Once in the kitchen, she put the kettle on and grabbed a sachet out of the nearby cupboard. Turning to get a mug, she saw Tim’s mobile phone on the kitchen table. That was strange. He normally didn’t let it out of his sight and at night time it was always next to his bed. A treacherous thought began to worm its way into her head. She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. She mustn’t. She tried to convince herself, but it wasn’t working.
The kettle boiled unnoticed, as Theresa’s focus was firmly on the mobile on the table. As if not part of her anymore, her hand reached out and picked it up. She knew Tim didn’t have a password on his phone, so she pressed the switch on the side and the screen lit up. Breathing hard, she grabbed the nearest chair and sank into it, still holding the phone.
What if there was something incriminating on it? Those sexy text message things people sent these days; sexting or something. She’d heard people even sent photos of each other in provocative poses. Her hand shook and she nearly dropped the phone. Putting it back on the table, she started to make her hot chocolate, hoping the hot drink would calm her and warm her up. She had nothing on her feet and they were freezing, so she sat back down, hooking them around the chair legs and, with her hands cradling the mug, she sipped at the drink.
The light went off on Tim’s phone, but it didn’t help. She was still desperate to find out what it contained but terrified of what she might find. When had she become so indecisive? Since she’d been married, she realised. Tim was the one who did everything. He was the organiser. The household bills, the mortgage, the bank account - they were all in his name. He’d always told her it was her job to look after the children and his to look after everything else. She’d just accepted it as normal. But she wasn’t so sure anymore. Was that normal as well? Or not?
She realised her drink was cooling, so she put it on the table and in a moment of clarity realised she was better off knowing what was going on, than not. All the amount of speculation in the world wouldn’t make her feel better. Only the truth. And if it was bad? Then she’d just have to deal with it.
The phone felt heavy in her hand, as heavy as her heart, as she started up the phone and began with the text messages.
The following evening life returned to its regular rhythm and full of beef casserole and red wine, Theresa was feeling better, slightly tipsy if anything, but at least that was healthier than the constant state of anxiety she’d been in. She stole a glance at Tim, who was seemingly involved in a new drama on the television. Last night when she’d looked at his phone she hadn’t found anything incriminating. No sexy texts or photos. No liaisons. No voicemails from another woman.
Alright, so there hadn’t been anything on the phone. Nothing. No logs of missed, received or dialled numbers. No texts received or sent. Whilst that pleased her at the time, as she’d found nothing incriminating, she’d also begun to realise it was slightly strange behaviour to clear everything off the mobile. On her phone she had stored messages from her sons, Tim and even the optician and dentist reminding her she was due for check-ups. She often meant to delete them but never seemed to get around to it. Did it mean that Tim had cleared the history on purpose? But why would he have done such a thing?
She picked up her phone and turned it on to check for any messages. It was a temperamental old thing and sometimes she didn’t get an alert for messages or emails. But there was nothing new. No one urgently trying to get hold of her. No one inviting her to a coffee morning. No one asking her to volunteer for this, that or the other.
As the television programme drew to a close, she could feel Tim watching her. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Just checking for new messages and stuff.”
“Anything?”
“No, nothing urgent,” she lied, not wanting him to know how empty her life was at the moment. “Actually, it’s a bit clogged up,” she said, “but I’m not sure how to delete stuff. Can you help me?”
“Sorry, love, don’t know myself. I had a problem with mine a couple of days ago it wasn’t ringing when someone called me. Being a complete idiot when it comes to mobile phones, someone in the department sorted it out.”
“What did they do?”
“They had to reset the thing. I’ve lost all my contacts, texts and photos, but at least it saved the cost of a new phone. Anyway,” he said standing, “are you coming up?”
“Yes, I’ll be there in a bit. I’ll just tidy the kitchen first.”
Theresa watched him leave the room as her tears blurred the view of his back. The relief was enormous, so much so she could have sat there and sobbed. But he’d hear her, so she sniffed, wiped at her eyes with her hand and took her phone and her now empty glass through to the kitchen.
Such a simple explanation, after so many hours of worry. She felt a bit of a fool to say the least. In her suspicion she’d never thought of his phone breaking. So there was nothing sinister going on after all. It was all in her head.
Going back into the lounge, she collected Tim’s glass and his mobile, putting it next to hers on the kitchen table. He’d obviously forgotten to take it up with him again, so she would do it for him.
After hand-washing the wine glasses, she began to wipe them dry, when she heard a noise. She was sure it was a bell or something similar. A phone ringing? Looking at the two mobiles on the kitchen table, neither of them were lit, ringing, or buzzing. How strange. She was sure she’d heard a phone. She could have got confused with the ringing of the glass as she’d dried it, she supposed.
Putting the glass and tea-towel down she moved into the hall. There it was again. An insistent ring - which abruptly stopped as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Straining to hear, she heard the low rumble of Tim’s voice. She couldn’t make out any words, but he was definitely having a conversation.
Running back into the kitchen she finished drying the glasses and put them away. Grabbing the mobiles she then turned off the lights downstairs and walked up to the bedroom, the sense of dread heightening with every step she took. She felt like she was in an old fashioned sea faring movie and was being punished by having to walk the plank. She teetered on the edge, feeling the world tip beneath her feet. With a deep breath she pushed open the door to find Tim in bed, on his side, covers pulled up to his neck.
“Tim,” she called.
“Yes?”
“Did I just hear a mobile phone ring up here?”
“No,” his head popped up from the pillow. “In fact my mobile’s not here.”
“I know,” Theresa said. “You left it in the kitchen.”
“Then you must be mistaken,” he said as he did his impression of a turtle, retreating into his shell of covers.
“I must be going a bit gaga then.”
“Okay.” Tim snuggled further under the covers and within minutes was snoring.
But Theresa didn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep. She could have sworn she’d heard a mobile ringing and then Tim answering it. She needed to find it, but suspected it was well hidden. She would have her chance tomorrow night when Tim was away, speaking at Portsmouth University as part of their debating programme. Mind you, she realised as she turned over to try and get comfortable, if he does have a secret mobile, he’ll probably have it with him. Resigned to the fact she might never find it, she fell into a light, troubled sleep, dreaming dreams that featured mobile phones and planks of wood.
Boy
So now I know the real story of Sleeping Beauty. She was called Talia and a Prince found her asleep in her chamber in the castle. Stunned by her beauty he climbed into bed with her. Well, who wouldn’t? It was as if she were handed to him on a plate. I wish I could find someone like that. Someone who would let me do anything to them. Someone who wouldn’t scream, or wriggle, or hit me and tell me to go away.
That’s what’s been happening at school. When I find a girl I like, she’s invariably horrible to me. I tied one up once, and she made such fuss I had to let her go. I kept telling her it felt nice to be tied up, but she didn’t
agree.
Daddy was called into the Headmaster, because she’d told on me. He was very angry. He tied me to the bed as I’m too big for the cupboard under the stairs now. He stretched my arms up above my head and tied my wrists to the ends of the bed head. Then he spread my legs and tied my ankles to the bed. Did I say I was naked? Daddy had made me take off all of my clothes first.
I don’t know how long he left me there, but even though I was relieved when he came back to set me free, as my arms were hurting and my hands going numb, in a strange way I wanted him to do it again. Sometimes at night I hold my arms out, pretending they are tied to the bed. I spread my legs and pretend they are tied to the bed as well. It makes me very excited, if you know what I mean. Afterwards I feel so relieved and relaxed and fall into a deep sleep.
Talia Sun and Moon.
Holly
Holly sighed with frustration. So far Sally’s mobile had revealed nothing out of the ordinary. No texts arranging a meeting, no calls from unknown numbers. Whilst she hadn’t really expected a lead to land in her lap easily, it would have been nice for once. She chewed the end of a pen, deep in thought.
So, the next move was onto the apps. These would be where she would get an indication of what sort of woman Sally had been; who she chatted to and what the messages revealed. Was she lonely? Bored? Broke?
Diving in, she decided to tackle the emails first, but after a while it became clear there was nothing much there. Most of the emails referred to work. Sally had been an accounts clerk at an events company. Whilst that may have seemed like a really interesting job, Sally was at the blunt end of the company. Sorting out payments and chasing up unpaid invoices was the extent of her involvement. Others were at the sharp end, attending many corporate events for clients as diverse as financial services and pharmaceuticals, to record labels and publishers. There was the occasional company-wide ‘thank you’ consisting of gift vouchers and tickets to football matches, but it was a far cry from the glamorous city job Sally pretended it was to her friends.
Her Facebook page was rather more illuminating. She promoted events her company was involved in and, in the private messages, Holly read of Sally’s disappointment that she was not attending them herself. Various excuses were used; ‘I’m needed in the office’, ‘super-busy at the moment’ and ‘I’m sure it will be my turn next!’ But it never seemed to be her turn. WhatsApp produced similar conversation threads.
A background check and genealogy tree had revealed Sally was an only child whose parents were both dead. She had an aunt, Jean Burton and a cousin, Jean’s daughter Amanda, but she didn’t seem to have had much contact with them, apart from at Christmas.
But, of course, they’d just had to endure the worst kind of contact. The local police in Middlesbrough where they lived had been to inform them of her death. Amanda had made the long journey from the North East of England with her mother, who was required to make the formal identification. Ciaran had been with them at the mortuary and, by the look on his face when he’d come back, the two women had been devastated. He’d confessed to Holly the identification of a body by the family was worse than enduring an autopsy. During those he managed to stay relatively removed from the fact that the victim had been alive once, but standing there with Jean and Amanda, as they’d stared down at Sally’s dead body, had made it far more real. The anguish of her family members had made him wonder what it would be like if it was his sister, or mum even, lying there? How would he feel? Bloody awful, Holly had thought as she’d looked into his dull eyes. She’d sent him out to buy her a green tea, just so she wouldn’t have to look at his face that reminded her of a Halloween mask, all dark shadows under his cheek bones and grimacing mouth.
“Anything?” Crane asked as he passed her desk.
“What?” Holly shook herself away from her depressing thoughts.
“On Sally?”
“Oh, sorry, guv, um, well it’s all a bit pathetic really.”
“What is?” Crane rolled over a chair and sat down, his face contorting with pain as usual, from his injury.
“Sally’s life. It’s all normal and humdrum, but lacking in something, somehow.”
“Explain.”
So Holly told Crane what she’d found out so far.
“Okay,” Crane said. “So, she was lonely, unfulfilled at work and living with a girl who was away most of the time.”
“Exactly,” said Holly, pleased that Crane agreed with her assessment.
“Boyfriend?”
“No sign of one anywhere.”
“Bugger.” Crane scratched at his beard, something Holly had seen him do many times before when he was thinking. He scratched the scar just visible under the short dark stubble he called a beard.
“Its difficult work without her laptop, guv.”
Holly for some reason felt the need to defend her work. It was probably because Crane was so bloody good at his job. His analytical mind seemed wired in pretty much the same way as her own and, as a result, Holly found him easier to work with than other members of the team. Being an ex-soldier he was brief, to the point, and was always first completing a task. The only downside being he tended to give someone a job to do, but then did it himself, completing it before the poor unsuspecting member of the team had even started.
“If I were you, I’d investigate what we don’t know and see where that leads.”
“Sorry, guv?”
“Did she have any other social media accounts? Was she a member of any dating sites? What was her internet browsing history? She must have made contact with her killer somehow.”
Holly grinned. “On it, guv,” she said, but she was talking to his back as Crane was already on his way over to his desk. He was limping heavily and sank into his chair as though it were a life raft, immediately opening his drawer, grabbing a pill bottle and shaking several into his hand. He dry swallowed them, before quickly returning the container to his desk. She wondered what the tablets were and how many he should actually be taking. She suspected one or two at a time, not a handful.
She turned back to her computer, but when she stole a glance at Crane a few minutes later, he’d visibly relaxed and was leaning back in his chair reading a file.
Crane
Crane sat in the passenger seat, watching the countryside roll by, as Anderson drove them along the A3, heading for Portsmouth. On his lap was a file Ciaran had pulled together for them from information supplied by the local police. Most of the drive was through the South Downs National Park and it was a far preferable view to the photographs contained in the file.
“Earth to Crane,” piped up Anderson.
“What? Oh, sorry,” Crane pulled his eyes away from the green vista and looked at Anderson.
“Come on, you’re supposed to be reading the file to me.”
Crane sighed not wanting to do any such thing, but flipped open the cover. “Okay, the murder victim is Charlie Keating, 24 and he was a customer service representative for a mobile phone company. He lived in a flat on his own, above a row of mostly empty shops, near to the town centre.”
“So, on the face of it, his death is unrelated to Sally’s murder, as she was female and this is the murder of a young male.”
Crane nodded, then stopped as he realised Anderson couldn’t see him. So he said, “Exactly, but it’s the circumstances of his death makes it of interest to us. His hands were bound with scarves to the bed and a third was found around his neck.”
“So far so good.”
“The investigating officers saw similar sized bruising from thumbs on his neck, to those on Sally, located over the carotid artery and there was evidence of sexual lubricant and condoms.”
“Is the body still in the flat?”
“No, it’s been transferred to the local mortuary, but Major Martin has been called in to do the autopsy as this death could be related to ours.”
“Excellent. Now put that away and help me navigate our way around Portsmouth.”
It took the
best part of half an hour to find the flat and then a parking space, but eventually the car stopped and Crane climbed out with the help of his stick. The only problem with car journeys was his knee became locked and his hip went to sleep. He rolled drunkenly in Anderson’s wake, gradually getting the feeling back in his leg. He groaned when he saw the metal stairs outside the back of the parade of shops, but grabbed the handrail and between his hand and his stick, managed to get to the top. Anderson spoke to the uniformed policeman guarding a blue painted front door and then they were in.
The small space contained just three rooms: kitchen/lounge, bathroom and bedroom. The pungent smell of weed had pervaded the soft furnishings, making Crane cough. He had no time for drugs. Drug users were quickly identified in the Army through random drug tests and users were given their marching orders. Alcohol was the preferred drug of choice for most soldiers. However, all that was no concern of his anymore and with a struggle he turned his mind away from his beloved army, back to the present and the civilian police investigation.
They began in the bedroom, comparing the room now with the photographs in the file. The bed dominated the space, there being little room for anything else other than one bedside table. The other side of the bed was pushed up against the wall in an effort to make the space seem larger than it actually was.
“No bed linen,” Crane said.
“No, it was found clean in the washing machine.”
“Ah,” said Crane looking at the photo of Charlie’s body, naked and spread eagled on the bed. The flash had easily picked out the marks on his neck. His skin looked grey in the black and white photograph.
“How long had he been dead? Do we have a timeframe for his murder?”
“Not yet, but Charlie was at work yesterday, so it must have happened overnight at some point.”
Having seen enough, Crane limped into the largest room in the apartment. Two threadbare settees were over by the window, placed facing a large television. Under the window was an old computer desk, one that had a pull-out tray for a keyboard. Crane pulled it out but there was nothing there, just four marks where laptop legs or keyboard legs had been. He flicked through the file. No laptop, computer or mobile phones were found in the flat. Yet another similarity between this murder and Sally’s.
Basic Element: A dark gipping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 2) Page 4
