It was a fair question. If I’m honest, at that point I wasn’t even sure I knew the answer. “Alright,” I said, trying not to let it sound like Shut up. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”
“Well, I don’t buy that, but whether you thought about it or not, you disappeared on duty, so now I know you did so of your own volition, you can consider this a bollocking.”
“Understood.”
“Right. Now bring me up to speed. What’s going on with the Abbotts?”
Well, that was the question. I rested against the bonnet of my car and looked over at Sandra, who was similarly recumbent against the CSI van, eating a wilted sandwich. “I don’t know what to tell you. None of the neighbors have seen them in weeks,” I said. “Or months, depending on who you ask. The place looks pretty much abandoned so I know I shouldn’t jump to any conclusions about a break-in, but from what I can see through the windows, nothing obvious has been disturbed, downstairs at least. And more to the point, the house is alarmed, so if it’s wired through to us, and it hasn’t been activated, then that might suggest it was broken into while someone was home. And if that’s the case—if it was broken into while Sarah was home alone, and if the keys really are trophies—then the key tag fits with our guy having taken her from the house and then gone back later, either to clean up, or for some other reason, like maybe gathering DNA to plant in Boon’s flat.” I let that sit for a couple of seconds, half expecting her to counter with Or maybe Erica did, but she just hmmmed, so, “Sandra’s lifted a handful of prints but I’m not hopeful about that. My gut says we’ll find what we’re looking for inside, so the sooner we get a warrant to go in there, the better.”
“Yeah, I’m working on that. In the meantime, Kevin’s trying to contact family. Passport check is ongoing. I’ll send someone to relieve you at the house, there’s no point you standing around there waiting. Your priority right now is finding Erica.”
“Any response to the appeal yet?”
“I’ve got—” I could hear her clicking her fingers, trying to remember “—Annie and a couple of floaters answering the phones. Just the usual crackpots so far, nothing to get excited about. Where are we with Carla Cockburn?”
That was the second time she’d said that name. Who the hell was Carla Cockburn? I scraped my nail across the bottom of my phone and said, “Sorry, you broke up then.”
“Can you hear me now?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you get to with her mum?”
Oh, yeah, Carla. “Says she hasn’t heard from her.”
“Do we believe her?”
“No, she’s bullshitting.”
“What about her husband?”
“He wasn’t there.”
“When’s he due back? He’s a teacher, right?” (Fucked if I know.) “Get back around there. Rile him up, he hates it when we question him. I’ll get local uniform to assist in case you need to bring them both in, so sit tight for, what, half an hour? That’ll give Kevin time to get there. By the time you’re done with the Cockburns, you should be able to get into the Abbott house and see what’s what.”
It was going to be a long evening. My heart dropped, and a wave of anxiety broke over me, bringing down the emergency shutters on my cooperative mood. “Not Kevin,” I said before I could stop myself.
A sigh broke the long silence at the other end of the phone. “What’s going on between you two?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” Stalling for time.
“You’ve been giving each other dirty looks since yesterday. What’s the story?”
I braced myself. “What’s he said?”
“Nothing, I haven’t asked him, but you’ve clearly pissed each other off. If there’s some kind of personal issue here, you need to nip it in the bud right now.”
“It’s not that,” I said, although I didn’t know what to tell her it was without actually telling the truth. And if she knew that Kevin had seen what was going on in my head and immediately ceased to trust me, I’d be off the team in a heartbeat. “It’s just...” Oh God, was I really about to throw him under the bus? It was like kicking a puppy; it wasn’t his fault there was shit on the rug. “I...”
I don’t know whether Jen sensed that I was about to drop Kevin in it, or whether she just got bored of waiting, but she interrupted me with, “You know what, it’s actually fine. Kevin’s got a lot of case knowledge that I could use right here at the moment.” Dammit, I wish I’d thought of that one. “What do you need?”
I could answer that. “A fresh pair of eyes,” I said. “And preferably someone who hasn’t met Erica or whatever-his-name-is or been hit over the head by either of them. I’m tired and emotional, so I need someone calm and analytical.”
I almost thought I could hear her narrow her eyes as she wondered what the hell I was up to. It was definitely there in her voice when she asked, “Youuuu...want me to send the analyst?”
I didn’t bother telling her that I thought there was something not quite right about the analyst, or that I wasn’t sure whether that made me want to keep a close eye on her or just feel comfortable having her around. I just said, “Yes, good idea. Send Annie. I think she could be a big help.”
* * *
It was an hour before Annie arrived, by which time I’d been to the supermarket, which was air-conditioned, and bought ice creams for myself and Sandra, and a Kerrang! she’d asked for, and also some carrot sticks because all I’d eaten all day was sugar.
We were relaxing on the overgrown front lawn in the blistering late-afternoon sun, Sandra teasing me by running through a list of the year’s greatest rock acts to see how many I’d heard of. She told me about a Japanese pop-metal band who sang a song about chocolate, which for some reason she thought might appeal to me. I felt a tiny bit insulted, but I knew I shouldn’t and so pretended not to. Then Annie pulled up in a white 5-Series BMW with tinted back windows, and stood at the curb tugging at her shirt collar and blowing her fringe around.
“You got promoted fast,” I said. “That’s the DCI’s car.”
She looked at it with a shrug and joined us on the grass. “I guess it’s DI Riley’s now,” she said. “There weren’t any pool cars left. It’s nice, but it took me ten minutes to work out how to start it.”
“I guess you couldn’t turn the heater off, either,” I noted, watching a bead of sweat roll over her slick brow and drop into her breast pocket. “Sandra, this is Annie Fisher. Annie’s our new analyst.” (Our Annielyst?) They gave each other one of those awkward circular waves, the ones children give the first time they meet, when they’re forced to play together because their respective parents want some alone time. “She knows how the computers work,” I laughed, patting the grass beside me. “Sorry, I just realized... Annie Analyst.”
Annie smirked and sat down. I got that subtle whiff of booze again. Booze and peppermint. “So what are we doing?” she asked.
Sandra held up her magazine. “Music lesson,” she said, the lolly stick between her teeth accentuating her elongated Slavic vowels. “Alisha doesn’t know nothing about anything. She think Foo Fighters is a cartoon and Powerpuff Girls is a band. Annie, you like rock, yes?”
Annie shifted uncomfortably and shrugged and scratched the base of her ponytail. “I don’t know,” she laughed. “I’ve got a lot of guilty pleasures, mostly.”
Sandra affected a frown and shook her head, fine jet-black hair whipping about her face. “No such thing,” she said. “Pleasure is pleasure. Never feel bad for liking what you like.”
I thought of Edith. A twinge darted through my belly.
“Unless, you know, is illegal or whatever,” she added.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I told you I liked a Céline Dion song once, and you wouldn’t look at me for a week.”
Sandra sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t say you can’t like
it,” she said. “I just was sick of hearing you singing it. It sound like an angry cat.”
I looked at Annie, who was staring at her feet and smiling the game smile of a newly included outsider, not yet grasping the rules of the group, just keeping her head down, not drawing attention to herself. I imagined she was working pretty hard to keep that smile going. It’s not easy being the new girl, especially when the personal questions start flying. “Not being funny, Sandra,” I said, “but—”
“What else is new?”
Oh, ha ha. “Right, that’s it,” I said. “We’re not friends anymore. Annie, you’ve got two minutes to start the car. We’re going to go annoy Erica’s stepdad.”
“Finally,” Sandra smirked. “Someone else gets a turn.”
* * *
I didn’t fill Annie in on Richard Cockburn’s disdain for the police, or on the rumors surrounding his attitude to women in general. “Remember,” I told her. “Be the fresh pair of eyes you are. Listen. If anything sounds like it doesn’t make sense, speak up. Press it. Interrupt. Stress him out. Okay?”
“I can do that,” she nodded. Her eyes were a little glassy, I thought. Maybe she was tired. She seemed alert enough, though, and I wasn’t sure I could smell spirits anymore. The few words she’d spoken on the short drive to Carla’s had been lucid and clear. She’d had no problem operating the BMW, either, although once she’d mastered the right combination of feet on pedals and tilts of the electronic selector and actually got the thing in gear, it more or less drove itself.
That aside, there was only one other car in Carla’s driveway, which I felt had also been the case earlier. Maybe we’d come back too early. That would be awkward. At any rate, I gave a thumbs-up to the two uniforms waiting in their patrol car three houses down, which they returned, and then leaned on the doorbell and nodded to Annie to thump on the door.
Inside, I could hear urgent footsteps on the stairs, and see Carla’s fragmented silhouette descending through the frosted glass in the door. Annie took a step back.
“Where the h—” Carla stopped dead, the door swinging out of her hand and crashing against the corner table behind it.
Her hair looked like the birds had been at it. Two buttons were missing from her blouse. She had an angry red lump on the side of her forehead, and her nostrils were blocked with clotting blood.
Chapter 15
“I swear to God, I don’t know anything!”
“Alright Carla, just calm down and tell me what happened. Did your husband do this to you?”
“No. No, no, it was an accident.”
“What was? What did he do?”
“He didn’t. I had an accident, it’s nothing.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. He went out.”
“Before or after you had the accident?”
“After. Look, I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t Richard, okay? He didn’t do anything.”
“It wasn’t Richard?”
“No.”
“So who was it?”
Carla just shook her head, her face crimson, her eyes squeezed tight. The living room was not as I’d left it; a lamp had been knocked off the table in the corner, and a couple of bits of brass tat had capsized on one of the shelves.
“DS Green?” Annie held up a phone she’d retrieved from the floor just inside the kitchen, its screen shattered and dark.
“Carla, is that yours?”
She opened her eyes and glanced at the phone. Shook her head again. “No, his.”
“Was that an accident, too?” I suggested.
No answer.
“Did he know we’d been here?”
A nod.
“Was he angry?”
“I...”
I waited. I heard Annie put the phone down on the worktop and pad through to loiter at the bottom of the stairs. “Mrs. Cockburn, sorry, long drive. Is there a bathroom upstairs?”
Carla cast an exasperated glance over my shoulder. Hesitated.
“He’s been aggressive before, hasn’t he?” I said.
“What?” She looked between me and Annie, and shook her head and nodded and waved a dismissive hand and said, “Look—Sorry, yes love, help yourself. Miss Green, I don’t know—”
“Where is she, Carla? Where’s Erica? I know you know. Stop lying to me now and you won’t have to lie to me at the police station all night.”
Her eyes flickered to the stairs, and darted back to mine just as fast. She clamped her jaw shut and carried on shaking her head.
“She’s upstairs?”
“No!”
“Jesus Christ.” I shot up off the sofa and bolted for the stairs, shouting for Annie.
“Back bedroom,” came the reply.
I bounced off the wall at the top of the stairs and staggered onto the landing, where Annie was standing quite at ease in the doorway to Erica’s room. “Is she here?” I gasped, a molten shard of pain searing through my thigh.
“No,” she said. “But look.”
I squeezed around her to see where she was pointing. On Erica’s dresser, which a few hours earlier had held only trophies, there now stood a pair of mugs. One white and empty, one blue with a finger of tea in the bottom and a faint lipstick mark on the rim.
* * *
“Carla Cockburn,” I said, “I’m arresting you on suspicion of assisting an offender. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you fail to mention when questioned anything you later rely on in court. Do you understand?” By the time I’d finished saying it, she was sobbing. “Carla, listen to me. I’m having you taken into custody. A doctor’s going to look at your face when you get there. If you know where Richard and Erica are, then you might as well tell me now and save us both some time.”
A pause. Tears streaming. “They’re not together. He knows you were going to Sarah’s. I think he might have gone to find you.”
“To find me?”
She nodded.
“What, to punch me, too? Why was he looking for me, Carla?”
“Because...”
“Say it.”
“I can’t.”
“Did Erica hit you?”
Her breath hitched and she choked on whatever was trickling down the back of her throat. I let her cough it out.
“She hit you by accident? Was she trying to defend you?”
She shut down again. “I can’t help you,” she said. “You can’t make me help you. My daughter’s a lot of things but she’s not a murderer!”
“Annie, can you get the guys from outside in here, please.”
“Yep.” She handed me a framed photograph from beside the television: Carla and two people I hadn’t met—a teenage girl and a tall man with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses who looked like a geography teacher. Erica, I noted, was conspicuously absent.
“Richard’s not going to back you up on this, is he, Carla? His phone’s broken, so he’s gone to tell me in person that she was here, hasn’t he?”
She looked at the picture in my hands and just sobbed. I wasn’t going to get another word out of her.
“Fine,” I said. And then I felt like shit, because I knew damn well I hadn’t spoken to her right. I let myself soften and shrink, sat back down beside her and took her shaking hand in mine. “Hey,” I said, as unthreateningly as I could that she could still hear me over her own misery. I forced her to meet my eyes, and gave her my best impression of a tender smile, and said, “I’m going to help you, Carla. I’m going to make sure you’re safe from harm. But you need to trust me, and you need to help me, too. Okay?”
I all but heard her heart break inside her chest. We both knew she was never going to trust me.
“I c-can’t,” she cried. “She’s my daughter. You know I can’t help you.”
&nbs
p; And that was the truest thing she’d ever say to me.
* * *
“Sandra, is anyone there with you?”
Sandra hesitated a second at the other end of the phone, then said, “No. Why?”
“Have you been there since I left?”
“Pretty much.”
“You haven’t been there the whole time?”
“I’m not a bloody elephant, you know. I need to pee sometimes.”
“Yeah, I—” Christ, I was really having tone problems today. “Sorry, no, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” she chuckled. “I’m teasing. What’s up?”
I was starting to feel tired now, and my head was getting fuzzy. I was going to start struggling to make sense of anything in little to no time. “I might be expecting a visitor, that’s all. Richard Cockburn, Erica Shaw’s stepfather. He’s driving a...” I checked the notes Annie had scribbled in my book from the PNC inquiry she’d just called in. “A gray Volvo.” I read out the registration number. “I’ll text you a picture of him. If he turns up, can you ring me straight back?”
There was another moment of silence, and then she said, “Hang on a minute. I’ve seen this Volvo, I think.” I listened to her phone rustle against her clothes, the door of the van slam, the clump of her Doc Martens on the driveway. “You there?”
“I’m here.”
She repeated the registration back to me. “That’s what you said?”
I rechecked my notes, and nodded. Then I remembered to say, “Yep,” because she was on the phone and couldn’t see me. For fuck’s sake.
“Yeah, that car is right over there,” she said, presumably pointing, and probably feeling just as stupid about it as I had. “He’s inside, I think. You want talk to him?”
“Sure, put him on.”
“Okay, please hold.”
Boots on tarmac again. A passing car. Sandra, humming to herself. Birds, chirping. I heard her knock on the window, and gasp, and say, “Jesus Chr—” and then her phone clattered to the ground and all I could hear was panic.
I flung myself into the BMW and punched the starter, and flicked it into Drive, and shouted, “Call for backup!” And then Annie, who was sitting sidesaddle in the passenger seat on the phone to the office, reflexively pulled in her legs and let out a yelp as I mashed the accelerator into the carpet.
Dead Girls Page 11
