The Lost

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Maria?’ She wanted a surname.

  ‘Friedman,’ Parker said.

  ‘German?’

  He shook his head, her mistake amusing him. ‘Maria was the quintessential British nanny, not a continental au pair. She’d been with Alex since Daniel was born, long before I came on the scene.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘An employee.’ Registering Frankie’s disgust, he continued unperturbed: ‘Don’t get me wrong, she was very nice and good with the child, but I’m not in the habit of fraternising with the hired help.’ He was taking the piss, putting Frankie in her place.

  She didn’t bite. ‘Local woman?’

  ‘Yes, unless she’s moved away. You’ll have to ask Alex.’

  ‘They kept in touch?’

  ‘Again, you’ll have to ask my wife.’

  ‘Can we return to Justine for a moment? Specifically, to her living arrangements.’ Frankie was building up to the six-million-dollar question, his jugular in sight, if not in striking distance. ‘Was the annex exclusively her domain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you ever visited her there, sir?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question.’

  ‘And an impertinent one,’ he said. ‘As I told you a moment ago, childcare is Alex’s domain, not mine. I have little to do with the domestic staff.’

  Frankie kept up the pressure. ‘A simple yes or no will do.’

  ‘No then.’

  ‘You have never visited her there?’

  He sighed. ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘I thought I’d give you the opportunity to reconsider.’

  ‘I’ve never so much as set foot inside the place. That should be clear enough, even for you.’

  Frankie took her time making a word-for-word note of what he’d said. ‘So, just to keep it open and above board, you two were not having an affair?’

  ‘No, we were not.’ Despite the air conditioning, Parker was sweating. ‘Why would you ask me that?’

  ‘It’s what I’m paid for. What about her Renault?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Have you ever been inside that vehicle?’

  Parker stroked his chin. ‘I believe so. She gave me a lift to the garage once to pick up my car when it was in for a service.’

  ‘They didn’t have a courtesy car?’

  His eyes were like lasers. ‘As I recall, there wasn’t one available.’

  Frankie wrote down his answer. ‘Forensic officers found a number of different sets of fingerprints in her vehicle. I’m going to need your prints and a buccal swab for elimination purposes – and Daniel’s too, for the same reason.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Alex said Justine transported him all over.’ Frankie performed the procedures, marking the containers with Parker’s details and an exhibit reference, placing the samples in evidence bags which she then signed and dated. She held up the samples. ‘Please don’t concern yourself about these, they’ll be destroyed afterwards.’ She stood up, telling him she had all she needed for now.

  Parker hauled himself off his chair looking smug, like he was home and dry. He couldn’t look any more pleased had he won the lottery. As he followed Frankie out, she stopped short of the door.

  ‘Oh . . . ’ She turned to face him. ‘I almost forgot. A team of crime scene investigators will be arriving shortly to examine Justine’s rooms. DI Stone and I apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.’

  34

  Andrea McGovern kissed Frankie on both cheeks as she stepped through the door. Dumping her bag on the floor, Frankie gave her a hug and traipsed along behind her into the living-dining room where the table was set for three, complete with pristine white linen napkins, candles and a bottle of Argentinian Malbec breathing in the centre.

  ‘Shall we sit outside?’ Andrea said.

  Frankie nodded, her eyes drifting around the living room as she wandered out on to the balcony. She loved Andrea’s style. So tasteful. She’d done it out nicely, each piece of furniture carefully chosen to complement the rest. The flat was in the historical market town of Morpeth with a magnificent view over the River Wansbeck, guaranteed to take the temperature down after a day of policing. No wonder so many coppers lived here.

  Frankie slipped on her sunglasses.

  Andrea arrived with a glass of wine, kicked off her flip-flops and sat down, crossing her long legs. The sun, low in the sky behind her, lit up her short-cropped, spiky blonde hair. They were about as close as two women could be, kindred spirits, well suited to a career in law enforcement.

  Frankie leaned into her chair and shut her eyes. She was exhausted, hungry and grateful not to be cooking tonight. ‘Dinner smells divine . . .’ she said, stifling a yawn. ‘You spoil me.’

  ‘You can’t live on take-out alone.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Frankie’s peepers were still shut.

  ‘And talking of divine dishes . . . How’s the Northern Rock?’ It was the station nickname for Stone.

  ‘He was busy in the incident room when I left. Paperwork, nothing that concerned me, he said. He’s a stubborn bugger sometimes. Practically ordered me to leave. I’m no good to him burned out, apparently.’

  ‘I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you?’

  Frankie was grinning. ‘You’re supposed to say, “You look amazing, Frankie . . . I don’t know how you do it, Frankie . . . You have such energy, Frankie . . .” or words to that effect.’ She opened her eyes. Another gaping yawn. ‘I suspect David will do anything rather than go home to his place, such as it is.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘Right after Luke died.’

  ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘Why would you be interested?’

  Andrea raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m nosy.’

  ‘He was in a bad way,’ Frankie said. ‘His cottage even worse. It looked like a bomb had dropped – and that’s before the ceiling fell in.’

  A third yawn was unstoppable. Frankie glanced over the balcony. The river beneath them was dead calm. Ducks floated silently downstream. An old couple were enjoying an evening stroll as the sun sank beneath the horizon. So peaceful.

  ‘Have you seen the Parkers yet?’ Andrea asked.

  Frankie gave a nod. ‘We interviewed them earlier.’

  ‘Anything interesting come up?’

  ‘My fist . . . almost. If nothing else, Timothy Parker is guilty of being a prize arsehole. Honestly, he’s so condescending. I wanted to punch his lights out. He deliberately rubs me up the wrong way. I’m trying to keep an open mind, but you should’ve heard him—’

  ‘You should have put him in his place—’

  ‘I did. It’ll take more than him to rattle me.’

  ‘So, what’s the story?’

  ‘Not sure yet. Daniel Scott is absolutely devastated.’ Frankie met Andrea’s gaze. ‘Stone wanted him processed and told before a forensics team arrived. Can you believe his mother asked me to break the news about Justine? She was with me to pick up the pieces. Even so, I think it would’ve been better coming from her. That said, she didn’t have much time to prepare or practise her delivery. You’d think working in PR, she’d have found the words.’

  ‘It’s not the easiest thing to do though, is it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. By the way, thanks for telling Justine’s parents. Stone really appreciated that. We both did.’

  ‘The least I could do. Where were the Parkers at the time of Justine’s death?’

  ‘In the house, allegedly. They alibi each other, though the timing is tight.’

  ‘You still think Justine was having an affair with her employer?’

  ‘Yeah, but he denied it.’ Frankie loved that she could talk to Andrea away from the office and bounce i
deas around, use her as a sounding board in complete confidence that anything she said would go no further. ‘He’s a slippery bastard. He claims he’s never been in her flat – she lives in a separate annex. So it’s a provable lie if he has.’

  ‘Maybe he hasn’t.’

  ‘I’d put money on it.’

  ‘What about her vehicle?’

  ‘He admits to that. Alleges she once gave him a lift, so if his prints and DNA are found there, he has a good excuse. Different if our bods find anything in her digs—’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Frankie took her glass away from her lips. ‘Depends where we find his DNA. I asked the Murder Investigation Team to fast-track samples taken from the annex and the laundry room in the main house. There were unwashed bedsheets in the dirty-linen basket and I wanted them tested. The SIO wouldn’t bite. He’s sent some samples off and is holding on to others to see if we get anywhere.’

  ‘That’s frustrating.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘You don’t think you’re being optimistic?’ Seeing Frankie frown, Andrea explained her thinking: ‘Even if you find his DNA in the annex, technically it’s his house. You’d expect to find it there, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘So why lie about it?’

  ‘I’m only saying. Any good lawyer . . .’ She didn’t need to finish the sentence and moved on to another. ‘How did you swing it? A forensic sweep is a big deal.’

  ‘Not in a murder investigation. Victim’s home is the starting point. Stone backed me up. He trusts my intuition.’

  ‘Big mistake.’ Andrea grinned.

  Frankie laughed.

  It was an in-joke between them.

  When they there were young in service, Andrea had been invited to the Olivers’ home several times: for dinner, festive occasions, any excuse for a party. Clan Oliver loved a blowout. Over time, Frankie couldn’t move without her tagging along. She began to feel claustrophobic, as if she had a permanent shadow that didn’t belong to her. Misconstruing Andrea’s motivation as a desire to elevate their relationship to something more than friendship, Frankie sat her down one day and told her to back off. Andrea had laughed until she cried, and the reason for that had just put her key in the front door.

  ‘Hey!’ Rae Oliver’s smile lit up her face as she joined them on the balcony. ‘What a lovely surprise, I didn’t know you were coming!’ She landed a kiss on Frankie’s cheek. ‘One for you,’ she said. ‘And . . .’ She almost leapt on Andrea. ‘One for my girl.’ The embrace was passionate and reciprocated.

  ‘Put her down,’ Frankie faked disgust. ‘You don’t know where she’s been.’

  It hadn’t been her that Andrea was interested in all those years ago. It was her big sister, Rae. Hence the jibe about her intuition, or lack thereof. It had taken her parents a while to accept their same-sex relationship, but accept it they had, wholeheartedly – and so had Frankie. Rae and Andrea were out and proud, very much in love, civilly partnered for the past nine years. They enjoyed the kind of relationship Frankie wanted when the right person came along.

  Rae excused herself and left the room to grab a drink.

  Andrea took the opportunity to quiz Frankie further on her first murder case. ‘You were about to tell me what the story was.’

  ‘There isn’t one yet . . .’ Frankie said. ‘Although Justine’s diary makes interesting reading.’ Rae reappeared and they stopped talking.

  35

  The minute hand moved forward a notch, the grandfather clock striking the eleventh hour. After an early swim, Alex and Tim had gone to vote, a big day for everyone in the UK, potentially a life-changing event, the referendum affording the nation the opportunity to influence Britain’s future. But as soon as they returned from the polling station, Tim had hit the drink, all day and into the evening. As the hours ticked by, he’d become more and more combative and was making little sense. One minute he was raging about Daniel’s disappearance, which he kept insisting was not his doing, the next lamenting Justine’s death, a blow that seemed to have knocked him for six. Currently, he was rambling about other odd events, occurrences he was unable to explain, a long-winded account of old acquaintances giving him a wide berth, sending him private messages in reply to ones he’d never sent – abusive, most of them.

  Tim was beginning to doubt his own sanity. He was leaking friends left, right and centre, not to mention clients, and the police didn’t believe a word he said. Alex had suggested that he change his password, send a note to everyone in his address book, private and personal, letting his contacts know that his account had been hacked. ‘You must nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand,’ she’d said. ‘You can’t bury your head, hoping it’ll go away. You need to get a grip.’ Didn’t the stupid cow think he knew that? His anger had flared and she’d backed down. He was painfully aware that something had to be done, but that bitch Oliver thought he was guilty whatever he said. She had him in her sights and had made it clear that she was gunning for him.

  Alex had no sympathy for Tim. How could he blame DS Oliver for suspecting him? He’d done himself no favours, bad-mouthing her the way he had, taking a swipe at her at every opportunity, belittling her. It should come as no surprise if the detective gave him a hard time. He needed to show some respect. When Alex told him that, he’d waved her away dismissively, asking her what the hell she was staring at. She’d kept her voice low, determined not to engage; she’d be wasting her breath when he was in such a black mood. At one point, he was yelling so much, she thought he might wake Daniel. She’d been forced to tell him to keep it down.

  Glancing across the room, she studied her husband. He looked a mess: dishevelled, unshaven – a five o’clock shadow giving him a sinister appearance. It wasn’t like him to let himself go. He was a far cry from the person she’d married three years ago. As far as she was concerned, his confusion was self-inflicted. She’d seen him popping pills when Stone and Oliver left the house last night, and again this morning, and had challenged him on it. He denied it, of course, but she suspected that he was too far gone to stop. He was beginning to act as if the whole wide world was against him – including her – and seemed hell-bent on making himself ill. Feeling under pressure from the police was only part of his mania.

  Tim turned to face his wife. She looked dreadful. He reached out to her and then took his hand away, guilt eating him up. Her expression spoke volumes. Through the fog of booze and pills, he imagined her comparing him to Rob Scott, the creep she was once shacked up with, a drunk who used to climb into bed stinking of booze and expect her to respond to his advances. If he didn’t get his way, he’d become abusive. And, if that didn’t work, he’d turn violent. It pained Tim to think that she was now frightened of him. If Alex was drawing parallels with Rob Scott, Tim could see her point, but did she really think he’d done something wrong, something so terrible he might even kill for it?

  With that worrying thought lingering in his mind, he turned away, the thought making him flip. Telling Alex to go to bed, he poured himself another stiff drink. As he picked up his glass, he caught sight of himself in the blackened window, his reflection looking malevolently back at him. Justine’s ghost stirred . . . Her voice forcing itself upon him: Are you going to tell her, or will I? That’s what she’d said on her return from the police station, having been questioned over Daniel’s disappearance. Standing there in the hallway, exposed and fearful, Tim had failed to hide his horror as Alex turned to face him.

  Things had gone from bad to worse when Justine blurted out the DM revelation in front of his wife, accusing investigators of making her feel like a criminal. Tim had felt the ground shift beneath his feet. What choice did he have but to come clean? For a moment, he’d thought the au pair was going to say more – something he didn’t want Alex or anyone else to know – then bottled out at the last minute. His world began to tilt . . . It was only a matter of time befor
e it would collapse.

  36

  Frankie made numerous calls while waiting for Stone outside Newcastle Civic Centre where he was meeting the coroner. Her mind was in turmoil. Everything Andrea had said about the two drivers on either side of the humpback bridge checked out in terms of detail, though her assessment of the psychological effects of the ‘accident’ were way out. Audi driver, Trevor Taylor, was in a terrible state, according to his wife. He’d suffered delayed shock over the weekend, already undergoing treatment from his GP. Ford driver, Joanna Brent, on the other hand, had come to terms with what she’d seen and was in far better shape than Frankie had been led to believe she might be when they spoke on the phone.

  Like any Monday morning, the city was busy, people rushing about their business, in and out of the local government offices and to Northumbria University opposite, students and lecturers laden down with books and heavy bags. To pass the time, Frankie had been rereading copies of Justine Segal’s diary and address book, her father’s mantra like an earworm inside her head: Understand the victim; understand the crime.

  Digging into the victim’s lifestyle was paying off. She’d learned things about the au pair that pointed to motive and she couldn’t wait to share her findings with Stone. She glanced at her watch, wondering what was keeping him. He’d gone off to see the coroner in the hope of persuading her to release his brother’s body for burial. He was desperate to get the funeral over and done with, for Ben’s sake as much as his own. Though Frankie didn’t know the details, Andrea had completed the accident investigation and submitted her report to the coroner, so why the hold-up?

  Frankie was about to go back to her reading when the DI appeared at the top of the steps. He shook his head as he walked towards her.

  He’d drawn a blank.

  ‘What’s taking so long?’ Frankie was irritated by the cruel delay.

  Stone shrugged. ‘Some issue with Luke’s medical records.’

  ‘What? That’s ridiculous – he died in a car crash over a week ago.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’