by Ricki Thomas
She spat her reply, still disgusted. “Darren Delaney.”
Harry was instantly flustered on recognising Darren’s handiwork, putting two and two together and realising there was more to Vicki and Darren than she, or he, had let on. “Um, Vicki, we’re not stopping. Darren and his parents tell me you managed to get hold of Sophie’s passport. Is it possible we could have it?”
“I won’t be finished here until seven, and it’s hidden safely at home. And I’ll want something in return for my trouble, too.”
Harry glanced at his watch, it was six, just an hour to go, and he was getting used to these demands for money, everybody seemed to want a piece of his savings. Sighing. “Will a hundred Euros do?” We knew where the banks were, an hour would be enough time to walk to the ATM and withdraw some cash.
“Make it two hundred, and it’s a deal.” Harry nodded. “Give me half an hour or so to get home and settled. I’ll have it ready in exchange for the money. Meet me outside the main entrance to the apartments, we’ll say at half seven.”
Bob, fresh from the shower and wearing a dressing gown, was relieved to see Maureen as she came through the door, albeit confused by the unfamiliar summer jacket, zipped up over her clothing. “Have you been treating yourself?”
Maureen, pouring a large glass of red wine, nodded. “Do you like it? I got it from that English boutique, you know, the one next to Woody’s Bar. I was a bit cold.”
Bob glanced through the patio door, surprised, himself sweating from the heat of the evening sun. “I hope you’re not going down with some bug, or something, it’s baking in here.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got to go for a shower, but just to let you know,” she pulled Sophie’s passport from the deep pocket of the coat, and brandished it with glee, “I popped into the Café Paraíso to see Vicki, and she gave me the passport back.”
“What? Just like that? Did she say why she’d taken it? Why did she have it at work anyway? Doesn’t seem very responsible.”
Maureen chuckled. “That’s a lot of questions! No, I didn’t give her the chance to say anything, I told her it was criminal offence to steal a passport, and I’d contact the police if she didn’t give it back. It was easy, I don’t know what we were worried about! Now, I’m going to get cleaned up. We’ll pop round to Darren’s after and let him know it’s safe and sound, he’ll be so relieved.”
It had only taken me and Harry five minutes to get to the bank, he withdrew five hundred Euros, figuring plenty of cash was going to be necessary for all the taxis we’d be hiring in the next few days to and from the hospital, he not being confident enough to hire a car and try driving on the right-hand side of the road, and we decided to while away the next hour and a quarter over a light meal and some refreshments.
Satiated and relaxed, we walked to the apartment block, arriving just on time, and sat on the low wall that fronted it. Checking his watch, again and again, both of us becoming agitated with Vicki’s lateness, I finally suggested, as the hour reached eight, that we ask for her at the security cabin. Due to the language barrier, it took a mixture of writing Vicki’s name on some paper, and hand gestures, before the guard understood our request. We walked behind as he lazily ambled up the stairs, and knocked on the door, pushing it ajar on realising it wasn’t locked.
The scene and smell that hit them had all three of us reeling backwards, stomachs churning, bile in our throats. Vicki’s broken body, smothered with rich, glistening blood over her crisp pink uniform, her wide, black eyes sightless and strangely opaque, frightened mouth agape, lay beside a large carving knife, also dripping with the ruby fluid. It was all I could manage. “Darren got here first.”
Darren was relieved to hear his mother’s voice when he answered the buzz of the intercom, and he waited at the door as they made their way up in the lift. As soon as she saw him, Maureen could see he was upset, and she trotted up, grasping his hand as she led him to the sofas. They both sat. “Bob, fix us some drinks, will you? Now, baby, what’s wrong? Something’s up.”
Fear registered across his face. “It’s Vicki. She’s dead.”
“What!” Bob, bringing the drinks over, was astounded, but Maureen remained calm, listening intently. “What happened?”
“I went round after her shift, I was going to get the passport back, but when I went in, I’ve still got the key she gave me, she was there on the floor. There was blood all over the place.”
“Oh my God! What did you do?” Bob sat down, intrigued.
“I panicked, Dad, I was so scared. I could see she was dead, her eyes were wide open, and sort of different, sort of misty. I’ve never seen a dead body before, but I knew she was dead. Well, I didn’t know what to do, I know I should have phoned the police, but they would think it was me who did it. So I just ran. I don’t think I even shut the door, I don’t know, I just came back here and had a drink. Mam, it was awful.”
She patted his hand gently, reassuring, and Bob passed over the drink he’d prepared. “Drink this, son, you look like you need it!”
Darren took the glass, taking a large gulp, for once the alcohol was a requirement rather than a habit. “What if they think it was me who killed her? I mean, I’ve been seeing her for a couple of months, we’ve argued, everyone at Blakes Bar knows we fell out. And what about the passport? I can’t just go back to her flat and look for it now, can I?”
Maureen focused on him, catching his eyes and fixing them, a slight, victorious smile on her lips. “Darren, let’s get two things clear. First of all you have an alibi, you were here with us the whole time, and secondly, I have the passport.”
Choking a mouthful of brandy back into the glass, Darren stared at his mother. “What? How?”
Maureen took a glance at Bob, who was nodding gleefully, pleased with his wife’s ingenuity. “It was easy, baby, after you dropped us off, I went to the Café Paraíso and she gave it to me.”
Darren snorted, disbelieving. “Mam, I know Vicki, she’d never have given it back without a fight, she’s,” he faltered, “she was, a stubborn girl.”
“Well, she did, and that’s that. Nobody says no to me!”
Harry and I had been taken to the police station for questioning, a translator arranged for us, and we were both suffering from the effects of shock. Within minutes of meeting Detective Inspector Pedro Garcia, who would be heading the investigation, it was apparent to him that they’d had nothing to do with Vicki’s demise, but they had great difficulty understanding the complex situation to the man. Eventually, my patience was exhausted. “The bottom line is that we think Darren Delaney killed Vicki Halliday.”
The translator stepped in again. “El fondo es nosotros piensa, um, Darren Delaney matado Victoria Halliday.”
The detective paced back and forth, he was confused with the whole situation, and personally hated the British who couldn’t be bothered to learn his language. Waving his hand, wishing this case had been allocated to a colleague, his curt tone was issued with a sigh. “Usted sabe su dirección?”
“Do you have his directions, er, his, er, place of live?”
Relieved that they were finally getting somewhere, Harry eagerly gave the addresses of both Darren and his parents, retrieved from a scrap of paper in his wallet.
An urgent knocking on the door broke the conversation, and Darren glanced nervously at his mother, at his father, who hastened to the door. Darren’s heart sank when Bob led the team of uniformed policemen, followed by Detective Inspector Garcia, through the door. “I told you, Mam, they think it was me.”
Lips tensed, shoulders back, Maureen stood and grabbed her handbag from the table. “You have nothing to worry about, baby, we’re coming with you.”
“Señor Darren Delaney?” Darren nodded, his head drooping listlessly. “Creemos usted puede tener cierta información sobre una mujer que se ha encontrado muerto en su apartamento, y quisiera que usted nos escoltara a la comisaría de policies para preguntar.”
Not understanding a word, b
ut confident of the gist, Darren stepped forward, allowing the policemen to lead him from the villa. Maureen, indignant and proud, pushed Bob forward to follow, locking the apartment behind them.
Maureen and Bob hadn’t been allowed to join their son in the interrogation room, which had angered her, an emotion she had wasted no time in telling anybody who would listen.
As instructed by Maureen, who had instructed the three on a watertight story to give them an alibi, he insisted that he’d brought his parents back to his flat after leaving the hospital, they’d stayed for dinner, and remained there afterwards for a few drinks, and a chat about the new baby. He explained that, although he and Vicki were no longer dating, he had no reason to harm her.
When questioned about the missing passport he denied any knowledge of a theft, telling them it was, as far as he knew, in the safe at his parent’s villa, where it had been since the day they moved over. This had led to some suspicion, DI Garcia commenting that passports were needed on visits to the bank, buying property, in fact, anything official, but Darren explained the Spanish bank account was solely in his name, as was the apartment, so there had never been a need for Sophie to use her passport after arriving in the country.
He was kept in the room while his parent’s were interviewed individually, and they backed the story relating exactly the same details. Garcia knew from instinct that they were lying, or maybe telling half-truths, but none would budge on the details.
The late hours of the evening, and the early hours of the morning were tedious, and eventually Maureen, and Bob, had fallen asleep on the hard chairs of the corridor. Inside the room, Darren, who had consistently pleaded his ignorance to the murder, regardless of Garcia’s many attempts to catch him out, finally admitted that he had gone to Vicki’s and found her dead, explaining that he panicked and ran, and Garcia believed he was getting somewhere at last. His needling and accusations increased, Darren even cried with frustration and tiredness, but then, at four in the morning, the sky just beginning to lighten from the stark blackness, a knock at the door heralded some unexpected news: the DNA of the skin cells scraped from the nails of the victim was from a female. Vicki had been killed by a woman, and, as a result, Darren was free to go, with a lame caution for not having informed the police when he’d found Vicki’s body.
Chapter 17
Revelations
It had been a sleepless night for Harry and I, spent in the same bed for the first time since our cohabitation, our mutual needs of a comforting cuddle having made the decision an un-discussed understanding. As the darkness behind the shutters ebbed away, heralding the new day, Harry gave up and sat, propped against the pillows, while I prepared us each a mug of tea, bringing them through to sup in bed. I climbed back under the covers. “I can’t imagine we’ll see Darren again. What are we going to say to Sophie?”
Harry sighed heavily, tired and cranky. “Oh, I don’t know. This is all too much, I’ve had enough. I think the best thing is to get Sophie and the baby away from this damned place as soon as we can. Now we’ve seen what Darren Delaney’s capable of, I don’t know about you, but I fear for her safety. Well, the baby’s too. And ours, for that matter.”
“But the passport?” I sipped the steaming tea, the heat waking me a little more.
“There must be something we can do. I mean, people lose their passports all the time, there must be a way to replace it. Maybe the embassy can help, I don’t know, I’m too tired to think clearly at the moment.”
Having finally returned to the villa at half-past four, Maureen had gone straight to bed, but Bob stayed up, fixing a couple of hefty drinks in an attempt to annul the thoughts that were whirring through his head. The whole night had been a dreadful ordeal, the police had seemed convinced that Darren was a murderer, and seeing him being tormented by their incessant questioning through the glass, unable to hear what was being said, had been traumatic.
The excess alcohol filling his bladder, he crept through the bedroom to the en-suite bathroom, preferring it to the main toilet because the book he was currently reading was in there, maybe another chapter on the comfort of the loo would take his mind off things. He was just about to unzip his trousers, when he noticed the sleeve of Maureen’s new coat hanging from the linen basket. Reasoning that she’d dropped it in there by accident along with her clothes, he lifted the wicker lid and dragged it out.
Dropping it on the floor as a reminder to hang it up on the coat pegs when he’d finished his business, it fell open, revealing vast, dried blood stains on the lining. His jaw dropped open, momentarily suspecting his wife had hurt herself, then another, more revolting, thought loomed. Throwing the lid aside, Bob tugged out the clothes Maureen had been wearing the previous day, the top sickeningly glistening with blackening scarlet. He stopped, unable to move, unable to think, and with dread, suddenly realised how much being a hands-on grandmother meant to Maureen.
He closed the lid of the toilet and sat, the offensive clothing lying at his feet, reminding Bob of her desperation, and was at a loss for what to do, to say. Did he report her and lose her to a prison sentence? Did he say nothing and live with such a horrendous lie. And, quite apart from that, if she was capable of murdering Vicki for a passport, just to keep their granddaughter on the island, what else would she be prepared to do? No wonder she’d been so insistent that they all relate the same, well-rehearsed story to the police: it was her they were protecting with an alibi, not Darren.
The minutes ticked by as Bob sifted through the recent months in his head. He’d been complacent to go along with Maureen and Darren’s plan to feed Sophie alcohol throughout the pregnancy, knowing she had a weakness for it, it had seemed harmless with Darren’s persevering reassurances that he wouldn’t give her enough to cause the baby to have fetal alcohol syndrome, just enough to raise a question once the child arrived, give them an excuse to declare Sophie as an unfit mother, and claim the baby for themselves. But that had backfired when the baby arrived fit and healthy, and without Darren’s presence at the birth, the issue of alcohol had not been raised.
Maybe Sophie taking little Jaimee back to England was the best solution. As long as Maureen wanted the baby, as long as she was able to get at her, the people around her were in danger: she was a woman possessed. The words she’d uttered the previous evening, not realising their significance at the time, floated chillingly into his head, making him shudder: ‘Nobody says no to me.’
Bob’s own stance on helping to bring up the tot while Darren worked wasn’t as fervent as Maureen’s, and he realised what he was going to have to do: take the passport back. But he’d need to know where they were living before he passed it to Sophie, at least then he could discuss reasonable visitation rights, perhaps an agreement drawn up by a solicitor.
Checking that Maureen was asleep, Bob replaced the clothes in the laundry basket and crept into the bedroom, around the divan, to his bedside cabinet. He quietly drew open the top drawer, retrieving the key to the safe, and tiptoed to the wardrobe, removing the wooden base. He removed the passport from the safe and tucked it into his pocket.
The pretty whimpering woke Sophie from her contented sleep, and she beamed a smile as it dawned on her that the delicate sound was that of her new daughter. Tenderly, she sat, leaning into the cot, and retrieved Jaimee, cuddling her close before attaching her for her nourishment. Breastfeeding hadn’t come naturally the day before, but after several attempts, both mother and baby were gradually overcoming the problems. The serenity withered when Bob, unkempt and unshaven, still in the clothes from the previous day, strode in and sat beside them.
“What are you doing here?” It was asked without hostility.
“Do you know when you’ll be getting out of here?”
Sophie shrugged. “Well, Jaimee’s doing well, and I’m fine, so I’m sort of hoping for today.”
“Then I need to know where you’re living. I’ll give you your passport back, but I want to arrange some formal visitation rights before I gi
ve it to you.”
“If I tell you the address, how do I know you’ll give it back?”
Bob, the lack of sleep now pounding his head and affecting his mind, sighed. “Look, let me know when you’re ready to leave here. I’ll come by, give you the passport, and drive you back home.” Sophie mulled the suggestion for a few moments, and agreed. Now the formal arrangements were through, Bob finally focused on Jaimee, smiling. “Can I hold her?”
Sophie gently tugged the nuzzling baby from her shoulder, and Bob took her, grinning adoringly at the tiny fingers, alert blue eyes, cherub lips, and mop of raven hair. “She’s beautiful.”
“I know. I was wondering when one of you lot would bother to take any notice of her!” Sophie couldn’t help her sarcasm, the Delaneys’ ignorance towards the child she’d nurtured within her for so long hurt deeply.
Bob arrived back at the villa just after eight, and was relieved that his wife was still asleep, the more time that passed before she discovered the passport missing, the better, as far as he was concerned. If Sophie did go back to England, she hadn’t said as much, he knew he would miss his little granddaughter, the short time they’d had to bond in the hospital was enough to grasp his heart, but he accepted it would be the best solution for mother and baby to get as far away from this mess as possible.
He poured a stiff drink, hoping it would lull him into a nap, taking it to the sofa and lying back against the cushions before closing his eyes. Welcome sleep was upon him in moments, his conscience clear: he’d done the right thing.
Eager to get the incident over and done with, DI Garcia took the details of Victoria Halliday’s murder to his superior, explaining what had happened, what forensic evidence they had, and his theory of what had lead up to the fateful event. In his belief, when Victoria had returned home from work, she had inadvertently disturbed an intruder at work, this supposition concluded from the chaos of her bedroom. Drawers had been dragged out, the contents thrown onto the floor, the wardrobe doors were open, with hangers and clothes ripped from the rail, and her handbag, unzipped, contained no cash. It seemed the place had been ransacked in a search for something, most credibly money. His suggestion was that, on being disturbed by Victoria’s return, the raider panicked, grabbed a knife, and stabbed her in a tussle. Case cut and dried.
