by Rachael Blok
‘It’s definitely a knife,’ Adrika says, walking up to him. ‘It looks as though the dog uncovered a knife and a pile of pills.’
‘Any update on the pills themselves?’ he asks.
‘They’ll need to be tested, but they’re stamped with one of the brands of zolpidem, a sleeping pill.’
‘Really?’ Harper Carroll comes up behind them. She has been busy talking to the Seabrook sisters in the kitchen, and she comes out cool, sliding sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. ‘Well, that’s interesting.’
‘Go on,’ Maarten says.
‘When we did the original investigation into Leo’s murder, Ben Fenton claimed he’d been asleep. Slept through the whole thing.’
‘Quite a claim, and very convenient,’ Maarten says.
‘Yes, exactly. We did a blood test, toxicology, and the urine test was positive for zolpidem. It disappears quickly from blood but stays in urine longer, and hair for about five weeks. Combined with the alcohol in his system, it’s feasible he would have slept through it. The problem we had was, without the body, we had no clear idea of when the death took place. There is no knowing if the pills were consumed before the attack, or afterwards as an alibi.’
‘Did he have the drugs on him?’ Maarten asks.
Harper shakes her head. ‘We found a bottle tossed in a hedge nearby. They contained only Ben Fenton’s fingerprints, but only half a print, so nothing conclusive. But it worked against him in court.’
Maarten looks over at the end of the garden, where the pills are bagged and the knife is being extracted slowly.
‘So he maintains that someone drugged him, and yet he could easily have killed Leo, then popped the pills and lain back down.’
‘Yes. There were no other witnesses. Ben reported a cyclist had passed them and stopped for a drink, but we have no corroborating evidence, and despite requests for anyone to come forward, there was nothing. The evidence suggests only Ben Fenton was there. It seemed open and shut. But I always felt we were missing something.’
The flies are back. He can hear the sound of crying and he sees Ana Seabrook stepping outside. She’s with Sunny, going over the lock on the door. She glances down to the end of the garden.
‘And now there are the same pills here?’ he asks. ‘Think she’s had them the whole time, and they’ve been buried?’
‘That’s what it seems like, sir,’ Adrika says. ‘Or is meant to seem like. And the possible murder weapon. The mother was telling me that the compost heap is newly built. The ground has been more recently turned over at the bottom of the garden, so something buried deep a few years ago may have shifted closer to the surface, and the hole has been dug freshly – looks like by the dog. The bag the pills were kept in was open and they’d spilled into the earth. It wouldn’t take much for her to overdose.’
‘Did Ana Seabrook build the compost heap?’ Maarten asks.
Sunny has joined them, and he shrugs. ‘I’ll check, but I think it was the mother. If Ana Seabrook was an accomplice two years ago and buried some of the evidence here, then she won’t want it digging up. Seems her dog came a cropper of her own tricks.’
‘But why bury the body now?’ Adrika asks.
Maarten thinks the answer in his head, but Sunny is one step ahead of him, and seems already convinced. ‘To get him out. If they can make it look like it was someone else, then Ben Fenton walks free, doesn’t he. They do the crime, he’s done some time. Then they get the rewards. Go on, DI Carroll, tell him about the money.’
Throughout, Harper has stood silent, looking at the bottom of the garden, though Maarten is convinced she’s listened very carefully.
‘You’re correct. I really don’t think this is Ana, but there was a pot of money. Leo Fenton was involved in a company sale. He worked for a firm in New York and was involved with bringing a new drug to market. The company was bought out and he took a substantial share in the profit pool. Over a million dollars.’
‘And on his death, where did it go?’ Maarten asks.
Harper has exchanged her earlier glasses for sunglasses, which are rimmed with silver and flash the sun from the red of her hair as she turns towards him. He finds himself blinking, reaching for his own sunglasses, sitting in his back pocket.
‘Ben Fenton,’ she says. ‘He was due to inherit the lot.’
‘Well, that,’ Maarten says, ‘is interesting.’
‘Want me to bring her in?’ Sunny asks.
He shakes his head. ‘No, give her a couple of days. Let’s see what the knife comes back with. And let’s see if anything else turns up. This case seems to be writing itself. A few days might help build it. If we go in, we can go in hard.’
18
Friday 15th June
ANA
Nail varnish, perfume, power-laced air: the scent is heady. Flesh is bare on arms, legs; dressed in white coats, the counter assistants smile, offering out the smell of summer, of sunflowers, of numbers 5 and 19.
Ana has half an hour, as the meeting she’s been in has finished early. The air con in the meeting room had broken. She had been expecting another hour of deliberate pig-headedness, of each side holding firm until the other broke first. But this heat had meant no one had wanted to linger. The lead on the opposing side had carried a chunk of flesh around his middle and the buttons on his shirt had pulled when he’d sat down. His face had gradually gone from pink to red to puce. He had mopped at his brow with a handkerchief.
Ana had almost felt dishonest when she had pushed their agenda: an additional 2 per cent in the final deal, an extra seat on the board. He had nodded, practically asleep, dozing and jerking awake. He had been sitting with his back to the glass in the meeting room. She hadn’t worn tights and she’d slipped off her shoes for the private cool of beneath the table.
Occasionally, the relentless sun was a blessing. People ran to the park, to the nearest water. Less time for posturing. More time for life.
More time to look for answers to her melting face, applied quickly when she’d left Ayot. The police hadn’t left until the early afternoon, and by then she’d been all cried out, with the tracks of tears scorched into her skin. There had been one meeting she couldn’t cancel, and it had actually been a relief to board the train and to turn her thoughts to something else.
She has over an hour before catching the train home, and John Lewis had beckoned as she’d walked towards the Tube on Oxford Street. She deserves half an hour off from everything. She can feel herself cracking beneath it all.
‘So, this is hyaluronic. It pulls all the water up to the surface of the skin. Look, it’s quite dramatic.’ The counter assistant stands back, holding up a mirror for Ana to look back at herself.
Is one eye slightly less baggy, lighter than the other?
‘Are you drinking enough water?’ the assistant asks, her curled red hair flipping to the side as she bends to blend, to pat.
‘Trying,’ Ana says, thinking of the relief of knocking back a pint after yesterday’s morning run, watching Jam lap almost a whole bowl of water, her paws damp with dew, brown with the rust of baked earth. She shakes her head, feels the tears stirring.
‘And sleep, you need to get some sleep. The edges of your eyes are dry. Here, let’s try this.’
Sitting in the chair, Ana feels the sleep, so absent last night, finally settle in her shoulders, her eyes, lids drooping.
‘You close your eyes for a few minutes, and I’ll just do the rest of your face.’ The voice is kind, the stroking along her cheek, the highlighter on her brow bone, soft.
She’s drifting into sleep when the image of Jam flits across a daydream, and her eyes fly open to the brightness of the counter. The mirror dazzles with light, but squinting, she sees the edge of a cap. And she might be going mad, but it’s the same cap, she’s sure of it. She feels sick. She’s not afraid exactly, it’s more like there are rocks in her stomach. There’s anger there now, she’s becoming hardened. Now that Jam has died, on top of everything else.
> But who? That sense of familiarity, like a haze.
‘Fabian?’ she calls loudly, and the assistant looks at her in surprise.
‘Fabian Irvine?’ This time she shouts. She can see the cap reflected in the mirror she’s facing, and the assistant pauses with the eye pencil, the point close to her eye.
There is no reaction. The cap is still there, bent over a stand.
‘Sorry,’ she mutters to the assistant, and she stands and turns, moving quickly. Almost as soon as she moves, the figure is lost in the crowd. It’s Friday evening and the store is busy. She can’t see him, but by the door she pauses, catching the back of the cap exiting to the street.
‘Fabian Irvine!’ she shouts, but he is gone. A crowd of shoppers stare at her, muttering, and she realises only half her face is done and she has left her bag at the counter.
Walking back, the sense of familiarity crushes her. It’s not the profile that seems similar, it’s the cap. It would be like Fabian to wait for her, and the actions are the same – she feels hounded, and he hounded her. But it’s the cap that is so familiar. And it’s familiar because it looks like Leo’s. It’s like Leo’s cap.
‘Sorry, I thought—’ she says to the assistant, standing stock still by the stool. ‘I thought I saw someone I knew. Who I haven’t seen… for a while.’
The assistant is kind; she helps Ana back onto the stool, raising her brush quickly and continuing as though Ana hadn’t left so unceremoniously.
‘You’re tired,’ she says gently. ‘Here, let me finish, or one side of your face will be different for the rest of the day.’
Ana’s mind works rapidly as the brush strokes finish their work. When it’s time to leave, she leans forward, but her legs refuse to let her stand. She says, ‘I’d like to buy the eye cream, and the mascara, the one with the serum in it.’
‘Here,’ the assistant says, ‘have these free samples. This exfoliator is amazing.’ She smiles warmly at Ana. ‘And try this lipstick. We only got it in last week.’
‘Thanks,’ Ana says. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job.’ She takes her small bag, finished with ribbon.
A tear starts at the edge of her eye, and that in itself almost makes her cry, as all that make-up, so carefully applied, will wash away. She blinks it gone.
And it is heavy on her, like the heat that crushes – that Leo’s killer might be targeting her, that it could be Fabian. For certain, someone is following her. Someone is creeping round her.
How long had he tracked her to find her in John Lewis?
Will she see him on the Tube? On the train?
Even if he’s not there. She will start to imagine him. What does he want?
When Fabian had tracked her, after she’d left him, she had started to second-guess his presence, to feel her skin prickle and itch, even if no one was there. It was like a rash.
Does his return from the US have anything to do with the body? Or is it Leo? Had he faked his death?
She wilts on the Tube platform. The announcement that you should ‘carry water’ on your journey, to ‘alert a member of staff if you feel unwell’, is loud. The danger of these temperatures, making the old and frail faint.
Pushing everyone to their limits.
19
Friday 15th June
BEN
They’re in the library. Ben hands a book to Tabs. ‘This one’s good. I read it last week.’
Tabs takes it and smiles. His right eye is black with bruise, the edges mottling to blue, and another, higher up, has become yellow.
‘Why do you take it?’ Ben asks.
‘Got no choice, mate. You know what they do in here to sex offenders. I just need to wait it out. Hope I get out the other side.’
Ben picks up another book. It’s quiet. The library is popular with the inmates, they’re usually well-behaved in here. True crime is the most popular genre, but the librarian prides herself on encouraging wider reading, building a love for books. She organises creative writing classes, drama groups. The prisoners behave: they don’t want to lose the privilege. And it’s staffed by a civilian – it’s the uniform that they hate.
But today is hot. And the library is like an oven. It’s almost empty.
‘You were a teacher, weren’t you?’
‘Yeah. Won’t teach again, though.’ He shrugs.
Ben looks at the book he’s holding and thinks of Tabs in a classroom. He never asks about the charge. ‘Your sentence isn’t long?’
‘No. They couldn’t really prove anything. They found photos on my phone; there were some allegations from a couple of young girls about a few things. You know what I’m in here for, mate. That was enough. It’s a short enough sentence. Almost done. Been in here three years.’
Placing the thick book down, Ben picks up another. The dust on the top flies upwards, and it catches the back of his throat.
‘You didn’t do it?’ he asks.
Tabs smiles. ‘Oh mate, we’re all innocent in here. You didn’t do it either?’
Ben shakes his head quickly; he suddenly wants to cry. He is in here, friends with a sex offender. A convicted sex offender, so indifferent about his crime. His only friend. How did all this happen?
‘Any news?’ Tabs asks. His tone is gentle.
‘Not really.’ Ben has written to his solicitor, and the only letter he’s received back had promised to look into things. ‘I’ve heard nothing on getting out. I guess they need to investigate first, but if it is Leo’s body, then I couldn’t have moved it, because I’ve been in here.’
Nodding, Tabs tilts his head left, looking down at a book. ‘I hope so, for your sake. Be good for you to get back home. I like St Albans – I used to teach there for a year or so. Finlay Comprehensive.’
‘Oh yeah, I remember now you mentioning it before. That’s my old school!’
‘You said you don’t remember me, though? Fair enough, we hit it at different times. I was only there for a bit. You must have been doing your A levels, or have left.’
‘Nah, I had a think after we talked about it last time. Sorry, mate. Maybe because me and Leo and Ana used to bunk off a fair bit. I’ve never been the most academic. Ana pulled it back later on but she had a rough time with her dad. She didn’t focus too much for a year or so.’ Ben grins. ‘How long did you stay?’
‘About a year? So you been with Ana since school then?’
The mention of Ana makes Ben’s eyes soften. ‘No – we were just mates back then. Well, she was friends with my brother, really. But that year – do you remember? – that was the summer… well, there was that thing with the girl. I think the school changed a lot after that. Tightened up a lot on watching kids. Bunking off wasn’t easy anymore for those two. The three of us stopped hanging out, and I’d left anyway.’ Ben’s mind is dusty in here, like the books. But these memories are clear, sharp-edged.
‘Yeah.’ Tabs scratches his stubble. ‘Hanged herself, didn’t she? Poor thing. Sad what the pressure of school can do.’
Ben takes a breath.
‘You remember me?’
‘Sorry, mate. The only one I remember from your year was that bragging lad. Can’t remember his name, but thought he was something. Gone on to be a producer I think, now. We got into a bit of a to-do and I ended up dragging his arse to the Head. Little shit, he was.’
‘You mean Irvine,’ Ben says, with a quick shake of his head. If he had Fabian Irvine on his own, he’s not sure he could control himself. When Ana had told him what he’d done…
‘Yeah, think that was his name. He was trouble. But he was clever. He’s the kind that should be in here, but will be slippery.’ Tabs stretches then reaches for another book.
It’s good to have some quiet. Ben has to be careful talking to Tabs too much. There’s a code of agreement that he should take a beating whenever possible. Ben doesn’t want to earn the same treatment.
‘I don’t remember your girlfriend, but I think I taught her sister. She would have been in lower school? You said
she’s called Maisie?’
Ben nods, smiling at the thought of Maisie.
‘Small world. Police been on to you yet? Any mention?’
Ben shakes his head. His solicitor had given him some information. ‘Apparently if it does turn out to be Leo, then I have to wait for a formal ID before they can do anything. There’s nothing to suggest it is him. But I can’t shake it. I can’t get rid of the feeling that something is happening. I keep thinking about who it could be. Who might have been so angry with Leo, with me or Ana… I’ve just got to wait.’
‘Well, we’re good at that.’ Tabs winks.
*
Friday evening and they have the dogs out, searching for drugs – sometimes only the size of an earbud, but the dogs can root it out. They can clear a corridor of rooms in five minutes, noses out, tails wagging. When they find something, they bounce on the spot, like they’ve found a Christmas present, a treat.
The barking fills the wing and there are shouts from prisoners. He can hear Kiz on the top bunk, busy with something.
Searches make the men uneasy. It’s not just the drugs. They keep their SIM cards tightly hidden. Internally sometimes. Phones too. The phones themselves are shorter than a stick of chewing gum. Easy to hide. They get smuggled in. When the searches begin, it can be all encompassing. The men are uncomfortable, irritable. Pain and money are involved in all these transactions. A piece of flesh. A piece of your soul.
Ben knows that Kiz is up to something and he is best left to it. The wrong thing to do would be to accidentally see something Kiz wishes that he hadn’t. He lies flat on the bed, thinking of other Fridays. Of nights outside the prison. Nights outside this hell.
‘Benny, they nearly here?’ Kiz whispers down.
‘Yes, mate. A few cells along.’
Kiz drops down from the bunk and leans hard on the glass in the window. Their wing is old. The glass clicks out if you lean on it, and it rests against the bars that line the outside. He drops a handful of something out and jumps back up on the bunk.
