The estate in Stanway was further away from the town centre. Secluded, the estate agent had said. Select. And it looked it. Large executive houses, tastefully designed, solidly built. No two the same, and each one with space for at least two cars on the driveway. It was what Graeme wanted. Caroline had loved the house in St Mary’s but was trying to feel content here.
She pulled up in front of her house, the black 4x4 jerking to a halt with a slight squeal of brakes, the front tyre on the pavement. Hating the car once again. Maybe when she’d had the baby she might enjoy driving it more. Get hold of the wheel properly without her huge belly getting in the way.
She climbed out, took her gym bag from the boot, walked to the front door, humming a song she had been listening to on the radio. Let herself in. Put the keys on the table in the hall, went to the kitchen. It was symbolic of everything she had ever thought she wanted in life. A beautiful house. A great car. A childhood sweetheart who had turned into a handsome husband. Two gorgeous kids already and a third on the way. Life, she kept telling herself, couldn’t get more perfect.
She crossed to the fridge, poured herself a glass of orange juice, took it to the breakfast bar. She sat down on one of the stools, took a mouthful, and a wave of tiredness overwhelmed her.
She sighed. Exhausted again. She told herself it was just the baby, that was all. The baby. She and Graeme already had two older children, nearly teenagers. Alfie, twelve, and Vanessa, ten. What was she doing having another baby? Now? At her age?
Thirty-nine wasn’t old, she told herself. Not too old to be a mother again. Not too old to still be a desirable, attractive woman.
She took another mouthful of juice. Felt it travel all the way down her body. She shouldn’t drink it too quickly, she would want to pee again. Especially if the baby decided to lie on her kidneys. Another deep breath as she tried to find a comfortable way to sit. Her mind flashed back to lunch. The girls. All younger than her, all expecting their first baby. They were a good bunch, friendly, fun to be with. But sometimes Caroline thought she saw them looking at her not in a friendly way. Like they were laughing at her. As if she was too old. Trying to look younger, pass as one of them when she should have been past all that. Like being out with their mum.
They had never said this, but it was a feeling she got. Only sometimes.
Caroline finished the juice, put the glass in the dishwasher. As she stood up, stars danced before her eyes. She began to feel light-headed. She had moved too quickly. That started to happen now. More and more often as the baby got heavier and heavier. Natural, the doctor had said, but still bloody annoying.
She supported herself against the counter top, got her breath and her balance back. Checked her watch. Four hours until Graeme came home. She should have something prepared for dinner. She sighed again, too tired to stand upright let alone cook. Lucky she had remembered to call in at M&S. Roast shank of lamb plus prepared vegetables. Wouldn’t take too long to heat up. And if Graeme complained, she would tell him to make dinner himself.
The kitchen gleamed, all beech and granite and matching appliances. Another sigh. At least she hoped it would be four hours until Graeme arrived home. Lately he had been coming back later and later. Working longer hours, he said. Getting in the overtime before the baby came along. Because they would need the money then. Babies were expensive, had she forgotten? And when he did arrive home he was tetchy and miserable. Jumping on the slightest thing she said or did. And he never wanted sex any more. Admittedly at the moment she was too tired for it, but even in the first stages, when she was feeling really horny, he hadn’t wanted it. In fact, the last time they had made love was when she got pregnant. She would remember something like that.
And the kids were no help. Coming in straight from school, upstairs to their rooms, on the internet, watching TV. She may as well be by herself.
She sat down again on a bar stool. If this was her life and it was all so perfect, why did she feel so unhappy?
She wanted a bath. A long, lovely, luxurious soak to ease away all the aches and strains she carried round with her. But she couldn’t do that while she was in the house alone. What if she got stuck? What if someone came to the door and she couldn’t get out? No. Too risky. She would have to settle for a shower instead. Again.
She went up the stairs, one step at a time, supporting herself heavily on the banister, into the bathroom, where she ran the water, began to slowly strip away the layers of her clothes.
At least all I have to do is stand there, she thought. I don’t have to move.
She stepped into the shower. Closed her eyes.
Stood there until her legs ached. Then towelled off, went into the bedroom and changed into her pyjamas and dressing gown. She only meant to have a few minutes’ rest. Just a quick lie-down on the bed. But as soon as she closed her eyes she was gone.
Her last thought before sleep claimed her was that it would all sort itself out. When the baby was born.
15
Chrissie Burrows had, Anni thought, been very eager to help but didn’t have much to contribute. She had come across her type quite often. It was a common enough response in situations like this, to feel that you had to do everything possible to assist, even when you had exhausted your knowledge.
The woman was in her thirties, plain and round. But she had eyes that, under different circumstances, would have indicated a lively, fun companion. Not these circumstances, however.
The empty classroom they were talking in felt hot and cloying. Like the boiler was turned up too high to keep the children drowsy. Anni tried to ignore it, set to work establishing a timeline for the party.
Chrissie Burrows sat fidgeting with one paper tissue after another, dabbing her eyes, blowing her nose, reducing them to shreds with her fingers. ‘Well, I . . . I left early.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘Around nine. Nine thirty at the very latest. But nearer nine, I think.’
‘Any particular reason?’
She thought, shook her head. ‘We . . . we were all having a good time. I’d given Claire her present, some Babygros . . .’ The tears threatened again. She plucked another paper tissue from the box. Anni waited for her to ride the moment out.
‘And you went home.’
She nodded. ‘Still had some work to do for today. And I have a long drive, so I only had one glass . . .’
‘And did you see anyone suspicious as you left? Anyone loitering outside or on the stairs?’
She shook her head. Her brow was furrowed, as if by concentrating hard enough she would be able to make the memory, or even the person, Anni wanted appear before them.
‘So who else was there, apart from yourself?’
‘Claire, Julie, Geraint . . . that’s it.’
‘No one from outside school?’
She shook her head.
‘Not Claire’s boyfriend? Ryan Brotherton?’
Chrissie Burrows sat up, something else in her eyes besides tears. ‘No. Not him. Claire never wanted to see him again.’
Anni kept her expression professionally blank. ‘Why not?’
‘He was a . . . oh.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t say it. But he was bad for Claire. Very bad. Getting rid of him was the best thing she ever did.’
‘What about Julie? Was there anyone in her background who might have wanted to harm her?’
Chrissie Burrows looked up. ‘Julie? No. No one. No one wanted to harm her. She was, she was . . .’ The tears started again.
Anni was beginning to see a pattern emerging.
She regarded the weeping woman intently, doubting there was anything more she could tell her. She was just a normal woman who couldn’t believe that something horribly extraordinary had invaded her life and taken away two of her friends in the most brutal way imaginable.
Anni stood up, handed her a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please call.’
Chrissie Burrows took the card without looking up.
Wit
h a uniform stepping in to take a statement from the distraught teacher, Anni went on to question Geraint Cooper. Relieved to be out of that hot room.
The police had requisitioned the nurse’s room for questioning and he was waiting for her there. At least it was slightly cooler than the classroom. Geraint Cooper was black and, she surmised, in his mid to late twenties. Neatly dressed, he sat with his hands in his lap. Anni didn’t believe in jumping to conclusions, and certainly not in stereotypes, but from his demeanour and attitude, she was sure Geraint Cooper was gay.
She sat down opposite him and introduced herself.
‘Mr Cooper, I’m DS Hepburn.’
They shook hands. She felt from his loose grip that he was shaking slightly.
‘I’ll try and make this as painless as possible,’ she said with a small smile. ‘You were at Claire Fielding’s last night along with Julie Simpson and Chrissie Burrows.’ Not a question, a statement.
He nodded.
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Around ten. Something like that.’
‘And where do you live?’
‘Dutch Quarter. Just up the road from Claire.’ His voice caught as he said her name.
‘How did you get home?’
‘Walked.’
‘And what would you say the mood was like when you left?’
He shrugged. ‘We were all having a good time. A good laugh.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Claire was enjoying herself. We all were.’
‘No arguments, nothing like that?’
He looked as if the question offended him. ‘No. Just having a laugh.’
‘And it was a baby shower?’
He nodded. ‘A baby shower. We brought our presents, opened some wine, had a laugh. God knows, she needed it.’
‘Claire? Why d’you say that?’
He sat back, his body language defensive, arms wrapped over his chest. ‘Because of him.’
‘You mean Ryan Brotherton?’
He nodded.
‘What did he do?’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard all about it by now.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘He didn’t want the baby. Wanted her to get rid of it. She wouldn’t. She dumped him.’
Anni waited. He said no more. ‘And that’s it?’
He nodded, arms still wrapped tightly round his chest.
She changed her approach. ‘When you left, at around tenish, did you see anyone suspicious hanging about?’
He said nothing, thinking.
‘Either outside the flats, in the street, or even inside, on the stairs. Anyone. Anywhere.’
He sighed. His arms dropped, his posture relaxed. ‘I’ve been thinking about this all day. Over and over in my head. Trying to think . . .’
‘And was there? Anyone?’
He sighed. ‘No. No one. Sorry. I wish there had been.’
‘That’s all right. And Julie Simpson was still there when you left?’
He nodded.
‘Didn’t she have to get back home?’
‘Said she’d help Claire clear up.’
Knowing the answer, she asked the next question anyway, to check that the stories matched. ‘And were you the first to leave?’
He shook his head. ‘Chrissie went first. She had the furthest to travel. Wivenhoe way.’ He looked at her pointedly. ‘She didn’t drink too much. Didn’t want to get pulled over.’
Anni smiled again. ‘I don’t care about that. I’m just trying to find who killed Claire and Julie.’
He nodded, as if accepting that. ‘Well I think we know who did that, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’ Anni leaned forward slightly. ‘Who would that be, Mr Cooper?’
Geraint Cooper looked her square in the eyes. Anni realised that he was shaking not from nerves but from anger. ‘Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? Claire’s ex. That bastard Ryan Brotherton. He killed her.’
16
DS Clayton Thompson glanced quickly round. No one about. No one following him.
He had left the station and walked down Headgate towards the town centre. The shops were thinking about closing, and with the night drawing in, the bars and restaurants in front of him along Head Street were becoming alluring. He felt their pull on him now, even on a weekday.
Clayton still liked nothing better than to hit a few bars on a night off with his mates, see what he could pull. He thought he would have had enough of it after years in uniform, clearing up on weekend nights when the town-centre pubs were swarming with squaddies from the garrison, hitting on town girls and students, hungry for anything they could get a hold of, ready to fight for it if necessary, but he hadn’t. He looked back fondly on those times; it was good, uncomplicated fun. Bash a few heads together, a few free drinks or whatever else was going.
And it wasn’t all one-way traffic with the squaddies: Clayton had seen plenty of predatory middle-aged women, their bodies squeezed into clothes designed for teenagers, desperately trying to remove the wedding rings from fattened fingers, as if that mattered, bar-hopping in the hope of attracting a young, fit squaddie for the night. In his uniform days he had been called on to break up plenty of fights as young men, having failed to get off with anyone their own age, fought over these women, the women themselves turned on at the sight, thrilled to be a trophy for the winner.
And if they failed to get off with a squaddie, he remembered, a smile crawling across his face, a copper would often do.
But alluring as that was, he had to ignore the memories, the pull of the bars. It would be so easy just to sit there, have a few beers, let it wash away. But he couldn’t. Things had become serious. He had to take action. And he needed privacy for the call he was about to make.
He took out his mobile, dialled a number from his address book. It was a number he hadn’t used for quite a while, but he hadn’t deleted it. He had thought it might come in handy some time. One way or another.
He had lied to Phil when he told him he was following up a lead. Nothing personal, but he had no choice. This was damage limitation. This was his career at stake. He hadn’t gone to look into anything. He had just been walking round the town centre trying to sort everything out, work out what to do next. Whatever he did, he had to tread carefully. Make sure any move he made left him protected.
He turned off the main road, ducked down Church Walk, all boarded-up shops and lock-ups, headed towards the church and the graveyard, ignoring the teen goths and the drinking school gathered by the rusted old gates. The trees and tombstones looked desolate against the darkening sky. It was like the backdrop for some clichéd old Hammer film.
The phone was answered.
‘It’s me,’ he said.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. He waited.
‘I knew you’d call,’ a voice said eventually.
‘Thanks for not grassin’ me up,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome,’ the voice said, in a tone Clayton could-n’t read.
‘I need your help.’
The voice laughed. ‘Course you do.’
Irritation ran through Clayton. He opened his mouth ready to spit out angry words, but stopped himself. That wouldn’t help.
‘I do.’
‘Why?’
‘To . . . square things. Make sure you’re protected.’
The voice laughed. ‘Make sure one of us is protected, you mean.’
Clayton felt the irritation turn to anger. Swallowed it down. ‘Don’t—’
‘Play games?’ said the voice. ‘You used to like playing games, as I remember.’
Clayton kept a grip on his temper. ‘This is important. We’ve got to talk. Tonight.’
The voice sighed. ‘When and where?’
‘You name the time and the place.’
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