by Sibel Hodge
She took a long sip of whisky. ‘OK, let me humour you, because I know what you’re like. And, yes, I do find it very weird that she doesn’t seem to know who her characters are. But first of all, you’ve got nothing you can prove.’
‘I know that. That’s why I’m talking to you about it.’
‘Like you said, you’re never going to get a warrant to seize anything else without Wilmott’s approval, and he won’t go along with that because he always thinks he’s right. Why not go to DS Greene with this, though?’
‘Because he’s threatened me with suspension once over the Mackenzie case to stop me digging further, and I’m still fucking angry about that. How do I know I can trust him with this? And anyway, Wilmott will tell him a load of bollocks about how I’m just trying to undermine him and make him look bad. Not that he needs any help with that. And you’re right, I’ve got nothing concrete yet. They’ll just say I’m losing the plot because I’m—’ I stopped abruptly.
‘You’re what?’
I picked up the whisky and topped up my glass. Downed half of it, savouring the burn in my throat.
She reached out and touched my hand. ‘Because you’re depressed?’
I looked up sharply at her. Looked away. I thought I’d been doing a good job of hiding it. Thought pretending to be OK was easier than actually being OK. But obviously I wasn’t that good an actor. Not in Alissa’s league, anyway.
‘I know you are. Don’t you think I haven’t noticed it over the last year? Maybe it’s my fault, not pushing you to see someone, talk to someone properly, the force psychologist. But I know you. I knew you’d never do that, so I was hoping you’d work through it in your own time. And now I know exactly how you feel.’ Her voice sounded small, faraway.
I had thought about talking to someone professional about how overwhelmed I’d been. How nothing seemed to be getting better. But I’d bottled it. I didn’t want someone telling me how I should feel.
‘I don’t know what to do with myself, either,’ she carried on. ‘I can’t accept Spencer’s really gone. I can’t believe he’s never going to walk through that door again. And I don’t know how to live without him.’ She blinked rapidly, trying to hide the tears that were forming.
I squeezed her hand and then let it go. ‘Look at us. We’re a right bloody pair.’
She sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sat up taller, as if trying to compose herself again. ‘But we’re still better than Wilmott, even if we’re depressed to shit!’ She swigged back some more whisky. ‘If Alissa’s not who she says she is, then who exactly do you think she is? How could she get away with it without someone noticing?’
‘Because she’s someone who looks identical.’
‘A sister?’
‘An identical twin.’
‘But no one else has mentioned a twin, have they? Her friends? Her mum’s carers? Max’s colleagues and friends?’
‘No. Alissa’s supposed to be an only child. But what if she was adopted? What if there’s another twin out there pretending to be her?’
I pulled out a copy of the birth certificate belonging to Alissa Burbeck, née Stanhope, from my pocket and handed it over. ‘There are two kinds of birth certificate. One is a certified copy, and one is a certificate of live birth. Alissa’s is just the certified one and was probably issued after an adoption order took place to show the new adoptive parents’ details only. It would succeed the original live birth certificate because that one would’ve had the birth parents’ names on it instead. I’ve got an appointment with an adoption social worker tomorrow to see if I can find anything out.’
She took another swig of whisky and cradled the glass to her chest. ‘If you’re right – and I’m not totally convinced yet – but if you are, and this woman isn’t Alissa Burbeck, then what has she done with the real Alissa Burbeck?’
THE OTHER ONE
Chapter 35
Ever since I’d seen that detective sergeant at the nursing home, I’d had a bad feeling about him. What was he really doing there? Checking up on me? Trying to see if Mum could tell him anything? Had I slipped up somehow? I’d been disciplined. Focused. So it couldn’t have been me. Not possible. But . . .
But he suspected something; I was sure of it. And it had to be something to do with Alissa’s novel. Why hadn’t I read all of it when I’d had the chance? What an idiot! But even if I’d got a few details wrong, I’d explain it away by saying I was upset, distraught, confused, couldn’t think straight at the moment.
Still, I’d been keeping my eye out for him whenever I left the house in case he was following me. Not that I’d been out much. I’d been painting again, which felt amazing! It was therapeutic to let it all out as I counted the days. I hadn’t seen DS Carter anywhere else, hadn’t spotted him lurking outside the house, but it didn’t matter. I had a plan worked out. All it needed was a little seed planted with Wilmott, because I couldn’t risk Carter spoiling things. Russell’s trial was still months away, and his guilt spoke for itself. The hair, the knife, the evidence of his obsession with Alissa – oops, I mean me, LOL! It couldn’t be disputed. Even if DS Carter had doubts about me, he couldn’t prove a thing. Still, I had to be vigilant. I didn’t want him to find out who I really was before I got my money and could disappear somewhere else. Wilmott was wrapped around my finger, the stupid, blind, ignorant idiot. All I needed was a little teary episode and it would be bye-bye DS Carter. I didn’t come this far for it all to fall apart.
I called Wilmott, and he was only too happy to drop everything straight away to pay me a visit. I put the finishing touches to my mask, pinching at the skin around my eyes to make it red and swollen, letting the tears fall. Crying was easy. All I had to do was think about one of the murdered cows from the farm and out came the floods.
I looked at myself in the mirror, prepared just the right scared expression, and opened the door when Wilmott arrived.
He held a bouquet of tulips in his hand and was about to offer them to me, but stopped when he saw my face.
‘Has something happened?’ he asked. ‘It sounded quite urgent on the phone.’
‘I think someone’s been following me.’ I blinked rapidly, letting the tears flow with ease. ‘I’m . . . I’m really frightened.’
Wilmott glanced up and down the street before saying, ‘Come on, let’s get you inside and we can talk.’ He placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me into the lounge, sitting down next to me. Our thighs were touching as he put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.
‘I’m . . . I . . . I keep seeing this strange car following me, and I’m worried that . . .’ I trailed off for a hiccupping sob. ‘What if Russell’s got one of his friends to start following me? To scare me into not talking at the trial? I mean, he must be crazy to have murdered Max. What else could he do to me?’
Wilmott pulled me tighter towards him. His aftershave was overpowering and fresh, as if he’d splashed half a bottle on himself in the car on the way over. I fought the urge to push him away and breathed through my mouth. He probably thought I wouldn’t notice his thigh pressing harder against mine.
‘Russell Stiles is a very calculating and nasty individual. I wouldn’t put anything past him. Did you get a registration number for this car?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded vigorously. I’d taken a note of it when Carter had been at Mum’s nursing home.
‘Where have you seen it?’
‘Um . . . when I’ve been out walking. I sometimes go to the park to clear my head. It’s hard being cooped up here all the time on my own.’
‘Well, that’s why I keep checking up on you. I know it’s a terrible time for you, and I’m here to support you every step of the way.’
‘I know, and I want to thank you for being so concerned. You’ve been so kind and helpful.’
He stroked my back. He actually stroked it, the pervert.
‘I’m really worried that someone is after me.’ I sniffed loudly and pulled
away, clutching his arm tightly, eyes wide with fear. ‘What if Russell’s trying to get one of his friends to kill me to keep me quiet?’ I gasped, shivering.
He took my hand in his. ‘You can count on me. Try not to worry. Let me have the registration number of this car and I’ll check it out.’
I nodded and walked towards my handbag in the corner of the room, retrieving a scrap of paper. ‘It was a Ford Mondeo.’ I handed it to him.
‘OK, I’ll do a check on it. Can I get you something to drink? You’re very pale. Do you have any brandy or something like that?’
I gave a shivery little nod and pointed towards the kitchen. ‘In the cupboard next to the oven. Thanks. I think I need one. I’ve been really scared.’
He came back with a tumbler containing a couple of inches of brandy and pressed it into my hands, his own hands enclosing around mine. ‘I’m glad you called me. It was the right thing to do. You should’ve done it sooner. I don’t want you to ever be frightened again.’
I brought the glass to my lips with shaky hands. I thought about saying something else, but didn’t want to go overboard with it.
Wilmott dialled a number on his mobile as he paced up and down. He spoke into it, asking for details of the car, then listened for a while and stopped pacing, a frown etching into his forehead. ‘What?’
More listening.
‘You’re sure?’ A pause, and then, ‘Right, thanks.’ He put his phone back in his suit jacket pocket and sat next to me. He took my hand in his again, his sweaty palm against my cold one. Yuck. I cringed inwardly. ‘It’s nothing to do with Russell Stiles.’
‘How can you be sure?’ I widened my eyes.
‘I thought the plate sounded a little familiar. It’s actually a police vehicle.’
I pressed a hand to my chest, breathing deeply, drawing a subtle amount of attention to my cleavage, which I noted Wilmott’s eyes strayed to. Men so easily give themselves away. I’d read something once that said men don’t have the same peripheral vision as women. We can do a full up and down sweep of someone without moving our eyes, but men can’t. They have to physically move their eyes up and down, which, of course, gives them away every time. He’d be talking at my tits again in a minute, like usual.
‘Oh, thank God for that!’ I said, blowing out a breath of relief. ‘But . . . why has this policeman been following me?’
Wilmott steered his gaze away from my tits (yep, caught ya!) with a puzzled look in his eye. ‘Are you sure he was following you?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve spotted him several times. Sometimes I’ve seen the car parked outside, too. Just sitting down the road, as if there’s somebody watching me.’ I hadn’t, but, hey, might as well throw that in there as well. ‘And Detective Sergeant Carter came to Mum’s nursing home when I was there, too.’
‘He what?’ Wilmott barked. ‘What for?’
‘Um . . . well, he said he was just passing and wanted to pop in on Mum because he thought I may not be getting in to see her as much as I’d wanted to after what had happened. But I think . . . I think it was an excuse, and he’d been following me. He started asking me questions, badgering me. I was really upset. He treated me like I was a criminal.’ I bent over at the waist and sobbed, my shoulders shaking up and down. ‘He made me feel awful.’
Wilmott pursed his lips tightly and rubbed my back gently. ‘Right, well, trust me, it won’t be happening again. I’m so sorry you’ve been upset by all this. I’ll be having serious words with DS Carter, don’t you worry.’
I clutched his hand, twisting on the sofa so my knees touched his, looking into his eyes. ‘Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d have done without you after . . . after Max.’
He licked his lips, puffed his chest out, and smiled with pride. He opened his mouth to say something more, probably wanting to suggest he moved in with me to protect me.
Yes, so fucking easy to read.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 36
‘I want you back in the nick right now!’ Wilmott shouted down the phone at me, dispensing with any preliminaries.
I pulled my mobile away from my ear to save my eardrums. ‘What’s up? I’m still making enquiries into the robbery.’
‘Just get back here, now. I want to talk to you!’
‘Oooookaaaay,’ I drawled. ‘I’ll be—’ But I didn’t get to finish, as Wilmott hung up on me.
I dropped the phone in the centre cubby and started driving. Someone had his designer underwear in a twist.
As I parked in the police station car park, I saw Ronnie hurrying out the door. ‘What’s up with Wilmott?’ I asked. ‘He sounded like he was going to have a heart attack when he summoned me back.’
‘I don’t know, Sarge. But he looks like it, too. I’m just off to take some more statements.’ He smiled proudly.
I left Ronnie to it and ambled up the stairs. There could only be one reason I’d been summoned. He knew I was still looking into Max’s murder.
I walked into the CID office and clocked Wilmott in his office in the corner of the room, reading a file.
Becky glanced up from her desk as she gathered some papers together and stuffed them in her bag. She pulled a you’re-in-trouble face.
I raised my eyebrows casually at her in response, giving my do-I-care? face.
I knocked on Wilmott’s door and walked in.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ he barked out as he stood up.
‘Um . . . standing in your office?’
He glared at me. Wrong answer?
I pointed at the chair. ‘Can I sit down first?’
Wilmott blew out a frustrated breath. Was that a yes or no?
‘What the fuck am I doing about what, guv?’
‘I’ve had reports that you’ve been harassing Alissa Burbeck.’
I did my best incredulous look. ‘Harassing? Harassing how, exactly?’
‘She called me up earlier in a very distraught state, wanting to see me.’
I fought the urge to say, I bet.
‘When I got there, do you know what she said?’
I thought this was probably a rhetorical question, so I didn’t waste my breath with a reply.
‘She told me she’d spotted a vehicle following her. Then lo and behold, when I do a PNC check, it’s one of ours. And then I find out you’ve been using it! You’ve also followed her to her mother’s care home, asking her inappropriate questions, badgering her. You’ve been sitting outside her house and watching her. She was in a devastated panic, worrying that it was one of Russell’s friends trying to frighten her, or worse! Now, what I want to know is why.’
I could just imagine the scene. Alissa crying on to his shoulder in a fake fit of panic. Oh, she was good. Very good. A first-class actress.
‘Why are you still involved in this case when I’ve expressly told you on several occasions that she’s never been considered a suspect? And what were you doing at the care home when the case is over?’ His face turned an angry shade that matched his salmon-coloured shirt.
‘I was just following up on a few loose ends.’
‘There are no loose ends! How many times do I have to tell you? Stiles killed Max Burbeck and that’s the end of it. You seem to have become obsessed with her!’
I opened my mouth to say, Actually, I could say the same about you. But then I’d have to admit I had been following her to notice him turning up there all the time.
‘You’re not a team player, and you seem to be incapable of following any kind of order,’ he carried on.
Oh, great. Any minute now, he’s going to come out with the ‘There is no I in team’ rubbish.
‘I’ve also just received some complaints from Leo and Sasha Smithers regarding your conduct when questioning them about this case, and about your attitude. Your work is also late and shoddy. You should’ve finished those robbery statements ages ago and we’re no further forward on the investigation! You obviously resent my promotion to acting DI, and even tho
ugh DI Nash has carried you and puts up with your sloppy and outdated way of working, I will not. The bottom line is, you don’t seem to be up to the job any more, and it’s a bloody liability having someone like that on my team. You’ve had a lot of slack in the last year because of Denise, but you’ve lost the plot and—’
I’d tried to tune out his rant until he mentioned Denise’s name. That’s when something exploded inside and all the anger, the pain, the emptiness of losing her came back again. Her name on his tongue sounded vile, something ugly, and I wasn’t having that.
Before I knew what I was doing, I’d launched towards him, pinning him against the wall, my fists clenching the collar of his shirt. Wilmott was taller than me, but what I lacked in height, I made up for in width. ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about! And how dare you blame anything on Denise! She was worth a hundred of you, you arrogant, jumped-up prick! I watched my wife die! She wasted away right in front of me, in agony. It would’ve been our wedding anniversary tomorrow, you bastard! And you have no idea how that feels, because the only person you care about is yourself!’
Wilmott’s eyes widened with surprise as he squirmed against the wall, trying to get away. ‘That’s assault, that is! You’re assaulting a police officer!’
‘Call yourself a police officer? Don’t make me bloody laugh!’ I gripped his shirt tighter with my left hand, my right swinging back for the punch that would feel so good when it connected with his face.
‘Go on, give me one more excuse to get you slung out for good!’ Wilmott sneered in my face.
‘Carter! Let him go! Right now!’ Detective Superintendent Greene shouted out behind me.
I whipped my head around. Greene stood in the doorway. His face wasn’t quite as red as Wilmott’s, but it was heading in that direction.
