually, he killed to put them in their place — those girls; standing on corners, desperate for sex and love; those girls so desperate to abuse men; to force them into parting with money they had worked hard to earn, while they simply opened their legs and watched as the men swooned for them, the men so desperate to be with them, to be inside them. If that wasn’t abuse, he wasn’t sure what was.
He had grown up with a mother with no morals. A mother who had stood on street corners and controlled men in exactly this way. She had controlled men who had then moved in with her and had beaten her, beaten him, abused him. She had used sex as a weapon and had opened fire in her little boy’s life.
But today was different; she was different. She had fallen into his life for a reason. He had seen her before, talking to that girl, that whore. She wasn’t waiting for sex; instead, he sensed a sadness, a vulnerability, and he felt his heart quicken and his groin tighten as he realised he could free her from her misery. She plodded down the alleyway — the slump of her shoulders adding a resignation that he perceived to be desperation. Desperate to be free of whatever had made her so abjectly miserable. He sped up, removing what he needed from his pocket before he reached her. She didn’t put up much of a fight, this one; he was right — she needed him. She almost fell into his hands and, as he choked her, he watched her tear-stained face as she lost the life she couldn’t be bothered to fight for.
Olivia Marchant had become the Shorestone Killer’s third victim. There was no need to move this one; he needed her to be found. And now he had to get back home — there was a girl tied up in his bedroom and she was crying for her mum.
Just checking in, Scarlett, you ok?
All good, mum. Meet you in a few weeks, busy at the mo
Oh, I was hoping for sooner. But pleased you’re busy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Isobel
picked up the phone on about the fourth ring, abruptly awoken from a dream that quickly slipped from her grasp. She shook her head and focused on the screen, quickly seeing that it was Heather.
“Heather? What’s up?”
Heather spoke with an urgency that drove Isobel out of bed, into her clothes and out of the B&B before Heather had even finished the conversation. When she arrived at the police station, Heather and Dominic were waiting for her in the briefing room.
“Do we have a name for the victim?” Isobel asked.
“Olivia Marchant.”
Isobel felt the room spin around her. “Sorry?”
“Olivia Marchant. Funny, her last known address is the B&B you are staying in. Have you met her?”
“Olivia Marchant? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Dead? When?”
“About four hours ago — around 10 pm last night.”
Isobel paced the office, her mind whirring. Her first thought was to not disclose that she had been with Olivia — that would automatically make her a person of interest, particularly if she revealed they had fallen out. She excused herself and walked to the kitchen, resting her pounding head on the coolness of the fridge door.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“Everything ok?”
Isobel lifted her head to see Dominic standing at the door.
“You spying on me?”
“No, well, yes. Clearly I have nothing better to do than follow you and wonder what’s going through that head of yours. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Fancy a drive?”
“Not really.”
“Are you sure?”
Isobel paused. Maybe Dominic could help. “No. I’m not. Ok, a quick spin.”
“Great. We’ll take the cosy car.”
Isobel sat in silence, looking at her hands.
“Come on then, what’s up with your face?” Dominic asked gently.
“Everything. I had an argument with Ollie… Olivia Marchant yesterday evening, and I have a motive to kill her. Clearly I didn’t, although I really bloody wanted to.”
Dominic drove silently for a few seconds, trying to process what Isobel had just told him. “That’s a lot of information.”
“Yes, it is. But the fact is that I didn’t kill her and that the MO is the same as the Shorestone Killer, so it’s obvious, but that doesn’t stop me feeling like I’m walking through customs with something to declare. Want to nick me?”
“I would like nothing less; I’m quite fond of you, so how about we just take a statement?”
“Can I have some sleep first?”
“Ok, I’ll drive you home. Back in at 7?”
“Yep. I’ll be there.”
Isobel’s phone beeped, and she took it out of her pocket. It was Robert.
I need to make up with you. Meet me at 7 pm Thurs — at the Inn. I’ll be waiting.
Isobel thought about replying but decided against it — it was 2 am, so he shouldn’t expect an immediate reply. Plus, her head was spinning, and she needed to focus. She put her phone back in her pocket and looked out of the car’s side window as Dominic drove her home. They travelled in silence, muttering quiet goodbyes as Isobel got out of the car. Dominic stared after her as she opened the door to the B&B, raising his hand to wave as she turned to close the door. She dropped her eyes and closed the door.
Dominic drove back to the police station. He hadn’t known Isobel for long, but he was certain she was honest and that what she had told him was the truth. But he needed to do this all properly, or everyone’s jobs were on the line, and he needed to be careful not to let his friendship with Isobel jeopardise the case. He decided to get Heather in on the witness interview the next day, just to balance any bias he may have and make sure he wasn’t missing anything.
“Heather, just the person I needed to speak to — I need to grab a statement from Isobel tomorrow — she had some contact with Olivia Marchant just prior to her death. Would you mind sitting in?”
Heather blushed but responded quickly. “It’ll be a pleasure.”
“You guys are ok now, aren’t you? And us? We’re ok? I need an unbiased partner for this — it’s so important that we get what we need to catch this bastard, and Isobel could have just the right information to point us in the direction we need to be looking.”
“Yes,” Heather lied. “Absolutely. We’re fine, and Isobel and I have never been closer.”
“Tell me how you know Olivia Marchant,” Heather asked Isobel as they sat at the table in interview room four, the same room Isobel had sat in as they questioned Damon just a few days before, but this time, Isobel was the other side of the table.
“I don’t, not really. I had just found out that she had been a drug dealer, around when I… we… were kids. She gave my brother the drugs that killed him.”
“So you went to find her, is that right? With what in mind?”
“I went to find her to confront her. She killed my brother, and I needed to shout at her.”
“Is that all you did?”
“Do I need to call a solicitor?”
“You’re not under arrest. As you know, you are a witness, and I am treating you as such. If you wish to have a solicitor —”
“Heather, drop it. Really. Dom, does she have to be in here?”
“I’d rather she was, let’s carry on, unless you’d prefer me to call in the chief? Heather — this is a statement, not an interview, so drop the attitude, please. I thought you guys were ok now?”
The women silently surveyed each other over the table. Isobel was the first to speak.
“I thought so too. No need to involve Chief Inspector Pennell, Dom. I was angry with Olivia, but that’s all. I had just found out she killed Archie and so I confronted her in her room. She got upset, stormed out, and that’s there last I saw of her. That’s all. There is nothing more to tell.”
“Who is Archie?”
“My brother. The one she killed.”
“Killed?”
“Heather, you know what happened. Don’t make me go over it all. She was his dealer, she dealt, he died.”
“Thank you. What time was this?”
“What time was what?”
“That you argued with Olivia.”
“I’d just got in from work when I got the call to tell me where Olivia was. So 8 ish?”
“Who called you and why?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It does, and these are questions you would ask if you were the other side of the table.”
Isobel sighed. “A lady called Shannon. She drinks in the Trader Inn.”
“How did she have your number?”
“I heard her talk about Archie when I was in the pub one night. I gave her my number and asked her to contact me if she found out the whereabouts of Ollie… Olivia. I assumed she was a male, so it came as a bit of a shock to discover she had been living underneath me the entire time.”
“I’m sure it did. And Shannon willingly went along with this?”
“Yes. I was very polite.”
“I’m sure you were. You were the last person to see Olivia alive, so your statement is incredibly important. Did she say where she was going; if she was meeting anyone?”
“No, and no. She stormed off. She was emotional. She left her phone and her bag so I doubt she could have contacted anyone, even if she had wanted to. The Shorestone Killer murdered Olivia, and you know it. Now, where do I sign?”
“Well, that’s cleared that up,” Dominic said to Heather as they walked to the kitchen, leaving Isobel in the interview room.
“Has it?” Heather replied. “Bit convenient, isn’t it? She had literally just found out that Olivia had killed her brother and suddenly Olivia winds up dead. Just like that. And she knows the ins and outs of the Shorestone Killer case, so would know how to copycat him… or her.”
Dominic thought for a moment. “That clearly isn’t the case. Se
x is a big feature in these murders.”
“I’m not saying she is working with the killer, just that she is using him as a scapegoat for her own crime. Olivia wasn’t raped and showed no signs of sexual activity at all, so it could have been a female who killed her. It could have been Isobel.”
“I don’t think you’re right, Heather, but I can see how it looks from the outside. Isobel may be too close to this case now, let me talk to the chief.”
“You’re WHAT?” Isobel shouted, pacing the interview room.
“Taking you off the case, Isobel. At least until we can clear up this mess. You can take a position that’s opened up in burglary.”
“Burglary? I’m Major Crime Team; that makes no sense.”
Dominic lowered his voice. “Isobel,” he said, “Heather is right, but the closer you are geographically, the quicker I can get you back on the case when I’ve sorted this. So shut up for five minutes and take the burglary job.”
