The trees seemed to swallow them up in darkness, even in the day. Lorraine didn’t relish being alone in the forest with Burnley, and she certainly wasn’t dressed for such terrain in her linen trousers and sandals. But they marched on, cut across toward the railway line, and scrambled down the leafy bank, Lorraine tearing her cotton top on a bramble bush. Before long they met up with several white-suited forensics officers scouring a patch of ground. A rabbit froze in the bracken fifty feet or so away and watched them before tearing off across the line.
“The others have gone now, boss,” one of the forensics said to Burnley. He gave a cursory glance at Lorraine as if she was his wife who’d come along for a bit of sightseeing. “We’ll be done soon too.”
DI Burnley nodded and scanned the scene. “Over here,” he said to Lorraine, beckoning her with his head. She followed him down the edge of the double railway line, crunching over the granite chips. “A pair of hikers found him a couple of hours ago.” Burnley stopped. “Correction. They found his legs. He was spread about.” He thrust his hands in the front pockets of his nylon trousers. “No reports from any train drivers, so it probably happened during darkness. Went unnoticed. Poor fucker.”
Lorraine walked briskly beside him, listening, scanning the scene. Nothing seemed particularly unusual, apart from the deceased being another lad from the homeless shelter. She presumed that was why he’d brought her along. To make a point about the Dean Watts case.
The stench in the small white pop-up tent reminded Lorraine of the butcher’s shop she went to with her mother as a child. She stared at the remains that had clearly been flung away from the spot where the train had actually hit him. Shredded blue jeans were black with congealed blood, barely adhering to the legs that had become separated from the torso at the hips. Yellow-orange fat bubbled out of the top of one leg, the remarkably strong tendons showing stretched and white.
Lorraine swallowed. “White male, possibly late teens, early twenties,” she said automatically. She thought of Freddie.
“Leonard Jackman,” Burnley said. Lorraine noticed that he wasn’t looking at the body parts, rather the gently flapping sheeting of the tent. A breeze was getting up. “Nineteen. There were ID details in a bag found nearby.” He tapped his phone screen and handed it to Lorraine. “His note,” he said, zooming in on a photograph of a piece of pale blue paper set out on a white sheet.
Lorraine tilted her head and read it. It was badly written and pitiful, almost beautiful in its raw simplicity. The words of a young man who’d had enough. She closed her eyes for a beat and passed the phone back to Burnley.
“That makes it a suicide, does it?” she said, thinking of Dean, of Gil.
“Pretty much,” Burnley replied. “He was a hopeless fucker. Known to us for years and always in trouble. Addict: theft, aggravated assault. His file says his last outing was stealing a laptop from the homeless shelter where he stayed.” Burnley covered the body parts with a plastic sheet. “Biting the hand and all that. Want to see the head?”
Lorraine nodded, absorbing the news.
Burnley removed another sheet to expose it. The eyes were semi-open, giving Lenny an intoxicated expression. The rest of his face was hard to determine because of the blood and matted hair and other detritus that had become embedded in the skin. At first glance it appeared that his head must have tumbled a good distance on impact, such was the bruising on the cheeks and forehead. The neck was severed relatively cleanly compared to some she’d seen. But it was the face, the skin, the direction of the bloody streaks that spread from mouth to chin and mouth to hairline, as well as the swollen bottom lip, that shocked Lorraine most.
“Where was it found?” she asked.
Burnley again referred to a photograph of the marked-up scene on his BlackBerry. He held it out. Yellow marker 3 had toppled over where the head lay after impact, right beside the brown metal of the rail track.
“Where do you think the body was actually hit?”
“Seven,” Burnley replied, switching to another picture. He zoomed in.
“Show me outside,” Lorraine said.
Burnley wrenched up a mouthful of phlegm and left the tent. She followed him to where one of the forensics team was crouching down, snapping shut a metal case. He pulled back his hood.
“The head was about here, wasn’t it, Neil?” Burnley asked.
Lorraine noticed a patch of blood on the granite chippings, how it had stained the metal track in a plum-colored spill.
“Just there,” the forensics officer replied, pointing, before going off to the tent farther down the line.
“What do you think caused the facial trauma?” Lorraine asked Burnley.
His shoulders bounced up and down. His laugh was low and ended with a cough. “He was hit by a fucking night train to London Marylebone.”
Lorraine walked a few paces away, up to the steep bank that led back into the woods. “Rather a quick clear-up, isn’t it?” she said, casting a glance toward the tent and the officers packing away.
Burnley looked at his watch. “Indeed,” he said proudly. “Well done, lads.”
One of the forensics team pulled back their hood, revealing a blond ponytail.
“And ladies,” he added. “We’ve already begun allowing the freight through. Another twenty minutes and they can reopen fully. Do you know the costs involved in closing a line for more than—”
“There were cuts and bruises, Detective, with distinct dribbles of blood running vertically on the face—not conducive to the position in which the head came to rest.” Lorraine pulled herself up the overgrown bank, casting her eyes over the ground away to the left as she did so. “I presume you’ll be highlighting these initial findings to the pathologist and coroner?” she called down.
Burnley clumsily followed her up the bank, an incredulous expression masking the effort it took him to climb up.
“Stick to my path,” she ordered. She pointed at the grass and bracken. “Someone’s recently scrambled down there.” She indicated an area of flattened undergrowth. It wasn’t the mapped-out path they or the other officers had taken.
“Bugger me,” Burnley said nastily. “Could it have been our Lenny Jackman on his way to kill himself?” He was out of breath by the time he reached the top and stood beside Lorraine.
“So who made those tracks coming back up again then?” she asked, pointing to the clear direction of the disturbed vegetation with a sweep of her hand.
Without waiting for an answer, she walked on toward a hut she’d spotted a hundred feet or so away from the top of the bank. It was old and dilapidated and looked like the sort of place where kids got up to no good. She gave the flattened undergrowth she was following a wide berth, checking that Burnley, who was lagging behind, didn’t walk through it either.
“I didn’t bring you here to help,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
Lorraine was staring at a faint flattening of the woodland floor. “Shame,” she replied. “Because I’m going to.” Nearby, the ends of several twigs on a low thorny bush had been snapped. The exposed wood was fresh and green. She spotted fibers caught on one of them. “For starters, you might want to get one of your team to harvest that and get it analyzed.”
Next she went over to an area closer to the hut. It was clear that the ground had recently seen a scuffle. Freshly stirred leaf mold showed dark and damp beneath the drier surface covering where the rain hadn’t penetrated the thick canopy above. Several areas had been gouged and disturbed more deeply, revealing the rich earth of the forest floor.
Lorraine bent down to look carefully at a rock on the ground. There were several in a cluster, as if there’d once been a fire lit there, but one was dislodged and separated from the half-buried circle. It was fist-sized and, while mostly dark gray in color, the underside showed dark reddish-brown stains when she flipped it over with a stick.
“Likewise this rock,” she said, straightening up.
She stared around the woody clearing, then foc
used her attention back on Burnley, who was blowing a column of smoke up into the branches as if he’d made his point by simply bringing her here.
Lorraine rested her hands on her hips. Pitiful note or not, she didn’t believe for one moment that this was a straightforward suicide.
14
Lorraine called out to Jo as she crossed the Parade in the town center. Burnley had dropped her off on the way back to the Justice Center, offering a scathing departing comment about nuisance evidence and never seeing her again. She waved at her sister, finally catching her attention.
“Sorry to abandon you,” she said, putting a hand on Jo’s shoulder.
“You never could keep home and work separate,” Jo said, holding up a couple of shopping bags. “Anyway, as you can see, I spent the afternoon wisely.” She grinned.
“Jo …” Lorraine linked her arm with her sister’s as they walked. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
She felt giddy suddenly, perhaps from the glare of the sun, which had broken through the clouds again, but mostly because of where she’d just been. It often hit later, once the personal details of the deceased married up with the images burned on her mind.
“Sounds important,” Jo said, stopping outside Boots.
The pavements steamed around them and the air smelled sweet and musty as they stepped out of the way of shoppers. Lorraine wasn’t sure how to tell her so she just said it, plain and simple, keeping the details to a minimum.
Jo paled and stood still for a moment, stunned. Then the frown came, the flush on her cheeks. She blinked several times, and Lorraine could almost see the rush of thoughts sweep through her mind.
“Does anyone else know?” Jo asked. Her voice was brittle.
“Only the police and the people held up on the trains,” Lorraine said.
She gave Jo a little hug.
“I should tell Sonia before she hears it from someone else. She’ll go to pieces if she finds out from the local news.”
“Are you OK?”
“I think so. Just …” She hesitated, brushing her hair from her eyes. “Just tell me it’s not all kicking off again.”
Lorraine took Jo’s hand and squeezed it. There was nothing she could say, no way to make what had happened better.
“SINCE SIMON DIED, she’s tried to make everything perfect, to please everyone, as if she’s atoning for something or trying to put up a great façade. I’ve dropped hints but she shuts me out,” Jo explained.
They were walking along the main road through Radcote, although it hardly warranted the description. Only two cars came past during the five minutes it took to get to the Manor. They’d already dropped Freddie and Stella back at Jo’s place.
“That must be very hard for Lana and her dad,” Lorraine said.
“They tolerate a lot, believe me. Sonia’s very protective of Lana and she leans on Tony for everything.”
“It’s understandable though, after losing a son like that.”
“I only hope Lana gets the exam grades she needs or her life will be over.”
“Lana’s life will be over?” Lorraine said. Grace had a friend who was obsessed with results too.
Jo was shaking her head. “No, I meant Sonia’s life, actually.”
They turned down the drive of the Manor, discussing how they would break the news.
“Are you saying Lenny might have been murdered then?” Jo asked when Lorraine mentioned Burnley’s unwillingness to investigate properly.
“That’s not what I’m saying. But with any death we always begin by assuming the worst. Start with murder, then work down.” Lorraine couldn’t be sure that Burnley believed the same.
“I’m just so worried, you know, with Freddie being down all the time.”
Lorraine drew her sister to a halt. “Look, Jo, let’s be realistic. These two homeless lads are entirely different from Freddie and the group of youngsters who killed themselves eighteen months ago.”
“But—”
“I know he’s miserable about something but he’s not homeless and he’s not desperate. Nothing bad is going to happen to him. He has far too much sense to copy Dean or Lenny.” Lorraine looked Jo in the eye, praying she was right. “OK?”
AS THEY APPROACHED the house, Jo told Lorraine how the Gothic-style manor had been bought by the Hawkeswell family a decade ago, and how they were still in the process of renovating it. Twisted chimney stacks rose into the sky, with symmetrical bay windows to either side of an arched and ornate porch that shouted out grandeur: over the years, since Lorraine had first seen it, the house had been transformed from a relatively humble farmhouse into an imposing home. At the back, the cobbled yard, the small multipaned windows, and the proximity of the stables gave clues to its working provenance.
They stepped aside as a car came speeding into the yard.
“Let’s keep it calm and brief,” Lorraine said quietly as Sonia got out of the car.
Tony unlocked the back door of the house and a couple of Labradors burst into the yard, running straight up to Lorraine, tails thumping against her legs, noses trailing across her trousers.
“Jo, what a lovely surprise,” Sonia said. “Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Lorraine glanced at Jo and gave a little nod.
“Perfect. We’re parched. Our trip to Kenilworth Castle got rained out.”
The kitchen was cool and smelled vaguely of overripe fruit and a day beset by damp and humidity. Sonia went to open the windows.
“Son, I’m afraid there’s been a bit of bad news,” Jo began.
Lorraine watched Sonia’s expression, which transformed into a tight grimace.
“What?”
“I wanted to tell you myself because I know how it’s going to make you feel.”
Jo took Sonia’s hands in her own. Lorraine busied herself filling the kettle.
“What is it, Jo?”
“I’m afraid there’s been another suicide.” Jo paused. “I’m really sorry, but it was another boy from New Hope.”
“Oh my God, no.” Sonia’s shoulders started to shake and she began to sob.
“I’m so sorry, Sonia.” Jo wrapped her up in a hug.
Lorraine plucked a tissue from a box and handed it over. “I’m really sorry too, Sonia,” she said. “It must be very upsetting for you.”
“Are they certain it was a suicide?” Tony had come in from the yard with the dogs weaving round his legs. He’d overheard what had been said and had gone over to his wife. His voice and presence seemed to soothe her: she left Jo’s embrace and went to him.
“I can’t release too many details at present,” Lorraine said. “The local police are dealing with it. I was …” She hesitated. “I was visiting them about another matter when I learned the news from an old colleague. Of course, every case gets treated as suspicious, but I can tell you that a suicide note was found at the scene.”
Sonia was nodding, sniffing, blowing her nose. “How did it happen?”
“Details are vague at present,” Lorraine replied. She knew the importance of not allowing suicides to be visually re-created in other people’s minds, especially those vulnerable or close to the victims.
Sonia pulled away from Tony for a minute. “You haven’t told me who it was.” She took another tissue, blew her nose, and scrunched it up in her hand.
“It was Lenny Jackman, I’m afraid.” Lorraine let the news sink in. “It was also Lenny who stole your laptop.”
“Yes, Frank told Sonia the police knew it was him from the CCTV,” Tony said. “They couldn’t find evidence to actually pin it on him, though.”
“What did the note say?” Sonia asked.
“Love, don’t torture yourself,” Tony said, passing over a cup of tea from Jo. “I don’t care a jot about the computer. You know that, don’t you?”
Sonia nodded. “I’d have given him the money if only he’d asked. Anything. Anything to stop this nightmare from happening again.”
“Apart from the N
ew Hope connection, there’s nothing to indicate that Lenny’s death was linked to Dean Watts in any way,” Lorraine said, wondering whether this was in fact the case, but not wishing to upset Sonia any more.
“You can’t rule out the possibility, though, can you?” Tony asked as Sonia sank back against him.
“That’s up to Detective Inspector Greg Burnley and his team to decide. He’s the officer in charge. I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon,” she added, wondering if Burnley would bother. If it was up to her she’d be all over New Hope by now.
“We can’t allow another suicide spate to happen again,” Tony said, allowing himself to fold down into a kitchen chair. Sonia sat in the one beside him. “The community hasn’t recovered.”
The confident man Lorraine had met in the pub only the night before seemed changed, as if he’d been successfully concealing his grief until this moment.
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll see if I can get DI Burnley to arrange a liaison officer to keep you informed.”
Then, suddenly, Jo announced it was time to go. “You know where I am if you need me, Son,” she said, giving her friend a hug. She glanced briefly at Tony and offered him a small smile.
“One last thing,” Lorraine said, stopping in the doorway. “It’s about Gil.” She felt a prod in the ribs from Jo but ignored it. “He seems rather preoccupied with the night Dean died. After what’s happened today, I’d keep a close eye on him.”
AS LORRAINE AND Jo walked off down the drive, they saw Gil standing with his arms outstretched, staring up at the roof of his little cottage. There was a tile missing from the patchwork of clay squares and a white-and-gray cat was stalking along the ridge. It emitted a pitiful mew every few paces.
“Hello where is your daughter?” Gil said, staring at Lorraine, unnerving her slightly. His blinks were deliberate and slow, almost as if he were counting them.
What You Left Behind Page 11
