by Steven Dunne
She smiled faintly. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘I am right,’ said Brook. ‘You’ve had a traumatic experience, but trust me, things will get better and you will get over it.’
‘I won’t get over it if he kills me,’ she replied, taking another huge drag.
Brook raided his memory. ‘The last sighting put him in Spain.’
‘He’s not in Spain.’
‘Why so sure?’
‘Too foreign. Ray hates the sun. And greasy food.’ She laughed without mirth. ‘Not like Mum and Dad. They loved all things Latin. You’d know if you’d been to the farm before … before …’
‘I’ve seen the crime-scene photographs,’ said Brook, quickly, not wanting to mention his unsanctioned visit.
‘Of course.’ Another huge pull on her cigarette. ‘Then you saw.’ Her smile disappeared. ‘Sorry, I’m talking a lot. It’s nerves. Plus I don’t get out much for conversation.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Brook. ‘I’d like to hear more about your parents.’
‘Really?’ She seemed pleased. ‘They loved Spain and decorated the farm like a hacienda – doors, tiles, cartwheels, the colours of the Mediterranean.’ She laughed. ‘It was pretty garish, to be honest. With all their money they could have had … I don’t know, something better than a tasteless bungalow in the middle of a few bare acres. But they were happy. Dad had made his money and retired, and they did pretty much what they wanted.’
‘They liked to travel?’
‘Travel is overstating it. A few months in Tenerife every winter to escape the weather suited them down to the ground.’ She smiled at a memory. ‘When we were young, we went for two weeks in the summer. I loved those holidays, but Ray refused to go as soon as he was old enough. When I stopped going too, they’d jet off for a lot longer and come back with ridiculous tans and cheap knick-knacks for the pair of us.
That annoyed Ray even more than the holidays, seeing them waste their money on shit he didn’t want. Just give me the cash, he used to say.’ Her eyes glazed over, her smile dying. ‘But they never did. And now they’re dead.’
‘It must be hard.’
‘The hardest thing is that the signs were all there and Mum and Dad missed them. Ray was nine when he first started asking for cash instead of presents at Christmas. Nine! And every year Mum and Dad would laugh and hand him some cheesy gift from Spain or Mexico, a bullfighter’s cape or a three-cornered hat or something. Then he’d have one of his tantrums.’ She stared off into the distance. ‘He seethed over what he couldn’t have – a motorbike when he was sixteen, a car when he was eighteen. If only they’d seen what he was like.’
‘It’s easy with hindsight,’ said Brook. ‘How did Ray treat you?’
‘Normal. Like a brother treats a sister,’ she said. ‘But then I didn’t control the money.’
‘And yet he tried to have you killed.’
‘It wasn’t personal. I was an obstacle, nothing more.’
‘How much money are we talking about?’ asked Brook.
At first she bridled at his bluntness, but a moment later saw no reason to withhold an answer. ‘I’m not sure exactly. Even now.’ She flicked away the ash of her cigarette with a shaky hand and watched it fall through the air to the patio below. ‘The funny thing is, Ray was completely hopeless with money. He could never keep it, didn’t know how to handle it. When we were kids, his pocket money was gone the same day, I don’t know what on, then he’d ask for more. Every Friday he’d turn on the waterworks because he’d spent his allowance on God knows what.
‘After he left home, the problem became more acute because he couldn’t or wouldn’t get a job and had crazy dreams of being a successful entrepreneur. Of course he wasn’t, so he was always on the phone, hitting Dad up to support this or that dodgy scheme. Guess he thought after all the crappy holidays and crappy presents, he was owed.’
‘Did he get support?’
‘Not as often as he wanted.’ She shrugged. ‘My parents believed in tough love. They were right. You can’t succeed in life with Ray’s mindset. Everything he did turned to shit, and when his business ventures went down the toilet, it was just too easy to ask for a handout.’
Brook nodded. ‘So if he’s not in Spain, where do you think he is?’
She looked him in the eye now. ‘He’s here in Nottingham.’
Brook was taken aback. ‘What makes you say that?’
She hesitated. ‘I think I’m being watched.’
‘Think?’
Reardon seemed about to confide in Brook but instead shook her head. ‘You think I’m paranoid.’
‘I don’t know, but why would anyone be watching you?’
‘Not anyone. Ray.’
‘Same question.’
‘Because I survived, and his life and all his plans are screwed. He wants payback for that.’ Her lips sealed tight against an imagined fate, until she licked them again with a lizard dart of her tongue.
‘That makes no sense. Even assuming he knows where you are, he can’t inherit.’
‘Maybe that’s not why he wants to kill me,’ said Reardon.
‘What other reason could there be?’
‘Ray’s a fuck-up, Inspector. He could never finish anything. Maybe, just once in his life, he wants to do something properly.’
‘If he wanted to do something properly, he should never have put your fate in the hands of Jonathan Jemson and Luke Coulson.’
Reardon flinched at the sound of their names. ‘Ray won’t see it like that. Nothing’s ever his fault.’
‘So he’s come back just to kill you.’
‘If he ever left,’ replied Reardon. ‘Rachel – DS Caskey, that is – said they had no record of him leaving the country.’
‘They found his car at the airport.’
‘But if he got on a plane, why was there no sign of him?’ she demanded, stubbing out the cigarette in the soil of a nearby herb planter that already contained dozens of spent butts.
Brook could only shrug. He’d had the same misgivings. ‘So you shut yourself away in this gilded fortress.’ He took a moment to admire the view.
Reardon lit another cigarette and followed Brook’s gaze. ‘It’s not like I’m a prisoner.’
‘Really?’ Brook ran a gimlet eye over her shapeless clothing while her focus was on the distant horizon. ‘How often do you go out?’
‘This is out,’ she said, gesturing at the horizon.
‘I mean out of the front door and into the city, for a drink or to see a film.’
Reardon hesitated. ‘I climb down to the patio when it’s dark sometimes but I don’t stay long. I feel safer at night, hiding in the shadows. No chance of being snapped by journalists and paraded on the front page of some local rag – Tragic Survivor of the Findern Massacre.’ She laughed without mirth.
‘Then effectively you’re a prisoner.’
‘Maybe. I have the internet to wander around in. And Netflix.’
‘Are you sure that’s a life worth protecting?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,’ said Brook. ‘But if past traumas stop you living your life properly, then you might as well be dead. Locking yourself away like this, chain-smoking, seeing nobody. Surviving isn’t the same as living, and I speak from experience.’
‘Do you?’ she said. She stared at him, her face a mixture of anger and astonishment. ‘I must say, you’re very free with your opinions.’
‘I admit I am,’ conceded Brook. ‘But then I’ve seen too many victims of violent crime. It comes with the job. Doesn’t your friend try to coax you out?’
Reardon narrowed her eyes. ‘My friend?’
‘I’m not your first visitor today,’ said Brook.
She stared. ‘Have you been watching the house?’
Brook gestured at the makeshift ashtray, rows of crushed cigarettes mocking their once-pristine appearance in the pack. ‘Some of those butts have lipstick on.
And you’re not wearing any.’
She stared down at the herb planter then thoughtfully back at Brook. ‘I could’ve been wearing lippy last night.’
Brook splashed his shoe in a small puddle of rainwater on the platform’s metal floor. ‘It rained last night. Most of these cigarette ends are soggy apart from a dozen fresh butts that are dry. And I can see at least three with lipstick on. That suggests a lengthy conversation.’
After a moment’s silence, Reardon broke into a bashful smile. ‘You’re good.’ Brook waited for his answer. ‘My dog walker. She takes Sargent out every day.’
‘Sargent?’ said Brook, surprised. ‘Your dog.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’ve still got him.’
‘Of course I have. He’s the only good thing left from my previous life. What? You think I should give him away so he doesn’t remind me of that day?’
‘A lot of people would.’
‘Getting rid of a dog I love isn’t going to make me forget what happened, Inspector. Sargent was a victim too. And victims stick together. The bastards drugged him before they came into the house. He could’ve died. Thankfully …’ She paused, bit her lip, her eyes moistening. ‘Sorry, that sounds terrible when my parents …’
‘You endured a horrific experience.’ He studied her, recalling Terri’s ongoing struggles. ‘Have you thought about therapy?’
‘I’ve thought about everything,’ said Reardon. She turned her head towards the view. ‘Even throwing myself down there.’
Brook shook his head. ‘No, you haven’t.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The girl I saw facing down a knife-wielding killer wouldn’t throw her life away so easily. I’ve watched the film, Reardon. You were at the front door, free and clear. With Jemson dead and Coulson roaming the house, you could’ve run. Instead you risked everything to find your parents.’
Her lip wobbled. ‘I had to know …’
‘Of course you did,’ said Brook. ‘But there was still a cold-blooded killer in the house. Don’t underestimate the courage it took to do that.’
Reardon smiled at him. ‘Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say. And you’re right, I didn’t come through all that just to throw myself off the fire escape.’ She grinned. ‘It might hurt.’ Her mirth subsided quickly. ‘I shouldn’t joke about suicide, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel terrible guilt about surviving when my parents died.’
‘A natural response.’
She cocked her head at him. ‘For a policeman, you haven’t asked many questions. About that day, I mean. I’ve talked more about it than you’ve asked.’
‘I didn’t come here to make you relive it,’ said Brook. ‘I’ve seen the photos and the film, read the reports.’
Reardon licked her lips. ‘Then why are you here?’
‘One question is bothering me.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Go on.’
‘Ray wasn’t at the farm that afternoon, right?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Reardon. ‘I only know I didn’t see him.’
‘He was there the night before, though.’
‘Yes, he came over late that evening and stayed the night.’
‘But his car was gone in the morning.’
‘I assumed he took off early.’
‘I see.’
‘What is it?’
‘If Ray wasn’t there, how did he know things weren’t going to plan and that he should make a run for it?’
‘DS Caskey wondered the same thing,’ frowned Reardon.
‘And what did she conclude?’
‘She thought maybe he was there, watching. Either that or Luke phoned him somehow. Told him the deal was off.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
Brook could see the rising panic in her eyes. He was tempted to ask her what else Caskey had concluded, but decided against it. He didn’t want to upset her or tip his weak hand. ‘From all I’ve seen and read, I don’t think there was a deal between Luke and Ray. Jemson and Ray I can accept. But Coulson was lined up as the fall guy. He wasn’t supposed to survive the attack. And if Luke didn’t phone Ray, and Jemson was already dead, how did Ray know things were turning sour?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘To be honest, I’ve tried not to think about it. After Mum and Dad died, I kind of shut myself down until the trial. When it finally came to court, Luke didn’t even testify. He just sat there day after day with a strange smile on his face, staring at me. Truthfully, I’m still not sure what happened that day. Maybe I’ll never know. The fall guy, you say.’
‘Made to measure,’ said Brook. ‘The lone weirdo, low intelligence and obsessed by an unattainable beauty.’
She blushed. ‘He’d be cured if he could see me now.’
‘You’ll get better,’ offered Brook, with no great certainty. She smiled hesitantly. ‘If this is too painful …’
‘Ask your questions.’
‘Well, according to phone records, around the time of the attack there were no texts or calls logged on any of the mobile phones carried by any persons at the farm that day,’ said Brook. ‘And the landline was down.’
‘What of it?’
‘Ray’s official phone, a Samsung, was never found. We know the number of a second, prepaid phone because of texts sent from a phone belonging to Jemson, hidden in his flat. Jemson didn’t have it at the farm and it hadn’t been used that day. His regular phone was in his jeans, but that also hadn’t been used since that morning, when he’d arranged to meet up with Coulson and travel to the farm.’
‘I remember,’ nodded Reardon. ‘If I’d known JJ had it on him, I could’ve called the police on it.’
‘So my question stands. How did Ray know to run?’
Reardon pondered this. ‘Couldn’t JJ have warned him some other way?’
‘I don’t see how. They communicated exclusively by text, and that day there was no record of any activity on either of their mobiles. Besides, things were going to plan up to the moment Jemson was attacked.’
‘I see what you mean,’ she replied, blanching slightly at the memory.
‘The only other mobiles were yours and your mother’s.’
‘Mine was smashed …’
‘… and your mother’s couldn’t be used because the battery was flat.’
‘Right,’ said Reardon, shaking her head. ‘Mum’s phone was ancient and she always forgot to charge it. What about Luke?’
‘He had his mobile on him when he was arrested on the M25, but apart from the texts exchanged with Jemson that morning, it hadn’t been used. Also, his history showed no contact with Ray and no mention of the attack in his texts from Jemson.’
‘So how did Luke know what was going to happen that day?’
‘It’s entirely possible that he didn’t. Jemson had been texting Luke for over a month before the attack but never mentioned you or the farm in any message. I suspect if he wanted to plant the seed about his plans, he would’ve done it verbally. He and Ray wouldn’t want any record of links to Luke apart from a few innocent messages from Jemson suggesting a drink with an old friend.’
‘Strange.’
‘Not really. They were using him. They had to make it appear that Luke was the creepy loner, following through on his long-held obsession with you. The one he told you about before you escaped.’
‘And I thought that was just a teenage crush.’
‘Oh, it was much more than that, as Jemson would have known. Ray too. And if you and Coulson had died at the scene, it would have been a simple narrative to construct, especially with Jemson a witness to Luke’s infatuation with you.’
‘He could have said anything,’ agreed Reardon.
‘And would have.’
‘And Ray’s official phone?’ said Reardon. ‘The Samsung. Even if he destroyed it …’
‘We checked,’ said Brook. ‘He stopped using it a week before the attack and presumably dumped
it when he ran.’
Reardon shivered in a sudden breeze that whipped up over the treetops. If it were possible, her colour seemed to drain further. ‘It’s hard to believe your own brother and an ex-boyfriend could cook up something so cold and painstaking.’
‘Not painstaking enough,’ said Brook. Reardon’s lip began to wobble again and she put a hand up to dry a tear. ‘Are you okay?’
‘There was a time when JJ … we …’ She waved a hand across her face, seeking control.
‘Was it serious?’
‘We thought it was,’ she said, composing herself with a large expulsion of air. ‘We were just kids, of course, but we felt our love was like no other, that it would last for ever.’ She shook her head. ‘Thinking of him now makes me want to throw up. Ray too. I remember a few things they said from the trial. So brutal.’ She blew out her cheeks again, her face red, but this time there was no stopping the tears and she started to sob.
Brook stepped in to squeeze her arm. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He had more questions but they would have to wait.
The piercing mid-morning sun had disappeared and a chilly breeze was stirring.
‘You’re freezing,’ said Brook. ‘Come inside.’ He pulled Reardon back into the warm apartment and guided her towards the kitchen. ‘Let’s get you a hot drink,’ he said, flicking on the kettle. After rummaging around, he made her a cup of Earl Grey with two spoonfuls of sugar and manoeuvred it between her icy hands.
From behind a tree in the park below the house, a pair of eyes watched through binoculars as Reardon Thorogood levered herself up from the fire escape rail to follow Brook into the apartment. As the pair retreated from view, the fire escape door closed and the binoculars were lowered.
On the first-floor landing on his way out, Brook glanced at the adjoining door and turned to Reardon. ‘You have a neighbour?’
‘It’s empty,’ said Reardon, gripping the door frame, desperate to return to her sarcophagus.
‘You say you own the whole building?’ She nodded. ‘The lawyers sorted out the estate then.’
‘Yes and no,’ answered Reardon. ‘I have access to funds but a lot of Mum and Dad’s money could be tied up for years.’
