Tom Douglas Box Set 2

by Rachel Abbott

  ‘What’s up, Becky?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ She blew out a puff of air through pursed lips. ‘Except that all I seem to have for my day’s labour is a lot of paper, several lists and not a clue who would have wanted to hurt Hayley Walker.’ She picked up a pile of files and let them drop again on the desk.

  Tom leant against the wall, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Well, the doctor who came in this morning – Louisa Knight – has gone away to come up with a list of people Hayley might have had an interest in, or vice versa. She’s called and offered to come and talk it through with us. You bring your list, and we’ll see what we’ve got.’

  ‘I can do that, boss,’ Becky said. ‘There’s no need for both of us, just because I’m in a grump.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, Becky. I want to hear what she has to say. Anyway, something might ring a bell with the crimes from twelve years ago.’

  He was relieved that Becky seemed to have recovered a little from her fluster the day before, even if it had been replaced with a cantankerous attitude. He always thought Becky was at the top of her game when she was at her most stroppy, and he smiled to himself.

  Louisa was waiting for them in a meeting room, and she stood up when Tom and Becky entered. She had removed her coat and was wearing an apricot silk shirt that complemented the colour of her hair. She smiled at Tom and held her hand out to Becky as Tom introduced them.

  ‘I’ve made the list you asked for.’ She briefly waved a sheet of A4 paper in the air. ‘I’ve named anybody who might have shown an interest in Hayley and I’m happy to run through it and give you my impressions of each of them, but I do hope none of these guys will ever know what I’ve said.’

  ‘They won’t hear anything from us, Louisa, and please call me Tom.’ Tom couldn’t miss Becky’s slight raising of the eyebrows but he chose to pay no attention. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘The fact is, we’re a large team. Most of our patients have a dedicated nurse assigned to them – one per shift. There are a lot of consultants, but it’s the anaesthetists who tend to be around and maybe a surgical registrar or two. Given that Hayley thought somebody was interested in her, I thought I’d concentrate on the men. She’s never given me any indication that she prefers women, and I’m sure it was a man she thought was watching her.’

  ‘Okay. Any suggestions you can give us would be useful.’

  Louise opened a soft brown leather document case and pulled out a photograph. ‘I thought this might be helpful. It’s the departmental photo taken at Christmas. There are a couple of new people since then, but Hayley spoke as if this person – if he’s in any way implicated in her death – was somebody she’d known for a while.’

  Tom couldn’t be sure that the person who killed Hayley and the person who had suddenly seemed attracted to her were one and the same, but they had to start somewhere.

  ‘I’ll start from the top and work down,’ Louisa said in her slightly husky voice.

  She pushed one side of her hair behind her ear, as if getting down to business. As she spoke about each person, Louisa pointed to him on the photo.

  ‘There were two male surgical registrars that Hayley knew well, Charlie Dixon and Ben Coleman.’ She lifted the photo and pointed first to a man who looked to be in his early thirties with prominent cheekbones and a mop of dark curly hair. ‘This is Ben.’ She moved her finger to the far end of the picture. ‘And this is Charlie.’ The second man was much shorter with a lopsided happy grin that suggested he was rather too full of the party spirit.

  ‘Ben is charming and popular, extremely bright and young for his level of seniority. Personally I find him a bit overconfident and slightly cynical, but that probably goes with his ability. He was friendly with Hayley, but as far as I’m aware never showed her any special attention. Charlie is friends with everybody. He’s a bit of a joker. They’re both attractive men, and if either of them had started to be more attentive Hayley would definitely have noticed. It would also explain why she didn’t want to tell me who it was. To some of the nurses, these guys are demi-gods, and Hayley would have needed concrete evidence of any interest before she spoke out. She wasn’t desperately confident about herself, for reasons nobody could understand.’

  There was one man in the picture that Tom couldn’t take his eyes off. Although he was with the others, he seemed somehow apart, as if he – rather than his colleagues – was making himself something of an outcast. His attempt at a smile was failing, and there was slightly more space around him than there was around anybody else.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Tom said, pointing to the man and momentarily interrupting Louisa’s flow.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. Louisa was silent for a moment. ‘That’s Malcolm Doyle. He’s a fellow anaesthetist and regularly on the ward.’ She tapped the photo with her short, unpolished nail. ‘Malcolm finds it difficult to associate with people. But he’s exceptionally good at his job when he’s in theatre. It’s just his interpersonal skills that aren’t that great. Hayley felt sorry for him and we try to include him in things, but he’s like a rabbit caught in headlights if anybody ever speaks to him at a party. I’m not sure how she would have responded to interest from him.’

  She continued, identifying two male charge nurses as possibles, and they ended up with a list of seven men who were the most likely to have paid Hayley attention and had it reciprocated.

  ‘Please don’t take my word alone for any of this,’ Louisa said, looking from Tom to Becky and then back to Tom. ‘I could be miles from the right person and I’m terrified I’m wasting your time.’

  ‘You’re not. We have to start somewhere and this is as good a place as any.’ Tom turned to Becky. ‘I think we should get the team on checking these people out. We need to know their backgrounds: where they were brought up, went to university, worked before coming here and how old they are.’

  And most specifically, Tom thought, he needed to know where they were in May 2003.

  27

  Maggie’s ten-minute vigil outside police headquarters had left her feeling like a traitor. She still didn’t know what she’d been thinking. Duncan had specifically asked her not to go to the police, and yet once she had discovered who was leading the team in the investigation, she wanted to see him – to talk to him.

  Her colleagues in the office had been talking about little else but the murder since she had arrived that morning.

  ‘That drawing gave a few people a shock, I can tell you,’ one of the clerks had informed her as she walked through the door. ‘When you didn’t turn up to work yesterday it was mad here for a while. There were some who genuinely thought you were dead. I don’t think the woman looks like you at all, really. It’s just the hair and the lipstick.’

  ‘I hope whoever’s leading the investigation catches the guy who did this,’ she’d said, subtly fishing for information.

  ‘It’s bound to be Tom Douglas,’ the clerk said. ‘He’s a sound bloke, and I’ve got a lot of time for him.’

  The suggestion that Tom Douglas was ‘sound’ had made her feel a little better, and without knowing how she had got there, she had found herself standing outside police headquarters, gazing at the offices. She should go in and talk to him, but what would she say? My husband had a photo of a dead girl on his phone before you found the body? Somebody sent it to him, but I don’t know who?

  She would be implicating her husband in murder. Did she really want to do that? But what if he knew something – something that would help the police to find the person who had killed that poor woman. Duncan hadn’t killed her, Maggie was sure. He wouldn’t.

  If I found out that he had killed her, what would I do?

  She should know the answer, but she didn’t. He was the father of her children, and a good father. At least, she had always thought so. Wouldn’t it be easier to run away together – as a family – and pretend none of this had ever happened? Wouldn’t that be better for the children?

  What was she thinking? She shouldn
’t be here, standing looking at an office block. She hadn’t worked out what was going on with Duncan in her own head yet. What if he was in danger? What if he had been forced to send her that message telling her not to contact the police? She wasn’t ready to talk. Duncan didn’t want her to, and she didn’t know enough. She had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Without a backward glance she had run back to the safety of her car where she was still sitting thirty minutes later, staring out at the miserable day, no closer to knowing what to do.

  It was hopeless.

  Maggie would soon need to be at the magistrates court for Alf Horton’s remand hearing, but for the moment she couldn’t face him and she was putting it off until the last possible minute. She needed a distraction, so she grabbed her laptop from the back seat and the mobile Wi-Fi router from her bag and switched them on. She had absolutely no idea if her research that morning had turned up anything useful, but she wasn’t going to give up until she knew for sure. She unfolded the printout of the newspaper page.

  Did Duncan have something to do with the boy who had been knocked over? Surely not? She remembered Duncan’s driving licence. It was only issued in 2004 so legally he couldn’t have been driving any car, although her own experience told her that a small thing like no licence didn’t necessarily prevent people from driving. She had always wondered why Duncan had left it until he was nearly twenty-two to learn, but he said he loved his mountain bike and wherever possible preferred to use that.

  Her search for the people involved in the accident got her nowhere until she decided to check if either of them had a Facebook account. She got an immediate hit for a Carl Boardman who seemed to fit the age profile – a big beefy guy with a ruddy face and thinning sandy hair. There could have been more than one person with that name of course, but he lived in Manchester so it was plausible that he was the same guy. There was nothing on Adya Kamala.

  She gave up and closed her computer, folding the printout again to put it in her bag. Realising both sides of the page had been printed, she glanced at the article on the reverse. There was a picture of a lady in late middle age, dressed in a smart black jacket with white edging over a black and white dress. Her black hat was at a slightly strange angle, but she had a happy smile on her face. Glad to come across something that wasn’t depressing, Maggie read how the lady – a Patricia Rowe – had been awarded an MBE in the Queen’s birthday honours list for services to children and families. To celebrate, Mrs Rowe had had a party. It appeared she and her late husband had fostered over a hundred children and since becoming a widow she had continued to foster.

  “I loved all my children,” the report quoted. “It didn’t matter to me what each child’s background was, and their parentage was the last thing I considered. Children deserve to be loved, and so many of those who came to me had been deprived of that basic human need. I consider that I have been privileged to be able to offer them the gift of unconditional love – the same as any other parent would.”

  At the bottom of the page was a message from Mrs Rowe to her foster children who hadn’t attended the party, saying how much she missed them and what a shame it was that they hadn’t been able to make it. She hoped they would get in touch soon.

  How sad, Maggie thought, to have done so much for so many children only to find that some had moved on without a backward glance. She knew of parents whose own children never bothered to contact them, so it must be doubly hard to keep in contact with foster children. But just as heart-breaking to lose them.

  She thought of her own children, and how everything that was happening with Duncan was affecting them. She was still no closer to finding out who he really was, and for just a moment her love and trust felt less secure, less solid.

  28

  By the time Maggie arrived home that night she felt mentally and physically drained. She hadn’t heard from Duncan again. Her phone had been fully charged, and even in court she had kept it in her hand so she would feel it vibrate.

  Alf Horton had been remanded that afternoon and sent to Strangeways. Fortunately she hadn’t had to spend any time alone with him and had only had to go through the motions for the sake of the hearing. She hoped she wouldn’t have to see him again for a while – not until they were ready to begin the preparation for his inevitable trial.

  It was Friday evening, and her mind flipped back to so many other Fridays: looking forward to getting home and spending the weekend with her family, planning trips or surprises, taking over the cooking so Duncan could have a break. Tonight there was no Duncan to welcome her. No warm home, fire lit and the smell of dinner cooking.

  The longest she had gone without thinking about Duncan all day was about thirty seconds. He had now been gone for forty-eight hours and Maggie was no clearer in her thinking. She had discounted most of her early theories – none of them made sense any longer. She was left with three options: an affair that had somehow gone wrong; somebody was threatening Duncan; he was somehow involved in the death of this young woman.

  She had discounted the third option as soon as she considered it. How could she even think that about her husband? But then did she really know who her husband was?

  If it was an affair, the only thing that made sense was that the dead woman was Duncan’s lover; her husband or boyfriend had found out and killed her, and he was now after Duncan. If that were the case, surely she would be helping Duncan by telling the police? Or was he being framed for the woman’s death?

  In his text, Duncan had been adamant that she mustn’t call the police, but on her drive home from work she had decided that if she didn’t hear from him within the next twelve hours, she was going to ignore his plea. She would seek out this policeman – Tom Douglas – and tell him everything.

  Feeling slightly better for having a plan – of sorts – she had stopped to pick the children up and been pleased to see that a day at school seemed to have settled them a bit; nothing like a bit of normality to help them get back on track. But when she glanced in the mirror as she turned into their cul-de-sac, she was sad to see Josh’s look of disappointment that his dad’s van wasn’t parked in front of the house. She had promised them pizza, but Josh had asked if they could go home first so he could get changed. His excuse was that he didn’t want to go out in his school uniform, but she knew it wasn’t that at all.

  Maggie was worried that Josh would say he didn’t want to go out now and she would have to deal with Lily who had been so looking forward to the treat, but she was wrong. He came downstairs ready in his jeans and a sweatshirt and headed towards the door.

  ‘What’s this, Mum?’ he asked, picking up an envelope from behind the front door. He passed it to Maggie.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, noticing that there was no address on the envelope. It must have been hand-delivered.

  For a second she thought Duncan might have returned during the day and left her a note. But it wasn’t his writing.

  She slit the envelope open with her finger. Inside was a single sheet of paper folded in two. Instinctively she knew that she didn’t want Josh to see what was on the page.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Only a circular. Go and find Lily for me would you, sweetheart. See if she’s ready and preferably not wearing her Frozen costume.’

  Josh trundled off, clearly not thrilled with his mission.

  Maggie unfolded the piece of paper. It was a photograph printed on plain paper – a photograph of a woman with black hair and red lips. It wasn’t the murdered woman who had been all over the news that day, but there was a superficial resemblance. This woman also had long dark hair, and her lips appeared to have been inexpertly painted with bright red lipstick. The woman’s lifeless eyes seemed to look into Maggie’s, and she felt an explosion of pain in her chest.

  But the face and the hair meant nothing in comparison with the piece of cardboard propped against the woman’s legs. The writing was rough, as if scribbled with a biro and gone over and over until the pen had almost
pierced the card. Just two words.

  You’re next.

  29

  Saturday

  It had been fairly late in the day on Friday by the time Tom discovered who Leo’s new boyfriend was most likely to be: Julian Richmond – a partner in Manchester’s biggest corporate finance firm. Divorced with two teenage children, he lived in Bramhall. Tom had tried to call, but there was no answer and it didn’t seem appropriate to leave a message, so he had decided that today – Saturday – he would go round to Mr Richmond’s house and hope to find the man at home. In theory it was Tom’s day off, but in the middle of a murder investigation he rarely considered shift patterns. Nor was checking up on Leo part of his job, but he couldn’t rest until he knew she was okay. Memories of the similarity of the two victims twelve years ago were haunting him. If this were a repeat performance, surely Leo’s resemblance to Hayley suggested she was at risk. Was he too late?

  Julian Richmond lived in a big house on a smart street, and yet to Tom’s mind his home, protected from the road by a curved wall, was by far the ugliest. Tom pushed open one of a pair of cast-iron gates and walked up the paved drive towards a porticoed front door. He gazed up at the white-painted edifice and wondered what had made somebody choose to build a Mediterranean-style villa in the midst of the Edwardian elegance of its neighbours. There was no doubting the opulence of the place, though.

  He pushed the doorbell and waited. It was 8.30 in the morning. Early to come calling on a Saturday perhaps, but better than arriving at ten to find Richmond had gone off to play golf.

  He heard a door open inside and a brief burst of music before the door closed again. Tom could hear somebody whistling the song that had been on the radio, something Tom vaguely recognised as a Phil Collins tune from his youth.