by Gwyn GB
8
Claire, 14th October 2016
When they leave the station a pale October sun is taking the chill out of the air but it’s still hazy. Claire wonders if Jack has gone to Norfolk after all. Would have been a nice weekend for it. It’s supposed to hit 18 degrees over the next two days.
‘Hate cases like this,’ Bob is moaning. ‘Nothing to go on, no bloody clue why someone would want to skewer Neil Parsons. I still reckon it’s a crime of passion.’
‘Could be,’ Claire agrees. ‘Certainly sounds like he’s got the potential to have picked the wrong woman. But what I don’t get is why there’s no forced entry. He was in his boxers so he’s not going to have invited someone in - other than a lover or really good friend. So if it’s an angry husband how did they get in?’
Bob frowns, ‘If you’re asking me, I think it’s looking more likely the killer is a pro.’
‘What you mean a hit man or something?’
‘Not unheard of is it? Passions run deep, the jealous will do anything. A single wound intended to kill isn’t your usual frenzied attack by an angry spouse.’
Claire thinks about her and Jack. She can’t imagine being that upset that she’d kill someone if he was having an affair; but then it’s probably more about pride than love. She’ll give him a call a bit later, see if he’s gone. If he has that will mean she’s got the flat and bed to herself - bliss! Typical that she’ll probably not be getting that much time to enjoy it. They’ll be at the station until late and then up again early, unless this girlfriend of Neil’s provides a revelation.
She looks out the window as they speed through Hammersmith. White plastic sheeting, ripped and shroud like, flaps in the branches of a skeletal tree. Ghostly rubbish.
‘Do we know anything about the woman we’re going to see?’ she asks Bob, turning to look at him.
His hair is white around the temples and pewter grey elsewhere. He’s concentrating on the road so his eyes are creased at the corners, brow furrowed. On his left cheek a neat, straight white scar prevents any stubble from erupting. It’s the result of being a little less attentive than he should have been when arresting a schizophrenic who’d just murdered his parents, and was convinced Bob was taking away their bodies to harvest their souls for some devilish army.
‘Not a lot apart from the fact she doesn’t appear to be married, although that doesn’t, of course, rule out a jealous boyfriend.’
‘She not work?’ asks Claire.
‘Day off apparently, which is lucky for us. She knows we’re coming, but I haven’t told her why.’
Claire nods in acknowledgement and resumes looking out the window. Bob starts tapping a tune in his head on the steering wheel. It’s impossible to tell what song it is and for Claire it’s irritating. She’s relieved when he stops to change gears; his wedding band clunking against the steering wheel as his hand returns. He never talks much about his wife and kids. They have two boys, both grown up, but never any talk about what they’re doing, if they’ve come home for a visit. As far as Claire can work out, and according to Jack, Bob’s wife, Debbie, lives her own life. She’s long ago given up the dream of marital bliss and instead lives from new kitchen to new appliance, Bridge to bowls. Claire wonders who Bob is at home where his rank means nothing.
He’s been a father figure to her in the last year. It was to Bob she’d turned for advice when she hadn’t known what to do in the Jackie Stiller case. They’d worked together briefly on an enquiry a couple of months before and she trusted him. Some people are like that, they get your trust and your respect just by being them. Bob isn’t one of the ambitious ones, but he’s a damned good copper. Claire can forgive him for his annoying steering wheel tap.
They drive across Hammersmith Bridge Road, trundling over the suspension bridge. Claire looks up at the Georgian structure wondering how it manages to survive the pounding of modern vehicles, and not crack and crumble down into the murky brown waters of the Thames.
Gradually bedsit land gives way to middle-class family suburbs. Windows covered with blankets and doorways paired with panels of buzzers for the multitude of flats and bedsits, become neatly curtained and well-maintained homes. If you’re going to pay the price you need to for a house in the London suburbs, then you’re going to look after it.
Big white pillared house fronts with arch shaped windows and immaculate gravel drives line the road, before slightly more modest and modern properties lead them into Barnes. The landscape becomes leafier - green sports fields and parks. Along Rocks Lane the roadside is framed by trees, not houses.
They reach the tip of Wimbledon Common, before heading down Parkside and off up a side street. Claire is jealous already. Her tiny excuse of a flat in Shepherds Bush has no open space of its own and its only views are into other people’s windows or the back of the Indian takeaway next door. On hot nights they’re constantly bombarded with the smell of spices, the choice of suffocating in the heat being less preferable to death by Tandoori.
Bob peers through the windscreen, ‘Number 32,’ he says.
Claire scans the houses on both sides and points to an opening in hedges. There’s no gate, just a short gravel drive which they pull into, behind a black Corsa.
‘This must cost a whack,’ says Bob, voicing what they’re both thinking. ‘I’d struggle to afford this on police wages.’
Claire scans the facade of a neat 1950s house. The garden is minimalist, designed for easy care. Windows clean, not like the dust spattered windows of her flat. Other than that there’s no character, no ornaments or themed door knocker, nothing stuck to the windows or visible in the darkness of the house inside. No indications of who lives there.
She gets out and knocks.
There’s no reply. Bob, who has caught up with her after pocketing the car keys, also knocks. Nothing. They step back from the front door and survey the house, its blank eyes stare back, unblinking.
‘She definitely said she’d be in,’ Bob confirms to Claire, pulling his mouth into a downward grimace. He steps forward and knocks again.
To the left a green side gate, presumably to the back garden, is just visible. It’s from there they hear the sound of a woman’s voice. They exchange glances, confirming they both heard something, and walk to the gate. Bob tries the latch. It opens.
The pair of them enter into a reasonably sized back garden, a mix of lawn and patio, bordered by fencing and thick hedges and framed by the blocks of flats and other houses around. At the back of the garden is a large shed, and in front of that a trim, jeaned bottom is bending over, tending to two rabbits in a large run.
‘There you go Reg,’ the blonde head says.
Claire can tell that Bob is appreciating the tidy blue jeaned arse in front of him because he hasn’t said a word yet to disturb her.
‘Miss Hill?’ Claire calls out as they cross the garden towards her.
The blonde woman in front of them jumps, startled, spinning round fast.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Claire begins and sees the fright dissipate on her pretty face. The woman in front of her is verging on petite, slim with blonde hair that’s just beyond shoulder length. She has make-up on, but not much, just enough to enhance her blue eyes.
Bob speaks now, spell broken.
‘Ms Hill? I’m DCI Robert Walsh and this is DI Claire Falle. I called you earlier.’
‘Yes of course,’ Rachel’s face relaxes a little more and she’s able to give them a tentative smile, but it soon clouds over again. ‘You didn’t say what you wanted…’
Her question hangs between them. Bob bats it away.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asks. Rachel seems to shake herself out of whatever thoughts are rushing round her mind.
‘Yes of course. Let me just make sure these guys are secure and we can go inside.’ She bends again, closing the top of the run, gently rubbing the nose of one of the inquisitive rabbits.
Claire looks at the shed where a small tool box
sits by the door with a new alarm lock, ready to be fitted.
‘Have there been shed thefts round here lately?’ she nods at the box and both Bob and Rachel look at it too.
Rachel hesitates, looking at Claire and then away again.
‘No, not that I’m aware. I keep the rabbits in there at night, so just making sure they’re secure.’
Claire gets the distinct impression that she’s holding something back.
‘There,’ Rachel makes one last check on the rabbit run. ‘This way,’ and starts walking towards the house.
‘No Mr Hill?’ Bob asks, with the nonchalant air of a police officer digging for info, but trying not to sound like he’s questioning.
‘No,’ she simply replies, before leading them through into the sitting room at the front of the house. ‘What’s this about?’ her face again registers the worry behind the question. Thick lashes quiver over her blue eyes as she scans the faces of the two police officers in front of her.
Bob and Claire sit down, a cue to their host to do the same. She hovers before realising they’re not going to start until she too is seated, and so slowly settles into the opposite chair. Expectant.
‘Miss Hill, could you tell us your relationship to Neil Parsons?’ Bob launches straight in. Claire would have engaged in a bit more chit chat first, put her at ease, but Bob is keen to get on.
A ripple of surprise flows over her face, she’s clearly taken aback.
‘Well, he’s a client at the agency where I work and we are friends of sorts, I guess… Is he in trouble?’ She looks from one to the other.
‘Miss Hill I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Parsons was found dead this morning.’
‘Dead! Why? How?’
Both police officers are watching her every move closely. The shock seems genuine. Bob avoids her questions.
‘There are several phone calls on Mr Parson’s mobile from yourself. Were you expecting to see him last night?’
She shakes her head.
‘Not expecting. I was calling to see if he would be able to come over and help me with something, that’s all.’
‘Three calls?’ Bob presses.
‘Yes, I thought maybe he’d missed them because he was driving or on a tube or something, you know how noisy London is, it’s easy to miss a phone call.’
‘Were you in all evening?’ Bob continues.
‘Yes I was. Why? Oh my God, I heard on the news that a man had been murdered in his flat. That’s not Neil is it?’
The colour has very visibly drained from her face now. Claire looks to Bob.
‘I’m sure you appreciate that we are currently conducting our investigations and so we can’t share any information with you.’
She nods.
‘Could you tell us how long you’ve known Neil?’
Rachel shakes her head and Claire isn’t sure if it’s sadness, disbelief or she doesn’t want to answer.
‘If you’d like a moment?’ Bob’s voice softens.
Rachel seems to pull herself together and continues. ‘I’ve known him about three months. He joined the dating agency, SoulMates, where I work. We didn’t date or anything, that’s not allowed. He was just easy company and used to come over for dinner and a chat occasionally. He’s one of those guys who like female company, seems to prefer being around women to hanging out with a bunch of lads.’
Claire notices she’s still talking about Neil in the present tense.
‘He has three sisters, so I guess that might be why.’ Rachel tails off.
‘Do you know who Neil might have been seeing?’ Bob asks.
‘What girlfriend?’ Rachel clarifies.
Bob nods.
‘We’ll have records of who he was paired with, but to be honest I think there were several over the months. He seems to be looking for someone who is going to blow him away, stop him from needing to keep on looking - if you know what I mean. That’s why he joined SoulMates.’
Bob thinks a moment.
Claire takes the opportunity to ask a question.
‘Did he ever mention if he was seeing someone perhaps he shouldn’t? Someone who was married or attached maybe?’
Rachel turns her gaze to Claire. Her eyes look into hers and Claire can see her wondering why she’s asked that question.
‘Not that I’m aware of. He never mentioned anyone outside of the agency. I’m sorry I can’t remember who he’d been paired with. The last time we spoke it was a quick chat at one of our events.’
‘So you keep records of who each client is dating?’ Bob asks again. Claire can see he is grasping onto a thread of hope this case might get solved quickly.
‘Yes of course, but I can assure you we’re not Ashley Madison. We want to help people find long-lasting relationships and so screen our clients to make sure they’re not married. I am…’
Rachel is interrupted mid-flow by a knock on the front door. She frowns.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, rising to go to the door.
Claire is by the window and as Rachel goes to open the front door she looks at who is outside. A young guy is standing holding a bouquet of white lilies wrapped in black.
Claire taps Bob’s shoulder to tell him to look. He raises his eyebrows and they listen to the exchange in the hallway.
‘For me?’ a surprised Rachel can be heard. Then the door is shut and it sounds like she takes the flowers through into the kitchen. One minute passes. Two minutes. Five. When eventually she returns to the sitting room there’s a new look on her face - a look of fear.
‘Everything OK?’ Claire asks her.
‘I…’ Rachel seems to be wrestling with what to say.
‘Have you recently had a family bereavement?’ Claire presses.
‘No.’ Rachel almost whispers back.
‘Miss Hill,’ says Bob, ‘Is something wrong?’
Her face twitches and she fumbles with her sleeve. The vulnerability makes her look younger.
‘They were for me,’ she looks at them both, from one to the other.
Claire isn’t quite sure what she means, obviously they were for her - they were delivered to her house.
‘They were lilies,’ Rachel continues, ‘for me. Rachel RIP. I think I’m being stalked by someone.’
9
Unknown, 14th October, 2016
Outside in the shadows, someone is watching. They have seen the two police officers arrive, watched as the flowers were delivered. The expression on Rachel’s face was definitely worth the effort. It’s annoying that the cops are now involved, but it doesn’t matter.
What do they make of Rachel Hill? Does the man find her attractive? Is the woman officer sympathising with her?
Rachel thinks the police will bring her protection - but she is so wrong. She has everything to fear and no-one to help her.
Rachel will be alone again tonight, but she won’t be on her own.
10
Claire, 14th October 2016
Claire was on to the florists straight away.
‘Not very original is it?’ she says to Bob.
‘No, but it’s effective, an easy threat. My guess is the florist was paid cash and there’s no CCTV.’
Bob is proved right.
Before they leave Rachel’s house Bob calls for some uniformed back-up to make sure the house and garden are secure. Local patrols will also be asked to sweep up the street to act as a deterrent.
Claire goes round the back of the garden to where Rachel said she’d seen someone last night. The ground is well-trodden down with some definite footprints in the mud. As it’s the outskirts of London, most areas of the ground are walked over by someone, but she calls it in to Margaret and her SOC team. They can get a quick imprint of the shoes before it gets dark - just in case they find any at Neil’s flat and can compare.
‘Did you find anything?’ Rachel asks her when she gets back to the house.
‘Footprints, nothing else.’
She looks upset.
‘Why didn’t
you call us last night?’ Claire questions.
‘I didn’t think it would be taken seriously. Not being rude or anything, but you read these stories in the papers where women go to the police and either nothing happens or they’re made to feel guilty themselves. Look at what happened to Lily Allen and she’s a celebrity. I wasn’t even 100% sure it was about me, not until the flowers came,’ she replies.
Claire understands. She knows that when it comes to stalkers the record book isn’t exactly great. With only 1% of recorded cases making it to prosecution it’s one of the inequalities in law she’d like to change, especially after what happened to Jackie Stiller. She has sworn she’ll make sure she always listens to victims so she can stop another tragedy like Jackie’s.
‘We will take it seriously, I promise,’ she reassures her. ‘I’ve asked our Scenes of Crime team to come and take some casts of the footprints. We’ll collect whatever we can.’
Claire goes to find Bob who is just finishing a phone call.
‘Control logged a call from a neighbour. Saw someone loitering last night. Uniform attended but they’d gone. I’ll get someone to take a statement from the neighbour, see if they got any kind of a look at our stalker,’ he tells her.
‘What about timings? Does it fit in with Neil’s murder?’ Claire asks.
‘Potentially. We’ve no idea if they’re connected, but seeing as we’ve come here today after seeing the phone calls Miss Hill made, and they knew each other through the dating agency, I’d say we need to take this seriously. I don’t want another corpse on my hands.’
