by Gytha Lodge
Gianetta Jilani’s attack was almost definitely a match. The database revealed that the student had originally gone to Rain in Portsmouth. Earlier in the same WhatsApp thread where Alex had posted the photo of the knife, she found that this was the club his group had arranged to meet at.
She’d found other possibilities, too. One of which she didn’t quite want to connect to Alex. A thirty-four-year-old Londoner named Laura Stevenson had last been seen at a bar in Camden Town in May. Her body had been found in the canal four days later. She had been stabbed twice in the back.
She’d had long dark hair, like Louise Reakes. Like Alex’s mother. It was much like all the hair they’d found in that box. And blood tests had showed traces of Viagra in her system.
Alex had, it turned out, been away that night. A lads’ night in London. It matched up too well.
Hanson sent McCullough a summary of the report and asked if she could look at the post mortem. They needed to know whether the weapon that had killed Laura Stevenson might have been the same as the knife that had killed Alex. The next step would be to DNA test the hair strands in the box and compare them with any DNA of the victims of attacks.
Their theory on the knife was that Alex had ordered a second one to a different address. They were confident they would connect him to another order in the end, even if it meant going to the original makers of the knife in Poland and checking up with them.
At nine fifteen the DCI announced that he’d spoken to the Crown Prosecution Service. The CPS were not enthusiastic about charging Louise Reakes with either the more severe charge of murder or the lesser charge of manslaughter. There was an ongoing debate about whether the perversion of justice charge should go ahead, but they had two more days in which to make a decision.
‘I know what she did was pretty sneaky,’ Hanson told them all, ‘but I hope they let it lie.’
‘I hope you aren’t expressing a personal opinion that isn’t in line with the letter of the law,’ O’Malley said, giving her a grin.
‘Of course not,’ Hanson replied, deadpan. ‘Wouldn’t ever.’
‘So with that, I think it’s time to call it a night,’ the DCI told them. ‘I’ll see you all in the morning.’
Hanson ended up walking down to the car park with Lightman, who asked, once they were on the stairs, how she was doing.
‘I’m OK,’ she told him, with a shrug. ‘Feeling a little flat at the outcome of all that, but not as anxious about Damian and all his bollocks. Having talked it all through has helped a lot. So thank you.’
Lightman nodded. ‘We should have a plotting session,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow or Wednesday. A plan of action for dealing with the ex.’
‘That sounds good,’ she said, holding the door for him as they walked outside. ‘Thank you.’
They stepped outside, and then Lightman paused on the pavement. ‘He, um … he was here when we got back from the service station. Damian. He was hanging around out here, presumably in an effort to scare you.’
‘Shit,’ Hanson said. She shuddered, an involuntary reaction she wasn’t proud of. And then she asked, ‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘Yeah, I looked him up yesterday,’ Lightman said, with a trace of a smile. ‘I dug up all the dirt on him.’
Hanson gave a shocked laugh. ‘You didn’t use the police database for this, did you?’
‘I haven’t so far,’ Lightman said. ‘But I’m bearing it in mind if I feel he merits further investigation.’
Hanson glanced around and tried to ignore a crawling sensation up and down her spine. ‘I hope he’s got bored and buggered off.’
‘Well, he didn’t hang around,’ Lightman said, carefully not looking at her, ‘after I had a quick word.’
‘What?’ Hanson realised it had come out a little sharply and pulled a face. ‘Sorry, but … What did you say?’
‘I addressed him as Damian, and he reacted, so I asked if he would like to come inside and talk to us or vacate the premises. He chose to leave.’ He shrugged. ‘The DCI was about five feet away, watching, so I think he felt a little outgunned.’
‘Right,’ Hanson said. ‘Right.’ She wasn’t sure if she thought this was high-handed or actually the best thing anyone had ever done for her.
Lightman looked at her, his eyes clearly trying to read her expression. ‘Was that all right? I really don’t want to interfere. I just … well, I hoped it would help. Make him realise you aren’t on your own.’
Hanson thought about what Damian had probably wanted to say to her. She had no doubt that he’d wanted to see her reaction to his shit. To everything he’d told Jason. He would have wanted to crow over it. She could imagine his smug, awful smile without needing to see it.
‘No, it was a great thing to do. A great thing.’ Then she gave a small tilt of her head from side to side and added, ‘Surprised you managed it, to be honest.’
Ben grinned. ‘Glad you salvaged that one. I was worried you might have actually said something nice to me.’
‘Nah, you know me. Only ever a compliment sandwich.’ But she went on, ‘Thanks, Ben. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Ben made his way across the near side of the car park, waving briefly as he went. Hanson’s car was parked almost at the far end, away from the bright lights of the building. It was in such darkness that she felt the need to switch her phone on to flashlight mode and check between the cars as she walked past.
She fully expected to find her tyres slashed again. If Ben had chased Damian off, there would be some kind of revenge. She was certain of it.
But the car was fine. Perhaps Damian had been worried about doing it at the police station. She knew there would be some kind of retribution on the horizon, though. Something petty and damaging. It made her feel weary.
Louise hadn’t expected to be allowed to leave. Not now they knew what she’d done. However kind to her they were, she knew that she had to face the music on this one. That she had killed a man. She’d done it in fear for her life, and in what could be termed self-defence, but she’d still killed him. That memory of hot blood spilling onto her hands was real.
Patrick had been with her from the moment she walked back into the station, and she’d felt such uncomplicated relief at seeing him this time. There was nothing for him to suspect her of any more. Nothing except what she’d done, and she might have killed Alex Plaskitt, but she hadn’t gone home and slept with him. She was, in some bizarre sense, cleared.
He’d put a hand to her arm when he first saw her. His touch had been firm. Reassuring.
‘We’ll get this sorted,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ She grasped his hand, just for a second. And then she found herself asking, ‘Is Niall all right?’
Patrick gave her a funny little grin. ‘He’s fine. And relieved that you’re OK.’
And then, a matter of hours later, they were suddenly releasing her. Patrick told her she could go home, and that he was happy to drive her there.
‘Am I not under arrest?’ she asked.
‘Technically, you still are,’ he explained, ‘but with no fresh charges, the situation reverts to your previous bail conditions.’
It took no time at all for his Jaguar to drive them the few miles home. The roads seemed absurdly quiet, but then she remembered that it was nearly ten p.m. on a Monday. Of course it was quiet.
Patrick climbed out to help her with her overnight rucksack, which had gone with her to a service station and then back without being opened. And then he gave her a brief hug and told her to get as much rest as she could. It was only as he’d backed away again that he said in a low and surprisingly uncertain voice, ‘You know, I felt tempted to say earlier, but … I never liked Dina. At all. I was very glad … when you and Niall got together. I would very much like to think there was still a chance for you two.’
She couldn’t find any response, but she nodded at him, and he smiled before getting back into his car. She felt a trace of sadness after he left. Niall’s best friend had tu
rned out to be a great deal more loyal to her than she’d had any right to expect.
She let herself into the house, and wondered, suddenly, whether she would continue to live here. Whether she might find herself in jail, or whether she and Niall would sell the place in order to go their separate ways. And all those uncertainties were far too much now, so she dumped the backpack and let herself into the music room, where her harp was waiting for her.
She sat, and leaned it against her shoulder, and felt its comforting weight for a moment. And then she started to make music, a flow of unwritten melodies that seemed to pour out of her without thought.
It was still hard for Hanson to feel safe in her home, but it unquestionably felt better than it had. Sharing all of it with Ben had given her more comfort than she could have expected.
She glanced up at the mock CCTV camera over the door, with its big, bulky black box and its cable that actually didn’t go anywhere. She’d tucked it back in on itself within the box before she’d mounted the thing. There was another one on the first floor, too, looking out towards the road.
Hanson went through her usual routine of locking up, though less quickly, and decided that a glass of wine and catching the end of Last of the Mohicans was in order. And then sleep. Hopefully good sleep.
She dozed off quickly, keeping thoughts of Damian firmly away and thinking instead about the work she would do tomorrow. How she would go on tracing other women who had been victims of Alex’s need for revenge. How she would also re-engage with drug dealing in a pub on the Highfield estate on O’Malley’s behalf. There was a lot of catch-up to do on their other casework.
The thoughts were satisfying, if not actually cheerful. They soothed her. Though just before she slept, she found her mind drifting briefly to the image of Ben talking to Damian outside the station, with Ben as unflappable as ever and Damian suddenly on the back foot. No longer in control. It made her smile.
And then she was awake. Fully awake and half out of bed, because there had been a sound. A sharp, loud, heart-clammering sound from downstairs.
She staggered as she tried to stand, her body not yet catching up with her mind, which knew that the sound had been the kitchen window shattering.
Weapon, she thought, hearing sporadic crashes of glass as more fell out of the pane.
She’d got this one covered. She’d been sleeping with her truncheon next to her for months now. She’d rehearsed this situation for months, too. She picked up a pillow off her bed and clutched it in front of her, an instant guard against knives when she had no time to put on her stab vest.
She knew, without question, that the intruder was Damian, and part of her was glad. Whatever he was trying to do, she’d back herself in a struggle over him. He was taller, and perhaps a little stronger, but also out of condition. Too self-indulgent to keep himself toned or to go to any of the martial arts classes he’d always talked about.
She opened her door as silently as she could, determined not to flinch with every fresh sound. Was he in the kitchen? Or had he already moved into another part of the house?
She became aware, as she went slowly down the stairs, of a strange light and smell. It was a hot, Bonfire Night smell, and the colours on the walls were a faint, unsteady orange.
Shit.
She ran the last few steps and dropped the pillow in order to open the hall cupboard and haul out the foam fire extinguisher. She kicked the cupboard door back out of her way and walked into the kitchen, where little sprays of fire were burning away merrily on different objects. The fridge. The table. One of the chairs. The sink.
In the centre of the floor was the source of it all, a fiercely burning heap of glass and petrol that was melting the lino. And she dropped the baton without regret, pulled the pin out of the extinguisher and began to douse every one of those little fires.
She was lucky that there wasn’t more flammable material in the kitchen. Lucky, too, that the Molotov cocktail had landed centrally and not any closer to the hallway. The carpet had remained untouched, and once she’d drowned everything in foam and stopped spraying, there was silence.
She looked around at the burned and blackened room, and she smiled grimly to herself.
37
‘You look perfect,’ April told her. ‘Stop fiddling and drink.’
Louise applied another smudge of eyeshadow before she put the brush down on the bathroom counter and picked up the glass of Prosecco.
‘Something doesn’t look right,’ Louise said, looking back at the mirror.
‘It all looks right.’ April was definite.
‘But it doesn’t look like me,’ Louise said, trying hard to pinpoint what was wrong.
‘You know what I think?’ April said, coming to put an arm over her shoulder and giving Louise’s reflection a considering look. ‘I think you’re normally drunk when we get ready. What you’re seeing is Sober Louise in her going-out clothes, and it’s freaking you out because you’ve never seen her like this before.’
Louise gave a laugh and wondered if April was right. She studied herself again, and thought about all the times they’d done this, when she’d looked at herself through a haze of alcohol and felt fantastic.
She realised that she wasn’t smiling, either, and that was a wrong note. Drunk Louise always smiled. She was fun, and she never cared if her lipstick wasn’t just right.
Sober Louise took the Prosecco and swallowed a large mouthful. ‘I’m not going to be Drunk Louise tonight, but I definitely don’t want to be Sober Louise.’ She gave a small belch as the bubbles came back up and laughed again. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Tipsy Louise. Tipsy Louise is a lot of fun, too, but she knows her limits.’
‘I want to be like Tipsy Louise,’ April said, and then drained her glass. She was already pouring another one before Louise had managed another mouthful. ‘Only I guess I don’t want it that badly …’
Louise watched her, thoughtfully. At this point in the evening it had always been about April bringing Louise out of herself. It was always her lively, dominant friend insisting that they needed to drink so that Louise could feel better. And for the first time, Louise wondered if that was really why April brought wine over and ordered round after round of tequilas.
‘How are you doing?’ Louise asked. ‘What’s going on with you?’
‘Oh.’ April gave a shrug. ‘All OK.’
‘You don’t seem … happy, now I have time to think about it.’
April laughed, but then she tipped the glass back again and swallowed, and Louise had the impression she might be swallowing back tears.
And then she said, ‘I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been … missing my sister. And worrying that things are changing without me somehow.’ She shook her head.
‘You haven’t seen Dee for a long time, have you?’ Louise asked her, gently.
‘No,’ April agreed. ‘No. Not for a long time. I had a dream about her the other day, about going on a road trip with her, and when I woke up, I felt … bereft, I guess.’ She gave a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ll get over it. I’m good at picking myself up.’
‘You don’t have to get over it, you know,’ Louise said gently. ‘You can talk about it properly, if you want.’
April rolled her eyes, but said, ‘Thanks, honey.’ She put her arm round Louise and pulled her into a hug. Then she reached for her phone. ‘I want a photograph. To commemorate this fine occasion.’
She held the camera out at arm’s length, studying them both on the screen for a few seconds before she smiled and took the shot.
‘You know,’ Louise said, ‘Tipsy Louise loves you just as much as all the other Louises. And she’ll still be here for you.’
‘I know she will.’ It looked like April might say something else, but she looked at her phone instead. ‘OK, the cab’s here in five. We’d better drink up.’
Louise felt a twist in her stomach. She wasn’t sure she was ready to do this. However much she wanted to tell the horrors of the last week to go
screw themselves, the idea of going to another club on another Friday, of seeing men there who might want to flirt with her … it was horrifying. It had been hard enough going on her own last Sunday, before she knew for certain that an apparently kind man had pinned her down and raped her.
But April was a firm believer in getting back in the saddle. She’d rebooked the hotel they’d never made it to on Monday, and had insisted on paying for Louise to spend two full hours on a massage table. She’d also booked them a VIP area at a club that was run by a friend of hers.
‘We won’t be standing at the bar with everyone else,’ April told her. ‘You’ll have a safe space at the table to retreat to if you feel bad, and if it’s awful, we’ll just go.’ She’d raised an eyebrow. ‘But this is going to be a night we’ll remember for years. I can feel it.’
‘Oh, will it?’ Louise had said, and then found herself capitulating. April was essentially right. She shouldn’t be hiding away because some psycho had attacked her. She was stronger than that.
But she could still feel the pounding of her heart as she put her coat on and looped her large handbag round her, holding it close in front of her like a shield. And she wondered, a little wistfully, whether Drunk Louise would have been a little tougher.
For the first time in six weeks, the team did pub night. The DCI always took himself off after the first forty-five minutes, in some sort of deference to them wanting to kick back and enjoy themselves. Before he left, however, he caught Hanson on her own.
‘I don’t want to pry into anything,’ he said, ‘but it’s come to my attention that you may be having a few issues with an ex-boyfriend.’
Hanson could feel her cheeks heating up from the moment he started speaking. But it was right that he should know what was going on.
‘Unfortunately he’s been stalking me, slandering me and vandalising my property, so I’ve had to report him,’ she said.
