All Her Fears: DI Tracy Collier Book 3

by Emmy Ellis

  “That’s terribly sad—and debilitating, I would imagine.”

  “Most definitely. She ended up a recluse before she came here, and even now she’s not much better, preferring to stay in her room instead of mixing with the others.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I have no idea where she would have gone. I’d like to think she’d have come to me, but even the idea of her leaving this place has alarm bells ringing. She wouldn’t step outside unless she absolutely had to, no matter how much she says she doesn’t enjoy it here.”

  “Hmm. Nurse Ordsall mentioned your mother going out into the grounds recently without asking for permission.”

  “That doesn’t ring true, sorry to say. Mum simply wouldn’t do that. She said the woods out the back had wolves in it.” He flushed at that. “She might have been losing her mind a bit the last few months.”

  “That must be very difficult for you to witness.”

  He nodded. “It is.”

  “So, do you think someone came in here and took her?” Tracy studied his face for signs of guilt.

  She didn’t find any.

  “What?” he said. “Why would anyone want to come in and take an old lady?” He frowned, eyes glistening. “I can’t fathom it. Surely that isn’t what happened, is it?”

  “Well, if she wouldn’t go outside…” Tracy let that hang for a heartbeat or two. “I’m not sure what else to think.”

  He blew out a breath. “I can’t imagine… I mean, who does that to the elderly—or anyone, come to that?”

  You’d be surprised…

  “You’ve already established your alibi, which we’ll obviously be checking, but given the time it was discovered your mother was gone—what time did you leave the party?”

  “Three in the morning, and I remember it exactly because I thought how the night had flown and that the last time I’d checked my watch it had been a quarter past midnight.”

  “So what did you do when you left?”

  “Look, I realise why you’re asking me these questions, but I assure you, it wasn’t me who took my mother out of here. We can’t cope with her at our place, what with us working and having kids, so deliberately coming here to get her isn’t anything we’d do.”

  Tracy nodded. “Answer the question, please.”

  He sighed, and a lock of his hair flew upwards. “I went to an all-night garage to pick up some paracetamol—knew I’d have a bloody great headache come the morning. Too many glasses of wine. I then went home, arriving at approximately three-thirty. My answerphone light was flashing, so I listened to the messages, heard the one about Mum, and came straight here.”

  “Easily verified.” Tracy had a thought. “Did you drive home from the party yourself?”

  “No, I took a taxi, which picked me up outside about five past three. Tina’s Cabs. You can check. A driver called Bob. He told me all about his daughter making it into uni. Her name is Xanthia, and I remember it because it’s unusual. Once I heard the voice message, I rang Tina’s. Bob turned up again and left me here about three-fifty, which can be backed up by staff.”

  “We’ll be looking into it, yes.” Tracy didn’t believe for one minute Mr Roberts was responsible. His answers had flowed, and he’d shown no signs of distress at being questioned, just about the fact his mother had gone missing.

  His mother is dead.

  “Mr Roberts, I have some upsetting news. We were called out this morning to view a body a few miles along the road there.” She held up her hand to stop him talking. “Going by the picture Mrs Zello showed me of your mother, I have reason to believe the body may be hers.”

  He stared, mouth opening and closing.

  “Would you mind looking at an image I have to confirm whether it is your mother?” she asked softly.

  “Oh God… A dead woman’s picture?” He swallowed then stood to pace in front of the sofa. “I’m…I’m not sure I can stand to look at something like that.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to—unless you have a sibling or a father who can do it?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Only child, and Dad died a few years back. Oh, bloody hell…” He pinched his bottom lip.

  “The sooner we know if it is your mother, the sooner we can crack on with our investigation and find out who did it. Isn’t that what you want, Mr Roberts?” She slid her phone out of her pocket and accessed her images folder. The woman looked extremely dead, and Tracy shuddered. “This may be a shock for you, so please brace yourself, sir.”

  She walked to him, wine fumes coming off him, that scent all people had when they’d sunk a few too many. She held out the phone so the screen faced him.

  His wail of anguish hurt Tracy’s heart, and she wondered when she’d even got that heart. Was he crying out because it was his mother or because he stared at the image of a deceased woman and couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away?

  “Jesus Christ.” He flopped onto the sofa, propped his elbows on his knees, and covered his face. Then the sobs came, and his shoulders shook.

  Uncomfortable in the face of such grief, Tracy walked backwards until she reached the other sofa. She sat beside Damon, who held her hand for a second or two then got up to park himself beside Mr Roberts.

  “Is it your mother?” Damon asked, placing a hand on Mr Roberts’ shoulder.

  Tracy knew it was, but confirmation was needed.

  “Yes.” The word was broken into two parts, raspy and filled with the echo of loss.

  “I’m so sorry,” Tracy said. “Is there anyone who can come to collect you?” She was mindful he probably still had a couple of bottles of wine surging through his system and shouldn’t be driving yet.

  “My wife…”

  “Was she at home while you were at the work party?” Tracy asked.

  “Yes, with the children, and her friend came round for the evening.” He lowered his hands. “She’s going to be devastated. My mother was a mum to her, too.”

  Shit.

  “I’ll ask someone to give her a call, shall I?” Tracy offered.

  “No. No, it’s fine. I’ll do it now.” He rose and walked over to the window, wiping his face with his fingertips.

  Tracy jerked her head at Damon, indicating they should leave to give Mr Roberts some privacy. Outside in the hallway, Mr Roberts’ choked-out words filtered through the door, and Tracy scrunched her eyes shut, wishing she was anywhere but here.

  “This is bloody awful,” Damon said quietly, rubbing his forehead.

  “It always is.” She opened her eyes and stared at the wall opposite. “Now we just have to find out how the hell she got herself killed and why anyone would want to do that to her.”

  “Lots of staff to interview.” He let out a long sigh.

  “Yes. No time like the present, I suppose. I just need to check Mr Roberts is all right first.” She dipped her head inside the room. He wasn’t on the phone but studied the ceiling while sitting on the sofa he’d used before. “Is your wife on her way?”

  He glanced over, eyes red, the same as his nose. “Yes. The kids are at school, so she’s coming right over.”

  “Will you be okay on your own until she gets here?”

  He stood and walked towards her. “Yes. I’m going to wait at reception so I can see her as soon as she gets here.”

  “Okay. We’ll go with you, but please don’t mention your mother’s death to anyone here.” She led the way to the foyer and left him staring through the window that overlooked the driveway. Then she strode to the desk. “Hi.” She smiled. “Sorry to trouble you again.” She wasn’t sorry at all, but it was the sort of thing you said, wasn’t it. “Do you also have someone manning this desk at night?”

  “No, just daytimes.”

  “Okay. Is Nurse Matthews still here?”

  The receptionist grimaced. “Over there in the corner. Harry, his name is. He’s blaming himself as he’s the one who went in and found Mrs Roberts gone.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tracy obse
rved Matthews for a moment, trying to get his measure. He didn’t seem anything but distraught, knuckling his eyes then staring out of the window, bottom lip wobbling. He appeared genuine enough, but looks could be deceiving, and many a killer was a good actor.

  So she didn’t seem weird just gawping, Tracy joined the upset nurse. “Harry Matthews?”

  The man nodded.

  Tracy showed her ID. “We need to question you, I’m afraid.”

  Matthews swallowed hard.

  “The receiving room, please.” Tracy followed him there, Damon beside her.

  “This has got to be awful for him,” he whispered, nodding at Matthews’ back.

  “Not if he did it,” Tracy said under her breath. “Then again, it could be awful. He might be thinking he’ll get caught.”

  Damon pursed his lips. “Fucking hell.”

  “Exactly. I’m leaning more towards innocent at the moment.”

  “Okay. I’ll see if I can pick up any tells while you talk to him.”

  “You and me both.”

  Once they were all inside the room, Tracy closed the door and told Matthews to sit where Mr Roberts had. The position was ideal—she could watch him closely for signs of guilt. The only guilt on display was that of a man who was chastising himself for falling asleep and allowing himself to let a patient go missing, even though it wasn’t necessarily his responsibility but Ordsall’s.

  Matthews corroborated Ordsall’s version of events, and once Tracy had finished interviewing him, they moved on to all the other nurses who had been around last night. Everyone said exactly the same thing.

  Either they were telling the truth or they’d concocted a story that each nurse spilled out as though from a script.

  Tracy was no closer to finding the truth, and she seethed, leaving the care home with a bee in her bonnet and a worm of unease wiggling in her belly. Something was off, and she was determined to discover what it was.

  Chapter Five

  Last Night

  He found her in a bit of a state. He’d forgotten to leave her a bucket, but considering she has her wrists and ankles tied, she wouldn’t have been able to use it anyway.

  She’s got shit seeping through her skinny jeans. A dirty girl, that’s what she is, and he’s not just talking about the mess she’s made. Girls like her boil his piss, asking for sex and expecting something in return for it. They should be thrown inside a small room and locked up until they learn their lesson.

  Ironic.

  She stares up at him, and he stares back, pleased by her frown. She hasn’t recognised him from when he’d brought her here, and that’s exactly what he wants.

  “What…who are you?” she asks, eyes wide.

  “What on earth are you doing down here?” He looks at her as though he’s never seen her before in his life.

  “Someone…another man…he brought me here and left me.”

  “Goodness, that’s just terrible. And you’re all tied up, too. Have you had an accident?” He waves at her jeans.

  “I…I couldn’t hold it.”

  “Deary me. Wait there while I get you something to wear.” He leaves the room, laughing because she can’t exactly go anywhere, can she. He hangs around in the corridor for a bit, having already brought the clean clothes here earlier. He scoops them up then goes back to her, helping her to stand. “Let’s get you washed.”

  He leads her out then down the corridor to a long-abandoned shower room that thankfully still has hot running water. “Now, don’t go galloping off when I untie you, all right? I’m just here to help, I promise.”

  She nods, and he sets her free. While she undresses, seemingly unperturbed by him being there, he turns the shower on, and once she’s under the spray, she uses the liquid soap hanging from the curtain rail. He gathers her soiled clothing and pops it into a carrier bag for dealing with later.

  Clean now, she dries using a white towel then slips on the grey tracksuit he gave her. All the while, they don’t speak. Her teeth chatter from the cold—no heating on here—and he wonders whether they’ll clack together from fear later.

  She stands there, waiting for instructions, and he smiles.

  “Now, I’m going to tie you up again while I leave for a moment because I really have no idea who you are, all right? You really shouldn’t be here. It’s private property.”

  Her mouth opens in a large O. She nods, and her eyes have a glint of terror in them, as though what’s going on is something that’s happened to her before.

  Is she frightened of what might occur next?

  He binds her wrists and ankles, then leaves.

  * * *

  Back in the shower room, looking different yet again—lighter hair, a beard, and a change of clothes—he advances towards her, swaggering to appear menacing. She retreats, stepping back so quickly she meets with the wall. Gripping her arm, he yanks her towards the door.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but he can’t be having that.

  “Shh. Not a sound, right?” It comes out as a snarl, and he loves it.

  She nods frantically.

  “You do everything I say, and I’ll let you go.” He squeezes her elbow to see if she’ll squeal.

  She doesn’t.

  Good.

  He unties her, stuffs the rope in his pocket, then leads the way to the main building. None of the others will hear him—their doughnuts were laced with the powder from inside sleeping capsules, just enough of a dusting to give him the window of time he needs. Down the hallway they go to Mrs Roberts’ room. He needs to get this done fast before the old dear goes stiff.

  “Run your fingers through your hair,” he says.

  Dirty Girl frowns but does it. A few strands and a knotted tangle break free, draping over her knuckle.

  “Put them on the pillow.” He holds his breath in case she freaks, and his heartbeat speeds—he feels sick with the pressure of it all.

  She stares at him, as though she’d like to kill him, but places her hair beside Mrs Roberts’ head. It looks like a giant spider with only one long leg. He nods, pleased with her compliance.

  “Now press your fingertips on the bedside cabinet,” he orders.

  She does.

  “Good.”

  Sweeping the dead weight of the insufferable Mrs Roberts into his arms, he jerks his head for his captive to follow, and she does, walking at a swift pace until she’s by his side.

  Why didn’t she run in the other direction? At least try to get away?

  Out in the rear staff car park, he dumps Mrs Roberts in the back of his vehicle then ushers Dirty Girl into the passenger seat, cuffing her wrist to the inside handle. Then he gets in and leans towards her.

  “Now, as you know, your hair and fingerprints are at a crime scene, so if you don’t listen to me and don’t do what I want, you’ll be framed for that old biddy’s murder, meaning, I won’t remove the hair and prints when I get back, got it?”

  She nods again, inhaling air through her nose, nostrils flaring.

  He sets off, happy Blooming Age is in the middle of nowhere and no one is likely to be about. A few miles down the road, he turns off onto an access track that leads to a farm. Engine and lights off, he leaves the car, collects Mrs Roberts, engages the locks, then takes her across a field, over the width of a path, and dumps her on the other side next to a hedge.

  Back at the car, he unlocks Dirty Girl’s cuff and hauls her out, dragging her with him to Mrs Roberts. “Right then. Watch this. It’s what’ll happen to you if you disobey me.”

  He has to do something to ensure she doesn’t leg it—there’s something he needs her to do in a minute.

  Lifting Mrs Roberts and leaning her back against his front, he whips out his hunting knife then slits the bitch’s throat. He wishes she wasn’t already dead and he could have watched her blood spurting everywhere, but you can’t have everything, and he ought to be grateful he has something.

  Beggars can’t be choosers. Mum used to say that.

 
Dirty Girl makes a strange sound, a cross between a whimper and laughter, and he imagines she’s nervous and scared and doesn’t know her arse from her elbow.

  “You…” she manages then clamps her lips tight, as if remembering he’d told her not to make a sound.

  He places Mrs Roberts back on the ground, curling her into the foetal position, and it looks like she’s just fallen asleep—if it wasn’t for the gaping slit in her neck.

  “Spit on her,” he says.

  Dirty Girl backs away, turning to run, but he’s quick enough and catches hold of her arm before she has a chance to scarper.

  “That wasn’t…sensible,” he whispers, yanking her along with him, back to Mrs Roberts. “I said, spit on her.”

  Instead, she spits on his forehead, and it takes all his strength to hold back from smacking her cheek. She stares at him, her face showcased by the moonlight, and it seems to him she has hate brewing inside her and wants to grab his knife and gut him.

  That won’t be happening.

  He scoops the spit off with a fingertip then lets it drip onto Mrs Roberts’ chin. “There. All done anyway, despite you defying me.”

  He brings his knife up, ready to stab at her, and she catches sight of it, her eyes widening—not with fear now but something he’d swear was jealousy that he’s holding it and not her. He jabs it forward, but she grips his wrist, surprisingly strong for her size, and the blade edges its way towards his neck.

  They struggle, him fighting to push her backwards, the pair of them moving more than a few paces, and even though he’s bigger and taller, it feels as though she has the upper hand.

  White noise enters his head, and he shoves her. She loses her balance, and he wrestles his arm out of her grip and slashes out at her, slicing the pad of her thumb. She staggers past him, one step, two steps, three, four, five, until she runs towards the dead old bitch. He chases after her, adrenaline spiking, needing to get hold of her so she doesn’t make it out onto the road. She disappears through the hedge, creating a wide gap, and he pulls her backwards. They almost topple over the body, and she manages to get away from him again and runs towards the path. Then she’s on it, heading for the road, and he scarpers after her, lunging out onto the verge, but she’s gone, she’s fucking gone.