by Nic Roberts
“Shall we?” Lawrence asked once Beth walked into sight. Olivia nodded, shoving her hands into her pockets as they marched off towards the apartment building.
“We’ll be in touch, Lydia,” she called over her shoulder. The small woman nodded once more.
Lawrence sighed as they walked out of earshot.
“That was one of the stranger interviews I’ve done with the spouse of a victim,” he blurted out, looking to Liv. She nodded.
“Have you ever watched the ballet Giselle, Lawrence?” The question bubbled to Olivia’s mouth before she had much time to think about it.
“No, I can’t say I have,” he replied, curiosity reflecting in his eyes. “What’s it about?”
“This village girl named Giselle,” she relayed, “loves to dance, but she has a heart condition that means she shouldn’t. Anyway, she falls for the wrong man—a liar. When she finds out who he truly is, it sends her into such a frenzy that her heart can’t handle it. She dies in his arms.” Olivia’s gaze, much like Lydia’s earlier, drifted off into the distance, grasping for something just out of sight.
“That’s rather dark, don’t you think?” Lawrence asked.
“That’s only the first act,” Liv replied, giving her partner a thoughtful look before gazing off into the unknown once more.
“What happens next?”
“She joins a group of ghosts called the Willis. They died virgins, scorned by men. They spend nights capturing men and forcing them to dance until they die.” Images of white romantic tutus and dramatic lighting danced in Olivia’s imagination.
“I retract my statement about Act I being dark,” Lawrence laughed.
Olivia nudged him.
“Anyway, Albrecht, the guy who broke Giselle’s heart,” she continued, “he shows up to the forest the night she’s reanimated as a Willis so that he can place flowers on her grave. The queen of the Willis wants to kill him—rightfully so in my opinion,” Olivia added with a flourish.
“Ouch,” Lawrence joked. “Remind me not to break any hearts.”
She smiled at him.
“What’s to say you haven’t already?”
He nodded.
“Touché.”
Liv pulled her coat tighter around her.
“Anyway.” She nudged Lawrence again when he feigned exasperation at her story’s continuation. “Giselle won’t have it and pleads with the queen to spare Albrecht’s life. Even after losing her life because of this man, she seeks salvation for him. She bears the burden of dancing through the night with him, and as day breaks and the Willis are banished from the earth until night returns, Albrecht lives to see another day.” The wind whipped at their faces, filling in the gaps of their conversation.
“I didn’t realise how wild some ballet stories were,” Lawrence replied after a moment. “And as riveting as it sounds, what exactly does that have to do with Simon’s death?”
Olivia stopped and turned to him. He followed suit.
“My question is,” she answered. “Which one is Lydia? Giselle, the broken-hearted woman who will still find goodness in the man who scorned her? Or Myrtha, the ruthless queen with a harsh sense of justice?” She pondered the question as she looked out onto the Cornish countryside.
“Which one are you?”
The question surprised Olivia, who turned to look at Lawrence.
“I’m not sure I know.” She knew the statement was true as she spoke it. “And if I’d found out that my husband of over a decade was abusing a teenager? All bets are off at that point.”
“Agreed,” Lawrence sighed. “I just hope we’re able to figure out who his victim was.”
“Me too.” Simon Fisher had taken many dark secrets with him off the top of his balcony. Hopefully, they didn’t become buried in his grave.
6
The flat was a disaster. If there had been any doubt about foul play based solely off the body, it was quickly squashed by the scene that unfolded before Olivia and Lawrence. Debris was strewn about the lounge—books and upended plants made the room look less like a living space and more like a recent tornado site. A coffee table lay on its side, shattered glass cluttering the floor around it.
“I guess we know where those lacerations came from,” Lawrence breathed, noting the trace amounts of rust-coloured blood that were sprinkled over the glass. A couple of lab techs were swabbing for samples as they spoke.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and our killer was cut by the glass, too,” Olivia hummed. She turned to Beth, who had joined them after escorting Lydia to another officer’s car. Eagerness radiated off the young PC like a strong odour, bold and unyielding.
“How do people access the building?” Olivia asked.
“There’s a key for the front door and another for each flat,” Beth replied, her words flying out of her mouth. Olivia nodded.
“Any security cameras?” Lawrence inquired.
“They’ve got one in the lobby, but it’s just for show. Building manager said it hasn’t worked in over a year.”
“So, we don’t have a good way of establishing who’s been in the building.” Olivia sighed. “Have the officers who are canvassing also ask if residents noticed anyone besides the regulars walking the halls last night or early this morning. It’s a long shot, but we might get something.”
Beth’s head bounced in a vigorous nod.
“This scene is violent. Whoever dispatched of Mr. Fisher was angry,” Lawrence observed, pacing the lounge. The door to the balcony was still opened a fraction.
“Classic overkill,” Olivia agreed. “And whoever it was didn’t bother to clean up. Interesting if it happened early in the morning when the killer theoretically had the time to restore the apartment before anyone found the body and the police arrived.”
“Does that mean anything to you?” Lawrence asked, walking over to a bookcase.
“Well thought-out killers usually feel the need to clean up after themselves,” Olivia observed. She glanced to Lawrence. “It doesn’t rule them out—just something to think about.”
Lawrence flicked through the pages of a book before putting it back.
“Plus, Simon was a decent size. Easily at least 14 stones, don’t you think?”
“At the very least,” Olivia agreed.
“A hospital letter found on the worktop puts him at 13stone 11pounds,” Beth chipped in. Olivia bit her bottom lip to stop herself from saying something sassy in return.
“And how tall?” Dean asked, oblivious.
“5ft 9,” PC Reece replied.
Both detectives nodded.
“So,” DI Lawrence mused. “The killer comes in through the doorway, manages to get Simon on the ground. He tortures him for a bit—throws him through the coffee table, strangles him for a little, trashes the apartment for dramatic effect. Once he’s gotten enough rage out by beating up Simon, he realises it’s not enough. He opens the balcony door and drags the man outside…” Lawrence walked over the broken glass and towards the slightly ajar balcony door as he described the scene. “He’s able to either pick Simon up or incapacitate him enough that he can’t struggle as he’s pulled up onto the railing and then…”
“Splat,” Olivia sighed, looking over the guardrail to see the cordon from the ground. A couple of evidence notes pointed out scuff marks on the balcony’s flooring as well as on the rail. “Do you think he was able to put up a fight?” she asked, forcing herself to look away from the drop. Looking down from a height for too long made her feel strange.
“If he was,” Lawrence answered, “It was pretty futile. Most of the destruction in the flat looks less like a struggle and more like a tantrum. Sure, maybe he fought back at the beginning, but if the attacker was able to choke him for long enough, he could’ve barely been conscious when he was tossed over the edge.”
Olivia hummed in agreement.
“Beth, is there anything else of note in the flat?” she called out, looking towards the young constable. The PC brushed her hair back as s
he flounced over to the duo.
“His computer’s clean—like wicked clean,” she answered. “It wasn’t locked and doesn’t have any files on it or in the bin section. Either he was deleting stuff regularly or whoever came in made sure we couldn’t find anything on it.”
“That could be important—especially if he was indeed a paedophile,” Olivia observed. Beth blanched at that comment.
“I’m sorry—he was a…a…?”
“Yes,” Olivia sighed, cutting her off. “Or at least that’s what he told his wife. He was apparently ‘dating’ one of his 15-year-old students, but it could have started when the girl was as young as 14. Sick is what I call that. In your mid-30s, no less.” Olivia felt rage build behind her eyes the more she thought of it. “It means that it could have been Mr. Fisher or the assailant that wiped the hard drive. If he was a predator, he probably would have had some files on his computer. They normally do. But maybe he was sneakier about it. Less messy with his tracks.”
“Anything else, dolly—er, Beth?” Lawrence’s face deepened three shades of red as the nickname accidentally slipped past his lips. PC Reece’s cheeks didn’t fare much better either, though she quickly brushed it aside.
“Since you ask, Detective,” she made sure to emphasise his role. “Forensics have found some fingerprints, but not as many as you might expect considering the crazy nature of the flat,” she spoke quickly, trying not to fumble over her words.
“So maybe the killer wore gloves?” Lawrence replied, just as hastily.
Olivia let her lips break into a broad grin. A glance from her partner quickly shut it down. So there clearly had been something deep between the awkward pair in front of her.
She turned to survey the mess about them.
“This place seems like it was quite tidy besides the ruckus caused by the killer,” Olivia observed. “Beth, you’ve been an excellent help. By the way, could you make sure to have forensics grab the bedsheets and test them for fluids. Mr. Fisher seemed to keep everything clean, but maybe he didn’t do a good job of laundering his linens. We’re going to need to figure out who his student victim was—the sooner, the better.”
“Agreed,” Lawrence chimed in. “That would be very helpful, Beth.” It was his turn to overenunciated her name.
Rightly so, Olivia thought to herself. Keep yourself focused on the job, Lawrence.
“On it,” PC Reece replied before practically jogging to the bedroom.
“She’s one wired officer,” Olivia noted as the brunette walked off.
Lawrence cleared his throat.
“Let’s not forget that I can also tease you about Duracell,” he returned. “I suggest you don’t mention what you heard here again.” His voice was almost a low growl, and Olivia couldn’t hold back her laugh. His serious face amused her all the more.
“Your secret’s safe with me, Dean,” she reassured him, giving him an overexaggerated pat on the back.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“Well then, is there anything else you want to look at before we head back to the station?” Olivia asked, looking to toward the balcony one last time.
Lawrence nodded.
“Let’s quickly glance in the bedroom and then we can be off,” he replied, leading the way.
Olivia trailed behind him.
The room was similar to the rest of the flat—well-decorated, clean, tidy. Almost sparse without feeling like a bachelor pad. The queen-sized bed sat in the centre of the back wall; it was made, ready for Simon to return, though he never would.
Beth was stood beside the window talking to a forensic scientist, and on the side chest of drawers there was a photo of the victim smiling broadly with Lydia in his arms.
“He really was picky about his space,” Olivia observed.
Lawrence nodded.
“I agree.” He looked around him, purposefully avoiding the area where PC Reece was. “Even with his wife’s absence, he clearly knew how to keep a place tidy. Maybe he had help?” He let the last comment hang for a moment. “Let’s head back to the station.”
“Agreed.” She squeezed past the forensic team to lead their way back into the main room of the flat and gave it a once over before turning to the door.
“Anything else?”
Lawrence simply shook his head.
* * *
The pair made their way quietly through the building and back into the lobby. Olivia noticed that even though there was clearly a police scene happening, none of the neighbours seemed overly eager to figure out what was happening in their building. That’s a bit odd, Olivia thought to herself.
“Do you think it’s strange we didn’t deal with any nosey neighbours?” Olivia asked as the duo exited the building.
“A bit, yeah,” Lawrence answered. “Plus, it’s not as though a splat like Simon’s wouldn’t have been loud. The fact that no one woke up to or heard the spectacular struggle that happened in the flat—or the fall itself—is puzzling.”
“You know, the more people there are around, the less likely someone is to report something like a violent crime?” Olivia shared.
“Really?” Her partner asked, tilting his head to the side.
She nodded.
“Everyone thinks that someone else will take care of it. It’s why if someone’s having a heart attack, they teach you to designate someone specific to call for help. Otherwise, people will just stand and stare.”
They made it to the car and both Lawrence and Olivia climbed inside.
“What’s our plan?” Olivia asked. “Our next move?”
Lawrence put the key fob into the ignition but didn’t start the engine.
“We head back to the station and see whatever records we can manage to find on Simon Fisher, as well as his wife. We can try and get in contact with the principal of his school as well. I’d like to keep the news out of the media until at least Monday; see if we can break the news to his students, see if we get any strong reactions.”
Olivia nodded brusquely at that comment.
“Do you think it was someone related to his victim?” Dread filled her chest as she asked the question.
Lawrence looked at her.
“Well,” he sighed. “If you were the parent of a teenager who just found out they’d been sleeping with their teacher, would you wait for the law to carry out justice? Or would you take it into your own hands?”
Olivia winced at the thought.
“Would make sense,” she offered. “But, then there’s Lydia...”
Her partner nodded with a frown.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “I say we confirm her alibi. And then we should get home at a decent hour tonight. I get the feeling we’ll only be able to learn so much before we visit Simon’s school.”
Lawrence started the engine, animating the car to life. He gave her a look, which she returned in kind.
This one’s going to be difficult.
7
The bright clack of Olivia’s evening heels punctuated the detective pair’s march down the hallway of Newquay Police Station. They had phoned Det Supt Collins on their way back from the flat where Simon Fisher had met his untimely end. Their boss had sighed when they informed him that Fisher in all likelihood had been sleeping with one of his students.
“Bastard,” Collins had practically spat out of his mouth.
Olivia had sighed in agreement.
“We’re going to rendezvous at the station to do some digging on him,” she’d explained. “Hopefully, if he was hurting a kid, he got sloppy at some point.”
Collins had given a lengthy pause.
“Feel free to call in Clara Fitzroy,” he advised. “She’s got some great insight as to how predators slink around the internet. Plus, I don’t think she gets up to anything on Sunday afternoons.”
“Right, sir,” Olivia had replied, not wanting to mention that getting their tech analyst on board was already at the top of her list. “Clara would definitely be a huge help on this.”
<
br /> Collins had sighed, the weight of the weekend’s work already weighing him down.
“Well, thank you both for the update.” He sighed again. “Fisher sounds like someone who’d easily hold a target on his back. Losing his wife because he was caught having an affair with a student? That’s three or four people who’d probably want him dead right there.”
“It’s going to be a rather large suspect pool, yes,” Olivia had agreed. “Well, we’re just about to arrive at the station. We’ll pop over if there are any breaks.”
He’d thanked them and ended the call before the detectives had had an opportunity to say anything more.
Detective Superintendent Steven Collins was a rather gruff man, and it had taken a while for Olivia to feel comfortable around him, although she most definitely admired him. And as she thought back to their conversations over the past few weeks, she couldn’t help but feel as though she was starting to see the faintest of cracks in his façade. At the very least, she felt a sense of warmth when she realised that he did, in fact, trust her.
After the incident in London, she was convinced that no other police officer or detective would ever trust her again. After all, she’d survived something unimaginable while Rhys hadn’t. And from her perspective, she should have done something else, something that would have ensured he made it through that day alive.
The first several months after the attack that left her without her partner and with three deep scars in her right side. She would lay in bed at night, trying to figure out what she could have done differently to save Rhys. It was her own personal chess game, rewinding and setting the pieces in a new motion, seeing if that fixed the problem. What if I had left at this point? What if Rhys had body armour on? What if we’d just kept on driving?
It became too difficult for her to maintain, though. The nightmares got scarier, her dependency on her pain medication rocketed, and it took an intervention from her sister, Mills, to recover from that spiral.
