Bleak Water

by Danuta Reah

  She remembered the two photographs she’d found among the stuff she’d taken to her flat. Part of the same set. She ought to keep them together. She put them with the things she planned to take back with her, when she got access to her flat again…

  Once more she shut the thoughts of the previous night out of her mind. There was nothing she could do about it. That was the last of the photographs. She pulled the file of press cuttings across. What to do with these? Was there any point in keeping the cuttings? Eliza had a feeling that Mark Fraser’s appeal was coming up soon. She hesitated, undecided. She could probably junk the lot. But if anyone did want to pursue the campaign against Mark Fraser’s release, then they might need these painstakingly collected cuttings.

  She flicked through them to make sure that there was nothing other than cuttings here. There were copies of the earlier ones she’d looked at already, the stories from Ellie’s disappearance, the reporting of the arrest and trial. She paused over these. Fraser had had a wife and daughter living with him. Maggie had talked about that when she first met – or when she first became aware of – Mark Fraser. Eliza wondered what had happened to them. Fraser’s daughter and Ellie had been like sisters, Maggie had said. But maybe that was wishful thinking. Maggie had wanted Fraser to leave his wife, start again with her and Ellie. And after Ellie’s death, Maggie’s anger and hatred had seemed to encompass the child as well as the man. Presumably the friendship had made Ellie – always an intelligent and quick-witted child – lower her guard. But if the child had been abused by her father…

  She looked at the headlines.

  ELLIE KILLER ‘ABUSE’ ALLEGATION

  FRASER DAUGHTER BREAKS DOWN ON STAND

  JUDGE CONDEMNS ‘MONSTROUS CRIME’

  She skimmed the articles. Mark Fraser’s stepdaughter hadn’t been called to give evidence, she realized. The stepdaughter – who cannot be named for legal reasons – had gone into care before Ellie’s murder, termed ‘out of control’, and subsequently accused her stepfather of abuse. Eliza remembered Maggie’s story, that the girl’s mother had thrown her out. She checked the dates. Fraser’s arrest had followed shortly after. Fraser’s own daughter had been a witness to Ellie’s disappearance. Eliza frowned as she read on. The child was nine, apparently, and had been unable to give evidence in court that might help to convict her father. What child would?

  FRASER DAUGHTER BREAKS DOWN ON STAND. Abused children didn’t stop loving their parents, not always. Maybe the child had drawn Ellie in somehow…

  It wasn’t something she wanted to think about. She went on through the cuttings, to the more recent ones about Fraser’s lawyers preparing to take his case to the Criminal Review Board. And there was a separate pile, clipped together. These were smaller cuttings, apparently unconnected, but dated around the time of Ellie’s disappearance. They were from the local paper, and seemed to be about some kind of drugs problem. She looked through them. There were photocopies of articles about overdose deaths. POLICE WARN OF HEROIN DANGER ON STREET…THIRD DRUG DEATH IN SOUTH YORKSHIRE; and there were some cuttings about a police operation: FIVE HELD IN DRUGS RAID.

  She read through the articles, but nothing jumped off the page at her. She didn’t recognize any of the names or any of the places. But how would she know who Maggie knew, after all these years? She put the cuttings with the discards.

  Her phone rang. She checked the number. It was from the gallery. She felt her heart beat a bit faster as she answered it. ‘Hello?’

  It was Jonathan. ‘Where are you, Eliza?’ His voice was anxious. ‘I thought you’d phone me. What’s happening?’

  She’d meant to contact him. But surely the police had told him by now. ‘You know about…’ she began.

  ‘Yes. I thought you’d phone me as well.’ He sounded panicky and uncertain.

  ‘I just couldn’t,’ she said, her voice sounding sharp in her own ears. Surely Jonathan could understand how she must be feeling? There was silence. ‘Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m at the gallery. They needed someone here while they searched it. Again. When are you coming back?’

  Eliza closed her eyes. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m coming back tomorrow. We can open the gallery again when the police have finished.’

  ‘Oh…’ She could hear the sound of voices, activity on his end of the line.

  ‘I’m at Maggie Chapman’s,’ she said. ‘I thought I might as well use the time to finish off the stuff.’

  ‘I need you here!’ Jonathan said. ‘He wants me to go down and make a statement. They’ve searched my office, Eliza. And they’ve taken my computer.’

  He. That would be Farnham. ‘It’s routine,’ she said wearily. Though taking Jonathan’s computer didn’t sound like routine to her. She remembered Roy Farnham talking to her in the café, his apparently inconsequential chat about working late that suddenly didn’t seem so inconsequential. He’d found out from her that Jonathan often worked late in the gallery, on his own. Suddenly, the police action took on a sinister slant. ‘But you’ve got an alibi for the night Cara was killed.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ he said.

  Eliza still felt uneasy. ‘It might be an idea to get some legal advice,’ she said.

  ‘Why should I?’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything. It makes me look…’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you,’ she said.

  ‘And you’re not coming back today?’

  So that was why he’d phoned. He wanted to get away from the gallery, have someone else deal with the police search. She closed her eyes. Not today. She couldn’t deal with it today. Let Jonathan cope. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Eliza stared at the phone after he had rung off. Her flat wasn’t going to be available, nor did she want to go there. She wondered if Laura would be back yet. She tried the number again, but it was still the answering service. It was getting late and she was starting to flag. The light was fading outside. Her eyes were suddenly heavy from the lack of sleep. If she could get her head down for an hour…She could lie down on the stripped bed, rest for a while. The thought of lying in that empty room seemed morbid, but she couldn’t drive in this condition. There was still some bedding in the cupboard. She found a pillow, spread a sheet over the mattress and wrapped herself in a blanket. She lay down, telling herself that she would sleep for half an hour. Her eyes closed as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  Jonathan Massey’s carefully cultivated image was beginning to slip. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and his small beard was looking unkempt. The studied casualness had become the rumpledness of haste and tension. Farnham didn’t want to make snap judgements. Massey had just had the big opening of his gallery come down around his ears in the aftermath of sordid, sadistic murder, months of careful and expensive planning gone up in smoke. But he was nervous. Remembering what had turned up in the search of his office, Farnham wasn’t surprised.

  He’d started off as though he was confirming minor details. He’d checked Eliza’s story about the visit Ivan Bakst had made to the gallery. Massey confirmed what Eliza had told him. He’d checked Massey’s whereabouts on the night Stacy McDonald went missing. It was when the initial interview had moved beyond these details that Massey began to show signs of nerves.

  ‘Mr Massey,’ Farnham had said, when Massey accused him of harassment, ‘you aren’t under arrest. You’re free to leave at any time.’ Massey had weighed this up, and for a moment, Farnham thought he had overplayed his hand and that Massey would go, but he stayed, looking uncomfortable and edgy.

  Farnham took him again through the evening before Cara Hobson’s death, his visit to Leeds, the location of the gallery staff, stuff he already knew. And he noticed, as they talked, that Massey relaxed. He didn’t mind talking about the evening of Cara’s death. Farnham circled round again. ‘Tell me about the problems you had with Cara in the gallery.’

  ‘I’ve already told you.’ That wary hostility again.

  ‘I just need to ge
t it clear in my mind,’ Farnham said.

  Massey shrugged slightly. ‘She was in the gallery too often. It was as simple as that.’ His hands were fidgeting with a pen.

  ‘OK.’ Farnham moved closer. ‘Was that during the day, or when you were working late?’

  He could see the reaction on Massey’s face. ‘Well, any time. Really, I don’t see…’ Massey shut up and looked at Farnham, waiting.

  ‘So she came to the gallery when you were working late?’ Farnham kept his voice neutral.

  ‘No.’ Massey’s hesitation was almost imperceptible.

  ‘But you did work late?’ Farnham persisted. He watched to see if Massey would now try and deny it.

  ‘Maybe. Sometimes. A bit,’ he said. ‘An art gallery isn’t like a supermarket. It isn’t a nine-to-five operation, you know.’

  ‘Of course,’ Farnham said politely. ‘Now, my problem is, Mr Massey, that you say you had all these problems with Cara, but you never made any complaint to the Trust.’

  Massey was silent, then, ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t anything they could do.’

  ‘But according to Eliza Eliot and Mel Young, you found her a serious problem,’ Farnham said. ‘And on the morning she died – before you knew, of course – you found out she’d interfered with the alarm system in the gallery. But you still didn’t contact the Trust. I would have done, long before it got to that stage.’ He made his voice sympathetic. Massey had had a problem.

  Massey studied the pen in his hand. ‘Well, I didn’t get round to it,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a pity, really,’ Farnham said. ‘It would have alerted them to the fact that she was there.’

  Massey nodded, then reacted. ‘I didn’t…’ he said. Then, a bit too late, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She was occupying the premises illegally,’ Farnham said. ‘But someone must have given her access.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it!’ Massey said.

  ‘OK.’ Farnham was always interested in denials of accusations that hadn’t yet been made. ‘Someone gave Cara Hobson access to that flat, someone who knew the system, and who would have had all the exterior keys.’ He saw Massey’s hands become motionless. ‘Her visits to the gallery constituted a security problem, especially if she was coming in out of hours, and yet the person who was responsible for the security of the gallery never drew official attention to her presence.’

  Massey didn’t say anything.

  ‘And when we searched your office, Mr Massey, we found keys in your desk. One of those keys was for the flat that Cara Hobson was living in.’

  Massey swallowed. ‘I’d forgotten,’ he said. ‘She gave me a key, a spare.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’ Farnham said, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘She kept locking herself out. She asked us to keep a spare in the gallery.’

  Farnham nodded. ‘When did she ask you to do that?’ he said.

  Massey looked at the sheaf of notes in front of Farnham. He’d forgotten his lines and wanted a prompt. Farnham kept his gaze on Massey, kept his smile polite and inquiring. ‘I don’t really remember,’ Massey said after a moment.

  ‘You said in your first statement,’ Farnham reminded him, ‘that you had nothing to do with Cara – that you’d barely spoken to her. But then she comes and asks you to keep a spare key to her flat?’

  ‘It was just…she asked me. So I said I would. I expect she asked me because I’m the one in charge. I don’t know. I didn’t ask her. She just…’ He trailed into silence.

  ‘Was that when you showed her how to set the alarm?’ Farnham said.

  Massey was silent for a bit too long. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘So when was that?’

  ‘I didn’t show her…’ Massey was struggling now. He was lying, and he knew that Farnham knew he was lying. ‘She might have needed to get in the gallery,’ he said. ‘If she locked herself out and I wasn’t there.’

  Farnham waited, letting his scepticism show. ‘I didn’t kill her!’ Massey said, suddenly.

  ‘No one is saying you did,’ Farnham said. ‘So, tell me about this key.’

  He wouldn’t meet Farnham’s eye. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and addressed the wall above Farnham’s head. ‘I kind of knew her,’ he said. ‘I thought she needed looking after. And the flat was empty. It wasn’t going to be let for months.’

  ‘You “kind of” knew her, Jonathan. What does that mean? How long have you “kind of” known her?’

  ‘I can’t…’ Massey caught Farnham’s eye and stopped. ‘About five years,’ he said. Farnham waited. ‘I’ve got…I was working on something. Only I was teaching, I’m still…it still isn’t finished. Things get in the way. I got interested in these photographs of children in care. You know, “Will you be my parent?” – that kind of thing. So I was taking pictures of the real children, the kids out on the streets, the ones who sell themselves and take drugs and die young mostly. I was going to call it “Will you be my parent?” That’s how I met Cara. She was with this other girl, Sheryl. They were kids, really. Just kids. Sheryl was in trouble already, but Cara wasn’t. She posed for me and I gave her money. So she wouldn’t need to.’

  ‘How old was she?’ Farnham said.

  ‘Fifteen,’ Massey said. Then, defensively, ‘They weren’t like that. It wasn’t that kind of photograph. I’ll show you if…’

  ‘And when she needed somewhere to live?’ Farnham prompted.

  Massey nodded. ‘What was the harm?’ he said.

  Farnham picked up one of the sketchbooks they’d found in the search of Massey’s office. He opened the book at a page with drawings: a naked female torso, the breasts barely formed, the body thin and childlike. ‘Let me get this clear,’ he said. ‘You were having sex with Cara Hobson?’

  Massey went white. ‘No! Is that all you can think of?’

  Farnham shrugged. ‘She was a prostitute, Mr Massey.’

  Massey seemed to be struggling for words. ‘She was just…I didn’t know that. I didn’t want…she was so…beautiful. She posed for me. That’s all. I did sketches. You’ve seen them. I took some pictures. You can see those if you want. She came to the gallery. It wasn’t often. Now and then.’ Farnham could see beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘That’s all. I wasn’t there the night she was killed. You know that. I was in Leeds.’

  He had been. That was one of the first things they’d checked. And the murders of Cara Hobson and Stacy McDonald carried the mark of the same killer. But the picture that was forming in Farnham’s head was an unpleasant one. The small, childlike figure of Cara Hobson, the meticulous detail of the drawing as though every line of the girl’s body had been devotedly recorded.

  Alibi or no, Farnham wanted to look at Jonathan Massey very closely.

  FOURTEEN

  Something woke Eliza. She sat up, throwing off a dream of soft footsteps and someone singing in the night. It was dark. She reached out automatically for the bedside light, but her hand encountered emptiness. The room was cold, and the air flowed across her in a stream of ice. Cara had left the door open…No! She was suddenly wide awake. She was at Maggie’s, she’d fallen asleep. She sat up, her eyes straining in the dark. There was silence.

  She could remember waking up in her flat the night before. She shook her head to clear the images, and listened again. She was at Maggie’s. She could remember now, sorting through the cuttings and the letters, the sudden tiredness and lying down on the bed. It was probably a good thing something had woken her up, or she might have stayed here all night. Something in the street? The house was set too far back from the road. Noises from the street wouldn’t have disturbed her, especially not here round the back where there was just the dark yard and the gennel behind it.

  She got her bearings, and reached behind her for the switch to turn on the light. She tugged it, but nothing happened. She tried again, and again. Nothing. She couldn’t remember if it had been working earlier. She sat up, disentangling herself fro
m the blanket that was wrapped round her and swung her feet on to the floor. She needed to know what time it was, but it was too dark to see her watch. She hadn’t contacted Laura. It might be too late to phone.

  She couldn’t stay here. The cold was seeping into her bones. She became more aware of the flow of chill air that seemed to be coming from the bedroom door. She hunted round with her feet until she found her shoes and slipped them on. She used the blanket as a shawl, and groped her way across the room. She tried the light switch by the door, in case the one over the bed was faulty, but it didn’t work.

  Neither did the switch in the corridor. She pressed it, but again, nothing happened. She stood for a moment, puzzled. This light had been working earlier, she was sure. Was there a power cut? Maybe she should try and get her stuff together and go.

  But she could feel the cold drifting down the corridor from the small kitchen. She felt her way along the corridor and into the off-shot. The cold was intense. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness now, and she could see a lighter rectangle that was the open door.