by Sibel Hodge
‘Not quite. There are a few loose ends to tie up.’
‘Oh, OK. Of course, I want to do anything I can to help. Alissa’s still so upset.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No. We’ve spoken on the phone, but she says she’s still not ready to see anyone yet. I can understand that. I can’t even begin to imagine how I’d feel if my other half was murdered. I sent her some flowers, just to let her know I was thinking of her. But I don’t think it’s good for her to be moping around in that rental house she’s in all alone. She needs people around to comfort her at a time like this, don’t you think?’ She carried on without waiting for an answer. ‘I keep trying to get her out, just to go for a walk or something, but she’s not interested. Poor thing. I don’t know what to do to help her. I feel kind of useless, really.’
I started off asking some more questions about Max and Russell as she cut so it wouldn’t raise any instant red flags. Then I turned my attention to Alissa. ‘You’ve been friends with Alissa for a long time.’
‘God, yes. Since primary school.’
‘Did you notice any problems with her forgetting things lately?’
‘Um . . . no. What kind of things?’
‘Nothing specific,’ I said, trying to be vague. ‘You weren’t aware that she’d had any medical problems that might affect her memory? A bang on the head recently?’
‘Not that I know of. I always joke with her that she has an elephant’s memory. She never forgets stuff.’
‘Did you know about her allergy to kiwi fruit?’
‘Yes. It started when she was about five. It brought her out in really bad hives. She had some tests done and it was confirmed she was allergic to it.’
‘Did you ever see her get hives from it?’
‘Yes, before she found out what it was and started avoiding it. They were terrible and lasted for a couple of days.’
I’d read up on the Internet about it. It seemed that while some children outgrew allergies, the majority retained them into adulthood.
‘Did you notice anything different about her when she returned from Australia?’
She scrunched up her nose. ‘Different? What do you mean?’
‘Anything that seemed out of character. Was she behaving differently to normal?’
She frowned slightly. ‘No. I only saw her a couple of times alone before the wedding reception – once when I popped into their house for coffee and she told me all about their trip, and once when I came to do her hair at The Orchard before the party.’
‘Would you usually have seen her more often than that?’
‘Yes, but she was organising the reception, so she said she was really busy with that, plus she was sorting out a lot of things to do with the wedding, changing her name on various things, passports, driving licences, and all that. And, of course, catching up with her writing and going to see her mum. She’d felt really guilty for leaving her for a whole month, so she was making up for it on her return. I did talk to her on the phone most days, though.’
‘So you didn’t notice she’d changed in any way after her trip?’
‘No. She was excited, obviously. What girl wouldn’t be after marrying someone like Max? And Australia sounded amazing. I’ve always wanted to go, so I was asking her loads of questions about it. It sounded like she had a fabulous time.’
‘Nothing odd happened?’
‘No.’ She ran some clippers along the nape of my neck. ‘Do you need to know more about what Russell did?’
‘No, I think we’ve got all we need about Russell.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Just one more thing, actually,’ I asked casually. ‘Is Alissa right- or left-handed?’
‘Left-handed.’
And yet, caught unaware by the flower delivery, she’d signed with her right hand.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely. She’s the opposite of me.’
‘Was she ambidextrous?’
‘No.’
‘Did she ever have a hand or arm injury in the past?’
‘No. I broke my arm once, and I had to write with my left hand for a while at school. Alissa was really sweet about it, helping me write out my homework because my left-handed writing was almost illegible. I remember her trying to make me feel better about it one day during lessons by her attempting to write with her right hand to match me, but she gave up after a couple of goes. She said it was too difficult. No, Alissa’s never broken anything. Why? Is it important? She’s not ill, is she?’
I gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Nothing to worry about. Like I said, just routine.’
THE OTHER ONE
Chapter 33
The good thing about grief is that most people don’t know what to say to you. It’s like you’ve got some contagious disease, and they want to give you a wide berth. They don’t want to hang around people who are bawling their eyes out. Don’t want to witness snot dribbling out their noses, or smell their unwashed bodies because they’re too distraught to shower. Don’t want to listen to the endless, ‘Why did this happen? I can’t believe it. What am I going to do?’ All the wailing and carrying on and doom and gloom. Depressing shit. They don’t want it to rub off on them. And they don’t want to be reminded of their own mortality. That bad, bad things can happen so close to home. Or that they’re actually useless, an inconsequential little dot in the universe.
Grief suited me perfectly. I couldn’t be bothered to talk to concerned Vicky or bitchy Sasha. And I had the best excuse!
It would’ve looked a little too weird not to see ‘Mum’, though. So I went religiously every couple of days. The staff in the nursing home followed the wide berth etiquette perfectly, muttering hellos and condolences, not quite looking me in the eyes, and then leaving me alone in Mum’s room, trying to talk to a dribbling vegetable.
Boring.
Luckily, she’d gone to sleep again, so I stared out of her window for a while, pondering what to do with all the money. Where should I go? America? Travel round the Far East? Bali? Thailand? Indonesia? Or the Caribbean? The Cayman Islands? Hawaii? The British Virgin Islands?
The world was a big place. Easy to get lost out there. I knew all about that.
Should I buy a house somewhere or rent? Maybe renting was better. I didn’t want to get tied down. I should move around, experience lots of places. A place on a beach would be nice, though. Somewhere I could just step off my property and on to golden sand. I’d want a private beach. Not one with tourists and lowlifes. Somewhere I wouldn’t be bothered by irritating people with questions.
I’d been given Alissa’s laptop back by the police, so I’d use it later to research some destinations. I’d already read through Alissa’s synopsis of her romance I’d found on there when I’d got back from Australia, but it was such utter crap that I couldn’t bring myself to read the whole manuscript, and she wasn’t going to show it to anyone until it was finished, so I didn’t have to pretend I knew what it was about. I’d read better writing on the back of a cereal packet. How had she managed to get an agent interested?
I was itching to paint again, too. I smiled as I thought about picking up some art supplies on the way home. I had too many emotions scrabbling to get out, burrowed under my skin, trying to find their rightful way to the surface. Hmm, good idea.
I popped a dried date in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. I’d brought them for Mummy dearest, storing them in a little Tupperware bowl for the staff to feed her with later. You couldn’t say I wasn’t a thoughtful, dutiful daughter.
There was a knock at the door and that policeman was there, peering through the glass panel. What was his name? Sergeant something?
Great. Now I’ve got both of them trying to get in my knickers.
What was the appropriate face? Confusion? Sadness? Resigned calmness? Before I had the chance to choose one, he walked in.
‘Hi, how are you holding up?’ he asked.
I sat forward, still trying to chew the remains
of the date. I swallowed and gave him a half-smile. The resigned calmness one. I didn’t want to overdo things. ‘I guess I’m getting through each day,’ I said softly. ‘Putting one foot in front of the other.’
‘I know how you feel. My wife died a year ago. It’s not easy.’
‘No.’
‘But you’ve got your friends, people who care about you. At some point, you’ll feel like talking again. Maybe you could even speak to a grief counsellor. That might help.’
I tucked my hair behind my ears. ‘Maybe. I’ll think about that, thanks. Um . . . what are you doing here?’
‘I was just passing and thought I’d stop in on your mum. Like I said, I know it’s hard when your spouse dies. I thought perhaps you weren’t getting in to see her as much as you’d like, so I popped in for a visit with her. My dad was in a nursing home for a while and visits were the highlight of his day.’ He smiled, his gaze staying on me for a little longer than necessary. But it wasn’t desire I saw in his eyes, like with Wilmott. It was something else. Something dangerous.
I turned my head back to Mum. ‘You’re right. It is tough getting out of bed some days. The only thing keeping me going is knowing she still needs me, even though a lot of the time now she doesn’t even realise I’m here.’
He sat down on the plastic chair on the opposite side of Mum’s bed. The plastic made a farting sound, which made me want to laugh. I stifled it and watched him watching her.
‘I used to read to my dad a lot,’ he said. ‘He liked that. Does your mum like being read to?’
‘Yeah, she does.’ I leaned over and held Mum’s hand in mine, stroking it gently. ‘It’s very kind of you to come in and check on her, but there’s no need, really.’
‘I bet with you being a writer you must’ve read a lot of books. Didn’t Stephen King say, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time, or the tools, to write”?’
‘Well, yes, very true. He definitely knows his stuff.’
‘I read your novel that was on your laptop we recovered from the house.’ He smiled, but there was something chilly in his voice. ‘I’m not really a romance man, give me a good thriller and I’m hooked, but it was very good.’
I swallowed and willed an embarrassed blush to appear. ‘Thanks. I wish you hadn’t, though. It’s not a final draft yet. I’m still working on it, and there are parts of it that still need a lot of attention.’
‘No, I suppose no artists like people seeing their work until it’s at the finished stage. Sorry, but we had to go through everything thoroughly.’
I smiled, wondering where he was going with this. ‘I understand.’
‘It’s pretty amazing to be able to write a book. It’s one thing to come up with an idea, but to put it all down on paper like that in a cohesive story is a great accomplishment. You should be really proud of yourself.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I loved the heroine, Justine. Although she was compassionate and loyal, she had a quirky, feisty edge to her. And, of course, the hero, Cameron, was, I suppose, typical for a romance novel – strong, good-looking, rich – but I liked the conflict between them because he was a CEO of an oil and gas company and she was an environmentalist trying to stop them fracking. Where did you get the idea from?’
I recalled what Alissa had told me when I’d asked her the same question. ‘It just came to me one day when I was watching National Geographic.’
‘And Justine’s bitchy friend with the hidden agenda added a new dimension and a few twists I didn’t see coming, trying to sabotage their relationship. Was she based on anyone you know?’
Damn. I didn’t know the answer. I improvised on the spot, making up something vague. ‘Not really. I mean, there are plenty of bitchy people in the world to draw from.’
‘How about that other guy, the secondary character, the one who worked with Justine . . . what was his name again?’ He scrunched up his face, as if he was thinking.
Shit. I didn’t have a clue what his name was. I hadn’t read the whole thing. Shit, shit, shit!
DS Carter clicked his fingers together, trying to remember. He glanced at me expectantly, waiting for me to jump in and tell him.
I thought fast and said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m really too upset to talk about my book right now.’ I bit my lip and looked down, tearing up on demand. I wiped my eyes and thankfully he shut up about it.
‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I understand completely.’
Mum snored then and jerked awake, blinking rapidly with watery eyes.
I sniffed and leaned in towards her. ‘Hi, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?’
She slurred something that could’ve been ‘water’ or ‘daughter’. The muscles on the right side of her face were droopy and didn’t work properly. God, I hoped I never ended up like that. It was horrific to look at.
I poured her some water into a beaker with a straw and put the straw to her lips. She sucked slowly, water dribbling down and dripping off her chin. What a state. When she finished, I folded up some tissues and dabbed away the water. Then she turned to the policeman and muttered something that sounded like, ‘Agh ooe we ooo.’
He smiled at Mum. ‘I’m DS Carter, Mrs Stanhope. Just thought I’d pop in and see how you are.’ There was an undercurrent of something in his voice. Something suspicious and questioning.
Mum lifted her left hand, the good side, and it hovered shakily in the air, as if she wanted to touch him.
He took it in his and patted it. ‘You’re lucky to have such an attentive daughter.’ He smiled at her, then me.
The smile was broken by Mum’s voice, talking garbled nonsense that no one could make out, dragging his gaze back to her.
He patted her hand again and stood up. ‘Well, I’ll be off now. You both take care of yourselves.’
I stood, too, just to be polite. ‘Thanks for coming and checking up on us. It’s very kind of you. I’m sure it goes above and beyond the call of duty, so it means a lot. It makes me feel safe.’ I glanced down demurely as I said the last part, letting my lashes flutter on my cheeks, as if I was about to have another cry-fest.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. And then he was gone.
I walked to the window that overlooked the car park and watched Carter get into his car, knowing I’d have to do something about him.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 34
I’d double-checked with SOCO and no baseball cap had been found in the area where Russell fell over the fence. To find out more, I needed to speak to the man himself.
Stiles was being held on remand until his trial. I called the prison ahead of time to arrange a visit and went through the various security checks and obtained a ‘Visitor’ badge before I was asked to wait in a small, windowless room painted an institutional grey.
I leaned against the wall and waited. Ten minutes later, the door unlocked with a clattering sound of metal on metal. It swung open, revealing Stiles in front of a prison officer.
‘Oh, great!’ Russell stopped in his tracks, his face turning an angry shade of red, and looked back over his shoulder to the guard. ‘Do I have to talk to him?’
The guard shrugged like he couldn’t care less.
‘Then I want to go back to my cell. They’ll only try to pin something else on me.’
‘I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say, Russell.’ I stepped forward and took a seat on one of the chairs bolted to the floor, keeping my eyes on his.
‘Shall I bring you tea and cucumber sandwiches while you’re having a nice chat?’ The guard laughed.
I glared at the guard. Russell glared at me, a muscle in his clenched jaw ticking away.
‘It’s in your best interests to talk to me,’ I said.
Russell’s lips narrowed, weighing me up. Maybe something in the tone of my voice made up his mind, and he walked towards me, slouching down in the chair on the other side of a metal desk.
‘Lovely.’ The guard pulled a s
arcastic smile. ‘I’ll be outside. Bang when you need me.’ He shut the door and relocked it.
Russell leaned back in the chair, one leg outstretched, one knee jigging away, an angry scowl scrunching up his face. ‘What do you want, then? I shouldn’t even be talking to you without my lawyer.’
I leaned my elbows on the desk and got straight to the point. ‘Look, I don’t think you killed Max Burbeck.’
He shot upright in his chair. ‘Then what am I fucking doing in here?’
‘I said I didn’t think you killed him. My colleagues don’t agree with me. They think you’re guilty.’
‘So . . .’ His mouth flapped open and closed as he tried to think of the next thing to say.
I beat him to it. ‘I think you were a convenient scapegoat.’
‘For who?’
‘Alissa Burbeck.’
He shook his head and blew out a breath. ‘You think Alissa killed Max? No way, man. She’d never do anything like that. She hasn’t got a bad bone in her body.’
Which is basically what everyone had told me about her all along. And why I was having trouble accounting for all the inconsistencies mounting up.
‘I don’t want an innocent person going to prison over this.’
‘I’m already in prison!’
‘You know what I mean. I need your help.’
‘You need my help? That’s a good one!’
‘OK, let me put it this way. I need your help to help you.’
‘Like I keep saying, I don’t know anything. I didn’t kill Max, and I don’t know anything about who did.’
‘When I interviewed you, you said you hadn’t seen Alissa since the wedding reception.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘So she never came to your house?’
‘No.’
‘Did you always leave your shed unlocked?’
‘Yeah. I kept most of my work tools in my van. There was nothing expensive in the shed so I didn’t see any point in locking it.’
Which would explain the ease of someone getting inside it and planting the knife. I pulled out the crime-scene photos from my briefcase on the desk and flicked through to one of the knife. ‘Have you ever seen this before? Do you know where it came from?’
