Shades of Evil

by Shirley Wells

  ‘Dear God. And when you say at the back of here, where do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Flat Top Hill. There’s an old stone building, or what’s left of one.’

  ‘Clough’s Shelter.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘I know. How can such things happen in lovely, idyllic Kelton? Move to the countryside, eh? Cats hanged and people axed to death.’ He took another swig of wine. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Have you found the murder weapon?’

  ‘It wasn’t lost. It was between the victim’s eyes.’

  She pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her hands and hugged herself for warmth.

  ‘Any ideas?’ she asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Is she local?’ She shook her head at the stupidity of her question. ‘Late teens or early twenties, you say? What does – did she look like?’

  ‘Five feet five. Long blonde hair. Wearing jeans and a bright red anorak.’

  ‘And no one’s been reported missing?’

  ‘No.’ He extinguished his cigarette. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything? Seen anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No, but I haven’t been here. I’ve been in Preston all day. Yesterday I was in Manchester and, over the weekend, I was in Liverpool with Mum and Dad.’

  Avoiding him, he guessed. Usually, things were good between them. At least, he thought so. He asked her to marry him on a regular basis and she turned him down. They knew where they stood with each other. At the moment, however, things were far from good.

  ‘Are your parents well?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine.’ Short and to the point. ‘Who’s in charge of the case? I thought you were still busy looking into the disappearance of Yasmin Smith.’

  He was, but the fifteen-year-old had been missing for four months and they’d exhausted all ideas.

  ‘There’s no one else available,’ he explained. ‘People are either on a training course, in hospital or abroad.’

  ‘You’re having a bad time of it then,’ she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘With the shortage of officers, you’ll struggle to make up a decent team.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he agreed, refusing to rise to the bait.

  This atmosphere had hung between them for almost a week now. People believed that Jill, a forensic psychologist, did nothing but build profiles that led the police to criminals. The reality was that she spent much of her time on mundane tasks and staff assessments. As part of this, she had deemed one of his officers, a damn good sergeant in Max’s opinion, unfit for work. Max had made his views clear on that, and she’d sulked ever since. He wondered if sulking was a gender thing, and thought it probably was. Men would have a quick argument over a pint and the whole thing would be forgotten.

  Jill’s other cats, Tojo and Rabble, ambled into the room and he watched her make a fuss of them. She’d be keeping a close eye on them in future. The cat flap would be locked at night, he guessed.

  ‘How busy are you right now?’ he asked.

  ‘Too busy. You think people will talk to me because I’m local, but you’re wrong. I’m still considered an outsider and I’m too close to the force. Besides,’ she added, and he could see her chest rising and falling with anger, ‘you’ve made it quite clear you don’t trust my judgement.’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t trust your judgement. I merely—’

  ‘If you’d told me you had no faith in my professional opinion, that would have been one thing. But, oh no. You have to tell everyone else at the blasted nick!’

  ‘Everyone else’ was an exaggeration. In Max’s opinion, DS Clive White was a damn good officer and keeping him away from a job he loved was ludicrous. If Jill had been within earshot when Max found out, he would have voiced his feelings to her face. As it was, he’d had to content himself with a few choice expletives that had been overheard by half a dozen officers. Unfortunately, word had flown round headquarters in record time.

  ‘Will you help, please?’ he asked. ‘We’re going to be speaking to everyone in Kelton. I could do with you along.’

  ‘If I can spare the time,’ she replied grudgingly. ‘I’ve got a few radio interviews coming up.’

  And that was another thing that niggled. As well as being a damn good forensic psychologist, she wrote self-help books. She was getting a name for herself and her books were growing more popular. It took up too much of her time. Not that Max was going to say so at the moment.

  ‘And I’m in court tomorrow,’ she reminded him. ‘Expert witness on the Jason Lyle case.’

  Damn, he’d forgotten that.

  ‘That’s fine,’ he lied. ‘If you can spare some time, I’d be grateful.’

  She acknowledged that with a slight inclination of her head.

  ‘Look,’ he began, ‘I’m sorry, OK? I was angry. If you’d been anywhere near when I found out you’d declared Clive White unfit to do his job, I would have bent your ear. But you weren’t. I was angry, and I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have heard what I thought about it from someone else.’

  ‘Good God, pigs do fly and Trentham does know how to apologize. Apology accepted,’ she said, adding, ‘even if it only came because you want my help and realize it’s time to grovel.’

  ‘Oh, I can grovel like a good ’un.’ Plenty of practice.

  The ghost of a smile touched her mouth, but she looked sad, and he knew the death of that old stray cat had hit her harder than she would ever admit.

  He reached for her hand. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ He gave her a quick kiss. ‘Sorry, but I’m out of here. I have to get back to the nick.’

  While there he’d see if any nutters who might bear Jill a grudge had been released from prison recently. For all they knew, the person who had murdered the young woman could be responsible for stringing up that cat. The dead girl’s hair was long whereas Jill’s blonde locks were cut short, and the victim was about twenty while Jill was in her thirties. Even so, it could have been a case of mistaken identity. Unlikely, but possible.

  ‘And for God’s sake keep the bloody door locked! It’s not rocket science, is it?’

  Chapter Three

  Fortunately, the council’s gritting lorries were managing to keep the main roads clear and Max arrived at headquarters twenty minutes later.

  The first officer he saw was DC Shepherd.

  ‘Anything new?’ Max asked him.

  ‘Yes, we’ve got an ID on the dead girl. Grace is about to go and see her family.’

  ‘Good. Don’t let her leave without me.’

  Informing relatives that a family member was dead was never easy, but telling someone their nearest and dearest had been murdered was the worst job in the world. No matter how many times you did it or how many training courses you attended, it never became any easier.

  Grace was in the incident room, grabbing her coat, about to leave. Tall and stick thin, she was never still for a moment. Max was glad to have her on his team.

  ‘Who is she then?’ he asked her.

  ‘Lauren Cole. Twenty years old. Her address is given as Worcester House, Longman Drive.’

  ‘We’re sure it’s her?’

  ‘We are, guv. The keys she was carrying belonged to the Ford Ka that was parked out at Kelton. We got a copy of her driving licence sent through. Yes, it’s her. Surprisingly, for a driving licence, it’s a good photo.’

  Lauren Cole. Full of life one minute; lying dead on a barren hillside the next.

  ‘Someone will need to identify her,’ Max said, speaking to himself more than Grace. That was a harrowing ordeal at the best of times and it would take great skill to conceal this killer’s handiwork. ‘OK, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Grace brightened. It was always better to have moral support at such times. ‘As far as I’ve managed to find out, she lives there with her father. You ready now then?’

  ‘Lead on.’
r />   Grace drove, leaving Max to gaze out at the familiar streets of his town. The few who’d ventured out this evening looked cold and grumpy as they walked carefully on pavements that were topped with about five inches of snow. Half a dozen young men dashed into the warmth of a pub. Several more congregated outside Harrington’s finest fish and chip shop. Two women queued behind an elderly man at the bank’s cash machine. Lights shone from Asda and it looked, from the number of cars parked outside, that the supermarket was doing a good trade. Every pump was in use at the petrol station.

  For most, life went on as normal. For Lauren Cole’s family it would never be the same again.

  Longman Drive was on the outskirts of town, at the top of a steep hill. The gritting lorries had done their best but the wheels spun as Grace turned the car into the cul-de-sac.

  ‘Worcester House,’ she said, slowing the car to a crawl as she checked house numbers and names.

  ‘There.’ Max pointed to the end house where a carved stone in the wall showed the house name.

  Grace stopped the car and they sat for a moment to look at the building. It was old, large and detached and, courtesy of tall, thick hedges, enjoyed more privacy than most.

  ‘Ready?’ Max asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  They left the warmth of the car and began walking carefully through the snow to the front door where, thankfully, a bright security light showed the way.

  Some people had cleared their drives of snow but that belonging to Worcester House remained untouched. No tyre tracks or footprints were visible. No heavy-booted postman or milkman had trudged up to the front door.

  Grace rang the doorbell and a deep bing-bong echoed through the interior. A light was switched on, a bolt was slid back and a key was turned.

  The door was opened by a man in his mid-forties.

  ‘Mr Cole?’ Max asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘DCI Trentham and DS Warne, Harrington CID.’ They showed him their warrant cards but, like most people, he barely glanced at them. ‘May we come in, please?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ He looked up and down the road as if he thought there must be trouble in the street.

  ‘If we could come inside,’ Max said, stepping forward.

  Cole moved back, opening the door fully to allow them entry. Without waiting for an invite, Max headed for what he correctly guessed to be the sitting room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Cole asked again.

  Grace produced the copy of the driving licence with the dead girl’s photo. ‘We believe this is your daughter?’

  ‘Lauren, yes.’ He was a big man, well over six feet tall, yet he seemed to shrink before them. ‘What’s happened? Where is she?’

  ‘Do you recognize this ring?’ Grace said, ignoring his question.

  ‘Of course I do. It’s my late wife’s wedding ring. Lauren’s not had it off her finger since her mum died. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Max said, ‘very sorry, but late yesterday afternoon, a walker came across a young woman’s body lying on the ground. We believe it’s Lauren.’

  ‘No!’ He took a step back. ‘My Lauren? Dead? How can she be?’

  He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain as if Lauren might walk down the drive, then let it drop back before turning to face them.

  ‘How can she be?’ he asked again.

  Max and Grace sat. After a few moments, Cole did likewise.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon,’ Max explained, ‘a man out on Flat Top Hill—’

  ‘Kelton Bridge.’ Cole nodded. ‘Lauren walks her dog there. There’s another thing. Where’s her dog? Charlie would stick with her.’

  ‘Charlie is at the rescue kennels,’ Grace explained. ‘Until we could find out who he belonged to, there was nothing else we could do with him.’

  ‘The man out walking,’ Max continued, guessing Cole was talking for the sake of it, talking so he didn’t have to think that his daughter might be dead, ‘found a woman’s body. She was wearing dark blue jeans and a red anorak.’

  ‘She – she died?’ His voice broke. ‘Lauren? It was Lauren out on the hill?’ He stood up again. ‘I don’t believe you. I mean, it can’t be.’ He took a couple of steps forwards to wag an angry finger in Max’s face. ‘I want to see her. You’ve got it wrong, you must have. You can’t come here telling me stuff like that!’

  ‘We can take you to see her,’ Grace told him. ‘Why don’t you get a coat, Mr Cole? It’s very cold outside.’

  Without saying a word, he went upstairs. When he returned, he was wearing a black overcoat. The sight of him, the fear in his eyes, had Max’s stomach clenching. No one should ever have to do what he was about to.

  It was a long, long drive with Mr Cole becoming increasingly angry. He hadn’t been well, he told them, and they had no right to upset him like this. As yet, he hadn’t asked how she’d died, and Max was glad of that.

  In contrast, the drive back to his house was undertaken in complete silence. Even Grace, prone to language that would make football hooligans blush, simply tapped the steering wheel when an idiot in a blue car almost took off the front wing at a roundabout.

  Vincent Cole let them into his house and he was still silent. Max supposed that, as yet, he was too numb to feel anything. That wasn’t a bad thing.

  Once inside, Cole walked into the sitting room, threw himself down in a chair and buried his face in his hands.

  Max looked at Grace and nodded at the kitchen. She got the message immediately and, while she clattered around looking for cups, Max watched Cole. The man rubbed at his eyes, making them red, but they remained dry.

  When Grace returned and pushed a cup of tea at Cole, he looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.

  ‘I’ve put sugar in it,’ she said.

  Cole seemed to gather himself and took the cup from her. ‘Thank you.’

  The room was huge with high ceilings and what looked to be original beams. They were too solid to be modern additions.

  Everything in the room was neat. That was the only word Max could think of that described it. Photos and ornaments were arranged with perfect symmetry. Pictures were hung on the walls and it looked as if a spirit level was used to check alignment. A brown rug in front of the inglenook fireplace was a regulation six inches from the hearth.

  ‘Mr Cole,’ Max began, ‘why didn’t you report Lauren missing last night?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  Of course, Lauren had been old enough to take care of herself. It was perhaps the norm for her to stay out overnight.

  ‘Can you tell me when you last saw her?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. She called in here—’

  ‘Called in? She wasn’t living here?’

  ‘Heavens, no. She has a flat in town. Bank Street,’ he added scathingly.

  The properties there were old terraced houses, some with the windows boarded up. The uniformed department was called out to Bank Street on a regular basis.

  ‘What number in Bank Street?’ Grace wanted to know.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘How long has she lived there?’ Max asked. ‘According to the DVLA, this is her address.’

  ‘She left about a year ago. No, it’s closer to two years now.’ He sighed. ‘She met some bloke. He was no good. In fact, none of her friends are any good. They all look filthy and they take drugs.’

  ‘Lauren too?’ Max asked.

  ‘Yes. She vowed she was off the damn things but—’ His expression said he hadn’t believed her. ‘She had a job at Grant’s, that cheap supermarket in town, but she lost that. She always wanted money,’ he went on, his expression distant. ‘She kept coming to me for money. That’s all. She never wanted to see me, just wanted money. And, of course, I kept giving. Drugs. That’s what she was spending it on, I knew that.’

  ‘Yesterday morning,’ Max said, ‘what time did she come here?’

  ‘About eight o’clock. Half eight maybe.’

  ‘Did she have the
dog with her?’

  ‘In the car, yes. She has a key and was surprised to find me at home. I’d felt rotten last week, as if I had flu or something, and so I thought I’d have a bit of a break from the office.’

  ‘Which office would that be?’ Grace asked, pencil poised.

  ‘Cole and Dawson,’ he replied, taking Max by surprise. ‘Insurance,’ he added unnecessarily.

  Cole and Dawson must be doing well for themselves as they’d recently taken over prestigious town centre premises.

  ‘You’re the Cole in Cole and Dawson?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Yes. Anyway, as I say, Lauren was surprised to find me at home. If I hadn’t been here—’

  He broke off.

  Max could guess what would have happened if he hadn’t been home. Lauren would have hunted round for money or something she could sell. It was common practice for those hooked on any sort of drugs.

  ‘She had a nice car, but sold that. I had to buy her that Ford.’ Cole shook his head in despair. ‘That would have gone soon, too. She swore to me, promised me that she was off the heroin. She couldn’t have been though, could she? If she had been, she wouldn’t have come to me for more money.’

  ‘We found no evidence of drugs in her body,’ Max assured him.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She wasn’t coping, you see,’ Cole went on, his expression distant. ‘After her mum died, Lauren couldn’t cope with life.’

  ‘I see. And did you argue yesterday morning?’ Max asked.

  ‘Not really. Well, in a way. I told her I couldn’t afford to give her more money and, when she saw I was serious, she stormed off. Slammed the door behind her, ran to her car, and drove off in a temper. I thought she’d take the dog for a walk and calm down. Funny really, but no matter how low she gets, she takes good care of Charlie. But she’s never coped with her mum’s death. It’s been painful to watch her struggle.’