Home Help

by Gwyn GB

  'Well it's certainly worked in our favour,' Bob replied, clearly not bothered whether the Apple money was there or not, 'Speak to you tomorrow.'

  Claire put the phone down and logged out of the computer. It was time to go and get an update from their Forensic Pathologist - over a glass of wine.

  22

  Claire, Wednesday 8th November 2017, Jersey

  It took Claire around twenty minutes, in the police headquarters' changing rooms, to freshen herself up. She had contemplated taking a shower, but she hadn't thought ahead and brought her make-up. She'd do that later when they'd made it to the hotel room and by which time, make-up won't matter. She was going to be late back to her parents again tonight, but it wouldn't be because of work.

  Claire walked through the tunnel to get to the Royal Yacht Hotel which looked out over the gentrified Weighbridge area. It was an easy walk, slightly downhill, although the fumes from the cars made it less than pleasant. Coming out the other side was better. The harbour was in front of her and to her right, the Weighbridge and the Royal Yacht hotel presiding over it.

  She found him easily. He was sat under one of the heated parasols, a half drunk pint on the table in front of him and a book in his hand. He seemed deeply engrossed in his reading, but as she approached he looked up, as though he'd sensed her. They matched smiles and then kissed.

  'We can go inside if you like it's not all that warm, I just wanted to make the most of being in Jersey.'

  It was strange seeing Mark here, in the distant familiarity of her home island and a million miles from their everyday lives. For a few moments she forgot all about David Lyle and the snakes, or Terry Morgan and James Parkin. She even forgot about Rachel Hill. This felt like a thrilling dirty weekend away.

  She'd had every intention of having a drink, chatting, and a nice meal, but instead she heard herself say, 'Why don't you show me your room?'

  For a few seconds Mark looked taken aback, and she panicked that maybe she'd misjudged, but it didn't take him long to catch up. He smiled, necked his pint and took her hand, leading her into the lobby and to the lift. They weren't quite confident enough to get started as they rode up to the third floor, but within seconds of shutting the hotel room door behind them, they were both attacking each other's clothing.

  Claire loved the way Mark kissed her. His lips were soft and giving and his tongue didn't overwhelm her mouth the way Jack's had. She could feel his kisses tingle all the way down her body and right between her legs. His hands on her cheek were gentle and caressing, but there was no doubt about what he wanted.

  When they had finally managed to strip themselves, he rocked her back onto the bed, and pinned her down at the wrists as he started to kiss her all over. Claire didn't protest, she wanted him to take whatever he desired. She wanted him inside of her, to feel his body against hers - the fusion of love-making. The pleasure of sex.

  An hour later, they were done. They lay on the bed facing each other, just looking, drinking the other one in. Mark was handsome, a man in his prime. Claire had a sneaking suspicion that he'd probably been quite a skinny geeky boy, but he'd grown into his skin. His black hair carried a few strands of silver, but it was his shoulders she loved - broad and sleek. She ran her hands across his skin, savouring the hard bulge of muscle underneath.

  Mark gently kissed her forehead and stroked her auburn hair. Then he traced from the top of her head to the tip of her nose with his finger.

  'I love your little nose,' he whispered, kissing it right on the tip.

  Her skin was naked, all her make up rubbed and kissed away. Her hair which had earlier been its usual neat bob, was now ruffled and tussled. She didn't care because she knew he didn't.

  'So do you still want that dinner?' he asked her, smiling into her eyes.

  'You bet, and a glass or two of red - but I think we should maybe look at the room service menu, don't you?'

  'Well, you have a little of the post-sex bed-head about you,' he laughed. 'And I would far rather you stayed just the way you are than got all dressed up again.'

  So they did. They ordered dinner and wine, showered and put on the hotel dressing gowns. They chatted and drank and Claire forgot about work and Rachel Hill, about her empty flat in London and her parents in their comatose marriage. For three glorious hours she thought about nothing but her and Mark.

  When eleven o'clock came around, Claire could barely keep her eyes open. She toyed with the idea of ringing her mum and saying she was working late and crashing out at the station, but her clothes were crumpled rags after a full day's work and some careless undressing. Besides she needed her make-up and if she was honest and professional, she also needed a good sleep. Staying here with Mark was going to be far too much of a distraction.

  On her way home in the taxi she felt like a teenager again going back to her parent's house after an illicit date. She smiled all the way from St Helier to St Brelade and she felt more alive than she had done in months. She skipped up the driveway to where her mother had left the porch light on, and quietly let herself into the house.

  The morning after the night before can so often be an unpleasant awakening - but not today. When Claire's alarm went off at 6.30am, she awoke to the memory of Mark's body on hers. It was a pleasant memory that lit a small fire inside each time she indulged it. But the cold light of day can be a harsh reality. She knew that she fancied Mark, but her feelings had taken her by surprise. Perhaps it was the fact they were away from their usual lives, that they'd both been infected by the holiday spirit, of being somewhere different and being someone you're not. Whatever the reason for her feelings, in the morning light they scared her.

  The alarm was on snooze and so Claire took the five minute respite to try to psycho-analyse herself. She would never write herself down as being weak or feeling like a victim – but she knew that deeply rooted in her was the pain of losing her brother and its sharp thorns of guilt. She could go for weeks or months without thinking about Christopher now, but something would remind her. A child who looked like he had, someone talking about their sibling relationship with their brother, or just his name. The images of that day were no longer vivid and clear in her mind. Even Christopher's face had drifted from her memory, only living on in the faded school photographs at her parents’ house. Yet every now and then those thorns pricked at her conscience and her heart. She caused his death and the resulting pain to her parents. If she allowed someone else to love her, would she cause them pain too?

  She used to wonder if the reason her relationship with Jack broke down, was because of her fear of losing him or hurting him in some way. People did that, shut off their hearts to possibility just in case, but as time went on she realised it was actually because they weren't suited. She also tried to understand why she had no urge to have children. Did she fear their loss? Did a parent's worst nightmare stop her from becoming one?

  The job she does exposes her to life at its worst and death at its most raw. In some senses that could easily explain away her lack of enthusiasm for bringing a vulnerable child into this world, but even that wasn't the reason.

  Coming home, being back in her childhood bedroom, brought an enlightenment into her life. She'd not wanted to stay with her parents. In fact she'd been dreading it, just like at times she dreaded talking to them on the phone. The truth was that it's her relationship with her parents that had moulded her. She feared becoming her mother and she feared becoming her father towards her own children. Despite being strong and independent, despite knowing that she's a different person with a different life, she can't quite shake those fears away.

  23

  Young Claire, age 13, 1998, Jersey

  Family meal times were supposed to be a chance for everyone to talk and bond, a positive time. Claire hated them because firstly they highlighted the empty chair at their four-person table and secondly, it involved being trapped opposite her father at the table and suffering his full over-bearing scrutiny. He watched her, waiting for the tiniest
slip up. She knew he was waiting for her to do something and that made every mouthful a conscious process until she was so aware of everything that her brain couldn't cope and she made the inevitable mistake.

  'Claire don't eat like that,' he'd pounce, 'how many times have I told you. It looks disgusting.'

  If he'd had a bad day at work, she knew it. There were days she felt she could barely breathe without him criticising her.

  'Don't put that glass down there,' or 'is this your mess?'

  Living in their house was like walking on broken glass. She crept around hoping he wouldn’t hear the scrunch of her footsteps, but the slower she walked the more painful it was.

  Some days things weren't so bad, he'd even be a bit playful, other days he looked at her as though he resented the very breath she took. Caught in the middle of all this was her mother who acted as the buffer between the two of them.

  'So how was school today?' he would ask Claire, not really looking at her, just concentrating on his dinner plate.

  Claire would be eating, a mouth full of food and so wouldn't answer straight away because if she spoke with food in her mouth she'd be shot down.

  Because she didn't reply immediately her dad started to get annoyed.

  'I asked you a question,' he glared at her.

  So her mother stepped in seeing the situation develop.

  'Claire is just finishing eating a mouthful of food darling,' she said, 'just give her a moment.'

  Claire would finish her food and answer.

  'It was fine thank you, we had a maths test.'

  Her dad had switched off by then, irritated and impatient, that she hadn't immediately responded and all she'd get in return was a humph from him.

  So her mother would try to compensate.

  'So how did the test go love?'

  'It was OK, I got second best in class,'

  'Well done you clever girl,' her mother replied and smiled at her.

  'Don't peg your results in relation to your classmates,' her dad said, 'you're up against all of the UK as well as Jersey when you sit your exams, you know.'

  'I know dad,' she would say to him.

  'That's still a very positive result though,' her mum added seeing Claire's face fall.

  'I'm not saying it's not positive Susan, just telling Claire to be realistic about it.'

  'I know but...' her mum tried to say. Claire knew that she wanted to tell her dad to give her some positive words, but he felt challenged.

  'I can't say anything can I?' he'd round on her, 'whatever I say you pick me up on it.'

  So her dad ended up feeling the victim and Claire just sat silently in the corner receiving his glares. Her mother would be upset because she'd have spent an hour cooking a nice meal that she hoped would be enjoyable, but now they both just felt sick.

  Later on Claire tried to mend the rift with her dad. He was sat in his chair and she went up to him to give him a hug.

  'What do you want now? Creeping around me, you want something with your daddy, daddy and hugs,' he snarled at her.

  That rejection hurt the most.

  There were some days when the sound of silence in their home was blissful. When her dad had been on one of his rants and followed her around the house shouting at her about the mess in her bedroom, the shoes out of place in the hall, the way she'd loaded the dishwasher. If she ever tried to explain he wouldn't listen.

  'I left my shoes out to...'

  'How many times have I told you not to leave them there?'

  'Dad, I'm trying to tell you that I...'

  'Don't take that tone with me young lady. I'm sick to death of telling you the same things over and over again,' his voice got louder, almost shouting.

  'But dad I left them out because,'

  'I don't care, do you hear? I want them put away.' By this time his voice was at shouting pitch as he tried to drown her out.

  'Why don't you let me explain?' she asked him pleadingly.

  He gave her another one of his glares.

  'Get out of my sight, go and do it now.'

  So she did. She went and put away her muddy shoes. She knew she'd get into trouble for that too because the last time she'd put muddy shoes in the cupboard she'd been told off and given instructions to leave them out to dry before brushing them down.

  Claire tried to be all that her brother had been, but she couldn't. She was a different person, She wasn’t able to play rugby, she tried sailing but she didn't enjoy it. Her dad didn't even ask her to play golf. Her brother had done well in sciences, she struggled. She was better than him at maths and English, but that didn't seem to be noticed. She loved her brother so much but there were times she was angry at him. Angry for being so stupid and getting killed, for having left her here to deal with their dad and for leaving such a big gaping hole in their lives. Sometimes her anger and upset made her sick, other times she just withdrew to her bedroom. Yet she still kept trying, still kept wanting to make her dad proud of her too.

  24

  Claire, Thursday 9th November 2017, Jersey

  On her way to work, Claire's mind was on two things - neither of which involved the job in hand. The first was Mark and last night, the second was Rachel Hill. Ever since she'd thought she’d seen her, Claire had been scanning every car and blonde woman she passed in case she saw her again. She needed to see if they'd sorted out the CCTV she'd requested. If she could only get a glimpse of that registration plate, it would help her determine if she was seeing things, or if Rachel really was in Jersey.

  As soon as she got into the office she asked.

  'We have it, Joe's been going through it, shall I show you how to access it?' The uniformed officer smiled at her. Claire wanted to look at it immediately and was just about to say 'yes', when her mobile rang. It was Bob. The man had a sixth sense.

  'I want a joint-team update. Get everyone together your end could you?' Bob said to her.

  Damn, the CCTV would have to wait.

  The Jersey team gathered in one of the briefing rooms, and Claire was soon seeing familiar faces from London via the video link. Lew’s bald head, a tired Tom Knight and a serious faced Bob appeared in technicolour. Mark joined them in Jersey, the postmortem on Terry, completed. He walked into the briefing room, a clean pressed shirt on and jumper over his arm. She got a waft of him as he walked past and he smelt so good. She must ask him what aftershave he wore. He purposely chose a chair at the other end of the table from her. She wasn't sure if that was because their temptation to touch each other would be too painful, or if he’d wanted to be able to look at her. Either way, she concurred.

  Mark started the meeting with his findings.

  'Terry Morgan died from a massive heart attack, which spared him from the effects of the venom. His heart wasn't in particularly great shape and so the fright he would have had finding himself face to face with two Cobras, was enough to kill him. He actually only received one snake bite. There were no signs of any drug addiction, but I've sent samples for toxicology just in case. His liver showed signs of moderate to heavy drinking, but not to alcoholic levels. He was a fifty-something man who liked the good life. I'm afraid that there was nothing unusual and there wasn't anything else of any significance that Terry could tell us.'

  The team around the table and across the video link, sighed collectively.

  'Have we had anything back from Ports yet?' Claire asked the Jersey team.

  'We've just got to check a couple of light aircraft, but our most interesting lead seems to be a motor yacht that came over from Weymouth on Sunday, and left Tuesday evening, shortly after the time that Terry was attacked.'

  'Any ideas who was sailing it?'

  'We're on to it and we're going to show the photofit from the snake shop to the harbour staff and other boat owners today. We're also accessing their CCTV, which should hopefully give us something to go on.'

  'Send me the boat name and details, we'll see if we can find a trail to Weymouth for David Lyle's killer,' Bob said.r />
  'I'm going to talk to David's former employer and neighbours today.' Claire told the teams.

  'His Facebook account shows a fair bit of activity with a couple called Ed and Pauline Thompson,' Bob spoke again, 'There are several photos of them all at events and on the beach. I'll send you over their contact information. Could you go and speak to them too?'

  'Of course, no problem.'

  'The Parkin surveillance will get underway, and we're trawling through everything on Terry Morgan's computer,' Tony Cooper, the FCU lead informed Bob.

  'Good,' Bob nodded.

  Claire wondered what he was really thinking. She felt cut off from his lead over here. He was one of those men who gave nothing away, but because she knew him so well it was the little things he did that hinted at what he was thinking. Over a video conference all they’ve got is the official Bob. She guessed he might be mulling whether or not he needed to come over and join her, get a feel for David Lyle's former life for himself. She made a bet that he'd be here within forty-eight hours max.

  Once the meeting had broken up, Claire and Mark hung around waiting for the others to clear the room.

  ‘How are you this morning?’ He smirked at her with a naughty boy grin.

  ‘I’m just fine thank you,’ she leant into him and kissed the grin from his face. She must have reminded him of the night before because she felt him go hard in his trousers.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to arrest me and keep me as your sex slave?’ he joked.

  ‘It’s an idea, Dr Rodgers, but I think I might get into a spot of trouble.’

  ‘Shame. I’m on the lunchtime flight home, but if it’s ok with you, I’d like to reconvene, from where we left off, as soon as you’re back.’