by Nic Roberts
The detectives stood.
“Mr. Atkinson, I’m DI Lawrence, this is DI Austin,” Lawrence started, reaching out his hand to introduce himself. The man took his grip firmly. “We need to speak with you and your wife on a few matters.”
A tense silence momentarily settled amongst the room.
“This better be important, to pull me from a board meeting,” Francesca’s father muttered.
“I’m afraid it is,” Lawrence sighed. “Please, if you both could have a seat.”
The Atkinsons begrudgingly settled into a loveseat opposite the detectives, Francesca sitting in a small chair on her own.
“Your daughter has something that she’s going to share with you,” Lawrence started, looking at the teen who continued to hide behind her brown hair.
“Fannie, what’s happened?”
Olivia couldn’t tell if it was concern or impatience in Mrs. Atkinson’s voice. Probably both, she thought to herself. How often did these adults actually speak with their children?
“I, uh,” Francesca started, continuing to keep her face downcast. Her eyes darted back and forth between her hands.
She’s trying to figure out how to say it, Olivia thought, her heart going out to the child.
“The teacher who died earlier this week—Mr. Fisher—he—” Francesca choked over the words, burying her head in her hands before finishing her thought.
Olivia kept her eyes tracked on Francesca’s parents as she spoke, watching for any reaction that would imply they knew already.
Mrs. Atkinson’s back straightened at the mention of Mr. Fisher’s name. Mr. Atkinson did his best to stay engaged, but confusion was clearly written across his face.
“Do I have to?” Francesca asked, looking to Lawrence.
He gave her a gentle nod.
“It’s okay, Francesca,” he urged, offering the gentlest lilt of a smile.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her sleep, cleared her throat, and stared directly at her mother.
“Mr. Fisher and I were in love,” Francesca stated, her voice strong until it cracked at the end, revealing the crumbling emotional state behind her brave face.
“I don’t—I don’t understand,” Mr. Atkinson spoke, glancing from Francesca to each detective before looking back at his daughter. “What do you mean, darling?”
“What do I mean?” Francesca spat out, eyes narrowing with rage. Tears continued to flow freely down her face as she animated into the angry teen from earlier. The word vengeful barely seemed to encapsulate the fury in her voice as she confronted her parents.
“I mean that we were in love! Head over heels, fucking like rabbits, making promises to grow old together...in love!”
The Atkinsons, at first mildly uncomfortable, sat with jaws agape at Francesca’s outburst.
“Fannie!” Mrs. Atkinson breathed, eyes wide with bewilderment. “Fannie, Mr. Fisher is—was twenty years your senior. And he dared to put his hands on you? You should have told us.”
“Like you’d even listen,” Francesca cried, refusing to look at either parent.
“You don’t know that, darling. We listen all the time,” Mrs. Atkinson insisted, standing to go to her daughter’s side. She elegantly folded herself onto the floor despite her tight dress, taking Francesca’s hands in her own as she looked up at her. “Even if sometimes we can seem busy or distracted. If you ever need to tell us something—we’re here.”
Francesca pulled her hands away, pushing herself further into the chair.
“Detectives, thank you for bringing this to our attention,” Mrs. Atkinson said, turning to face Lawrence and Olivia. Despite the sincerity painted on her face, Olivia couldn’t help but feel as if it was a calculated move. Prove concern. Portray the perfect family they all knew had gaping cracks in need of mending.
“Fannie—I’m so sorry,” Mr. Atkinson spoke for the first time since she broke the news. He shook his head gently. “I’m so sorry.”
Olivia’s line of work meant she saw adult men cry more than the average Brit, but it wasn’t very frequently that she saw a man fully break down in front of her. That was the best word to describe Mr. Atkinson in the moment, however. He buried his head in his hands—so much like his daughter—as his shoulders were wracked with large sobs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Atkinson,” Olivia addressed them directly for the first time. “I know this has been a shocking revelation, but we need to ask what everyone in the household was doing on Saturday evening.”
Mr. Atkinson continued to sob.
“We were all in the house,” Mrs. Atkinson insisted, still at her daughter’s feet. “I want to resent the implication that we could have anything to do with Mr. Fisher’s demise—I’m assuming that’s why you’re asking, anyway—but if that criminal was still alive, I’d probably be hunting him down this very moment.” Rage boiled in her voice.
“Don’t say that,” Francesca whimpered. “Please.”
Olivia winced as she reflected on the amount of brainwashing that the poor teen was going to have to grapple with in the coming months.
“I mean it. You’re a child, for fuck’s sake,” Mrs. Atkinson ranted, her face going through three or four emotions in the span of seconds. Rage. Despair. Confusion. “A grown man has no business involving himself with you!”
A phone, somewhere in the house, rang, but everyone chose to ignore it.
“This was different!” Francesca insisted, practically yelling. “When we were together, it wasn’t about age.”
Olivia watched as the girl’s hands squeezed the arms of her chair.
“We have a security alarm system that tracks all coming and going from the house, as well as video cameras at all entrances.” Mr. Atkinson’s disembodied voice interrupted the conflict between mother and daughter, his eyes glazed over. “I can have the company send over our records from Saturday to Sunday. I trust you’ll find we all stayed in the house for the evening.”
Olivia and Lawrence shared a long glance.
“That would be most helpful, Mr. Atkinson,” Lawrence chimed in. He pulled out a business card and set it on one of the end tables. “Our contact information is on that card. We’ll be in touch with details of counsellors for her, should you choose to go down that route. We highly recommend it. Is there anything else we can do to support you all in this moment?”
Francesca pulled her hair back from her face. The heartbreak etched on her face was clearly eating her alive inside.
Mrs Atkinson was the first to speak.
“Is there any—any justice that we can get for our Fannie?” she asked. It was the closest she seemed to be to crying since the truth had come out.
“Unfortunately, I’m not sure there is,” Lawrence sighed. “Unless we can prove that the school knew and neglected to take action.”
“No one knew,” Francesca growled. “And I don’t want there to be anything else that happens—isn’t Simon’s death enough?” By the time she had finished the sentence, her voice had returned to a wail.
Olivia took her notepad out and wrote down the number of her therapist.
“Here’s the number of a counsellor whom I trust,” she offered. “I know we were going to give you a list, but this one really knows her stuff. I think it would be a good idea to have Francesca see her, as well as possibly considering family therapy. An event like this is traumatic and can put strain on relationships.”
Francesca scoffed; Mrs. Atkinson did her best not to roll her eyes.
“We’ll do it.” Mr. Atkinson’s voice was quiet but carried all of the weight needed to end the conversation. “And I’ll make sure the security company gets that information to you as quickly as possible. Is there anything else you need, detectives?”
Olivia was a little startled at the haste in which he was ready to wrap everything up. For a moment, she’d been convinced the girl’s father was devastated at the news. Now, however, she wondered if it had all been an act to look as though he cared. Poor girl.
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She quickly wrote her number down under the therapists one.
“My number’s here too, Francesca,” she assured her. “Please don’t hesitate to reach out. It’s hard, losing a loved one.” Her relationship with Rhys was nothing like Francesca’s affair with Simon. Still, she was sure the girl was feeling similar pain to her own right after she lost her partner.
Francesca’s eyes darted to the paper, her lips pressed tightly shut. Olivia didn’t expect anything else. The girl would call if she felt it was necessary. She certainly couldn’t force it, though.
“That should be all,” Lawrence exhaled, standing as he spoke. Liv joined him. “We’re okay to see ourselves out.” The Atkinsons nodded; they were about to face their own storm. That didn’t solve the detectives’ mystery, however.
As the duo stepped into the cool afternoon air, Lawrence gave out a long sigh. Olivia chuckled.
“You can say that again,” she muttered as they walked toward the car. “Both parents reacted with shock. Mrs. Atkinson was definitely performing a bit—but I don’t think she knew about her daughter’s affair.”
“Agreed,” Lawrence replied. “Which scratches some suspects out, but also brings us back to square one. We were so certain it was someone who knew that Francesca was being abused—where does that leave us now?” He shook his head ever so slightly as he looked around the Atkinson’s drive.
“Let’s get back to the station and see if anyone has some new leads,” Olivia suggested.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Lawrence chimed in, climbing into the car.
Olivia swiftly followed suit.
If not Francesca or her family, then who? Questions swirled in Olivia’s head; she couldn’t remember the last time she had been this perplexed by a case so far into the investigation.
Normally, the pieces slowly clicked into place, evidence by evidence, revealing a cohesive picture. This time, however, it felt like they were expecting a whole different puzzle than the one they had found themselves with, like someone had swapped the boxes.
As the detectives sped off into the distance, all Olivia could hope was that they figured out what the true picture was soon enough.
19
Clara flounced into the station, her bright green jumpsuit standing out amidst the sea of people in shades of greys and browns. Her steps always had a lightness to them, as though she were walking on clouds instead of drab tile.
“You called?” she asked as she waltzed into Olivia and Lawrence’s office. The pair had just arrived back and were in the midst of unpacking their belongings.
“Clara!” Olivia exclaimed as she looked up to see the tech analyst. A warm smile spread across her often-stoic features. “So glad you could come over.”
“Agreed,” Lawrence chimed in, mild-mannered as always. That earned him a cheeky smile from Clara, who swung herself up onto Olivia’s desk.
“Careful,” Olivia chided, although her tone made it clear that she was mostly joking. “I was surprised to hear you were in. What happened to the races?”
Clara pulled her tablet from her pastel pink bag and switched the screen on.
“Really, it’s a long story to do with tickets, misunderstandings, and a dirty burger that in my opinion was massively undercooked.” She rolled her eyes for emphasis while the detectives glanced at each other. “Anyway... what’s the word on the Fisher case?” she asked. One of her braids fell forward, and she swooped the whole lot of them back, tying them against each other into a large bun.
“To be completely honest…we’re stuck.” Olivia sighed, settling into her chair. Lawrence did the same at his own desk. “We thought the killer would be linked to Fisher’s student victim in some way...maybe her father or older brother. But after interviewing her, it’s clear that no one knew about the so-called affair except for the victim and Simon.”
“And the wife,” Lawrence added, giving Olivia a pointed look.
“And the wife,” Olivia agreed. She seemed hesitant to say anything more than that. “So, I guess we were wondering if you found any more red flags—even yellow flags at this point—with Fisher’s digital footprint.”
“Got it,” Clara agreed, pulling up her file on Simon Fisher as Olivia spoke. “Well, I can tell you one thing: he didn’t seem to have any other victims. At least not any that he had correspondence with. But that seems to be what he really liked about it—getting to talk about himself.” Olivia could hear the disdain in Clara’s voice; it paralleled the bitter taste on her own tongue.
“Is there perhaps a forum he may have gotten involved with online—somewhere where he could have shared that he was instigating a relationship with a fifteen-year-old?”
Clara shook her head at Olivia’s question.
“It was worth a shot,” she acquiesced.
“What about something that doesn’t have anything to do with the affair at all?” Lawrence asked, perking up. “Debt, perhaps. Or ties to a gang?”
Clara gave him a loaded look at that question.
“You really think Mr. English teacher Simon Fisher was involved with a gang?” Sarcasm cut her words, searing the room with heat.
“Well, not necessarily a gang, but—someone unsavoury,” Lawrence replied, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat. “Right now, we have next to nothing to go on, so anything that might help would be terrific.”
The three of them sat in silent contemplation for a moment.
“The man was fairly strait-laced,” Clara replied, scrolling through the file on her tablet. “I’ve been doing some digging into his wife, Lydia. I know she has an alibi, but she just seems to clean. If she could hate him enough to stand over his squished body on the pavement with no emotion, then she’s capable of killing him. She had every motive to, right?”
Olivia perked up as Clara went through the laundry list of reasons why Mrs. Fisher could still be there suspect.
“What if it isn’t about Simon at all?” she asked, looking at Lawrence. He clearly had the same cogs turning in his mind. “What if it’s about Lydia? Someone trying to send a message to her—warn her.”
“Do what needs to be done or you’re next,” Lawrence agreed, fumbling to stand.
“It could have even been someone who thought Lydia was at the flat. It wasn’t massively public knowledge that they were living separately,” Olivia continued, eyes widening. “The overkill could be because they were furious that the woman herself wasn’t around.”
Lawrence rubbed at the stubble on the side of his face.
“Damnit, we need to speak to her again.” He decided.
Olivia nodded enthusiastically, already grabbing for her coat. She watched her partner put his phone and keys into his pocket quickly.
“Thank you for everything, Clara,” Olivia called out to the tech analyst who hopped down from her desk.
“No, you’re welcome,” Clara replied in a sing-song voice. “Just doing my job. I’m back in the office from now, so just give me bell if you need me!”
Lawrence appeared at her side, ducking in to give her a brief kiss on the cheek before grabbing his own cloak.
“You’re brilliant,” he affirmed.
She laughed heartily as she put her belongings back into her pink bag and flung it over her shoulder.
“You best know it,” she confirmed with a smirk. “Now, have fun storming the castle!”
They said their goodbyes, and Clara disappeared from their office. They could hear her voice as she stopped to speak to the other detectives.
Olivia pulled together the items she had just sprawled every which way in haste. Mentally making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Phone, keys, purse, notepad.
“Ready?” Lawrence asked, poised by the door.
She nodded, adrenalin at the thought they might finally be getting somewhere coursed through her veins.
The duo whisked themselves off into the hallway, any rift from arguments earlier in the week scabbing over to allow their synchronicity to resume. Even thei
r steps moved like those marching in a well-oiled battalion. Olivia was struck with a comforting hope that perhaps they could heal the divide from their argument. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but striding next to her partner, she had a sense that it was entirely possible—probable, even.
Relief flooded her senses at that realisation. It’s going to be okay.
20
Margaret Anderson’s home was quaint, unassuming. Looking upon it, Olivia realised it would be quite the place to hide away from the world. The memories of Lydia recounting her month of depression and absence from the comings and goings of everyday life suddenly made much more sense, gazing upon the small brick building with its welcoming windows.
Lawrence had called Lydia on their drive over, allowing Olivia to get behind the wheel in a somewhat rare—but not altogether unseen—role reversal. We’re figuring out our boundaries of trust again, Olivia had thought to herself as she drove toward the location of their victim’s wife. Lydia had answered and replied that both she and Margaret were indeed home.
The woman looked as pale as a ghost as she opened the door for the detectives. They exchanged brief pleasantries before winding up in Margaret’s lounge, the detectives seated across from the sisters.
Margaret looked shockingly similar to Lydia; both women had rather petite frames, though sinews of muscle rippling under their skin. Mrs. Fisher’s stormy eyes matched her sister’s perfectly.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Margaret half whispered with a warm smile before whisking herself off to the nearby kitchen.
With a moment to be alone, Olivia turned to Lydia and offered her a reassuring smile.
“So, how have you been doing?” she asked, studying her face. Mrs. Fisher’s gaze still seemed far off, as though she’d decided that existence in this world was too difficult, that another one would be much easier.
“I’m fine, detectives,” she muttered, breaking her reverie to look down at her hands folded in her lap.
Olivia made a mental note to double check with Margaret once she returned from the kitchen.
