by Nic Roberts
“Well,” Margaret answered. “I woke up around 7 in the morning. Brewed a pot, turned on the local radio, and sat down to listen as I sipped. It’s a nice ritual of mine. Then, a friend who lives in that area sent me a text and mentioned something about a police scene at Lydia’s flat. Rumours of a dead body and all that. I wasn’t going to just ignore it, so I woke up Lydia as quickly as possible at that point.” The woman's voice quickened as she described the events of Sunday morning. “It all happened so fast, Lydia practically left in her nightgown. She forgot her phone, so I stayed home and twiddled my thumbs until she returned. And that was when—”
Margaret stopped herself from continuing the story. There was silence on the other end of the phone. Was she crying? Or, carefully orchestrating what she was going to say next?
“That...” she continued slowly, “was when Lydia told me what I had suspected. Simon... well, he was dead.”
She let out a long breath.
Olivia noted the pause. Anything could mean everything.
“And that was all that was said to you?” she asked, pressing on. “Nothing else? No matter how insignificant you think it is.”
Margaret cleared her throat.
“Only that she’d spoken with police at the scene and that they wanted to call and confirm her alibi,” she offered. “And trust me, detective. Lydia takes sleeping pills at night—prescribed and everything. She wouldn’t have been able to wake up in the middle of the night, let alone drive herself across town. You can ask her doctor, too. They’re prescription.”
Her reiteration of that fact was noted too. Trying too hard to protect her sister? Possibly.
Olivia tapped her pen on her chin, wishing that Lawrence had been with her to give his input. She could almost picture his expression on hearing that part.
“That was very helpful, Miss Anderson,” she assured her. “We'll be sure to follow up with all loose ends. Is there anything else you’d like us to know while the investigation is open? Any enemies you know of that Mr. Fisher may have had? Arguments? Fallouts? Bad blood?”
Margaret sighed, the tone of it suggesting she was on the verge of irritation.
“Like I said before, I didn’t know the man that well,” she answered. “I should have known he was up to no good and warned Lydia before he broke her heart, but I was too cautious.”
Olivia picked up on her offhand comment.
“Why do you say you should have known better?” she pressed.
“Sometimes you just know that someone isn’t quite right in the head.” Margaret’s response was firm. “That’s how I felt about Simon. I didn’t have anything that would prove it, though, so I just let it be. I thought that Lydia’s happiness was more important than any silly gut feeling I may have had. Turns out I was wrong.” She sighed, exasperated.
Olivia wrote Lydia’s name down on her piece of paper with a large question mark next to it.
“Fair enough,” she replied looking down at the letters of the woman’s name. There was something more to this story than the women were letting on. She could feel it. “Well, that’s all I need for now, Margaret.” She decided against letting her suspicions be known. “Your sister has our number; please don’t hesitate to reach out if you think of anything else. Thank you for your time.”
“No, thank you for calling, Detective,” Margaret replied.
The two women quickly gave their goodbyes before hanging up. Almost without thinking, Olivia pressed the button to end the recording before gazing off at the cork board Lawrence had been fussing with the day before.
The conversation had distracted her—albeit only momentarily—from the reality of her afternoon. Now that she was alone with her thoughts, the absence of her partner at his desk hit her like a brick wall.
I fucked up, she thought to herself as she stared at his empty chair. She opened her phone, ready to call him, apologise again and update him on Margaret Anderson’s interview.
Don’t call me. Lawrence’s words rang in Olivia’s ears, giving her pause.
She put her phone down onto her desk, letting out an involuntary groan as she made peace with the fact that she shouldn’t call him—at least not yet.
It’s late, she reminded herself. You’re done for the day. Just write a note in case Dean comes in and get ready for another start tomorrow.
With a dejected sigh, Olivia started to pack up her things. Only once she was completely ready to leave and certain Lawrence wasn’t about to push through the doors to their office with a grin on his face and a gentle and forgiving lecture did she settle down to write her note to her partner.
She hesitated for several moments, pen hovering above notepad. Where to even begin? With the shake of her head, she finally pressed the end of the cheap biro into the fresh paper.
* * *
Spoke with Margaret Anderson. Cleared sister Lydia but also seems ready to lie for her. Recording on computer. Text/call with any questions.
* * *
She stared at the note. Was that enough? Too much? Olivia huffed as she debated her inscription for her partner.
* * *
Sorry again. -Liv.
* * *
The words spilled from the pen before she had the opportunity to second guess them. Afterwards, she rushed from the police station, feeling as if she herself was fleeing a crime scene.
Was it fair of her to leave the note? Was the note something Lawrence needed? The clear evening air in the car park did little to assuage the sinking feeling in her chest. It was as though the asphalt was beckoning to her, inviting her to curl up inside of it.
You’ll be okay, she told herself. Lawrence will talk to you soon. Still, her phone burned in her pocket, another reminder that she couldn’t call her partner and confidante.
She hurried herself into the waiting Uber before she could worry about it too much. After all, she still had a case to solve.
He’ll call soon, she assured herself as the car took off into the cold, empty night.
14
Morning came and went without sign of Detective Inspector Lawrence at the station, try as Olivia might to will his presence through the doorway. About an hour into the stack of paperwork that Olivia was sifting through, Det. Supt. Collins swung by to inform her that Dean had called in sick.
“He said he’s hoping to be in this afternoon or tomorrow, it’s hard to tell.”
“Those were his exact words?” Olivia had asked, feeling the sinking feeling spread across her stomach. She couldn’t tell if the disappointment was with him or herself.
“Essentially,” Collins had responded before turning to leave the office. “How’s the case going?” he asked, almost offhandedly.
Olivia knew her boss better than to think that he was ambivalent about her answer. She cleared her throat.
“We don’t have any major suspects yet,” she answered. “But we’re honing in on a couple of leads. Going to the school yesterday was very helpful,” she explained, twirling her pen between her fingers to avoid eye contact. Just in case her eyes gave away the secret to her terrible behaviour the day before. She glanced at Collins as she spoke her last sentence though, his broad frame filling up the doorway. “We’re going to catch whoever did this. I can feel it.”
He gave her a firm nod.
“Carry on,” was her boss’s only response before turning to exit the office with a final thumbs up. She smiled at that. It was maybe the closest she had gotten to a stamp of approval from the Superintendent. It felt good to be on the right track—although the guilt of fighting with Lawrence the day before stopped her from fully appreciating the moment. It wasn’t her victory to celebrate. It was theirs, as a team.
Please come back soon, Lawrence, she wished as she looked back to his desk and his immaculate notes on the board right behind it. I could really use your help.
* * *
According to the school’s records, Mr. Fisher had 67 female students currently being taught by him. It was a fairly big group to
try and sift through in order to find his victim—especially if they wanted to be quiet about it.
If his paramour found out that they were looking for her, she could run for the hills. It wouldn’t be fair to just start grabbing the students and asking them point blank if they had slept with their teacher, either. That would be downright cruel.
Olivia made sure to note that both Francesca Atkinson and Mia Baker were in Mr. Fisher’s classes. There were also two female students who hadn’t been at school that day who showed up on his rosters: Rene Farrow and Ivy Thompson. She circled those names as well. They were all important leads—that much was certain.
A thought occurred to her as she sorted through the names. It started quietly, like a whisper just below the surface of her consciousness, but soon it wouldn’t stop nagging her.
She quickly dialled Lydia Fisher’s number, pushing various papers aside to make space for her notepad.
“C’mon,” she muttered, urging the woman to pick up.
Just when she thought Lydia wouldn’t answer, she heard a click and a familiar “Hello?” echo from the other end.
“Hi, Lydia? This is DI Austin,” Olivia spoke quickly, somehow nervous that Simon’s wife was going to hang up on her. She leaned forward in her seat, on the edge of anticipation.
“Oh, yes. Hello, Detective,” she responded quietly.
Olivia could barely hear her.
“I’m sorry, did your husband ever specify the gender of his victim?” she asked, urgency coating her voice.
Lydia hesitated.
“What? Oh,” she replied. She sounded groggy—maybe even intoxicated. “I can’t…I can’t remember for certain but I’m nearly positive he said ‘she.’ What are you insinuating, detective?”
Olivia bit the corner of her lip in contemplation.
“Apologies for being so blunt, Lydia,” she answered. “I had to confirm with you if we knew the gender of his victim before we eliminated half of the student population. Doing less than that would have been negligent. You’re certain he would have slept with a girl?”
Olivia felt cruel as the words escaped her lips, but she knew it needed to be asked.
Lydia seemed flustered.
“I…I understand, detective,” she fumbled. “Forgive me, the question just caught me off guard. Yes, it was a woman—girl. I would have known if—” She cut herself off.
“Of course, you would have known,” Olivia reassured Simon’s wife before the woman spiralled again. “I just needed to double check. Thank you for taking the time answer.”
“Of course, detective. Is there anything else that I can help you with?” Lydia asked.
“Only if there’s anything else you’ve thought of since we last chatted,” Olivia replied, trying to be gentle after her rather harsh words earlier. It wasn’t every day she asked a newly widowed woman if her husband had in fact been sleeping with a fifteen-year-old boy instead of a girl.
“Not that I can think of, to be completely honest,” Lydia answered. “Apologies, I’ve just woken up from a nap, so my head isn’t all quite here at the moment. I heard that you talked with Margaret yesterday,” she observed.
“I did indeed,” Olivia commented. “She spoke highly of you and confirmed your alibi.”
“Oh, that’s good to hear,” Lydia sighed. A little too relieved perhaps? “Have you figured out who his student was?”
Olivia watched as Tim entered their small office and have her a little wave before he sat down.
“Not yet, Lydia,” she answered and then paused. She knew this wasn’t going to be easy to hear. “You know that even once we do, privacy laws mean that we can’t tell you who it was.” She winced as she spoke the truth aloud.
The other end of the phone remained silent.
“I understand,” Lydia choked out eventually. “And that’s good. It really is. You should be protecting her.”
Her sentences were choppy; Olivia could tell she was holding back tears.
“You’ll be okay, though?” she asked the woman. “You’ve been given the numbers for the bereavement counsellors?”
“I have, thank you,” Lydia sighed. “It’s just a lot, Detective.” She sniffed and cleared her throat. “If that’s all...”
“Oh right,” Olivia exhaled. “It is, yes. I’ll let you get back to...your nap. Don’t forget you have our number if anything comes up.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Thank you for calling, detective.”
Liv heard the sound of a hushed voice in the background.
“Thank you for being so forthright, Lydia,” she said, choosing to ignore that it might have been Margaret telling her what to say to sound innocent. “You’ve been an immense help.”
She let the words hang in the air for a moment before hanging up then sighed as she placed her phone on the desk.
She wanted to believe Lydia, but she also knew how unreliable witness statements could be—especially when loved ones were involved. Even if Lydia was positive that Simon had been sleeping with a girl, she could have filled in that detail herself—or Simon could have lied.
If only Lawrence was here, she thought to herself. I’d be able to bounce ideas off him, get new perspectives. I hope he comes back soon.
A now-familiar ache blossomed in her chest as she thought about the absence of her partner. He had such a strong perspective on the world, and on other people. A keen acuity about him.
Olivia was worried she’d started getting too tangled in the case to have an understanding of the full picture. She looked at the corkboard on the side, trying to connect the dots. Someone out there hated Simon Fisher enough to enter his flat and kill him.
Deciding it was Lydia seemed too easy. Francesca maybe? If she was in fact his victim, would she have wanted him dead? Maybe she felt scorned that he’d tried to end things with her. Her attitude definitely left a lot to be desired, but was she a killer? No, who knew? Maybe her parents had found out? An angry dad? Big enough to throw a fighting man over a balcony?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a call coming in from the medical examiner’s office. A flutter of excitement rose up Olivia’s throat. It wasn’t Lawrence, but at least whoever was calling was good company. Plus, it would be another distraction at that.
“Hello, Detective Inspector Austin speaking,” she answered the phone, glancing around to see if Tim was paying attention. He picked up his mug as though on cue and made his way out the door.
She could see through the internal window that a couple of other detectives had their heads down at their desks, but no one seemed interested in her conversation.
“Detective Austin, hello,” a familiar voice greeted her, sending a renewed flutter deep through Olivia’s chest. His voice was so smooth, like chocolate fondue or a good shot of whiskey.
“Dr. James,” she exhaled. Whatever he was calling about, it was certainly work-related. She was in a professional setting for goodness’ sake, not a country club.
“Indeed.” He laughed lightly. “It’s good to hear your voice, Detective, I can't lie.”
That sent a blush straight to Olivia’s cheeks. Calm down, she scolded herself. This is your co-worker, don’t do this again.
“Likewise,” she managed to get out, her mouth suddenly much drier than it had been a couple of minutes prior. She reached for a glass of water.
“Well,” Dr. James sighed with a clearing of his throat, breaking the silence Olivia hadn’t even noticed had crept around them.
“Sorry,” she blurted out. “I got distracted. I’m assuming something’s come up in the Fisher case?”
“Your assumption would be correct,” Elliott agreed. “We finished the autopsy this morning. We’re officially declaring it a murder. He was beaten brutally, and it seems like with objects as well as with fists.”
“Harsh overkill,” Olivia exhaled.
The medical examiner hummed in agreement.
“My best guess is it was some sort of pipe or cylindrical object,” he inform
ed her. “Probably metal, from the intensity of the impact, although I wouldn’t completely rule out a sturdy piece of wood, depending on the strength of the killer.”
Olivia jotted down every piece of information that Dr. James explained to her.
“Are you able to tell if he was dead before the fall?” Olivia asked, wincing a bit as she thought about those dreadful moments before impact. Maybe he was spared that.
“Inconclusive results on that, unfortunately, but based on bruising and trajectory angles, I’d wager it’s more likely than not that the fall is what ultimately killed him. It was probably a push, but again, hard to say with factors such as the wind and whether or not he could have stumbled off the ledge.”
Olivia sighed, willing the images of a crushed Mr. Fisher to stay out of her dreams. She’d had enough nightmares recently to last a lifetime.
“Anything else of note from the autopsy?” she asked, looking through her notes.
“A couple of things, actually,” Dr. Elliot responded. “He had some alcohol in his system, as well as an anti-anxiety medication. And this is what really gets me. Whoever the killer was, they were incredibly careful to avoid leaving any DNA on Mr. Fisher’s body. Usually, something as violent as this results in tissue, blood, or fingerprints being left from the assailant. Often the victim is able to get some sort of DNA on them in the struggle.”
Interesting.
“The crime scene analysts thought that the killer may have worn gloves,” Olivia observed, doing her best to understand what the implications of a clean killer meant. “Normally, this kind of overkill isn’t premeditated or organised. It’s usually fuelled by passion and therefore more likely to be sloppy. But clearly whoever killed him took precautions.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Dr. James agreed. “We were able to find one thing: a long blonde hair stuck in one of the lacerations on his back. It didn’t have any tissue from the root of the hair, and it could have just been from around the apartment or outside. Still, I thought I should mention it.”
