Barnes tossed the car keys to her as they left the building. ‘I want to add some more to my notes while you drive.’
‘You’ll do the usual checks about them? Professional record, any previous convictions and the like?’
‘Yes. That’d already crossed my mind listening to the pair of them.’
‘What do you think? Too good to be true?’
‘If it was my sister or fiancée that was killed, I’d be a damn sight more angry than those two.’
‘A commendable way of dealing with grief, though.’
‘It’d be easier to move a body onto railway tracks if there were two of you.’
‘Now there’s a cheerful thought.’
Eleven
Kay pushed open the car door and waited for Barnes while she cast her eyes over the house in front of her.
A path led directly across a grass verge from the kerb to the front door of what had once been Stephen Taylor’s home. A fence had been erected to the left of the house with a locked gate that Kay presumed went through to the garden, while a wheelie bin stood on the outside of it, a cluster of bluebottle flies buzzing around the lid. Underneath the front window, a variety of large pots contained a half-hearted attempt at gardening. A single ornamental lamp hung above the front door, which was sheltered from the elements by a protruding porch.
She pressed the bell, then turned and faced the street as she waited for the door to be opened.
Beyond the garden wall were two narrow lines of terraced houses. Each property had the same outlook – a red brick frontage, a front door in the same style – apart from one or two rebellious neighbours who had installed bespoke designs – and a front window, with two upper windows overlooking the street below.
Some properties – Kay supposed, owned by more elderly people – had some care taken about them. The others looked a little more rundown; three doors up on the opposite side, a car sat on bricks, its paintwork rusting and cobwebs in the windscreen. She guessed it hadn’t moved for at least six months.
‘Nice neighbourhood,’ said Barnes. ‘Are these all council owned?’
Kay wrinkled her nose. ‘Actually, I think all these are privately owned,’ she said. She turned at the sound of somebody approaching the door.
It opened, and a woman who Kay guessed to be in her late fifties peered out.
‘What do you want?’
Kay introduced themselves. ‘Would you mind if we came in, Mrs Taylor?’
The woman’s upper lip curled, but she stepped aside and held open the door.
Her eyes travelled over Kay and then Barnes as they stepped inside before she wiped at sleepy eyes.
‘What’s this about? David’s not in trouble again is he?’
Kay waited until the door shut, and glanced at Barnes before speaking. ‘Who’s David?’
‘He’s me son. What’s he done now?’
Kay shook her head. ‘We’re not here about David,’ she said. ‘We'd like to speak with you about Stephen.’
The woman took a step back and frowned. ‘Stephen?’
‘Can we sit down somewhere?’
The woman nodded, her brow still creased, and led the way past a flight of stairs, down a narrow hallway and through to a kitchen that looked as if it hadn’t left the 1980s.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
Kay took one look at the greasy surfaces and the overflowing pedal bin, and thought better of it. ‘No, thanks, we won’t take up too much of your time.’
‘Fine.’ The woman gestured to the sparse kitchen table and the four chairs gathered around it. ‘Sit yourselves down. What you want to know?’
‘First of all, I must ask that this conversation isn’t repeated to anyone else at this time,’ said Kay. ‘We’re currently investigating a suspicious death on the railway line between East Malling and Barming.’
The woman rocked back in her chair, her eyebrows raised. ‘Another suicide?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish,’ said Kay. ‘I’m sorry, I know Stephen died seven months ago, but it would help our investigation if you could tell me what happened, and what his state of mind was before he died.’
‘State of mind? I’ll tell you what his state of mind was. It was all over the place. He hadn’t worked for months, not after losing his job. It was the final straw after being caught drink driving. We nearly lost the house because he couldn’t pay the rent. I gave up asking when he would get another job, so I ended up leaving him at home so there was someone here when the kids got back from school in the afternoons, and I went and worked at the local supermarket stocking shelves from three o’clock to nine at night.’
‘How did he lose his job?’
The woman shrugged. ‘He was suffering from depression,’ she said. ‘And, as usual, his bosses didn’t understand. It was really hard for him to explain that sometimes he just couldn’t get out of bed. He wasn’t lazy. He’d just have this melancholy that was sucking him under and he’d be lost for days.’
She pushed herself out of her chair, and wandered across to the sink before gazing out the window at the simple garden. ‘If I’m honest, I always knew he’d kill himself.’ She turned back to face Kay, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. ‘I didn’t know how to stop him, though. He tried, he really did – even went to the doctor and got prescribed some pills to take, but it was too late. They didn’t work in time. Afterwards, at the inquest, the doctor said the antidepressants would have kicked in within another couple of weeks.’ She sniffed. ‘Stephen might’ve been okay after that.’
‘I understand he attended a rehabilitation programme after a drink driving offence. Can you tell me anything about that?’
‘Well, it didn’t do him any good, did it?’ She shook her head. ‘It made things worse, to be honest. He felt so bad about being caught drink driving, although I think that was more embarrassment than anything else. He couldn’t wait to complete the programme and get his licence back.’
Kay leaned forward. ‘Can you recall any friends he might have spoken to in the days leading up to his death?’
The woman snorted. ‘All his friends fell by the wayside. He’d get a call occasionally, or a text message – I suppose one of them would try to get him out for a drink or something, get him out of the house – but he’d always turn it down. In the end, they stopped phoning him.’
‘Do you have any idea what might have caused his depression to worsen?’
‘Losing that last job was the final straw. He’d been out of work for two months prior to starting there but like I said, they didn’t understand about his moods and after a written warning, they fired him.’
She wiped at her eyes, and Kay gestured to Barnes that they would leave.
‘Mrs Taylor, thank you for talking with us today,’ she said, and handed over one of her cards. ‘If you think of anything unusual that might have happened leading up to Stephen’s death, or recall anyone phoning him prior to that day, would you let me know?’
‘You think someone drove him to suicide?’
Kay pursed her lips. ‘No, no I don’t. Not at this time,’ she said. ‘We’re simply making sure we don’t overlook anything in relation to our current investigation.’
Twelve
Cameron Abbott’s house provided a completely different aspect from the first one that they had visited.
Two cars took up the limited amount of space on the narrow concrete driveway below the house, and a dry stone block wall faced the road with two red brick pillars set each side of a short flight of steps that led to the front door. The end of terrace residence had been rendered to disguise its original pebble-dashed finish although the bumpy surface remained, while the small front garden contained a variety of shrubs; here and there a few early daffodils poked out from beneath the other plants, overlooked by a large bay window.
Barnes pressed the doorbell and a soft chime sounded from within.
A few moments later a shadow appeared beyond the frosted glass p
anel at the top of the door. It opened, and a woman peered out at them, pushing short blonde hair out of her eyes. Wearing black leggings and a cream silk shirt, her appearance was preceded by a waft of musk-based perfume.
‘Good morning. Denise Abbott?’ said Kay. She introduced herself and Barnes. ‘May we come in, please?’
The woman blinked, and then stepped to one side.
‘Of course,’ she said.
She closed the front door, and turned to face them. She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Is this about the suicide that happened the other day?’
‘Yes,’ said Kay, ‘That’s right.’
The woman shrugged. ‘Not sure what I can do to help you. You’re obviously here because my husband killed himself on the same stretch of track two months ago. It doesn’t sound like the railway has done anything to prevent people from doing that since.’
Close up, the woman appeared older and Kay noticed flecks of grey amongst her blonde hair. Large rings covered the majority of her fingers, and she gestured with her hands constantly.
Kay suspected it was an attempt to show off the jewellery.
She realised that the woman was eager to get rid of them. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, could you tell me what your husband’s state of mind was leading up to his suicide? Did you have any indication that he might do something so drastic?’
‘He was always depressed. Even before he lost his job. He was just one of those people that never seemed happy. We’d be on holiday somewhere like the south of France, and he’d still find something to be miserable about.’
Kay counted to five in her head before proceeding. ‘In the weeks leading up to his death, did he seem worried about anything in particular?’
‘Not really. Not that I recall.’
A floorboard creaked above their heads.
Kay arched her eyebrow, but said nothing.
The woman looked annoyed. ‘My partner, Vince. I hope you’re not going to look down your nose and tell me I should be acting like the grieving widow.’
‘None of my business,’ said Kay. ‘You were saying about your husband’s state of mind?’
The woman sighed. ‘The doctor gave him antidepressants. They tried a small dose at first, but it wouldn’t work. You have to wait a few weeks for them to kick in. When that didn’t work, the doctor prescribed a stronger dosage. He didn’t have any work at the time, and the drugs made him lethargic. He just sat around the house all day, watching television or staring into space.’
‘I understand that he was admitted to a rehabilitation programme for drink driving offenders?’
‘Stupid thing to do. He was driving his brother’s car at the time, too and he wasn’t impressed, I can tell you. Waste of time, as well. Didn’t help him, did it?’
‘What about his friends?’
‘What about them? They tried phoning of course, when his depression started to get worse, but after a while they got tired of trying to get him out of the house. If they did go for a drink or were going on a fishing trip, he would just make it worse for all of them.’ She shrugged. ‘They stopped calling him in the end.’
‘Do you know if he met anyone, that day?’
Abbott’s widow shook her head. ‘Like I said, a lot of his old work colleagues and friends drifted away once the depression got worse.’ Her hands shook as she dabbed her eyes once more. ‘There was hardly anyone at his funeral.’
‘Would you be able to let us have a note of his friends and work colleagues’ names – and phone numbers, if you still have them?’
‘Of course. I have an address book somewhere. Hang on.’
She left the kitchen, and Kay heard her move along the hallway, to where she presumed an address book would be kept next to the landline phone she’d spotted on a small cabinet next to the front door.
She returned after a few minutes, and held out a black leather book to Kay. ‘It’s probably easier if you take this and photocopy it, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, if you’re sure?’
The woman nodded. ‘I’ve put an asterisk next to the names of people you might want to talk to.’
Kay took the book from her. ‘Thank you. I’ll have the details noted down as soon as we return to the station, and I’ll return it as soon as possible.’
As Kay and Barnes walked back to the car, she paused to stand on the pavement and stare at the house.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Both Stephen Taylor and Cameron Abbott had lost all contact with their friends before they died. Effectively, they were isolated. What if that made them more vulnerable to a killer?’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Kay. Isolation is a big factor in depression – people don’t understand it, so they don’t know how to deal with it if a friend suffers from it.’
She sighed. ‘I know. It’s just a thought.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind.’
Thirteen
He ran his hand over the page in front of him, leaned over and gently blew across its surface.
The eraser moved back and forth, the soft grey graphite disappearing under its force until the lines he’d drawn over the past hour had completely disappeared.
A plate of cheese and biscuits rested near his elbow. A fly paused on a corner of the plate, flexed its wings, then took off again.
He flapped his hand next to his ear as it drew too close, and tried to concentrate.
In the corner of the room, an old model flat screen television flickered as a series of advertisements finished, and a programme returned to the screen. The presenter was walking in front of a large factory, gesticulating to the camera while trying to appear nonchalantly informative at the same time. The scene changed to one of inside the factory, huge robotic arms turning panels of sheet metal into cars.
He snorted derisively at the presenter’s turn of phrase, then reached out for the remote control next to him and pressed the “mute” button.
He couldn’t afford the distraction, not after last time.
Besides, he knew the episode; had watched all of them over and over again.
It helped to pass the time, once.
He leaned back and gazed around the room.
Net curtains covered the window, while dust motes floated in the air, dancing in the muted light.
He tried to recall the last time he’d cleaned the place.
He frowned, his eyes taking in the thin layer of dust that covered everything, and wondered if he should make an effort to do something about it.
He preferred to work in the garden, if he was honest. Of course, that meant he had to exchange pleasantries with his nosy next door neighbour, or with the young couple that lived in the adjacent house, but if the garden was tidy, they left him alone. No one knew that the inside of the building bore little resemblance to the tidiness and order of the exterior.
It wasn’t as if he invited people in for a cup of tea, after all.
No, the cleaning could wait. He had more important things to do.
His eyes fell back to the table before him. A mobile phone lay silent at the far end, a lead snaking out from it to the power point on the far wall.
It didn’t ring much; everyone had given up calling him after the first few months, and he had no intention of calling anyone.
He liked the games, though. Simple ones, like solitaire or Sudoku. Games he could lose hours playing, while he thought of everything and nothing.
He dropped the eraser, pushed away the highlighter pens and calculator, then picked up the map once more. He shuffled, trying to ease the tension in his spine. He’d been hunched over for too long, lost to time, too busy concentrating on the job in hand.
For that’s what it was.
A job.
A project. Defined as a scope of work with a finite end.
Everything had been on schedule until two nights ago.
He fought down the anger.
He hadn’t seen the dog walker before, so she hadn’t been factored into his plans.
>
Luckily, she’d been on the other side of the tracks to him, and the beam from her torch was too weak to pick him out as he’d crouched next to his victim, listening.
The dog had seen him though, he was sure.
The woman had been too busy trying to find a way to break down the wire mesh fencing, but the dog had heard him as he’d begun to slink away from his position and into the shadows, and had started to bark once more.
He’d only gone a few paces.
It had been different this time.
The others hadn’t been conscious when they’d died. Somehow, at the time, he thought it would be easier to deal with, but there was something missing – he didn’t feel anything afterwards.
No sense of accomplishment.
No sense that he’d contributed to setting everything back on its proper axis.
When this one had woken from his slumber to find his hands and feet tied to the tracks, his terror had been palpable.
Groggy at first, he had squirmed and bucked as an express train had torn past him on the opposite track.
And that’s when he’d decided to stay.
He wanted to see, wanted to hear the man’s terror as the train bore down on him.
It had worked.
The moment the train had screeched to a halt only a short distance from where he stood, he’d exhaled and the tension he’d been holding between his neck and shoulders dissipated a little.
The headaches had returned within hours, as they always did, but the sense of equilibrium had remained.
His eyes fell to the notebook.
He had to concentrate.
There was plenty of work to do yet and now the police were involved, his schedule had changed.
Accelerated.
But that was the thing with projects, wasn’t it? Once the job was done, you took stock, conducted an assessment, and made sure that all those risks that had nearly put an end to your carefully laid plans were accounted for next time.
Mitigated, so the next attempt was perfected.
Will to Live Page 5
