by Emmy Ellis
“Oh…” He shook his head.
“This person may also have killed someone else recently before Jasmine, so it really is important we find them before they do it again. Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to do this to her?”
“What do you mean?” He frowned, as though what she’d said was difficult to understand.
“Is there anyone who might hold a grudge, maybe disliked her, things along those lines?”
“Jasmine? No! She was lovely. I’ve known her since school. We started going out when we were thirteen. She wouldn’t hurt anyone. I might not have liked it that she went on the game, but I tried to help her get off it, I really did.”
“I don’t doubt you, Mr Hewson. I’m going to have to leave you now and visit Jasmine’s mother.” I’ve done it again. Not looked up the next of kin. Told the wrong person first.
“No need. She’s dead.”
Thank God.
“When was that?”
“A few months before Jas started going out at night to do…that.”
“Might explain her behaviour,” Tracy said. “Some people deal with grief in unusual ways.”
“That’s why I put up with it at first, but when it extended to years…”
“Does she have a father?”
“No. She never knew him.”
“Siblings?”
“No. An aunt. She lives in Croydon. Jessica Usherton. No idea where she lives in Croydon, though. We don’t speak to her much. Jas’s family all have J names. Her mum was Janine.” The last word went up a scale or two, and it was clear he was fighting to keep it together.
She didn’t have to ask why he’d told her that, about the names. People in his position sometimes said the most inane things, possibly the way the mind helped the grieving to cope, splashing random things out there to save them thinking of other, more horrifying subjects.
“Why don’t you bring up your mum’s number on your phone, and DS Hanks will give her a ring for you.” She held her hand out. People tended to do as she asked if she made it clear she wouldn’t take anything less than their obedience.
He did as told, keying in his password then passing the phone over. Tracy gave it to Damon and inclined her head towards the hallway. Damon left the room and closed the door behind him.
“Mr Hewson, if Jasmine’s aunt doesn’t want to identify her body, would you—”
“No. No, I can’t see her like…like that. Not if she’s had her throat cut. I can’t…”
She reached out and took hold of his hand. “I understand. I’m sure Ms Usherton will do it.” She thought of Jasmine’s swollen, bruised face and wondered how anyone would be able to identify her anyway.
He stared at her as though his mind had gone blank, so she sat with him in silence until Damon came back. Then she took her hand away.
“Your mother will be here in a minute, Mr Hewson,” Damon said. “She was on her way already. Apparently had some sixth sense and knew something was wrong.”
Tracy glanced at Damon—could Hewson’s mother have done it? He shook his head.
How did he always know what she was thinking?
Not always. If he did, he’d have left your arse long ago.
Fuck off.
“Did your mother know about what Jasmine did?” Tracy asked.
“God, no. She’d have a fit.” Hewson rubbed his cheeks and said behind his palms, “And I’m not telling her either. Unless it makes the news. Shit.” He dropped his hands to his lap.
“It’s bound to,” Tracy said, “although we’ll try to keep it quiet for as long as possible. We may have to turn to the press for help at some point, though.”
“The kids. They’re going to find out. They’ll get picked on at school.” He looked like a kid himself. Lost. Vulnerable. Suddenly smaller than he was.
“That’s possible, I’m afraid. People aren’t too kind regarding certain things. It’s going to be a tough road ahead,” she said.
“I’ll move. Take them somewhere new. They don’t need this on top of losing their mother.”
Satisfied that Hewson wasn’t anyone they needed to keep an eye on, Tracy rose, and the doorbell rang. Damon went to answer and returned with a woman in her sixties, short blonde hair like Mo from Eastenders, the same sort of face, too.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
So Damon hadn’t told her on the phone then.
Tracy waited for two heartbeats to see if she or Damon needed to answer her.
They didn’t.
“It’s Jas, Mum. She’s dead.”
Mrs Hewson fainted.
Chapter Nineteen
The rest of the day was spent in the incident room, everyone working quietly to pull all the information together. The team rubbed along well, and Tracy couldn’t be happier with how they’d gelled. If she were honest, they were tighter than her previous crew, and she never thought she’d be able to say that when she’d first taken over this squad. With their old boss, Kane, out of the picture, and the first few hiccups dealt with swiftly, things had evened out.
They could only grow stronger as time went by.
Four o’clock approached, and Tracy stood from her seat beside Damon at his desk and nipped to her office to type out her notes for today. Twenty-five minutes later, to refresh her mind, she returned to the incident room and read through the information on the whiteboards that had been added in the last few hours.
“Right, down tools,” she said. “It’s almost time to go—well, half an hour yet—and as we haven’t got anything to go on with regards to finding our suspect, name unknown, we won’t be putting in any overtime—except for you, Nada and Erica. I want you to go out and speak to the sex workers tonight, if you haven’t got anything else on this evening.”
“Fine by me,” Nada said.
“Same here,” Erica replied. “Just a pile of ironing waiting for me at home, so working is preferable, thanks.”
Titters from everyone, then silence.
“It only needs a couple of hours,” Tracy said. “Say between eight and ten, the spot in Jester Street.” She pointed to the task sheets for Jasmine Locke. “It seems this is the part of the case we’re better off following to find leads. Mrs Roberts’ trail has gone cold…ish. Apart from knowing our suspect was in her room, and getting word from forensics that it’s looking likely the hair on the pillow is also from the same person the fingerprints belong to, we’ve got sod all else on that front. Jasmine Locke, however… We have the sex workers to talk to, and we know she was there in Jester Street because we’ve spotted her on CCTV, thank fuck. She got into a taxi, right, so now we need to find that taxi. As Tim found out earlier, all but one of the four taxis spotted on the CCTV in the warehouse vicinity have been ruled out. They were on jobs, proof supplied. The other taxi, though… It has to be the one Jasmine got in, agreed?”
Murmurs of dissent went around.
“Okay, you’re probably right, it might not be, but I’m trying to give us some hope here. So, tomorrow, we look into where this taxi could have been purchased. Or did someone buy the light that goes on top and have stickers printed off for the doors?” Lisa wouldn’t go to all that trouble, would she? Plus, she’s skint—or she was last time we got chatting about money. “Remember, the word ‘taxi’ was on the doors in white. We need to see if letters were bought in somewhere like Rymans or WHSmith—you know, like you can buy sticky-backed numbers for wheelie bins.”
“I’ll do that tonight,” Damon said. What he didn’t say was he’d do it while waiting for her to come back from seeing the therapist. “I’d rather try to find this fucker now. If we leave it until tomorrow, he—or she—could kill again in the meantime.”
“Okay, I’ve got somewhere to be, but I’ll come back and join you afterwards.” Tracy wasn’t about to let the team know where she was off to. “If we can get something from that taxi search, we might well get a lead on the driver, which means an arrest is imminent. If me and Damon can handle that, though, I won’t bother you lot
, so don’t go home and sit there on edge, waiting for me to call.”
More murmurs, excited this time.
“We’ll get whoever it is, guys, we just have a lot of grunt work to do beforehand, unfortunately. So, get yourselves off now—yes, it’s early, I know—and get a good night’s sleep. Nada, Erica, thank you for putting in the extra hours without giving me grief over it.”
Everyone packed their things away and shut down computers. Tracy nipped to Winter’s office to let him know the latest, then she went back to the incident room, which was now empty except for Damon. He was searching up what Rymans sold and writing things down on a pad.
“I need to go,” she said, coming up behind him, bending and giving him a hug, their cheeks pressed together.
He rested his head on her arm then and held her hand, his palm warm and comforting. “You’ll be fine, won’t you?”
“I have to be. I can’t keep going like this.” Truth be told—blimey, I’m not lying for once?—she was bricking it.
“It’s not going away, is it?” he said. “Like for me.”
“No, it’s here to stay if I don’t get it sorted.” And maybe I won’t need to go there after tonight if I find Lisa, stop her doing anything else for good. Shit, and it’s not all about me. Damon can’t keep living like this either. She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going now. Don’t see me out. I’m fine. You keep doing what you’re doing.”
She left him there and dashed down the stairs—not because she couldn’t wait to get there, but because if she didn’t rush, she’d bottle it and not go at all. She waved to Vic on the front desk then got into her car, belting out onto the road and merging into the traffic. The normality of it, creeping along behind people going home after a long day, eased her nerves a little. She couldn’t help but think about Dr Fuckface—George Schumer—her old therapist. He’d been…killed.
He could have fixed me. I could have been a proper person by now instead of this evil mess.
She pulled up outside the therapist’s practise, nothing like Fuckface’s, which had been a house in a former life. This one was a huge glass-fronted building, that glass tinted blue, the ghostly silhouettes of people going about their business inside. Three stories, it must be some kind of centre where people rented office space.
She cut the engine and locked the car, then walked to the main door—more blue glass—on shaking legs. The nerves had kicked in, and she almost bolted, but she gripped the long, vertical steel handle and pushed her way inside into reception.
A woman sat behind the wide desk, only her shoulders and head visible it was so tall. Brunette, mid-thirties, pretty to the point it was obscene. Light-pink lipstick, smoky makeup around the eyes, a cream blouse open at the neck, a pendant sitting just above her ample cleavage.
“Hi. I’m Tracy Collier. I have an appointment with a therapist.” Shit. I’ve forgotten her name.
“Which one?” the receptionist asked, smiling brightly with perfect teeth to go along with her perfect features.
Tracy looked for a badge or something to find out this woman’s name and spotted a plaque on the desktop. KERRY. “I’m not sure, Kerry. Sorry.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just run your name through the computer. One second.” She tapped the keyboard with shiny black nail tips. “Ah, you’re with Sasha Barrows. First floor, room seven.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll just let her know you’ve arrived. If you take the lift, her door is right beside it on your left.”
“Thanks again.”
While waiting for the lift to arrive, Tracy tapped her foot on the cream marble floor, her stomach doing a number on her. She needed the loo.
The lift came then, so she boarded and pressed the button with ONE on it. The smooth ride took seconds, and the doors opened silently onto a royal-blue carpeted hallway with a cream geometric design, the walls starling-wing black. She turned left and waited outside the teak door for a moment to remove herself from her scared little girl persona and into the detective version, hoping the blunt Tracy could carry her through her first session so she could get Sasha Barrows’ measure and gauge whether she was the woman who could make The Past disappear. She’d done the same with Dr Fuckface.
She knocked.
“Come in.”
This is it…
She opened the door, immediately setting her sights on Barrows sitting behind a black desk at the back in front of a huge sheet of window glass. Cerise blouse, dark-grey jacket. She assessed the woman’s stoic appearance, sensed her no-nonsense air and, for fuck’s sake, Tracy zipped straight back into vulnerable Collier, the young girl she’d been in the cupboard with the rainbow scarf over her eyes.
No. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.
“Tracy?” Barrows asked.
Tracy nodded.
“Come on in and take a seat.” Barrows rose, her skirt hem reaching her knees, and indicated a black leather chair beside a matching sofa. “Either place will do. Wherever you’re comfortable.”
Tracy closed the door and went for the chair—somewhere she could be alone, where Barrows couldn’t sit next to her to offer comfort and a warm arm around her shoulder. Not that the therapist appeared the sort who would do that. And Tracy wouldn’t allow it anyway. She could manage fine by herself, thank you, always had until Damon had come along—and even then, she was stubborn and preferred to be self-reliant. To deal with her hurts by herself.
“Would you like a tea or coffee?” Barrows asked. “Or I have some Coke if you’re all right with sugary drinks.”
“Coke please, that would be nice.”
The therapist took off her jacket and draped it over her desk. Then, while Barrows went to a fridge set inside a cupboard, her feet bare—what?—Tracy thought about the woman’s voice. Soft, it didn’t match her somewhat hard-looking exterior. Barrows was all angles—jagged elbows, pointy knees, a chin and nose a witch would be proud of, minus the huge warts with hairs sprouting out of them.
You’re such a bitch.
Barrows closed the fridge, and Tracy wondered why the therapist hadn’t spoken again. Was that a tactic? To see if Tracy remained silent or talked nineteen to the dozen through nerves?
She decided she didn’t care.
“There you go,” Barrows said, handing Tracy a can and a glass.
Tracy chose not to use the latter. “Thank you. It’s so hot today, isn’t it?” Pardon? Did I really just say that? What had she become? Someone who blathered on about the weather as a conversation starter? Help me…
“Too hot. So, what can I help you with?” Straight to the point.
Like me. We’ll get along fine. I hope.
Barrows sat on the sofa, in the farthest corner from Tracy, her top half kind of sprawled out as though she were at home. She tucked her legs up then opened her can. Her hair was so perfect, Tracy couldn’t imagine it ever being mussed. She amused herself by thinking the woman slept with a hair net on to stop the waves tangling.
“I have issues,” Tracy said. Start as you mean to go on… “I grew up abused, by my father, his friend, maybe others, I can’t remember, and it screwed me up. I need you to unscrew me.” She’d surprised herself at getting to the heart of the matter so quickly, a far cry from when she’d seen Fuckface.
When would she grow up and stop calling him that?
Now?
“I see. Have you talked to anyone about this before?” Barrows drank some Coke.
It prompted Tracy to open hers and take a swig. Barrows didn’t swig, she daintily sipped, and Tracy felt like a lout in the presence of a princess.
“Yes. I had a session where a fair bit of the abuse came out, but unfortunately, my therapist was murdered, so we couldn’t progress any further.”
“Oh dear. Dr Schumer by any chance? I say that, because he’s the only therapist I know in my circle who was killed.”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Lovely man, if a bit warped at times. But he got the job d
one; amazing results with all his patients, so I heard. And me saying warped… They say don’t talk ill of the dead, but he’s dead, so what’s he going to do?” She giggled and smiled, the kind conspirators shared.
Tracy relaxed a bit, but she had to make a point. “He didn’t have a flawless track record. He was also my father’s therapist, and he didn’t fix him.”
“Ah, we can’t win them all, although we do try. What do you do for a living?”
“Police officer. I run the serious crimes squad.”
“Like it?”
“For the most part.”
“Why did you join up?”
“The cliché in all the crime books and TV shows—fucked-up girl needs something to keep her focused so she can right the wrongs done to her by helping those who need help.”
“And here we have another cliché. Fucked-up policewoman visits therapist to help her come to terms with her fucked-up-ness.”
Tracy raised her eyebrows at the fact Barrows swore. She hadn’t expected that.
“And cliché or not, because this happens more than people realise,” Barrows said, “you joining the force…it works, yes?”
“Yes. For now.” What does that even mean?
“For now?”
“Things are…stressful at the moment. They have been since my father sent…a woman he knew to kill people to get my attention. To make sure I worked that case and realised it was him behind it all. He thought it would make me move back home. He was a dickhead like that.”
“Sounds distressing. Was it?”
“Just a bit.”
“And it’s followed you around ever since, I take it?”
“Yes, the woman got away. She’s still out there. Turns up every so often, to speak to me, to taunt me, knowing I won’t do anything about her coming back for…reasons.” It was harder to speak to Barrows about this than it had been with Schumer. He’d known exactly who and what her father had been, who Lisa was. This woman—she couldn’t be told Lisa was her sister, that she was killing all over again. There was patient and client confidentiality, Schumer had banged on about that often enough, but Tracy didn’t know whether Barrows took that kind of thing as seriously as he had, as in, not phoning the police to tell them her father was a paedophile and Lisa had been going around bumping people off for him. Barrows could decide to lift the phone as soon as Tracy left and spill everything.
