The Stranger Within

by Tara Lyons

  Mrs Kane moved to the edge of the seat, her right leg bouncing up and down, wringing her hands together as she looked around the room again.

  ‘But the damage to your husband's ribs happened much earlier than just this morning,’ Hamilton said, pulling himself to the edge of his own chair. ‘Nevertheless, let's move on from there for just a second, as you've already mentioned your friend … Susie Richmond, wasn’t it? You see, I’ve spoken to my colleagues in the office, and the police officers who went to her home this morning discovered Susie wasn’t there. And she hasn’t been there for over a week; she’s on holiday, a neighbour confirmed. We’ve also checked the CCTV footage — namely the camera focusing on the main entrance — and no one left or entered this building after midnight. So, when exactly did your husband drag you home?’

  ‘N-no… You’ve got it wrong,’ Mrs Kane stuttered, but a darkness had overshadowed her face, the porcelain skin now looking ghost-like, the tears and sorrow disappearing.

  Hamilton leaned forward and stared the woman directly in her eyes. ‘And while I believe that you did, in fact, kick your husband in the ribs, leg and thigh, and even stubbed out your ciggies on him, our pathologist has confirmed that these happened at different intervals over the past month or so — one hundred per cent not last night or this morning. It was you who bullied your husband. Did he finally try to stand up to you this morning and you lashed out at him again? Only this time, it wasn’t with your foot but with a brass statue.’

  Mrs Kane screeched as she leaped from the chair, running for the door leading to the wine bar, only to be met by two police officers.

  ‘Maureen Kane, you are under arrest for the murder of Henry Kane—’

  ‘No!’ she screamed, as Hamilton continued to read the woman her rights, lashing out like a wild beast. ‘This is all wrong. It … it’s self-defence. I was protecting myself. What weasel husband lets their wife beat them up? Joseph, help me out.’

  As Dixon escorted Mrs Kane from the kitchen, with the woman’s arms flailing in the air and her protests echoing in their wake, Hamilton turned to the owner — his face now as white as the ceramic floor tiles.

  Joseph shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. Are you sure?’

  ‘Mrs Kane has continually lied since I met her this morning; about her alibi, her husband’s wounds and now she's just shown that lovely temper of hers. Of course, further investigation will be needed, and my officers will continue to talk to the other employees to gauge if they noticed anything about the couple’s relationship, but I think it’s clear what Mrs Kane was doing,’ Hamilton explained.

  ‘They looked so happy. I mean, Henry was a bit quiet, but … but I never would have imagined it was because he was … what … being abused by his wife? Really?’

  ‘Sadly, domestic abuse can happen to anyone, Mr Wilde. Bullying and mistreatment doesn’t discriminate against gender.’

  The man shook his head. ‘That saying really is true; you just never know what happens behind closed doors … or the strangers you classed as friends and employees who are living within those bricked walls.’

  Once the team had returned to the station, Hamilton requested Dixon and Rocky lead the interrogation with Mrs Kane after the woman’s solicitor had arrived. It wasn’t often a murder suspect was arrested on the same day the body was found, Hamilton thought, and was pleased with how efficiently his team had worked, as well as how swiftly Audrey Gibson had informed him about the post-mortem findings … another rarity. Hamilton climbed the stairs to the incident room, knowing if he could make a start on his notes, or at least update DCI Allen, he’d have ended the week on a high.

  ‘Alright, guv,’ Clarke greeted him. ‘I’m just processing the exact frames of the CCTV we need to prove Mrs Kane’s story was completely fabricated.’

  ‘Brilliant. Let’s get the full reports from the officers who visited Susie Richmond's house in there also,’ Hamilton replied, gazing around the room. ‘Where’s Fraser?’

  ‘She popped home. A neighbour messaged her about a window being left wide open and, because she’s heading out tonight after work, she wanted to dash back and lock-up properly.’

  He looked at his watch and shrugged. ‘Not much point coming back to the office, not when we can finish up here.’

  ‘Well, she’s only having a drink across the road at The Duke and Duchess with that red-head pathologist.’

  ‘Audrey.’

  ‘Yeah, her. She’s a bit of alright, don’t you think?’ Hamilton didn’t comment but pulled his mobile from his coat pocket. ‘Fraser invited us along, but I’ve already got a hot date. Do you fancy a few pints with them?’

  ‘Not tonight, I’d—’

  ‘Rather get home to the missus and watch a film?’

  Hamilton caught the teasing tone and looked up — a wicked smile evident on Clarke’s face. He rolled his eyes and light-heartedly grunted.

  ‘Oh, how well you know me, partner.’

  Clarke laughed. ‘How is Elizabeth? Planning a surprise party for the big four zero, I bet?’

  Hamilton peered back at his phone. ‘Well, if I knew, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise … but she bloody better not be. I’ve sent Fraser a text and told her not to bother coming back to the office. I’ll update the chief and then clock off for the evening.’

  ‘Sure thing, guv, I’ll catch-up with Dixon and Rocky … make sure we’ve collated all the evidence. Have a good weekend.’

  ‘And you, mate,’ Hamilton said as he walked away, planning for nothing more than a few chilled days with Elizabeth.

  5

  Nightfall and its unwelcome collage of thoughts and feelings came all too soon for Hamilton. Although he and Elizabeth had begun the weekend with the peace and quiet he had yearned for, something … something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, was missing. He suddenly realised this wasn’t the first time in the last few months he had felt this way; whether it was due to the cases he had recently worked involving children or his old friend, Billy, coming back into his life with his young daughter, Amelia. After sighing deeply, Hamilton rubbed his eyes, then crossed his hands around the back of his head and stared up at the plain white ceiling.

  Maggie’s face filled the void, filled his thoughts; the wild brunette curls that bounced around her oval, olive-skinned face, framing her huge brown eyes … those eyes were impossible to forget. She could speak to him with those vibrant eyes. They had always told him so much — whether she was happy or sad, or excited. And yet, when she needed him the most, he hadn’t heard her. Had the sparkle faded long before that night? Had she smiled and laughed as often as before? Did her eyes really speak to him, or was it just something he consoled himself with now … because how could he have missed all the signs?

  He wondered what Maggie would look like now, on the verge of her twenty-first birthday. Would she smell the same, from the coconut scent of her face cream and strawberries from her shampoo? He smiled, thinking of how she might be enjoying her fresher’s year at university; she’d always had a passion for animals, and cared about them dearly. He had imagined her becoming a vet and, someday, owning her own practice. How could someone so pure and beautiful and innocent be bullied and pushed to—

  ‘Penny for them?’ Elizabeth’s smooth voice burst his thoughts as she slipped into the bed next to him.

  He propped himself up, resting his head on his hand and focused on his wife’s emerald green eyes. He smiled but shook his head.

  ‘What did the counsellor say?’ she asked, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen one.’ He attempted to sound light-hearted and jokey, but he knew she could see right through him, she always could — they had been together since they were seventeen.

  ‘When we think about Maggie, we should share those thoughts and memories with each other … we should talk about her together.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Elizabeth's pink lips drew a knowing smile. ‘I know that face. That far-away,
reminiscing look you get when you want to smile and be happy at the memories, but yet, it's also the last thing you want to do because you feel so guilty. We shouldn’t feel guilty for thinking about her—’

  ‘But I should feel guilty about not saving her.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, Denis. You can’t blame yourself for that forever. How many times are you going to make me say that? And you can’t continue to use the word I … like you did this on your own. I mean, I’m a teacher for heaven’s sake, I should know the warning signs of bullying. It was something our beautiful daughter kept from us both.’ Elizabeth’s voiced pitched, causing her to pause for a moment. ‘We, the two of us as a mother and father, didn't save her.’

  He took a moment to study his wife; the firm-but-fair school headmistress who loved the idea of having a laugh, but, somehow, never managed to fully partake in it. Just like him. The way she always offered a smile to other people's joy or celebrations, yet that happiness never reached her eyes. Just like him. They carried their sorrowful past into every waking moment, into their present choices and their future dreams.

  ‘There isn’t a word for losing a child,’ she said softly. ‘You can be a widow or an orphan, but …’

  He brushed away the strands of wavy, auburn hair that had fallen over Elizabeth’s face, tucked them behind her ear and pulled her closer to him. There were no words, Hamilton thought — no words to comfort the heart-wrenching statement she'd just made. But, for once, he wasn’t going to feel guilty about it. He couldn't always make things appear better by saying the right words, he summarised — not for what they have both been through. It wouldn’t be the end of that particular conversation, whatever it was or wherever it was headed, but for tonight it didn’t matter. He held Elizabeth in a loving embrace.

  Hours later, under a blanket of total darkness, Hamilton’s phone came to life with an urgent message he couldn’t ignore. He gently slipped his arm from under his wife and tip-toed as quickly — and as quietly — as he could around the bedroom grabbing at everything he needed.

  Hamilton marched into the incident room just after 4am, surprised to find Clarke already there — and already half a cup of coffee into the morning.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, why weren’t we sent straight to the crime scene?’ Hamilton bellowed. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Clarke shrugged. ‘I know as little as you do. Urgent briefing for everyone, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t see the need for all the cloak and dagger stuff. Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Dixon’s gone looking for the chief. She’s as impatient as you.’

  Hamilton frowned and made his way to the alcove in the corner of the office, a kitchenette-type area the team had cobbled together, and switched the kettle on to make tea. Hamilton couldn’t function without at least three cups of the strong, sugary stuff, especially if it was before six in the morning. He sighed and wrapped his fingers around the warm mug, hating the wait in the dark but clearly having no choice in the matter.

  ‘So, you were out last night, weren’t you?’ he attempted a conversation to stave off his impatience. ‘Hope you didn’t down too many pints.’

  ‘Not a one.’ His partner grumbled a noise — an all most half-hearted laugh — and shrugged nonchalantly.

  Hamilton perched on the edge of Clarke’s desk. When he received nothing further, which was very unlike his chatty partner, he simply raised his eyebrows.

  Clarke chuckled and rubbed a hand up and down his face. ‘Ah, I don’t know, it’s nothing really. Can’t really sleep lately and I’ve lost my appetite, but it’s probably just … I’m so busy. You get it, we're all bloody busy here.’

  Hamilton said nothing, but eyed Clarke; his partner took pride in his appearance, and was always well turned out, but today there was more to it. A new crisp pinstriped suit, a sparkle in those tired eyes and an over-powering aroma of expensive aftershave.

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s a woman, mate?’ Hamilton stood and clapped a hand across Clarke’s shoulder. ‘It bloody is, isn’t it? Has someone finally got their claws into the bachelor of the station, our very own Lewis Clarke?’

  The colour rose from his partner’s neck, a red rash had snaked itself along his cheeks and reached his ears like wildfire. ‘Shut up, Denis.’

  Hamilton’s eyes widened. Clarke never called him by his first name. ‘Whoa, this must be serious. So, who is she? That hot date from last night, eh?’

  It was rare for Hamilton to get involved with any type of gossip, but this wasn’t just his partner of nearly five years. This was “I’ll-never-be-tied-down-by-a-woman” Clarke.

  ‘Well, yes. No, not exactly.’ Clarke gazed around the room and hunched his head down, as if the computer screen would shield his words. ‘It’s Audrey.’

  ‘Audrey Gibson?’ Hamilton roared. The look of horror on Clarke’s face encouraged him to tone down the volume. ‘How could you have a date with Audrey? I thought she was going to the pub with Fraser?’

  Clarke rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus, I feel like a flaming teenager talking to you like this. But … I don’t know. This is weird. I’m weird. I didn’t have a date last night, but when they said they were heading to The Duke for a few, I didn’t want them to think I’d been waiting for an invite from them … so, I just made the date up. I planned to join them about an hour later and say the woman wasn’t my cuppa, and maybe turn my charm on to the red vixen from pathology, but …’

  Far more interested than he ever thought he would be — perhaps it was the early morning start or lack of free time for his own life, he thought — Hamilton pressed Clarke to continue.

  ‘Well, Fraser and Audrey had already left by the time I got to the pub. I could hardly text them to see where they were ’cos they’d think I crashed and burned with my date—’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’

  ‘And what if they’d gone off with a pair of geezers themselves; I’d look like a right prat and—’

  ‘That’s not your style.’

  ‘So, I had one pint and went home. It’s all a bit …’ Clarke glanced around the office again and whispered, ‘Fucked up.’

  Hamilton couldn’t contain the laughter escaping his lips. ‘I’m sorry to inform you, partner, but I think you’re in love.’

  ‘Don’t talk wet, guv,’ Clarke replied, and pulled his suit jacket straight. ‘And, actually, no more talking about this again, full stop. I shouldn’t have bloody mentioned it.’

  The conversation was abandoned when Dixon barged through the door.

  ‘The chief’s ready for this briefing,’ she said.

  Her golden skin appeared paler today, as if the years of witnessing unthinkable crimes had finally caught up with her — or perhaps she just wasn't an early riser — and Hamilton noticed the deep furrows in her brow.

  ‘Have you been told anything yet?’

  ‘Erm … a bit. Murder case, guv.’

  Hamilton bit his tongue on a snide remark and instead rolled his eyes at the sergeant’s weak answer. However, she’d clearly understood his frustrated look and attempted to shake away her tiredness before continuing.

  ‘Sorry, guv, it’s a bit of a complex one … and I’m not fully up to speed with everything yet. I really should leave it to the chief to update you on this one. But I can tell you that we need to get over to Manor Hall Hospital, it’s on the Thames. And we need to get there as soon as we bloody can.’

  The change in Dixon’s tone intrigued Hamilton, but he attempted to keep his countenance calm and asked where the rest of his team were. All the while, however, his thoughts were as busy as a worker bee in a hive … and he couldn’t focus on one single thing.

  ‘Rocky’s in the briefing room already, but the chief said he’s not waiting any longer for the rest of the team … he said we work with who we have here now, and that’s final. We have to get over to that hospital, guv.’

  He nodded as he followed Dixon’s marching figure through the door. ‘Sounds ominous. Okay, let’s go, we can c
atch Fraser up when she finally makes an appearance.’

  6

  Eighteen years ago

  * * *

  A week had passed since he had sneaked into her bedroom. She had stripped the sheets, the Five boyband duvet thrown into the bin — much to her mother’s surprise — and she’d made up a story about growing too old to have pop stars on her bed and posters on her walls. It felt as though everything in her life had changed, yet everything was exactly the same. Her mother woke her every morning for school with breakfast waiting downstairs and waved her off when she left the house; her friends at school gossiped about the new girl in class and talked about the latest storyline in Hollyoaks. She felt nothing. Numb.

  Every night she sat up, in the corner of her bed, knees pulled up under her chin and stared at the door. She watched for any silhouettes passing, blocking the light from the hallway that creeped under the bottom of the door. Her mother couldn’t understand why she now insisted on that light being left on at night, and she wasn’t prepared to tell her the real reason. Instead, she shrugged it off, hoping her mother wouldn’t push the issue and quietly prayed her demand was listened to. It was, and so she waited. She waited for the light to be blocked for more time than it took for someone to walk past to use the bathroom or to go downstairs. She waited for the door to quietly swing open again. She waited for him.

  Her copy of Romeo and Juliet had slipped down the side of her bed that night, a week ago, and that’s where she left it. Her longing to read of star-crossed lovers now made her stomach turn. Her images of love and romance had decayed like a poisonous apple, and she now understood why some people choose to write about evil witches and demons — far more truth than make-belief when it came to mirroring her reality.