The Lost

by Mari Hannah

  ‘I’m sure that’s true. Maybe she rushed off on holiday before she could wash them and, as you say, Justine didn’t do her job properly. How was I to know that the sheets were not fresh? A man has to do what a man has to do when his wife is away. Three people. Three samples. Makes sense to me.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon! That is rubbish and you know it. Maybe Mrs Parker could shed more light on it than you.’

  Parker was angry . . . More than angry.

  Frankie had seen the involuntary muscle movement in his face. What’s more, he knew it. It was as if a switch had been thrown. She’d been in the job long enough to recognise the signs – in suspects and in colleagues. Given the right stimulus, she possessed it too. There was a part of it in everyone, an inner rage most right-minded folk could suppress. For a small percentage of individuals there was no off switch. Parker was one of those. For a moment, she thought he’d play right into her hands, then the clever bastard wrong-footed her again.

  ‘You said you wanted elimination prints for Justine’s car,’ he said. ‘Not for her living quarters and certainly not for mine.’

  ‘Please don’t raise your voice, Mr Parker. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’d already ruled yourself out for the annex.’

  ‘You also said the samples taken would be destroyed—’

  ‘And they will be,’ Frankie said. ‘At the end of this case.’

  Parker began to flap. ‘I did not give my consent for anything other than her car.’

  ‘Calm down.’ Frankie didn’t mean it. The more agitated he became, the better she liked it. ‘It’s perfectly acceptable for us to use these samples in relation to this matter. We didn’t need your permission. This is a wide-ranging murder enquiry. It would be a dereliction of duty if we didn’t look at the evidence we’ve collected in its entirety—’

  ‘You have harassed me from the moment Daniel went missing, DS Oliver. You can count on a call to the Chief Constable.’

  ‘You’re being paranoid, sir. It must be all the steroids you’re taking.’ Her eyes locked on to his. ‘What are they for? To combat ageing or to enhance your sexual performance?’ She didn’t expect or receive an answer and had to work very hard not to smirk. ‘As far as making a complaint goes, that is your right, of course. I can assure you that I have acted in accordance with the law.’

  Parker glared at her across the interview room. He looked more worried than ever before. Frankie was keen to capitalise on his loss of self-control. She was in no rush. The longer she waited to pose another question, the more frustrated he became. ‘You are a pathological liar, Mr Parker. You’ve been caught out and we want the truth now. Are you aware that you have something of a reputation?’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘A witness has come forward.’ Frankie glanced at Stone. ‘We didn’t even have to go and look for her. She approached us, entirely voluntarily you understand, very keen to give you a character reference. She described you as a serial philanderer. Not a very flattering label, I grant you. However, there may be some truth in it. We never write off a statement if we agree with it.’

  ‘I demand to know the identity of that witness.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘No. And by definition, “serial”’ – he used his fingers as inverted commas – ‘requires a string of affairs and you’ve put forward no evidence of that.’

  ‘I was never any good at maths or English. Detecting is my only skill—’

  ‘Get to the point!’

  There it was again: that switch.

  Frankie hoped the CCTV trained on him would pick it up. She’d make time to watch it later, slow the footage down and discuss it with Stone. The longer the interview progressed, the more anxious Parker became. His non-verbal communication was giving him away: hands never still, an inability to maintain eye-contact. This middle-class druggie needed a fix.

  Parker took a deep breath. ‘What are you accusing me of exactly?’

  ‘Remember we discussed Daniel’s former British nanny, Maria Friedman? You omitted to tell me that, since she left your wife’s employ, the two of you have engaged in a sexual relationship. She’s prepared to make a statement to that effect. Do you deny it?’

  ‘No.’ He was cornered.

  ‘At last you’ve admitted your infidelity. That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Are you going to be as upfront about your relationship with Justine?’ The silence was deafening. ‘Mr Parker? I’m sure you want to hold on to your wife, if only for financial security. We happen to know that your company is in difficulty and have learned that there have been allegations and counter allegations as to who is responsible for the debts you are now facing.’

  He looked away, sweat visible on his brow.

  ‘Can you tell us about that?’ Frankie knew she had him.

  ‘My business finances are private and irrelevant to this enquiry.’

  ‘Fair enough. Let’s move on then—’

  ‘Look, I’m holding my hands up here. I had a thing with Justine. Very briefly. Nothing serious. Naturally, I didn’t want Alex knowing about it. But I didn’t kill her, I swear. Now you have what you want, I’d like to go.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. But why should we believe you when you’ve clearly been lying to us?’

  ‘Because it’s the truth.’ The guy was practically hyperventilating. ‘On its own, your forensics won’t be enough to charge, let alone convict me. We both know it, so I think we’re done here.’ He pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. ‘Charge me or I’m leaving.’

  Frankie looked at Stone.

  Parker was right. They didn’t have enough to hold him. The interview had provided proof of infidelity and systematic lying they believed was motivated by a need to hang on to a wealthy wife. In that respect, Kat Irwin had been spot on: he was no different from Rob Scott.

  ‘Mr Parker, we are far from done . . .’ Even in her own head, Frankie sounded supremely confident. ‘A murder investigation is a marathon, not a sprint. We usually get there in the end. You will be bailed to return to this police station in a month from now.’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘This is a complaint form. Be sure to spell my name right: Detective Sergeant Frances Oliver. You are free to go.’

  47

  Three floors up, Frankie watched Timothy Parker leave the front entrance of Northern Command HQ. As he strode across the car park towards his high-end motor, he looked up, his pace slowing, a smug expression on his face. He opened the door and climbed in. Scooping his driving specs off the dash, he put them on, a last glance in her direction. He was gone in a flash. In Frankie’s eyes, he had few redeeming features. During the interview, they had both given away more than expected. But, in real terms, he’d probably come out on top. What niggled her most was that he knew it.

  Stone arrived at her shoulder. ‘Don’t take it too hard, Frank. You did a good job.’

  ‘I’m not.’ She turned to face him. ‘I can’t deny that I’m disappointed. He’s an objectionable prick who’ll shag anything that moves but, deep down, I don’t think he killed Justine Segal. I’m sorry, David. I’m just not feeling it. To be honest, I don’t know if he’s got the balls. We have absolutely nothing that ties him to her death.’

  ‘His only alibi is his wife,’ Stone reminded her.

  ‘You think she’s protecting him?’

  ‘I really don’t know. She was certain that he was in the house when Justine was killed. She was less sure on exactly when she left to pick Daniel up from school. I was banking on a little wriggle room, hoping her timing was off. Maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.’

  ‘If Alex found out he has more respect for her cash than he does for her, she might think harder.’

  Despite the DI’s kinds words a moment ago, Frankie could tell his head was down. Looking around the office, she could see that the rest of their crew weren’t faring
any better. The fact that Parker had walked without charge had come as a bitter blow. They were trying hard to hide their disappointment.

  It wasn’t working.

  ‘Where do you want to debrief?’

  ‘My office,’ Stone said. ‘This lot look like they’re going to cut their throats.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to give them something to smile about. Rule 6 in the Frank Oliver Handbook: Low morale is strictly forbidden. Rule 7: No one goes home until I say so.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s push on.’

  They withdrew from the window, grabbed a bottle of water from the vending machine and sought the privacy of his office, telling the team they didn’t wish to be disturbed. The SIO would not be happy and they were both under pressure to come up with a credible suspect.

  It wasn’t happening.

  Stone settled in his seat. ‘Parker’s not out of the woods yet – agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Then the way I see it, there are only two scenarios in play here. Either we’re on the right lines and this is to do with Justine’s diary – in which case we keep digging – or we’re missing something vital, some local intel in the months leading up to her death—’

  ‘Our lads did a thorough check on that,’ Frankie said. ‘Nothing happened in that area that’s relevant to us. There were no break-ins, no assaults or moving traffic offences. You saw it up there. It’s a sleepy hollow that hasn’t changed for centuries. If a pig farts, it’s headline news. You’re a thug if you don’t say please. Nothing goes on, believe me. Nowt nasty, anyway. Until this . . .’

  ‘Then we’re back to that list,’ Stone said.

  ‘That’s down to me. The receiver couldn’t have done a better job on Justine’s diary, I promise you.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting otherwise.’

  ‘Aren’t you? Other than the four I originally mentioned to the SIO, the others have been corroborated one hundred per cent. I double-checked them myself.’

  He eyed her across his desk. ‘This investigation reminds me of one I was involved with down south. On the face of it, the victim was the perfect wife and mother, but scratch beneath the surface and there was a femme fatale at work. The woman had a whole other life. We uncovered multiple relationships with men and women: mènage á trois, bondage – you name it, she was into it. The husband, a strong suspect, was arrested for her murder. We figured he’d uncovered her interesting lifestyle but later binned that theory and let him go. He knew nowt, nor did any of the people she worked with. The real killer was an ex-plaything she didn’t rate any more. She was blackmailing him and it backfired.’

  Frankie thought for a moment. ‘There is Alex, of course. If she knew Parker was having an affair with Justine, then that gives her motive. Kat Irwin planted the seed while the two were on holiday, remember.’

  ‘And she refused to believe it,’ Stone said. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Frankie. I have my doubts about Kat Irwin’s motivation for that phone call. She was quick to point the finger at Justine and, at her own admission, has never got on with Parker. Maybe she’s a poisonous troublemaker, like you suggested.’

  ‘Why though? There must be a reason.’

  ‘Who knows? Some people are perverse. Of the four you couldn’t rule out initially, Wise is gone. So if it isn’t him, let’s concentrate on the others and see where it takes us.’

  ‘Curtis is still a candidate in my view.’

  ‘Agreed. What about Hamilton, the guy working in Gretna?’

  ‘Also ruled out—’

  Stone saw red. ‘Says who?’

  ‘The SIO.’

  ‘How come I don’t know about it?’

  ‘Police Scotland made the enquiries at the garage, David. They passed it directly to the Murder Investigation Team. I’ve not seen it myself but I was told that the SIO was entirely satisfied.’

  ‘Then there’s your starter for ten, Frank. Sharpe has gone on leave for two weeks. I’m acting SIO now, which means we to cross-check every piece of evidence, even if the MIT have referenced him off. But be discreet around his team. If Sharpe is right and they think you’re questioning his authority, it’ll piss them off. If he’s got this wrong, it might do us some good.’ He left her to it.

  48

  Slipping her warrant card into a slot on her computer, Frankie logged on with renewed enthusiasm. Clasping her hands behind her head, she replayed her conversation with Stone, specifically his suggestion that they were missing something vital. Perhaps some local intel in the months leading up to her death. David was wrong about that. DS Dick Abbott, a trusted colleague, had carried out those enquiries. A detective of twenty-five years’ service, he’d made sure that it was done properly. There were detectives she’d never doubt.

  Abbott was one of them.

  No sooner had that certainty arrived in her head than it was pushed aside by a more dispiriting thought. Since she’d joined the CID, things had changed drastically. A reduction in staff across all departments meant that there was no longer an opportunity to speak to a local beat officer who’d know his or her patch, inside out. No longer were they on speaking terms with members of the public in the community they served. Nowadays that didn’t happen. A receiver or statement reader would issue actions to detectives that were explicit and pertinent to an investigation. Once those instructions were carried out, the job was written off, the action complete.

  It was a case of: in, out, move on.

  The fact that detectives had lost the luxury of spending time with witnesses – as they would have in her father’s time – was a sore point for Frankie. Her dad had impressed on her the fact that such discussions often produced a nugget of information that could turn an investigation on its head. A fighting chance was all she wanted.

  Was that too much to ask?

  With that depressing thought lingering, Frankie pressed a few keys on her computer and waited for the page to load. When it did, she found that no follow-up action had been issued in respect of East, West and Middle cottages. She noted that Andrea’s enquiries with Marjorie Smith at West Cottage were marked as complete. Mitchell’s were ongoing but, to be on the safe side, Frankie went over them carefully, finding nothing that sparked her interest. Maybe there was nothing to find. She scanned text relating to the remaining tenants. None had reported any visitors to neighbouring properties that might have been the offender she was seeking. A single man, Barry Hall, lived in Middle Cottage. He was a computer programmer, aged sixty, whose business premises were in Hexham. East Cottage was occupied by a married couple, Teresa and Jerry Dixon, who both worked for Newcastle City Council at the Civic Centre. The initial statements from all three were similar: out at work; never saw or heard a thing.

  Bugger.

  Frankie switched to the force-wide incident log, typing in the code for the area of interest, entering the date of Justine Segal’s death. The murder incident was a mammoth item with everything listed, including all personnel involved, from first responders through all departments, including Traffic and the dog section. Literally everything about the job was outlined in meticulous detail.

  It made for grim reading.

  Her eyes travelled down the screen. Offenders returning to the scene might be a joke in crime fiction, but there were isolated incidents where it had happened for real. She wanted to make sure that no one had been sniffing around her crime scene since Andrea had completed the house-to-house. The area was now flooded with officers making enquiries, asking about parked cars, strangers in surrounding villages and in woods being used as a lovers’ lane. Often, a vehicle might belong to local or national press; a rubbernecker or merely an innocent traveller passing through. If they existed, all would need further investigation. One new item hit her in the eye that hadn’t been there last time she checked:

  Burglary: other than dwelling.

  The details underneath the item gave
her cause for concern. Hackles rising, she picked up her phone, speed-dialling Stone’s mobile. The ringing tone stopped. ‘I found something,’ she said. ‘You need to get in here.’

  Seconds later, his office door opened and he walked through it, his expression a mixture of curiosity and optimism. ‘Don’t tell me you cracked the case single-handedly. My ego couldn’t handle it.’

  Her grin was infectious.

  Other detectives joined in – a momentary pressure release. The buzz and banter took a moment to die down. Frankie waited for Stone to grab a spare seat and haul it over to her desk. By the time he’d sat down, the team were all ears.

  ‘Ignore your phones,’ she said. ‘You lot need to hear this too.’

  Stone was wary. ‘Don’t tell me we missed something glaringly obvious—’

  ‘No, Dick handled this. Everything was done by the book, boss. We were, however, concentrating on what was going on prior to Justine’s death. I decided to look at what might have happened since, and I struck lucky. On Wednesday the twenty-ninth of June, Jerry Dixon who lives in East Cottage reported a burglary to his shed.’ She glanced at Stone. ‘You think his name is Jeremiah, boss? I’m surprised you haven’t been round there to introduce yourself.’

  Everyone laughed.

  Any self-respecting Mark Knopfler fan knew that the name appeared in the opening line of ‘Sailing to Philadelphia’ – a song that had been repeating in Frankie’s head since she first saw Dixon’s name on the log.

  She stopped ribbing her boss, got up and crossed the room, asking everyone to pay attention to a blown-up image pinned to the wall, part of an Ordnance Survey Map that showed the crime scene, the row of cottages she was referring to, the humpback bridge, the woods on the south side of the small country lane and surrounding farmland.