‘So,’ she broke the spell, ‘no incidents at all since our last session?’
He looked away and sighed.
‘No incidents. But there was a moment this morning where I found it . . . hard to keep everything together.’
He glanced back to see her sit up a little in the chair – her ready-to-listen pose – then looked past her out of the window. He needed a cigarette.
‘Maybe you could tell me about it,’ she prompted.
He bowed his head.
‘Things have been relatively stable recently. It’s not that the feelings have gone – they’re never gone – but they were . . . less painful somehow.’
She nodded. ‘Go on . . .’
‘It felt . . .’ He frowned for a moment, struggling to clarify the intangible. ‘It felt as though I was sort of removed from it – as though it was someone else’s pain and I was watching it; sympathetic but not really part of it. And then I was interviewing a woman at Portishead, and something she said must have caught me off guard. All those emotions, all the pain . . . it all washed right over me, like the tide on that damned beach . . .’
He shook his head, the words becoming difficult.
‘And then it wasn’t distant any more,’ he continued. ‘It was happening to me again. I felt like I was right back . . .’
He paused, but she allowed him the moment. In his pocket, his fingers traced the edges of the cigarette packet. Just a few more minutes . . .
‘I was right back at the time when I lost her,’ he said at last.
Jean’s eyes held him for a long moment.
‘And what happened next?’ she said quietly.
He allowed himself to recall the crisis, experiencing yet again the crushing weight of loss, the chasm of despair opening up in front of him.
‘Graham?’
He focused on the room – the beige carpet beneath them, the badly painted skirting boards, the small table – dragging himself back from the darkness.
‘I managed to hold on, I suppose. Until the worst of it passed.’
‘And now?’
‘Now?’ He stared out of the window for a moment before meeting her gaze again. ‘Now I’m extremely tired.’
She looked at him thoughtfully for a time.
‘I think it’s encouraging that you were able to deal with the situation, and emerge from it in control. I think this shows real progress, that you’re growing stronger.’
‘Thanks,’ Harland shrugged.
But he didn’t feel strong – just the opposite. He wondered how much strength he had left.
9
Monday, 4 June
Harland stared at the rain as it hit the windscreen, slowly melting his view of the car park into a shifting mosaic of indistinct shapes. With a relentless tip tap on the glass, one drop ran into another and began snaking down in long erratic trickles, new drops quickly falling to replace those that were lost. He leaned forward and switched off the engine, the sound of the rain swelling to fill the silence, then took his coffee from the drink-holder and warmed his palms on the cardboard cup.
It was strange for him to arrive at this time – he was usually early in, late out, stretching the hours away at both ends of the shift – but he wasn’t looking forward to work today. And unless Forensics came up with something significant, he had nothing good for his pointless daily report.
The hot coffee was burning his hands.
It had started so well – a challenging case to distract and occupy his mind, the opportunity to work with Mendel again – but now Blake’s interest meant it was becoming political. He had seen the signs already, but today . . . Today, things would be worse.
The pain in his hands was agonising, but he forced himself to wait.
Outside, the downpour continued. It wasn’t going to ease.
Slowly, he peeled his scalded palms away from the cup, supporting it between the tips of his fingers, breathing through the discomfort, mastering it. He could endure it. He could endure the coming hours.
Rain blew in as he opened the door and climbed out.
PC Gregg looked up as Harland stalked in.
‘Morning, sir,’ he smiled.
‘Morning, Stuart.’ Harland frowned, shaking his arms irritably, water dripping from his sleeves onto the floor. ‘Did you finish going over that CCTV footage from Avonmouth?’
‘Should finish it this morning. Nothing useful so far, though. Sorry,’ he said apologetically.
Harland shook his head. Another dead end for the report.
‘Worth a try,’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway, with a bit of luck Forensics will get something off the body.’
He prowled down the corridor to his office and shut the door behind him. It was a small room, dominated by a large desk and two huge filing cabinets that made the limited space seem even more cramped. The walls were off-white, bare except for a pair of laminated fire-safety notices by the door and a print of an Alpine lake in a simple wooden frame. A coat stand in the corner displayed a spare pair of trousers, as well as a new shirt, still in its cellophane bag.
Water was already seeping through his jacket as he slipped it off and draped it over the radiator to dry. Slumping down into the chair, he switched on his screen and took a careful sip of coffee. There were a few new emails but nothing urgent and, more importantly, nothing from the lab. He slid a printed sheet of paper from under the phone and ran his finger down the list of names until he found what he was looking for and dialled the number.
He sat back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes as he waited for an answer.
‘Good morning, this is DI Harland from Portishead. Has Doctor Brennan come in yet?’
He leaned forward, pulling a notepad and pen towards him.
‘No, I can hold on . . .’
His eye fell on the tiny, gold-framed photo of Alice beside his screen. Blonde hair, demure expression and mischievous eyes . . . For a long time after he returned to work he’d kept that picture in the drawer, unable to look at it. This morning he felt a renewed sense of loss as her face smiled out at him from years ago. He’d tried to bury his feelings, but the part of him that cried out for her rose starkly in his mind once more.
‘Hello?’
The quiet voice on the other end of the line snapped him back to the present.
‘Morning, Charles . . . Tell me you’ve got some good news.’
‘Patience is a virtue, Graham. We’ve only done the preliminary workup and there’s still a lot to go over.’
‘That doesn’t sound encouraging.’
‘It is what it is. Want me to run through the headlines?’
‘Please.’
‘Okay . . .’ Brennan started reading through his notes. ‘Cause of death was asphyxia – she was strangled, and it was hands-on-the-throat as you said. Killer was probably male, judging by the force used and the size of his hands. Oh, and I can’t be sure yet but I think he may have worn gloves.’
‘Really?’ Harland scribbled in his notebook. In warm weather, gloves suggested something premeditated.
‘Yes, thought you’d like that,’ Brennan said. ‘We’ve narrowed the time of death to somewhere between three a.m. and nine a.m. the day before, so the body had probably been out there for twenty-four hours or so when it was discovered. It’ll be hard to get more specific – the tides haven’t done us any favours.’
‘Do you think she may have been washed up from somewhere else?’
‘No. Her lungs were absolutely dry, and there was a clog of undissolved mud in her mouth. It looks as though she was killed right there where you found her.’
‘That’s what we thought,’ Harland agreed. ‘Anything else on the body?’
‘She appears to have taken a serious blow to the stomach. Did you see the bruising?’
‘No . . .’
The door opened and DS Pope wandered into the room. Harland’s shoulders sagged. Somehow Russell Pope just didn’t look like an officer – below average height, slightly chubby figure, with
glasses that made his eyes appear small.
‘Morning, sir,’ he mouthed, with a bland smile. His thick hair seemed lighter since the holiday and he was undoubtedly pleased with his tan.
‘Something hit her very hard,’ Brennan was saying. ‘It looks like there was a bit of a struggle but this blow was much worse than the usual knocks and grazes you’d expect to find – one of her ribs was pushed right back into the abdomen.’
Harland nodded and continued to make notes, aware of Pope hovering in front of his desk.
‘I’d say that it happened just before she was killed,’ Brennan continued. ‘But there’s no sign of any interference with the body after death, sexual or otherwise.’
‘Sorry, Charles, just a moment.’ Harland put his hand over the mouthpiece and stared up at Pope. ‘I’m on the phone.’
Pope just nodded.
‘No rush,’ he shrugged, oblivious.
Harland glared at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the call.
‘So, no DNA then?’ He sighed.
‘Nothing so far.’
‘And the fragments of plastic?’
‘They’re all consistent with the type of sports watch a runner might wear,’ Brennan said. ‘The pieces under the body suggest there may be a small patch of ground that wasn’t swept clean by the waves but we’ve not found anything else in it yet.’
‘Keep looking, will you?’ Harland continued to make notes but his eyes were following Pope around the room.
‘Don’t worry,’ Brennan replied. ‘Look, I have another call waiting, can I get back to you on the rest of it?’
‘Of course.’ Harland put his pen on the desk. ‘Thanks, Charles. Bye.’
He put the phone down as Pope turned to face him with his usual watery smile.
‘Things going badly?’ he asked, with a monotonous contentment that Harland had learned to detest.
‘Today hasn’t started that well,’ Harland answered truthfully, but the irony was wasted on Pope. ‘Was there something you wanted?’
‘Well, first day back after two weeks lying in the sun . . .’ he gave a knowing nod ‘. . . I thought I’d better roll my sleeves up and help you out.’
Harland stared at him coldly but said nothing.
‘The murder on Severn Beach?’ Pope prompted him. ‘I’ve been hearing all about it ever since I got in this morning.’
‘I’m not sure that would be the best use of your time,’ Harland began. ‘Mendel’s up to speed on it already and the team are making progress.’
‘Didn’t sound like it from that phone call,’ Pope said. ‘Strangulation, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s probably a sexual assault gone wrong,’ Pope decided. ‘They had something similar happen over in Newport a few years back – although I think they caught the guy who did that, I’ll have to check – but this’ll turn out to be either a boyfriend or most likely an opportunist pervert, you’ll see.’
Harland put down his pen again.
‘I think Mendel can manage for now,’ he said, firmly. ‘Go and see what else he had on before this cropped up; see if there’s anything you can take off his plate.’
Pope assumed a puzzled frown.
‘Well, it’s up to you, I suppose—’
‘That’s quite correct,’ said Harland.
Pope gave him an appraising nod then shrugged and turned to the door.
‘If it is a failed sexual assault, we should be trawling through the database, looking for someone who fits the profile—’ He caught Harland’s eye. ‘But I’ll go and check if there’s anything that Mendel needs me to wrap up for him.’
Harland waited until the door closed, then looked down and sighed. Staring at his notes, he wondered what he could scrape together for yet another unsatisfactory report.
The photographs of the scene told him nothing new – just that same ghostly silhouette sprawled on the dark mud. He’d been there, seen the body in situ, studied the ground around her, and walked the beach. Nothing. He turned his attention to the list of clothing and personal effects: T-shirt, shorts, sports bra, briefs, sports socks and trainers – proper running ones apparently – and a few keys on a key chain. They’d retrieved several pieces of what seemed to be a cheap digital watch – the kind with a stopwatch timer, ideal for runners. He pondered the pictures of each item, willing something to jump out at him, haunted by a feeling that there was something there but he lacked the wit to see it.
A little after midday, there was a knock on the door and Mendel leaned into the office.
‘You sent Pope to tidy up after me?’ he asked, with a grin.
Harland smiled. ‘Have you eaten yet?’
‘I was going to grab something in a minute.’
‘Come on.’ Harland stood up. ‘Let’s go across the road and I’ll get you a drink.’
The light drizzle eased as they walked along Wyndham Way, but the pub was still quiet when they entered. Harland set a half-pint of beer in front of Mendel, then eased himself in at the table, sipping from a tall glass of Coke as he did so.
‘So, you tracked down the former boyfriend then?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ Mendel nodded. ‘Simon Matthews. He’s a lucky boy actually. Turns out he was away on a stag weekend in Amsterdam – flew out of Heathrow early on the Friday, back late on Sunday – so he’s got a whole group of lads plus the Passport Control people as his alibi.’
‘Oh well,’ Harland reflected, ‘I wasn’t really expecting a signed confession from him. If he’s not in the picture he might as well be completely out of it. What about that guy she liked at her work, the married one?’
‘That’d be Phil Teyson – he’s the only married bloke there under fifty – although we spoke to everyone in the firm. Same reaction from all of them – can’t believe it, tearful – just what you’d expect. We did a bit of digging, and I got Sue to have a quiet word with one or two of the girls in the office to see if she could pick up any gossip, but there’s nothing there, I’m sure of it.’ Mendel shrugged, then raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
Harland nodded slowly, turning a beer mat between his fingers.
‘How did we get on with the neighbours?’ he asked, suddenly.
‘As it happens, we had a very nice chat with the woman who lives next door to Vicky.’ Mendel sat back and smiled. ‘She’s great. Says she doesn’t like to pry, keeps herself to herself, but she knows every bloody thing that goes on in that close – spends a lot of time at the net curtains, I reckon.’
‘Neighbourhood Watch.’ Harland smiled.
‘Exactly. She seemed pretty sure that Vicky didn’t have a bloke – said it was a shame really, a nice girl like that needed to get out and enjoy herself after all she’d been through . . .’
Mendel paused and looked at Harland, trying to read his expression.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Sorry.’ Harland put the beer mat down. ‘The more dead ends we find, the more I’m worried about missing something. You know me . . . By the way, Charles says our killer wore gloves, which might hint at something . . . planned.’
He sipped his drink, then stared at the glass for a moment.
‘It feels too . . . tidy. You know? In the spur of the moment, the heat of passion, people make mistakes, they’re seen, they leave things behind.’
‘But not this guy,’ Mendel said.
‘Not this guy,’ Harland agreed. A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Pope told me it was a sexual assault gone bad.’
‘Pope’s an idiot,’ Mendel scowled.
Harland’s phone was ringing as he strode back into his office. Pulling off his jacket, he grabbed the receiver as he walked round the desk.
‘DI Harland?’
‘It’s Charles,’ said a voice. ‘I just thought I’d give you a call, let you know how we’re getting on with the analysis on that mud.’
‘Get to the point,’ Harland scolded, draping his jacket over the back of th
e chair. ‘What have you found?’
‘Fibres,’ Charles replied. ‘We’ve picked up several strands of dark blue nylon from the mud under the victim’s chest – anywhere else and it would have been washed away, but this is new, comparatively clean, with no sign of exposure to the elements.’
‘That’s good.’ Harland scribbled the details on his notepad. ‘Do you think the killer was wearing a dark blue top or jacket?’
‘Well, it doesn’t match anything the victim was wearing,’ Charles agreed. ‘No guarantees, of course, but it’s something.’
‘It is.’
‘Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment, but we’ll see if we can work out what sort of clothing we’re dealing with. I’ll let you know.’
‘Thanks, Charles.’
He put the phone down. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And, he thought as he switched on his screen, it was something new to put in his report. Smiling grimly to himself, he started to type.
As usual, the kettle was empty. Scowling, Harland moved across to the sink and turned on the tap. How hard was it to refill the damn thing when you used the last of the water? He clicked the switch down hard, then wandered out of the kitchen while he waited for the water to boil.
Moving into the main office, he found PC Gregg leaning back on a chair, drinking a cup of tea. Harland frowned.
‘Nothing to do, Stuart?’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The young officer tipped his chair forward and looked up. ‘Is there something you need?’
‘Finished those statements?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Gregg nodded, reaching for a folder.
‘Then I’d like you to check the victim’s effects. Start with that key chain.’
‘Sir?’
Harland sighed.
‘She had three keys on it,’ he explained. ‘Two will be her front-door keys, but I’d like to know what the third one was for. It’s probably for a door at her office. Find out for me, will you?’
Gregg shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘And Stuart?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Fill up the bloody kettle when you empty it.’
He strode back to the kitchen to find the water had boiled. Rummaging in the cupboard, he found his mug, then reached over to take a tea bag from the box.
Eye Contact Page 7
