A Cold Cold Heart

by John Nicholl

‘Oh, I think the paramedics may have had something to do with it. Anyone would have done the same.’

  Emily sipped her green tea. ‘Not everyone, you’re too modest.’

  ‘Well, maybe I did my bit. Thank God I did the first aid course when I had the chance.’

  ‘So, how are you and your husband settling in Wales? It must be a bit of a change after Birmingham.’

  Kesey glanced around the room and sighed. ‘He’s a she.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Look, I should have said something long before now, but he’s a she; my partner’s a woman. There’s no husband.’

  ‘But my Dad said…’

  Kesey held up her hands as if surrendering at gunpoint. ‘Yes, I know what I told him. It was stupid. It’s just that he seemed so old -school when I first met him. I thought he might react badly if I told him the truth. Not everyone’s as accepting as they should be. My own father kicked me out of the house when he found out about my relationship with Janet. He just couldn’t handle it. I thought your dad may be the same.’

  Emily shook her head. ‘Dad’s no homophobe; I don’t think he’s got a prejudiced bone in his body.’

  ‘Yeah, I understand that now. But it just seemed easier to keep up the charade once I’d said it.’

  ‘You’re going to have to tell him some time.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Do you want me to do it for you? I’ll be seeing him tonight.’

  ‘No, it’s something I need to do myself. He’s going to think I’m a right prat.’

  ‘He’ll understand.’

  The same attractive, if unconventional, waitress delivered her order with a smile. ‘Anything else?’

  Kesey shook her head. ‘That’ll do it, thanks.’

  ‘Give me a shout if you change your mind.’

  Kesey nibbled the brownie and swirled it around her mouth, savouring the rich flavour before swallowing. ‘So, what’s this about, Emily? I’ve been wondering since your call. I hope you didn’t feel you had to invite me here because of some misplaced sense of obligation; your dad would have done the same for me, we’re a team.’

  Emily pushed her newspaper to one side. ‘No, it’s nothing like that … I need some advice.’

  ‘Okay, I’m no fount of knowledge, but I’ll help, if I can.’

  Emily sipped her cooling tea and placed her mug back on the table. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘How about the beginning? That’s always a good place in my experience.’

  Emily glanced around the room. ‘I haven’t been here before. It’s nice, I’ll come again. There’s live music on the last Friday of every month, according to the poster by the door.’

  ‘Are you changing the subject?’

  Emily dropped her head, closing her eyes for a second. ‘Yeah, I guess I am.’

  ‘So, come on, you’ve got me here, I’m listening. Tell me what this is about. You obviously want to, or you wouldn’t have contacted me in the first place.’

  Emily lifted her head and nodded. ‘Do you know I’m working at Harrison and Turner, the solicitors in the high street?’

  Kesey smiled. ‘Yeah, your dad did mention it once or twice. He’s very proud of you. He made that obvious to everyone.’

  ‘And do you know Charles Turner? He’s one of the partners.’

  Kesey couldn’t resist another bite of cake before replying and talked with her mouth full. ‘I met him just the once when he came to the station to represent a client. He’s a bit of a charmer, as I remember, and good looking too. You could do a lot worse. I quite fancied him myself, and that’s saying something.’

  ‘We slept together.’

  ‘Oh, really, when?’

  ‘After Richard’s funeral.’

  Kesey hid her surprise, not wanting to offend. ‘You’re both consenting adults. I don’t think you need to feel guilty about it. You split up with Richard long before he died, from what your dad said.’

  Emily focused on the low table in front of her and ran a finger round the rim of her mug. ‘That’s not it.’

  ‘What, is Turner married? Is that where this is going?’

  ‘No, he’s single, just like me. I thought he might even be “the one” before it happened.’

  ‘Before what happened?’

  Emily took a deep breath. ‘The sex was, well, let’s just say, it was different.’

  ‘Different in a good way?’

  ‘No, that’s definitely not the word for it.’

  ‘You’re going to have to spell it out for me if I’m going to understand. I’ve heard most things over the years – I’m not easily shocked.’

  ‘He asked me to strangle him. He said it’s the one thing that turns him on. He asked me to put my hands around his throat and squeeze hard until he was close to passing out. He wanted me to hurt him – to restrict his breathing.’

  ‘I investigated a rape case involving a gasper a few months back. That’s what they’re called: gaspers. People who enjoy erotic asphyxiation. I did a bit of research. It’s a male thing in the main, not many females are into it. I can’t say that surprised me. But, I guess it takes all sorts.’

  Emily took a deep breath as the memory stung and festered. ‘And then, he asked if he could pretend to strangle me. He told me to lay completely still. Not to move an inch. To play dead – he actually used the word. It creeps me out when I think about it. It’s just not my thing. I like tender and caring. I was scared he’d go too far and harm me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘Did you tell him how you felt?’

  ‘I ran to the bathroom and threw up.’

  Kesey laughed, despite, or perhaps due to, the emotive nature of the conversation. ‘Well, that should have told him all he needed to know.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘How did he react when you returned to the bedroom?’

  Emily paused for a second, collecting her thoughts. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Give it a try. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘I don’t know if this is going to make any sense, but it was like he was a different person. He had a strange blank expression on his face, cold, emotionless. And then, he snapped out of it, and he was the Charles I know again – dripping with warmth and seemingly sincere charm. It was as if he’s got two completely different and independent personalities, Jekyll and Hyde, Mr Nice and Mr Nasty. I saw the other, darker, side of him. The side he keeps hidden from the world. And I didn’t like what I saw.’

  The DI hesitated, temporarily lost for words. ‘Did he say anything when he saw how upset you were, anything at all?’

  ‘He apologised profusely. Said it was a game he sometimes liked to play, and then, he asked me if I’d ever worn a different perfume, something a little more delicate, something floral. What the hell am I supposed to make of that? It was as if nothing of significance had happened. Not in his eyes, anyway.’

  Kesey’s face twisted. ‘I don't like the sound of it, Emily. I’ll be honest with you. I think I’d have slapped him.’

  Emily grinned nervously, picturing the scene. ‘It would probably have given him a hard on.’

  ‘Yeah, you’ve got a point there. Maybe a bucket of cold water would have been a better option.’

  They laughed together as the tension lifted momentarily.

  ‘So, what do you think? I’ve got to work with the man. I like him. I still fancy him, God help me. But what does that say about me?’

  Kesey linked her fingers together, as if in prayer, and spoke slowly and quietly. ‘What do you think your dad would say if you told him?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be pretty.’

  ‘No, and he’d be right. If you want my honest opinion, I think you need to avoid being alone with Turner for the foreseeable future. If you want to play sex games, that’s entirely up to you. There’s no law against it. But you could be putting your life at risk
. Maybe cool things off a bit until the killer’s arrested.’

  Emily’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, come on, that’s a tad overdramatic, don’t you think? If Charles had a criminal record, he couldn’t be a solicitor. That’s the way the system works.’

  Kesey paused for a beat. ‘Look, I’m not saying he’s the killer. He’s very probably got nothing to do with the murders, but why take the risk? He likes what he likes, and it’s all a bit weird. You said as much yourself. Investigations are ongoing and the killer could be almost anybody: the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Why not him?’

  34

  Sandra only had to wait for a few seconds before Laura Kesey picked up her phone in the incident room. ‘Acting Detective Inspector Kesey.’

  ‘Hello, Laura, it’s Sandra on the front desk. Or should I call you “ma’am” now you’ve gone up in the world?’

  Kesey grinned. ‘Laura will do just fine, thank you.’

  ‘I’ve got a Mr Carl Prichard here with me, who wants to talk to a detective about the murder investigation. He’s come in response to the recent press release. There’s a reward, apparently.’

  ‘Are any of the interview rooms free?’

  ‘One and three.’

  ‘Put him in room one, keep an eye on him, and I’ll be with you in two minutes. Do not let him leave before I get the chance to speak to him. This could be important. God knows we could do with a break.’

  ‘I’ll make him a cup of tea. That should keep him happy while he’s waiting.’

  ‘Thanks, Sandra, it’s appreciated.’

  DI Kesey entered interview room one to be met by a pencil- thin, retired headteacher in his early seventies; an inane, face -stretching smile seemingly welded to his face. ‘Is something amusing you, Mr Prichard?’

  He jumped to his feet, with surprising agility for a man of his advancing years, greeted her with a limp handshake, and suddenly flopped back into his seat as if poleaxed. ‘I’m so sorry; it’s my nerves. I’m a martyr to them. I just can’t stop laughing at times of stress. It drives my wife to distraction. Has done for years.’

  Kesey sat opposite him and introduced herself. ‘Just try to relax, no pressure. Drink your tea, and we can take this as slowly as you need to. Does that sound okay to you?’

  Prichard bit the inside of his right cheek hard, in a desperate attempt to silence another giggle, and thanked her profusely. ‘That’s very kind, I’m so glad you’re understanding. I never know how people are going to react. I think it must be some sort of Tourette's syndrome, but without words – my doctor seems to think so anyway. I’ve tried counselling, hypnosis, tablets, but nothing seems to help.’

  The DI handed him a blank A4 sheet of paper. ‘If you can start by writing down your full name, address and contact details, that will save us a bit of time.’

  He took a gold- plated fountain pen from the inside pocket of his brown corduroy jacket and did exactly that, glad to cooperate. ‘Do you want my mobile number as well as the landline?’

  ‘Please.’

  Prichard added the number and handed Kesey the completed page. ‘I think that’s everything you’ll need. I’ve tried to make the writing as legible as possible.’

  Kesey noted the scribbled, barely decipherable handwriting. ‘Is that a six?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And that’s an eight?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry it’s not clearer.’

  ‘Right… Sandra tells me you have some information to share with us? Something pertinent to the murder investigation?’

  Prichard nodded enthusiastically, his facial contours relaxing as he began to feel more comfortable in his new surroundings. ‘It’s the dresses. I saw the photos in the local paper, and I knew as soon as I saw them.’

  Kesey rested her forearms on the table and met his eyes. ‘You knew what, exactly?’

  ‘I used to volunteer in a rather popular Oxfam shop in Swansea, three days a week. Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays in the main, although I tried to be as flexible as possible. I never missed it. I was there for a little over two years in all. I loved it, but I found it too exhausting in the end. I think it’s an age thing. So frustrating. I had so much energy as a young man.’

  Kesey took a deep breath. ‘You were telling me about the dresses.’

  Prichard slurped his sweet tea before responding, seemingly deep in thought and enjoying the attention. ‘Yes, I was just coming to that. I’m sure I recognise three of the dresses. I can remember them being brought into the shop and sold some time later. Or at least they were very like them. I can say that with absolute certainty.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Now, that I can tell you with confidence. It was the end of September. My wife and I were going to a concert that night. I showed her the dresses when she called to collect me, but they were too small for her.’

  ‘So, you’re saying the dresses in question were brought into the shop in September last year, yes?’

  Prichard smiled again, the expression dominating his features. ‘That’s right, by Elsie, a lovely lady who was one of our regulars. So generous and such classy clothes. I remember her saying she’d owned them since the fifties, but they were immaculate, as if they’d come straight off the catwalk. Buy quality and it lasts a lifetime, that’s my advice.’

  ‘Can you remember the exact date?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, sorry, I can’t be that specific.’

  ‘What I’m really interested in is who bought them. I’m hoping you can tell me?’

  Prichard beamed, playing to the gallery. ‘Well then, you’ll be very happy to hear that I can help you in that regard.’

  ‘Okay, I’m listening?’

  ‘The dresses were only in the shop for a week or two once I’d put them on display. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest. They were so stylish, so classy, I knew they’d be snapped up almost immediately.’

  Kesey counted to three in her head. ‘Who bought them, Mr Prichard? Who bought them and when?’

  ‘It would have been sometime in October. I can’t recall the specific date.’

  ‘Give me a name, just a name.’

  Prichard looked crestfallen, despondent. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. He was a rather charming man I’ve not met before or since. Quite a looker, like a forties film star on the big screen.’

  Kesey opened her pocketbook and poised a biro above the appropriate page. ‘That’s very helpful, thank you. Now, this is important, I need you to concentrate. Can you describe him for me? Take your time. I need you to be as accurate as possible.’

  Prichard closed his eyes for a moment, recalling events and picturing them in his mind’s eye. ‘He was tall, I remember that much. Six feet two, or three maybe, and he was slim. Not thin, mind, but not overweight either. Athletic, I think that’s the best way of putting it. Muscular, but not overly muscular like the bodybuilder types with their popping veins. Twelve and a half, or maybe thirteen stone at most. Yes, I think that’s fair to say.’

  ‘About how old was he?’

  ‘I’d say early to mid -thirties, certainly no older than that.’

  Kesey nodded. ‘What colour was his hair?’

  ‘He was a natural blond. I’d swear to that in any court in the land.’

  Kesey felt her pulse quicken. ‘And can you tell me the style?’

  ‘Short and well groomed. I’d be willing to bet he uses an expensive conditioner, something from a salon. He was a man who cared about his appearance, that was obvious, and he made quite an impression.’

  ‘What colour were his eyes? Can you remember? If you’re not sure, please say so. I wouldn’t want you to guess.’

  ‘Blue, sky -blue, piercing and clear. Like the sea, if the sea were perfect.’

  Kesey smiled. ‘You seem very sure.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s not something I’d forget. I’m a poet, a wordsmith, an observer of life's rich tapestry. Not much passes me by.’

  ‘That’s very helpful; you’re
doing well. Now, is there anything else you can tell me about him, any distinguishing marks such as scars, birthmarks or tattoos?’

  ‘No, nothing like that, at least not that I could see.’

  ‘What about his clothes? Let’s focus on what he was wearing.’

  ‘Very smart, very professional, quite the man about town.’

  ‘Can you expand on that for me? Be as comprehensive as you can. Every detail matters.’

  ‘He was wearing a light -grey summer suit and a pristine white cotton shirt, open at the collar. A three -button jacket, turn- ups on the trousers. Very stylish and perfectly fitted, as if they were made for him. I don’t think he buys off the peg.’

  Kesey’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s a very detailed description, given the time that’s passed.’

  ‘I’ve a passion for fashion. I think I’d have been a designer, had I not become an English teacher. It’s the sort of thing that fascinates me. I remember it as if it were yesterday.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good to hear. Is there anything else?’

  Prichard paused before responding. ‘This may well sound a little odd, but I can remember thinking he smelt faintly of lavender.’

  ‘Lavender? You said lavender. You’re sure it was lavender?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I recall thinking it was a surprisingly feminine scent for such an overtly masculine man. He was something of an enigma, an original. Not your typical local man.’

  ‘Do you think he was local? Did you recognise the accent?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he was local all right. Educated, sophisticated, debonair, but certainly local, south- west Wales, through and through.’

  Kesey was almost afraid to ask her next question. ‘Are there any security cameras at the store?’

  Prichard began laughing again as his nerves took hold. ‘There are, but I’m afraid they’re not going to help you a great deal.’

  Kesey’s frustration was virtually palpable. ‘Are you saying the recordings were wiped? I know it’s common practice.’

  ‘There was a power cut. The cameras weren’t working that day. I had to close the shop early for repairs as soon as the daylight began to fade.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right day?’