by Gwyn GB
‘Dad, which church is mum buried at?’
She watches him warily, anxious in case he gets angry or upset.
Her father lets out a big sigh.
‘OK. This weekend we will go.’ He looks at her, his face riven with grief.
‘It will be OK,’ she says to him, ‘It’s right that we both go together. I’ll be there to support you.’ Rachel smiles reassuringly, her heart fluttering with excitement.
Her father merely nods, sighs again and continues with his dinner.
To get to the church where her mother is buried they have to take three different buses. First they need to get into Holt and from there it’s the Fakenham bus, number 8. Then another change, this time onto the Norwich town centre bus, number 24, before they get off at The Street and Hindolveston. The journey was supposed to take just over two and a half hours and Rachel works out that it was no faster than walking it - especially when the bus got stuck behind a row of cyclists. There must have been about fifty of them, their bright orange vests proclaiming they are ‘Cycling for John’. Rachel wishes they’d cycle a bit faster for him.
She has picked some flowers from the garden. They’re plants her mother used to look after, all pinks and purples - her favourite colours. By the time they get there the flowers are beginning to wilt, their delicate petals looking fragile and creased like ageing skin.
It’s another walk from the bus, off the main street and past houses where the gardens are far bigger than the buildings, farms with huge open fields and busy hedgerows full of life. They pass a church in the centre of the village and carry on walking to the bottom road.
In front of Rachel a huge ivy-covered tower rises up from a roughly mown graveyard. Most of the headstones are ancient, many tipped and slanted, adding to the derelict nature of the setting.
‘Why is mum here?’ Rachel asks him. The place looks deserted, not a friendly community church.
‘It was the only place that had room for her,’ he replies and Rachel thinks about her mother lying in her coffin and being shunted from church to church because everywhere was full.
There’s no one around when they get there, it has a lonely, abandoned feel to it. The graveyard is wild around the edges, roughly mown in the centre and surrounded by trees and bushes. Rachel starts scanning everywhere looking for her mother’s last resting place.
‘Over there,’ her father points.
Rachel wants to run ahead but she stops herself and takes her dad’s hand. Together they walk towards a simple wooden cross, stuck in the ground, close to the boundary of the mown area. There is barely anything else to mark it as a grave apart from that cross. Tears spring from her eyes, that this is all there is to show her mother lies here. She kneels and places the flowers down carefully. For a few moments, she forgets her dad, consumed by her own grief and loss. Images of her mother flash into her mind again and she cries. Then she turns and looks at her father. He stands motionless, a ruin of a man, the human embodiment of the church tower behind him.
When they finally return home they’re both quiet and her father makes it obvious he doesn’t want to talk. Instead, he goes straight to the whisky bottle and drinks into the evening, interrupted only by dinner and Elvis.
Rachel can’t get the image of her mother’s grave out of her mind. She tries to sleep but every time she closes her eyes all she sees is her mum lying cold and alone beneath that little wooden cross. She hasn’t found the closure the books promised her. There’s no peaceful feeling come over her, no sense that her mother is at rest. As she stares into the darkness of the night she feels as lonely and abandoned as her mother’s grave.
Eventually, tired of tossing and turning and still thirsty from the day’s outing, Rachel gets up to get a glass of water. The sitting room is dark, her father has made it to his own bed tonight and the whisky bottle stands vigil by his chair.
She envies her dad’s ability to blot out the pain with his whisky. If only she could do the same. She picks up the bottle and unscrews the top, sniffing its contents. Her head jerks back in reaction to the strong fumes but she pours some into the glass all the same. Maybe it tastes better than it smells. She takes a big gulp and immediately gags. An involuntary shiver runs through her and she nearly throws up as the fiery liquid burns her throat. It’s disgusting.
This isn’t going to be her answer.
She washes away the taste with water and wanders back to bed, because she’s nowhere else to go. It’s another half an hour or so before eventually sleep comes, but as she slips into her dreams she wishes she didn’t have to wake up the next morning at all.
30
Claire, 16th October 2016
Claire is worn out by the end of the day, her head is pounding with the huge amount of information it has been processing and her eyes ache at the back of their sockets. She needs a break from screens and fluorescent lighting. Besides, Jack will be back this evening, they’d only booked for two nights because they were both due on shift on Monday. She slips off home, making sure she keeps her mobile on should Bob call.
They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and Claire is surprised to find she’s quite looking forward to seeing Jack. She likes her own company, but coming home to a warm and welcoming body rather than an empty soulless void is quite appealing nonetheless - even if she’s likely to be wishing he’d go away again within a few hours.
She’s already thinking about the fact that she’s too tired for sex, but Jack’s not going to take no for an answer after he hasn’t seen her for several days. She’ll make a burst of effort that ensures a quick resolution. He’ll be happy and she can get her much needed sleep.
On the way home, she picks up a few bits from Waitrose, two of his favourite Thai curry meals, a fresh bottle of white wine and some milk for the morning because Jack always has about half a pint on his cereal.
When she gets home Claire is pleased to see the lights are on in the flat windows. She pushes open the front door and shouts a cheerful ‘Hi.’
It’s not obvious at first, but even without a detective’s eye it wouldn’t take Claire long to see that something is wrong. Things are missing and there’s none of the usual Jack background sounds of the TV or music. The atmosphere feels tense.
Claire hesitates, listening.
There is no immediate reply from Jack.
Her instincts go on alert and she puts down one of the bags of shopping in the hallway so she has a hand free as she walks into the sitting room.
She edges in and sees a figure by the window, framed by the neon of the Indian takeaway sign.
Standing watching her enter is Jack, a serious look on his face and no beer in his hand.
‘Hi, you’re back!’ she exclaims, smiling, ‘I’ve been trying to call you…’ but the smile fades and she stops talking as her brain registers his face.
‘Hi Claire,’ he says.
She hasn’t heard him sound this serious in a long time.
As she stands there Claire becomes aware that the flat feels bare. The big picture on the wall is gone, his football trophies, the silly bar sign in their galley kitchen.
‘You alright?’ she asks, ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m moving out.’
The words are like a lightning strike. She puts her handbag on the floor where she’s standing and sits on the arm of the sofa.
‘Wow, OK, where did this come from?’ she asks him, incredulous.
‘You’re not committed, Claire. I have tried so hard to take the next step with you but every time you push me back. I don’t want to spend the next ten years waiting for you to decide when or if the time is right to actually take some notice of me. I’m thirty-four, Claire. I want to settle, buy a place, think about a family. I can’t understand why you don’t either - unless I’m just not what you want. If you’re not ready now then you’re never going to be.’
‘Ok,’ she answers slowly, processing what he’s just said. It’s true, she can’t deny it. ‘Did you not think about talking this t
hrough?’
‘I’ve tried. You clam up and you know it. I just don’t think you really love me. We’re convenient but we seem to want different things. It’s best for both of us.’
She looks down and nods, ‘Yeah, I guess.’ Then she adds, ‘Is there someone else?’
It’s his turn to look away now, ‘Yeah. Lara Phillips. Only recently though.’
‘Lara in forensics?’
He nods.
‘Is that who you’ve been away with? Is that why you weren’t answering my calls?’
He nods again. ‘I wanted to be sure I was doing the right thing. I know I am. I thought maybe a weekend away with just you and I might have patched us up, but when you couldn’t go… Sorry, Claire. I’ll pay my share of the rent until the end of the lease, we’ve only got a couple of months to go on it so you can decide if you want to keep the flat on yourself or not.’
He starts walking out of the sitting room, ’I’ve got my stuff. If there’s anything else just let me know.’
She nods
‘I hope we can still be friends,’ he adds tentatively.
Claire gives a weak smile back and he walks out, placing his set of door keys on the kitchen counter top.
The front door closes and he is gone.
Claire now has the whole place to herself.
31
Claire, 17th October 2016
It was a strange night for Claire. She felt as though Jack’s leaving wasn’t real, it’s some kind of weird dream that she’s going to wake up from. For three years they’ve been together and now they’re not. It won’t be just tonight that she sleeps alone, or tomorrow night, or next week. Being on her own is her new reality. It feels like she’s embarking on an adventure but she’s a little wary of the journey.
She’d had the urge to call her parents, but past experience made her hold back. She could do without a lecture. The disapproving tuts and comments from her dad would only make her feel worse and she couldn’t just talk to her mother - she always has to repeat everything back to her dad, whether he listens or not.
If she’s honest, it doesn’t fully sink in until she gets to work and realises that she’s still going to be seeing Jack around the station, along with all his friends - and more importantly Lara bloody Phillips. The bitch. She’s been looking her in the face whenever she’s seen her around and all the time she’s been scheming to steal her boyfriend. Then there’s Lew. He must have known. Is that why he was avoiding her yesterday? He’d probably helped Jack move out, told him when she was out of the way and he could go in and get his stuff. Who else knew? Has everyone been talking about her? Laughing at her when she’s not in earshot? Her dad always told her never to mix work with pleasure. She hates it when he’s right. She makes a vow to never get involved with a copper again.
She avoids as many of the communal areas as possible, stopping at Costas for a coffee rather than getting one from the canteen. In the car park, she thinks she sees one of Jack’s friends walking towards her and so she ducks behind a row of vans, nearly scraping her leg in the process and cursing herself for her cowardliness.
It’s a sour note on what is otherwise an exhilarating morning. Bob had texted through to say they have the warrant. A team of them are off to SoulMates ready for the office opening. Claire is raring to go and determined to find out exactly who Sandra Jennings really is and where she might have gone.
‘Sandra texted in sick,’ Edward Scott is saying, jowls wobbling and eyes wide. ‘She’ll be at home. I’ve got her address somewhere.’
‘Is it 26 Radeley Street?’ Claire throws back at him. She watches as a single drop of sweat erupts from his hairline and runs down his forehead towards his left eye. She waits for him to brush it away and wonders if its saltiness will sting if he doesn’t.
‘I think that’s it, let me check.’ He nervously taps into his computer and then nods enthusiastically, spraying the drop of sweat onto his keyboard, ‘Yes that’s it, that’s it.’
‘She left yesterday with no forwarding address. We’ve already been round.’ Claire watches her words sinking in as Edward Scott sinks down into his chair. ‘Sandra Jennings died six years ago of a brain tumour. We, therefore, believe that the woman who called herself Sandra has stolen her identity. Did you do any background checks when you employed her?’
Eddie Scott has now taken on the appearance of sweaty white pastry.
‘Oh my God. Really? Sandra?’ He seems incapable of saying anything else.
‘We need to find her Mr Scott, and we need to look through your client records. I have a lot of questions for you. Let’s start by asking if you know where your former receptionist might have gone? Was she seeing anyone? A client perhaps? Did she talk of visiting anywhere or mention where she is from?’
The string of questions prove too much for Eddie Scott who rubs his palms up and down his legs as though hoping a genie will appear and take him away. Claire notices that the brown corduroys he’s wearing are slightly worn on the top of his thighs - a habit he’s clearly had for a while.
‘I just don’t know. Let me get Rachel, she might be able to help us. She knows where everything is.’
‘In a few minutes Mr Scott, I’ve got some more questions for you first.’ Claire wants him on his own, she’s got plenty of other questions for Rachel. She’s enjoying this, Bob is letting her run with it, holding back while she leads. Eddie slumps before her.
‘Mr Scott, could I ask you where you were on the evening of 13th October?’
He leans forward and looks at his Outlook calendar. ‘I was at home. Look, do I need a lawyer?’
‘That’s entirely at your discretion. At present you are just helping us with our enquiries, but if you feel there is a reason why you might need a lawyer then please go ahead.’
He shook his head, ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’
Claire doesn’t ease the pressure, ‘If there is something you know which you think might help us in our enquiry into Neil Parson’s death, or any other suspicious deaths, then it would help you as well as us if you tell me now.’
Eddie shakes his head. He’s shrinking to a school boy in front of her eyes.
‘The woman who called herself Sandra told me that there had been several deaths among agency clients. Did you know we’d had that conversation?’
Eddie shakes his head again and looks as though he might burst into tears.
‘OK, Mr Scott, could you please show me where you keep your staff and client records?’
With shaking hands, Eddie Scott logs into his agency database.
Three hours later Claire and Bob are standing in front of the board in the incident room taking it in turns to sigh and make other noises that go along with deep thinking and great frustration. Claire has had a great morning, she’s on a roll, but the fruits of her effort have resulted in a greatly expanded workload and a sea of possible leads to explore.
‘Those deaths aren’t connected to Neil’s murder,’ Bob is saying again, ‘Everything tells me this is something different. I know there are links, but it’s the method. It’s not the same murderer.’
‘It might not be the same murderer, but what if Neil’s was a professional hit like you said and it’s the same person arranging all the deaths? If we prove that the other agency clients were killed then whoever committed those murders without detection could be a pro. They managed to avoid making the deaths look suspicious.’ Claire is desperate to avoid the SoulMates case being given to another team because Bob, or someone higher up, decides it’s not connected to their own investigation.
Bob doesn’t answer directly.
‘We need to find bloody Micky Stratton in Vietnam. He’s got to have information. Why else has he gone to ground?’
‘And Sandra Jennings…’
‘Yes. There’s no reason why a woman couldn’t have ordered Neil’s death and the less violent nature of the others would fit more with a female profile. The other thing is, we can’t be sure that this is one person actin
g alone…’ The sighs come out again.
‘We should check out Rosa McKenna a bit more too. She has an axe to grind, maybe she took umbrage at being rejected.’
‘Maybe, but that doesn’t explain the death of the woman, Louise Safferey…’
‘Unless it’s jealousy?’ suggests Claire.
Bob’s had enough.
‘Too much conjecture and not enough facts DI Falle. We are clutching at straws again. I want to find out who killed Neil Parsons, anything that looks like it could be related we can investigate, but we need to stay focused and first of all determine if those deaths really were suspicious before you waste any more time investigating them.’
‘What about Rachel?’ Claire looks at him now.
Bob is frowning.
‘She could be the catalyst,’ he begins, ‘Or she could be the next victim. Either way, we need to keep an eye on her, perhaps you should arrange for her to have a panic button. I’d say it’s all a bit too coincidental for her stalker not to be related to this mess somehow.’
‘What I don’t understand is if Sandra Jennings is related to this, why would she have tipped me off about the deaths?’
‘Possibly bragging, goading us; or that’s why I’m wondering if we could be looking at two working together. Perhaps she was involved somehow and didn’t want to be anymore which means she’s either done a runner or we could potentially have another victim out there.’
32
Claire, 16th October 2016
Claire knows she’s got to somehow prove that the other agency deaths are the work of a serial killer. She’s convinced she’s right and now she has the Coroner’s reports, she needs some expert help. A smiley eyed pathologist comes into her mind immediately, and she surprises herself by the way she feels at the prospect of meeting him again. This time she’ll get him out of the mortuary and into a slightly more palatable environment. She doesn’t waste any time in emailing Mark Rodgers.
