by Sibel Hodge
Her story was plausible. It added up, but it didn’t add up completely. Not to me, anyway.
I took a slow walk back to The Orchard to get my breath back before collecting the crime-scene photos I’d left inside and heading into the woods again. I lined myself up with the carp pond and looked back at the house. Then I flicked through the crime-scene photos, searching for the ones of the Jack Daniel’s bottle that Russell had been drinking that day. The bottle had been found at the base of an old oak tree with a naturally hollowed out trunk, just the kind of place to sit and wait and watch. The photos showed the bottle just to the right of the trunk. Next to that was the body of Buttons, Alissa’s cat that had ended up with a broken neck.
The cat was bugging me, too. Wilmott thought it proved Russell’s insane rage over Max’s marriage to Alissa, evidence of his escalating hatred of Max – a pre-existing violence. Psychopathic tendencies. But Leo said he’d chased after Russell into the woods to make sure he’d left and never saw the cat. What did that mean? That someone else had killed Buttons? That Russell had come back another time and done it? That it had died of an accident, falling out of the tree, perhaps? Or was Leo lying for some reason?
I took one last look at the house before locking up and driving back to the station.
No one was in the office when I arrived, so I swiftly deposited the keys back in Wilmott’s drawer. I was just limping out – think I’d pulled a muscle in my calf from all that sudden exercise – when Becky appeared.
‘God, you look like you’re starring in a Night of the Living Dead movie.’ Becky stared me up and down.
I glanced at my ripped trousers and flicked off the small bits of fern and bracken attached to them. I smoothed down my now windswept hair, conscious that my cheeks were probably still bright pink, too, from all the exertion.
‘Ha ha, very funny.’
‘Did you go to the funeral like that?’
‘No. I’ve just come from The Orchard.’
She eyed me with a grin. ‘Oh, yeah? Why?’
‘Seeing if what she said was possible.’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes, but it’s also possible she planted the knife in Russell’s shed before she got to Mrs Downes’ house, too.’
‘Wilmott will go apeshit if he knows what you’re doing.’
I shrugged. ‘Well, he’s had plenty of practice being an ape.’
‘Want coffee?’
‘Thanks.’ I sat down at my desk and concentrated on the paperwork in front of me. I was so engrossed that I didn’t see the shadow looming over my desk until it was too late.
‘Why have you got that file out?’ DI Wilmott snapped. ‘The Burbeck case is done and dusted. Didn’t I tell you to check CCTV footage for the Brookfield Jewellers robbery?’
I leaned back in my chair, looking up at him. ‘I’m still not convinced about it all. There are some loose ends that are unexplained.’
Wilmott blew out an exasperated breath and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Well, the CPS is convinced, so is the court, so am I, and so is Detective Superintendent Greene. Are you deliberately trying to sabotage my first case as SIO? Is that what this is about? Because you’re jealous I’ve got acting DI and you haven’t?’ His nostrils flared with anger.
Was it? Was that really why I was having trouble accepting Alissa’s story? No. There was more to it than that. Much more. Twenty-eight years of copper’s instinct more. But Wilmott wanted this case cleared up quickly to make him look like he knew what he was doing. A nice, easy result would do wonders for his new promotion. He didn’t want to waste time looking beyond the obvious. He was like a myopic rhino, charging ahead short-sightedly to get to the juicy grass he’d sniffed out and sod anything he bumped into on the way that might take him off course.
‘It just seems too convenient to me. Stiles knew he was a person of interest and there were no balaclava, gloves, black puffy jacket, or shoe covers he was allegedly wearing that night found at his house. Yet he still kept the knife that was used to murder Max. Why?’
‘Because he’s an idiot?’ Wilmott raised a sarcastic eyebrow. ‘Criminals do stupid things. It’s how they get caught.’
‘He’s not stupid. Why didn’t he get rid of it after I questioned him the first time, like he supposedly did with the stuff he wore? Why risk it being found at his house?’
Wilmott rolled his eyes in a do-we-have-to-go-through-this-again look. ‘Maybe he wanted a souvenir.’
I wasn’t going to mention Stiles’ protestations of innocence. Most criminals said the same thing. The only difference here was that I actually believed him. And I’d watched his videoed interviews over and over again. I was convinced his body language and reaction to Max’s murder were due to genuine shock.
Wilmott shook his head with exasperation. ‘He had the motive, the means, and the opportunity! Anyway, I don’t know why we’re having this conversation. The case is closed. C.L.O.S.E.D.,’ he kindly spelled out for me like I was a five-year-old. ‘We have undisputable DNA evidence placing Stiles at the scene, the murder weapon hidden at his house—’
‘Evidence can be planted. And the murder weapon had no fingerprints or DNA on it from Stiles.’
‘Because he handled it wearing gloves! And who do you think planted Russell’s hair on Max’s body? You’re just plucking things out of thin air to undermine my authority here! It’s my neck on the line, and I’m not letting you stuff anything up for me. You’ve got nothing left in your life, so you’re trying to mess up mine with some kind of rogue agenda!’ Wilmott’s voice crept higher. ‘You haven’t been right in the head for a long time.’ He glared at me.
I wasn’t altogether sure I could disagree with that. ‘I may not be right in the head, but I’m right about this!’ I said through clenched teeth.
‘It’s only you who seems to have a problem with this case! We have all the evidence we need. What more do you want?’
‘How about the truth? How about the real criminal being convicted for once?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is this about the Mackenzie case again? You should’ve learned from that already. They almost suspended your arse after all.’ He snorted. ‘Quite honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here.’
‘They nearly suspended me because I was digging too deep. It was a bloody whitewash and you know it! We’re supposed to be upholding the law, not covering for criminals! How about an innocent person going to prison, then? Doesn’t that concern you in the slightest?’
He knocked his knuckles on the desk. ‘Hello? Is there anyone there? Russell Stiles is not innocent!’
I clenched my fists and fought the urge to knock him off his feet. I thought about telling him again about my suspicions regarding Alissa, but I didn’t have any actual proof of anything yet. I considered going to Detective Superintendent Greene myself and laying it out, but his arse had been kissed so much by Wilmott, I’d probably be shot down if I did it now. Plus, he was the one who’d almost suspended me over the Mackenzie case, so he wasn’t particularly impartial, and he probably would suspend me this time if he thought I wasn’t toeing the party line. It was better to act dumb for now. Kind of like Wilmott, actually.
‘Well?’ Wilmott pressed me. ‘Do you have anything to say on the matter?’
I stroked my chin between my thumb and forefinger and pretended to be thinking of something to say in my defence.
‘Get on with checking the CCTV cameras that I assigned you for the robbery case.’
Ever since I’d begun to question the Burbeck case, Wilmott had delegated the shit stuff to me. His way of keeping me in my place. He obviously didn’t know me that well.
Wilmott snatched the Burbeck file off my desk and glared at me again. ‘I do not want to hear about this any more!’ He stormed into his office, slapped the file on his desk, and started clicking around on his laptop, probably playing Solitaire.
Becky glanced over and raised her eyebrows at me.
I shrugged and left the office.
It wasn’t over. Not for me, anyway.
THE OTHER ONE
Chapter 31
I could relax now. Max was dead and Russell was in prison – aww, what a shame. Russell was always going to be a means to an end. An unfortunately fortunate scapegoat. But things had changed rapidly. Almost too rapidly. I’d wanted to wait longer. And I’d actually enjoyed being Alissa – who wouldn’t? She had everything she could want. I’d almost enjoyed fucking Max, too, although his kisses were sloppy, like a slick, wet fish on my skin. He’d welcomed the little differences in the bedroom between Alissa and me, thinking I was trying to spice things up. Oh, yes, he’d fallen for everything completely. So had everyone! Flattery always worked wonders for deflecting any conversations I felt were heading in the wrong direction, turning the subject around to them instead. Get people talking about themselves and they love it (and people might call me narcissistic – ha!). It’s a great way to cover up any little discrepancies. I had a few other tricks up my sleeve, too. Pretending I was distracted from the conversation because some fabulous new plot idea for my book had suddenly burst into my head worked well. That, and pretending I was busy and had to wrap up the conversation. Weirdly, though, it was kind of nice to be a couple, although sometimes it was really claustrophobic. Sometimes it took a lot of patience not to kill him right there and then. But planning the perfect murder took time and patience and cunning, which I had plenty of. I’d been toying with different accident scenarios. Something that wouldn’t ever point to me. An ‘accident’ would’ve prevented all this annoying intrusion into my life by the police. But my hand had been forced in the end, though, and I just hoped I was ready for everything. Still, when an opportunity presents itself, you have to work with what you’ve got. I couldn’t believe Russell had killed Buttons. What a bastard. How could he break the poor thing’s neck like that? She was such a sweet cat, so friendly and inquisitive. He was crazier than Alissa had thought.
Russell being caught meant I was safe. I could also finally get out of that rank hotel suite with DI Wilmott leering at me, suffocating me, and move into a rented house. Oh, I couldn’t possibly go back and stay at the house, not now. Not after Max was so tragically ripped away from me. I’ll have to go somewhere else. I couldn’t stand it there. I mean, that was the appropriate response, wasn’t it?
God, Wilmott was so easy to read, the sleaze. And I’d played the sweet, heartbroken widow to perfection. Wilmott thought with his dick and that suited me fine. He wanted to protect me, comfort me. Actually, he wanted to fuck me. But men who think with their dicks are easy to manipulate.
So, I was in the clear. Go, me! Now all I had to do was wait for Max’s will to be settled, leaving everything to me, of course, and then get the hell out of Dodge.
I hummed to myself as I unpacked the grocery shopping bags that I’d ordered online and had delivered. Now that Wilmott wasn’t breathing down my neck, I was free to be me again when I was alone. The house was bright and airy and a good price. I couldn’t afford to be seen as overly extravagant right now. That would come later. I’d wanted to leave the county completely, maybe move to an anonymous city, like London, but I worried that it would look too odd, being so far away from ‘Mum’. Alissa wouldn’t have abandoned her, would she? Alissa would still be living close by, ready to come at the drop of a hat in case lovely Mum unexpectedly got worse or died.
I was avoiding my ‘friends’, playing the grieving widow card again. No, I really want to be alone. I’m not good company. No, I’m OK, you don’t need to pop round and see me. I’m still coming to terms with things. That bloody Vicky and Sasha and Leo wouldn’t leave me alone, though. They kept ringing up, asking if I needed anything, if I was alright, telling me I shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, trying to get me out of the house to take my mind off things. Blah, blah, blah. Just shut up and leave me the fuck alone!
I turned on Alissa’s iPhone, selected my new playlist that I’d added after deleting all of her romantic, slushy crap, and hit ‘Play’. ‘Creep’ by Radiohead blared out in the kitchen as I put away the food. I laughed. What an appropriate song.
What should I do next today? A clothes shopping trip? No, too frivolous. A distraught widow wouldn’t shop. A visit to Mum? Nah, I’d been there yesterday and there was only so much I could stomach. The smell of the nursing home was bad enough, but seeing her gurgling and dribbling made me nauseous. It was gross. Why couldn’t she just die already? How long was she going to hang on for? A walk in the fresh air, then? Head down, eyes bright with tears, walking to outrun all the sadness in my life. Check!
Then I could spend the afternoon reading. Or watching DVDs. Or, ooh, I know, painting my nails.
I heard the doorbell ring and ignored it, not wanting to have to deal with any of my friends trying to check up on me again.
I opened a jar of peanut butter and dug in a spoon, swallowing a hefty splodge of the stuff. The doorbell rang again. More persistently this time.
I huffed loudly, turned off the music, and walked into the lounge, peering round the edge of the curtain at the bay window.
DI Wilmott stood on my front step, smoothing down his hair.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, what does he want now?
I sighed, slapped on my sad face, and walked towards the door.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 32
I sat in my car, parked a little way down from Alissa’s rented house, watching, waiting for her to slip up somehow. She didn’t go out much. From what I’d seen on my observations, she was living a pretty solitary existence. She wasn’t singing from the rooftops, celebrating the death of her husband. She wasn’t going on wild shopping sprees or out getting pissed and celebrating with her mates.
Maybe I was wrong. Was I losing it since Denise’s death, not thinking straight? Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this job any more. But I couldn’t ignore my gut instinct. OK, I admit there was also a bit of one-upmanship involved, too. If I could prove Wilmott wrong about this case, then I’d be walking in the acting DI shoes, and the smug bastard would be taken down a peg or two.
And talk of the bloody devil. Here he was again, hair coiffed up, expensive tailored suit on, carrying a box of . . . what were those? Cakes? This was the eighth time I’d spotted him here when he had no reason to be visiting her if the case was done and dusted. And he was supposed to be in a budget meeting right now. At least, that’s what he’d told us this morning.
He was obsessed with the woman.
Yeah, I was too, but for an entirely different reason.
I sipped a cardboard cup of now cold coffee and watched the house, slumped down in my seat. My back was killing me in this position. I really was too old for all this crap. But it was all I had left now, the only thin thread holding my life together, stopping me from completely succumbing to the depression that was like a rabid wolf, snapping at my heels. I’d been barely able to keep outrunning it. Had felt it gnawing its way into my brain ever since Denise had gone. If I stopped and let go, if I gave up the job and gave in to it, I knew it would crawl its way into my head and never go away again. Then I’d have to take a long hard look at myself or completely fall apart. Being a detective was the only thing still keeping me sane, which was why I’d backed down on the Mackenzie case when DS Greene had threatened me with suspension. I’d sold out my integrity once because of it – I wasn’t going to do so again.
Two hours and twenty-three minutes passed before the front door was opened by Alissa, looking tired and distraught but still absolutely amazing, as if grief had somehow made her even more beautiful. Wilmott hesitated on the step before saying something and heading back to his car.
I twisted in my seat and rubbed at the base of my spine, ignoring the twinges, debating calling it a day and heading off to take some witness statements for the robbery. I’d come back again when I finished work, just like I’d been doing lately.
I reached to start the engine when a van pulled up outside Alissa’s house with ‘De
lia’s Delivery Flowers’ written on it. A young guy hopped out of the van, which made me jealous of his lithe movements. I rubbed my back again – that running hadn’t helped it – and observed him open up the rear doors of the van, lean inside and extract a huge bouquet. He jumped up Alissa’s steps two at a time and rang the doorbell.
Her head appeared in the front window then vanished again, before reappearing when she opened the door. She frowned between the guy and the flowers before her face relaxed a little. He handed her the bouquet and a clipboard to sign for them.
I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first. It didn’t click straight away. Not until the delivery guy had driven off. And then it hit me.
I drove back to the station, wondering what it could mean if I was right.
Becky’s gaze was firmly fixed on her laptop when I got back to the office, running through bank statements for a fraud case. Ronnie was out taking some statements from potential witnesses to the robbery – exactly what I should’ve been doing, too – and Wilmott was nowhere to be seen, as usual, probably picking up a packet of Just for Men.
‘How’s it going, Sarge?’ Becky asked.
‘Yeah, not bad,’ I said distractedly, sitting at my desk and opening my laptop, typing in the password.
I called up the digital file of Alissa’s videoed interview, pressed ‘Mute’, and forwarded it to the last minute.
I watched. Rewound. Watched again. And again, just to be sure.
When I’d asked her to sign her statement, her right hand had lifted slightly and moved towards the pen, as if she was going to use that hand. It was a quick little flutter. So quick it could almost look as if she was just nervous or fidgeting, but I didn’t think so, because of what happened next. It was like she’d suddenly remembered something, and her right hand moved towards the box of tissues instead, taking one out and wiping her nose with it before picking up the pen with her left hand and signing.
