by J. S. Law
Dan pulled up and parked, then crossed to the house.
‘Help you, ma’am?’
The young police officer approached her from the side of the house, appearing from a pathway that ran behind some trees alongside the garage, probably to the back garden.
As he moved closer, Dan could smell the thick stench of fresh tobacco; no need to guess what he had been doing.
‘Dan Lewis, Special Investigation Branch.’ She held up her warrant card. ‘I spoke with the lead investigator, Cornish, this morning and arranged to come and take a look around.’
The young man was nodding the whole time she spoke. ‘Yup,’ he said cheerfully, looking pleased to be actually doing something. ‘You’re on my list, Miss Lewis, please go right in. Forensics are done, so no need for suits, just wipe your feet and don’t move anything. Gloves are on the side, just in case.’
He smiled broadly as he delivered his spiel, as though proud at how quickly and efficiently he could dispense it without a single error, slip of the tongue or hesitation.
Dan resisted the urge to pat him on the head and tickle him under the chin; instead she lifted the corners of her mouth for him and nodded appreciation.
He looked her up and down, and then smiled before turning and walking back towards the side of the garage, pulling another cigarette out of his packet as he went.
Dan started to head for the front door.
‘One last thing, ma’am,’ he called quickly.
She turned.
‘There’s one other person inside. Just so you know.’
Dan nodded and turned away again. She felt her shoulders slump a little; maybe John Granger had received her message after all.
The young policeman’s eyes followed her as she walked into the house.
Dan could feel him watching her as she moved, was aware of her navy-issue trousers tightening around her legs and bum as she took the steps up to the front door. She was torn between conflicting urges: either to enter as quietly as possible, so as to sneak in without immediately having to deal with John, or to rush through the door just to escape the feeling of being ‘checked out’, or, more accurately, ‘examined’. A third option was the one she chose. She turned to look at the young policeman, watching and waiting.
It took a moment.
He looked up at her face, saw her expression, and then immediately looked down to his boots, turning away and stepping out of view behind the corner of the house.
The heavy wooden door opened quickly, but with only the slightest sound as it brushed over the large fitted doormat. Dan shut it slowly and took a pair of gloves from the box just inside. There were only medium size left and they dangled from her fingers and gaped around her wrists. She took them off again and shoved them in her pocket.
The hallway was wide and tastefully furnished in a minimalist style. The centrepiece, dominating the hallway from one wall, was a large picture of the Walkers.
Whisky’s face had hardly changed in the years since she’d known him, his smile still broad and genuine. He was lying on the floor facing the camera, and alongside him on one side was a pretty woman with beautifully long red hair, Cheryl Walker. On the other side was a young boy, his mother’s double.
The three of them were resting their chins on clenched fists while the second child, the eldest, jumped over the three of them, the shot catching him in mid-air.
Walker was flinching slightly as if the boy might land on him.
All of them seemed to be genuinely smiling or laughing.
It was a snapshot, a moment in time that captured a happy family. The picture was printed onto canvas and had a brilliant white background that blended into the light paintwork of the wall behind it.
Dan looked at the picture closely and wondered where it would hang in the future, if at all.
It was hard to see that this woman could be the same as the one in the pictures she’d looked at just a short time ago, but it was her; the same pale complexion and long hair.
‘Happy,’ whispered Dan, already lost in her thoughts. She turned to walk further down the hall.
The house looked like a show home, laminate floors and tasteful pastels on the walls, but, so far, none of the mess and chaos that Dan had expected to find in a household with two boisterous young children; a house, not a home; not unlike the building that Dan had returned to yesterday.
She wandered around the ground floor for a while longer, noting more evidence of the ‘happy family’, but none that indicated that they actually lived here. Eventually Dan walked to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Taking each step slowly, she stopped to look at more pictures of the family as she passed: a collage from a holiday, recent-ish, and the wedding shots that she assumed were obligatory on a wall like this one. She paused and looked more closely at some of them; one in particular caught her eye, a close-up of Cheryl and another woman, a bridesmaid maybe, familiar. Their faces were pushed close together, cheek to cheek, and their arms were visible, wrapped around each other’s necks like best friends who’d never let go.
‘Were you really happy?’ said Dan, moving slowly from one picture to the next.
‘I’m so pleased that I’m not the only one.’
Dan jumped and turned towards the top of the stairs. She lost her balance momentarily and grabbed at the bannister to steady herself.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said the woman, taking a step down and clutching Dan’s arm. ‘That was bloody stupid, surprising you on the stairs like that. I’m really sorry.’
‘It’s fine, really,’ said Dan. ‘Stairs just seem to have been a dangerous place for me today.’
The woman, standing a step further up, towered over Dan and seemed to realise this. She apologised again and climbed the step back up onto the landing, moving away to give Dan some space.
Dan followed.
Even on the landing the woman was much taller than her, maybe even a full foot taller, she guessed, but, unlike a lot of tall women who seemed to stoop to try and hide their height, this woman was upright and tall, proud looking, maybe a little stern, like a strict headmistress from a private girls’ school.
‘Dan Lewis, SIB,’ said Dan, offering her hand up to the woman.
‘I know who you are,’ she said, shaking hands. ‘I’m Felicity Green, the Voodoo Lady.’ Felicity’s eyes went wide and she held her hands out like a child’s mock Halloween monster as she introduced herself and gave Dan a broad smile. ‘Short for Danielle?’ she added.
Dan nodded.
‘Man’s name for a man’s world?’ Felicity said, squinting at Dan. She had a similar expression to the one that Dan’s granddad used to give her when she questioned his made-up stories about his time in Africa fighting the Zulus, playful and warm.
‘We just like to shorten things in the navy, it works well enough.’
‘Ah yes. I was reliably informed once that my nickname, if I were to have joined the navy, would have been “Theresa”. I won’t lie, Dan, I never really understood that.’
Dan smiled, genuinely. ‘So why is there a voodoo lady here?’ she asked.
The woman drew in a deep breath and looked around the landing. ‘Just getting a feel for it really, trying to fathom what kind of family they were. Much the same as you seem to be doing. I’m one of the criminal psychologists in the UK National Crime Agency.’ Felicity paused, still looking at Dan with a half-smile that, in another time and place, could have passed for mischievous. ‘And I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was intrigued at the opportunity to come and meet you. I read the papers you wrote in the aftermath of Operation Poacher and Hamilton’s arrest. I thought your work was outstanding. Your paper examining the failings of the investigation’s processes and procedures did lead to changes, you know. And your other paper, regarding Hamilton’s motivations and experiences, your theory that he may not have been working alone, was ground-breaking. I thought you were very unfairly treated.’
‘So, you’re working up a profile?’ asked Dan, trying f
or nonchalant and ignoring the compliment, which could only lead to a discussion about Hamilton. ‘I didn’t realise that they profiled every murder now.’
Felicity smiled and nodded, seeming to acknowledge Dan’s reluctance and tacitly agreeing that she wouldn’t push any further. ‘No, well, this one is unusual.’ She paused, her eyes never leaving Dan’s. ‘Sustained, fractured and violent,’ she added. ‘We offered to come and take a look.’
Dan said nothing, waiting for the woman to look away.
She didn’t.
‘And because it isn’t the first time he’s done it, is it?’ said Dan, watching Felicity’s face carefully for her reaction.
The woman smiled and looked at Dan for what seemed like a long time. ‘I think you’ll provide real value here. I gather you’ve only spoken very briefly to DI Branok Cornish, but I told him I thought as much, and I think he’ll be keen to hear your thoughts. I’m aware, and he reminded me, that your role is liaison and that you’ll be focused on the husband’s suicide, but I also asked that you be given a full case file, so you should have seen as much as we have on Cheryl Walker. Tell me, though, what makes you think he’s a repeat attacker?’ she finally asked. ‘Surely not just because I showed up?’
Dan paused before answering. She looked at Felicity and liked her. Liked the way her expressions changed as she spoke, the way she leaned in to say some things, as though you were part of a conspiracy that no one should be allowed to know about, and then suddenly smiled as though the whole idea of a secret was preposterous and juvenile. She liked the way Felicity seemed to speak with her hands, animated like an excited child, yet not to be conscious of it, confident enough to act any way she pleased. She liked the way Felicity spoke, not afraid or embarrassed to be educated and well spoken, but not making it feel like a barrier that she hid behind either. Dan felt that she wanted to talk to this woman, to tell her what she knew – some of it, anyway.
The question lingered in her mind as she thought back to her cabin in the dockyard, to the lockbox that was in there, and the images trapped inside it that resembled so closely the crime scene pictures of Cheryl Walker; impossible to share that secret, though, not now, not with anyone.
Before Dan had to speak, the front door opened and they both instinctively looked down towards it.
The hallway glowed lighter for a moment and then darkened again as a large frame filled the doorway and the familiar form of John Granger came into view.
He looked around, not seeming to notice them at first, and grabbed a pair of gloves from the box next to the door. He pushed his hand into the first one, ripping the latex as it failed to stretch over his thick fingers and wrist. He tried again, and ripped another, and then he picked up two more and shoved all of them into his pocket.
Felicity leaned in and whispered into Dan’s ear. ‘You know what they say, big hands …’
Dan pulled away and looked wide-eyed at the criminal psychologist.
‘Big gloves,’ said Felicity, making a face as if she was unsure what Dan may have thought she meant. ‘Just a professional observation.’
Dan was smiling again, despite herself, turning back towards the stairs as John Granger looked up and their eyes met.
He didn’t smile back at her.
‘What are you ladies laughing about?’ he asked, as he began to climb towards them.
Dan watched as he approached them, the smile drifting off her face.
‘John Granger, Master at Arms for the SIB,’ he said, holding his hand out to Felicity.
She smiled and shook it, introducing herself as she did so.
‘We were just about to walk around up here,’ said Dan. ‘Why don’t you take downstairs and we’ll compare notes?’
His eyes lingered on hers until Dan looked away.
‘I’ll just stick with you guys. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.’
‘And three are better than two,’ added Felicity, with a broad, energetic smile, as though she was only moments away from shouting ‘One for all …’
‘Lead the way, Doctor,’ said John, as though this was a fun family outing and they were all going on a treasure hunt.
Dan’s jaw clenched tight.
‘There’s only one really interesting room up here,’ said Felicity, talking back over her shoulder as she walked. ‘Although you should, of course, check out all of the others too.’
John stepped back and extended his arm, gesturing for Dan to go next.
She did.
They followed Felicity to a small room at the front of the house. It was furnished as a study, and a space-age computer system stood on a dark solid-wood desk. A large all-in-one printer and photocopier rested on a matching wood filing cabinet next to it. At one side of the room, tucked away against the wall, were several plastic crates. The lids were off and Dan could see that one of them was filled with pictures, all of them framed with the same black, modern-looking painted wood.
There were small nail marks dotted around the wall.
‘So these pictures were up and have since been taken down?’ asked Dan.
Felicity nodded. ‘It’s interesting, really. We have absolutely no idea at all why they were taken off the wall. They were packed neatly into the box, as though this was deliberate and unrushed. The room looks too recently painted for it to have been done for an impending redecoration. Also, all of the pictures are from his career: pictures of him with friends, gifts and keepsakes from different places he worked. None are of Mrs Walker or the children.’
‘Are they all accounted for?’ asked Dan.
Felicity smiled, impressed. ‘You’re good,’ she joked. ‘The investigators counted the nails and there is a single picture missing. We have no clue as to what it contained. The investigating team took pictures of them in different sequences on the wall and then showed them to the eldest child, but he wasn’t able to help.’
Dan nodded as she listened.
‘We have a rough idea of the size, as some of the pictures marked the wall and so we can tell roughly where we think the missing picture was hanging.’
‘Why take them down?’ asked John.
‘Were they going to move house? Or maybe they were separating and only he was leaving?’ asked Dan, aiming the question at Felicity.
‘We really aren’t sure. There is a suspicion that she may have been, and I do mean may have been, having an affair. We have no proof of this, but there were extra requests for her parents to babysit and she was staying out later and dressing more provocatively, according to her parents, at least. That behaviour isn’t completely unprecedented from what I gather; navy folk are away so much I think any weakness in a relationship could be quickly exposed. I understand that submariners are away and out of contact for particularly long spells, but I’m sure you two know more about these pressures.’
She looked at Dan and then at John, who nodded and said nothing.
Felicity moved across to the desk and sat down on the plush leather chair.
‘I do think that they may have been packing to leave and then been interrupted,’ she said. ‘There is nothing to confirm that either way, of course; nothing says that they were going and nothing really shouts out that they were staying. If someone were to be leaving, then I’d suggest they were doing so in secret. The only other thing we are relatively sure is missing, is a secure container.’ She opened the top desk-drawer and showed them the space. ‘The friction markings on the wood where it was taken in and out fairly regularly have given us a rough size, and the eldest child confirmed that Daddy had a special black box that no one was allowed to touch.’
John moved over to look at the drawer, but Dan knelt down by the crate and pulled on her gloves.
She started pulling out the pictures one by one. There were shots of Walker at various stages of his career. Some were formal, some less so. She paused as she pulled out one that she recognised. She was there, standing alongside ‘Whisky’ Walker and a handful of others.
They were outside the s
ubmarine museum in Gosport, fourteen of them from her basic training intake at HMS Raleigh, lined up alongside a huge chain that led to an anchor which towered over Dan’s tiny frame.
The boys were bending their backs, facing each other in teams of six and seven, as though they were going to pick the chain up and have a game of tug-of-war.
Dan was standing in the middle, the only girl; she would be the referee.
They were all smiling; it was a long time ago.
‘You knew him?’ asked Felicity, her face a frown.
‘A very long time ago,’ replied Dan, putting the picture back.
She pulled out another one. Walker again, with a small group of men she didn’t recognise. Below the picture, mounted onto the frame, was a short piece of black tubing. ‘To Whisky – From the Forward ME section – HMS TORBAY’ read the message engraved onto a small piece of polished brass.
‘What’s that?’ Dan asked John, holding the picture up without looking at him.
He walked across and leaned over her, looking carefully, feeling close.
‘Emergency breathing system air hose. The Chief Stoker’s in charge of all the air systems on board.’
‘Why would they mount it like that?’ asked Dan.
‘Can be the bane of your life if it goes wrong. He probably had a hard time with a defect at some point and they gave him this as a leaving gift as a kind of joke.’
John shrugged and turned away, looking around the room.
Dan placed the picture back and looked into the other crate. It was full of boxing trophies, medals, certificates for coaching and awards.
‘I’d forgotten he was a boxer,’ she said.
‘Never understood the attraction, myself,’ said Felicity. ‘But judging by those medals and trophies …’ She paused, stood up and crossed the room. Leaning over Dan, she reached into the box, flicking through the pictures like cards in a Rolodex until she found the one she was looking for. ‘And with his physique,’ she added, showing Dan a picture of Walker in what looked like Diego Garcia.
His overalls were half removed and tied by the sleeves around his waist, his torso revealed, lean and muscular.
