In many respects, she would have preferred the room to look as she had left it because at least it would reflect the tremendous grief inside her that had done nothing to abate in the past week. She took the symbolism of the sparse room as an unwelcome indication that she should now be looking to move on in the same way it had. But she would not, could not, do that. Not after the funeral and when she had been granted a return to work. Not even when Brandt was found. She would not allow the memory of what had happened to McNeil to become an unpleasant stain that she tried to remove. She needed to again look into the eyes of the man responsible, but this time knowing that he was now the person cuffed and with no future to speak of.
With the rage bubbling up inside her, she set to work finding a black suit and white shirt, forcing herself to also collect more clothes to last her until she had washed the items that Potter had retrieved for her and were currently bagged up in the boot of the taxi.
It was with defiance that she closed the front door, with the new mechanism making an unfamiliar latching sound. Abandoning thoughts of selling it, she could not allow herself to be driven from her home. As soon as Brandt was arrested, she would return there and every morning, as she regarded the carpet by her bed, she would be reminded of what had been denied her.
Johnson regretted releasing the taxi once it had taken her to her rented apartment, located in Nottingham’s Trent Bridge area, ironically just a short walk from Sarah Donovan, Brandt’s first victim, and close to his third which had taken place along the river itself. It wasn’t so much that the new one arrived late, causing her to wait outside for over ten minutes, it was the look of recognition he gave her, rather than one of apology, that troubled Johnson. Having become increasingly irritated by the frequent glances he gave her in the rear-view mirror, she eventually demanded he come out and say it. However, rather than embarrass him into leaving her alone altogether, it only served to bring forth a barrage of questions that lasted the remainder of the journey. She wanted nothing more than to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business but, knowing his next call was likely to be to the local newspaper, she politely responded whilst attempting to say as little as possible. She didn’t give a toss what the press had to say about her, but she knew that it would undermine her chances of a swift return to work if she was seen to be behaving irrationally.
Johnson’s subterfuge of calm was forced to remain as they pulled up at the church. As expected, there were a number of journalists and the camera flashes commenced as soon as she got out, after reluctantly giving her driver a substantial tip. She had considered wearing dark glasses to complete the incognito look but didn’t want to appear aloof, so, squinting against the sunlight, she tried to avoid contact with any of them as she made her way to the entrance.
The flurry of questions, far more personal and insensitive than any she had faced in the taxi, were hollered at her as she tried to maintain a straight line. Any hopes she’d had of the mourners already there not noticing her arrival were long gone, but Johnson was still shocked when a young woman emerged from the large oak doors and stared directly at her. The resemblance to McNeil was obvious and she was desperately thinking of what she was going to say to her by way of a greeting, when she suddenly looked over Johnson at her pursuers and called out: ‘Have you no respect? Don’t you think this woman has been through enough without you lot hounding her?’
Johnson smiled up at her weakly; this was certainly not the reaction she had expected. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, as she made her way past and into the church.
‘I’m Claire,’ the woman said holding out her hand.
‘Stella,’ Johnson responded shaking it. ‘You’re…’ she paused, suddenly aware this would be the first time she had ever uttered his forename. The closest she had got was those occasions when she prefixed McNeil with PC, as a way of teasing him with how junior he was. ‘You’re Darren’s sister.’ The name felt alien on her lips, as though it belonged to someone else.
‘Yes, come along, it’s about to start. I’ve saved you a seat with us.’
Before she could begin to protest, Claire began leading her up the aisle of the packed church. Johnson regretted wearing heels; the loud clacking on the wooden floor doing more to announce her arrival than the reporters had. Faces turned towards her and she recognised a number from the station. They regarded her with a mixture of awkwardness and pity, all except for a blonde female constable whom Johnson only remembered was called Strachan because of the children’s wildlife presenter she had watched growing up. The hatred in her eyes was clear and, in that moment, more than meeting his sister, Johnson realised she barely knew McNeil at all. She wondered what this woman was to him; it was evident she had some personal feelings for him but whether there had been anything between them she would never know.
Fortunately, sight of DSI Potter helped Johnson to regain her composure. Dressed in his full uniform, he offered her the slightest incline of the head, which might have appeared cold had it not been for the moment they’d shared in the family room at the hospital a week before. Much as she was frustrated with his inability to catch Brandt, and his insistence they follow procedure regarding her reintroduction to work, she would always be grateful for his kindness that day.
As they arrived at the front of the church, Johnson regarded the people sat on her pew. At the far end were two men of similar ages who she took to be McNeil’s brothers, and next to Claire was an older woman. The guarded look she gave Johnson as she sat down was more than enough to confirm she was his mother. McNeil’s coffin was mere feet from her, and she wondered who, with the absence of a father, had helped the brothers carry it into the chapel.
Johnson had no more time to settle because the minister approached the pulpit and began proceedings. It was the standard mix of hymns, readings and people sharing their personal experiences. McNeil’s family were remarkably dignified throughout, which she was extremely grateful for. The more she heard about McNeil the more it was confirmed that she barely knew him, and it just added to the surreal feeling she had being there. As a consequence, the tears that she had believed would be expected of her didn’t fall, but she did occasionally dab her eyes with a tissue to keep up the pretence.
Following the service, the congregation were led via a side door into the graveyard and to a plot that had been freshly dug. It was clear from the reaction of the mourners that this was the hardest part and, as McNeil’s coffin was gently lowered into the ground, Johnson caught his mother glance sharply in her direction. She wondered how many unanswered questions they had about the reason for him being at her house that night. Of course, the tabloids had offered some speculation, whilst trying to maintain a false air of respectability. The fact was no one would ever know the truth, but Johnson hoped that McNeil had come around because he refused to accept her request to be patient.
She waited for the first people to start drifting away before making her move, planning to go to her flat and cancel her appointment with the police doctors. Perhaps even get away for a while; anything to escape all this. But Johnson had only taken a few steps when a firm but gentle hand on her arm caused her to stop.
‘Let’s find somewhere quiet to talk.’ There was no element of request to what Claire said.
Johnson didn’t reply but allowed herself to be led further into the church grounds. She wondered whether being berated by a member of his family might actually be a good thing. It wasn’t as though it could make her guilt any worse, and she wished Claire would just come out with it.
‘I know you were close,’ she stated once they were sufficiently out of earshot. Johnson didn’t know how to respond and so merely nodded. ‘Darren told me about you…’
Oh, here goes, she thought.
‘…he didn’t want to, but I got it out of him. You see, he wanted to be a policeman since, well, since I can remember. He was so excited when he was accepted but then things started to change. He didn’t want to admit it and tried to hide it from Mum who was super prou
d and couldn’t stop herself telling everyone she met. But I saw it. He had so much good in him that he wanted to make a difference, a real difference.’
Johnson shuffled awkwardly on the spot, looking down at her heels which were beginning to sink in the soft soil. She didn’t want to hear how she had not only cost him his life but, prior to that, his love for a job he had always wanted to do. She felt the urge to run and leave this all behind her.
‘Late nights breaking up drunken fights and following up petty theft. It was draining him. But then you came along.’ Johnson looked up suddenly, sure she must be misunderstanding Claire’s words. ‘Look, I’m not saying those murders were a good thing. Of course they weren’t, they were awful. But you involving Darren changed him. I didn’t know he was working on the case but when I challenged him on his apparent good mood, he couldn’t help but spill the beans. Just the look in his eyes told me that he was finally doing something he considered important. He was scared he would get into trouble for telling me and made me promise I wouldn’t tell Mum and our brothers but, having confided in me, he couldn’t stop talking about it any time we met up or spoke on the phone.’
‘What did he say?’ Johnson couldn’t help but be intrigued.
‘Well, he refused to give any details. Even as kids, Darren would always insist on playing by the rules. But he just wanted to share how he was feeling about things. He was a bit up and down, you know, sometimes frustrated by the lack of progress that was being made, but he couldn’t stop talking about you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, the comments changed over the weeks. I could tell he was initially intimidated by you, perhaps even a little scared. Then he started talking about how knowledgeable you were. And then he stopped talking about you altogether. I knew then what had happened…’
‘What?’ Johnson wasn’t sure she wanted to hear any of this, but the conversation was so different to what she had expected that she couldn’t help but find herself interested.
‘He was always like that,’ Claire laughed, a little too falsely. ‘We always knew when he fancied someone because he would suddenly stop talking about them. It was after that trip to Canterbury or wherever it was you both went. He came home and suddenly wanted to talk about anything but his work.’
‘We weren’t together,’ Johnson said flatly.
‘I know. Ever since we were small, I’ve been able to get the details out of him. He told me nothing happened in Kent and, as far as I know, nothing happened since. But then…’
‘…but then he was at my house.’ Johnson finished for her.
‘Well, yes. Look, I genuinely don’t want to pry…’
‘…I didn’t know he was coming around. He had never been there before, well except once when I was picking him up.’
Claire placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘As I said, I don’t want to pry. Like I said at the beginning, I know you two were close. I need your help.’
‘Help?’
Claire grasped her other shoulder, her face now so close to Johnson that she could smell her perfume and stale cigarette smoke. But rather than remind her of her own nicotine craving, Johnson found herself transfixed by eyes that, on the one hand looked so familiar, but on the other, so different. There was a cold intensity there that was in stark contrast to the warmth McNeil’s had, even when he was being serious. ‘I need you to catch him,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper.
Johnson tried to back away. ‘You think I don’t?! Do you know what that man did to me, do you know what he was going to do to me if…if…’ She stopped ready for the stinging reminder of McNeil’s sacrifice.
‘Shh,’ Claire soothed, in contrast to her tightening grip. ‘You misunderstand me. Of course, I know you want to catch him.’ She paused, taking in a deep breath. ‘But understand this: you need to catch him, whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.’ She waited until the implication of her words sank in before removing her hands and offering a false smile. ‘We’re all back to a pub near Mum’s if you would like to join us.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t, I have an appointment.’
‘Really?’ Claire raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact it’s about me returning to work.’
‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘Tell you what, let me text you the address in case you can make it later.’
Johnson moved to start walking away. ‘Oh no, I don’t think so. By the time I finish and then…’
Claire blocked her path. ‘Let me text you the address,’ she repeated coldly.
Johnson fumbled in her bag for her phone. ‘It’s a new number and I’m not sure I know it. If you just tell me the name of the pub, I’ll remember it should I have time later.’
Claire grabbed the phone from her hands and turned her back to prevent it easily being retaken. ‘I’ll just text myself and then I can reply,’ she said whilst punching her number into an empty message. ‘Here,’ she said a few moments later, handing back the phone before walking away.
Johnson remained there looking at the screen. There was no incoming message with the address for the reception. As she slipped her phone back in her bag, she suspected that it would never arrive, but that this wouldn’t be the last time she heard from Claire McNeil.
Chapter Thirteen
Johnson was travelling to the police station in her Audi. She had picked it up after her appointment because she wanted her return to work to appear as normal as possible. The assessment of her physical and psychological capability had gone well, in so much as she had been passed as fit. However, as she sat in traffic, the red of the lights a blur in her tear-filled vision, she knew that lying her way through the latter examination had been a big risk. If she wasn’t able to pull herself together by the time her colleagues saw her, she was likely to face a longer lay off than if she had been honest about the conflict of emotions she was still experiencing.
Having sat through McNeil’s funeral, Johnson had been sure that she wouldn’t attend the appointment, understanding that, much as she hated sitting around doing nothing, she wasn’t able to be that cold, logical Detective Chief Inspector her team needed, especially at such a trying time for the force. But Claire’s words had weighed heavily on her and she realised that she owed it not just to McNeil but to all those who loved him to find Brandt. Whilst things had not panned out anything like she had intended, the fact remained that it was Johnson who managed to break the cycle of apparently random killings with few clues to go on. She alone made the connection with the murder in St. Albans and continued to champion it in the face of scepticism. Had it not been for her, they would not have the image from the Abbey station that they were able to cross reference with the CCTV from the other locations. Therefore, Johnson had done whatever it took and hid from the psychologist the extent of her feelings whilst offering just enough of her pain to appear credible. For no matter how screwed up she really was, she believed they stood a better chance of catching Brandt with her on board.
The gate to the car park retracting again, signalling the arrival of a colleague, caused Johnson to stub her barely lit cigarette out and swipe her way into the station. She tried to walk with confidence as she headed down the corridor and into the duty area. Sergeant Andrews was in his usual position at the desk, filling out his log book, but glanced up to offer her a slight nod. She was about to return it when the cold edge to his eyes caused her to turn and head straight for the stairs up to CID. She stopped, wanting nothing more than to go back down and tell that jumped up prick that, rather than trying to add to her own sense of guilt, he should take a look at his own culpability. It had been him that she had sent DI Fisher to when they had been so short staffed following the first incident. With a whole train load of potential suspects for the stabbing of Sarah Donovan, Johnson had needed to spread out her resources and required someone in uniform to accompany her to Sarah’s ex-boyfriend’s house. If Andrews hadn’t given her McNeil, just some useless plod instead, then perhaps things would have worked out differently
.
But Johnson carried on her ascent, the more rational part of her reminding her that if she over-analysed every look given to her and then responded with an outburst, she would be back in her car before the engine had even a chance to cool. Fortunately, her welcome in CID was warmer. She was one of them and they looked after their own. Johnson had a reputation for being a bit of a hard-arse, but she knew her team respected her. She led from the front and wouldn’t ask anyone to do something she wasn’t prepared to do herself. The flurry of activity she witnessed before being spotted stopped and she was swamped with people enquiring how she was and offering their sympathies. There were no awkward questions similar to those the taxi driver and the journalists had posed her, just genuine warmth and concern. Johnson tried to sweep it away, partly through a desire to get down to work but mainly for fear that this outpouring of love for her may cause a bigger reaction than nasty shits like Andrews.
‘Thank you, guys, honestly!’ She called, pulling herself away after the final hug from the gathered group. ‘Look, I don’t want to sound ungrateful but let’s get back to business, shall we? DC Hardy can brief me in my office as to where we’ve got up to.’ She turned to go but something about the complete silence she was leaving behind caused her to pause. ‘What is it?’
Hide and Seek Page 8
