Shades of Evil

by Shirley Wells

  When he put his cup on the coffee table beside his chair, his hands were shaking.

  ‘We’ll be sending someone to be with you,’ Max told him.

  ‘Thank you, but I don’t need anyone.’

  ‘Someone will come,’ Max insisted.

  The man had no idea what lay ahead. Dealing with his grief would be bad enough, but someone would have to help him cope with the media interest this case would generate.

  ‘They’ll talk to you, tell you what to expect,’ Grace explained.

  ‘Do you know who killed her?’ Cole asked. ‘Any idea at all?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Max replied. ‘But we will find the person responsible. I give you my word on that.’

  His word? What use was that? He’d given his word to Adam Smith. Four months ago, he’d promised Smith that he would find his daughter, fifteen-year-old Yasmin. He was no closer to finding her today than he had been then. It was Smith who was pounding the streets, Smith who was putting up posters, and Smith who was asking everyone he met if they’d seen his little girl.

  Grace went into the hall and Max heard her phoning headquarters. From her side of the conversation, he gathered that a family liaison officer would be here in twenty minutes.

  ‘As I said, it was when her mum died that she went off the rails,’ Cole said, his gaze on some distant spot. ‘Wendy had cancer. We buried her six years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Max said.

  Grace returned to the room. ‘Can you give us the names of her friends?’

  ‘Not really. I saw her in town once with a scruffy youth called Ricky. We weren’t introduced or anything but I heard her laughing and calling him that. I don’t know his surname or what he does for a living. Not a lot, I expect. Then there was Jo, of course. Short for Joanne, I suppose. Her flatmate. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about her either.’

  His daughter was a stranger to him. He had no idea where she went or who she spent her time with.

  Max hoped the day never came when he knew as little about his sons’ lives.

  When WPC Morgan, the appointed family liaison officer arrived, they left Cole to his grief.

  On the drive back to headquarters, Max thought of phoning his boys. He needed to hear their voices, to know they were safe. But they wouldn’t be home. Harry would be at football practice and Tuesday was Ben’s night at dog-training classes. He would have to wait till later.

  ‘This investigation will be in Jill’s neck of the woods then,’ Grace broke into his thoughts. She took her gaze from the road to grin at him. ‘Is she speaking to you yet, guv?’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice.’

  ‘The course of true love, eh?’

  ‘Ha.’

  Chapter Four

  Jill stood in her kitchen, leaning against the hot radiator, watching Max make coffee as if he woke in her cottage every morning.

  It was far too early to be out of bed, and she was still trying to decide what had possessed her to let him stay the night. Never mind him spending the night, why had she shared her bed with him?

  It was always the same. All he had to do was click his fingers and she melted. She must be mad.

  After visiting Lauren Cole’s father last night, he’d spent a couple of hours at headquarters and it had been late when he’d called back at her cottage. She’d been touched that he’d come to see if she was OK, and she’d felt for him, knowing just how difficult it was to remain professional while telling a man that his daughter had been murdered.

  That was part of the problem, of course. Professionally, she admired him. A lot of people in his job became hard and cynical. Not Max. He could keep the two worlds separate. He was good at his job, he could empathize with people, he could deal with the worst kind of horrors and yet still remain a warm, caring man and a wonderful father to his sons. If some cases monopolized his every waking thought, few would guess at it.

  Jill liked to think she was the same. People often joked that psychologists were crazy, that to see the fine line between sanity and madness, you had to cross the border. Some claimed that you needed to experience some sort of childhood abuse to obtain the necessary qualifications. That was nonsense in Jill’s view. Her own childhood had been as happy as anyone could wish for.

  She could, however, pinpoint the exact moment the frailty of the human mind first grabbed her interest. As a twelve-year-old, she’d spent hours gazing out of her bedroom window at the big house that was less than a quarter of a mile from the council estate on which she’d been born. She’d imagined the wonderful life the inhabitants must lead. The daughter, about Jill’s age, had owned a beautiful pony. Gleaming sports cars had been parked in front of the six-car garage. Marquees had been erected on the lawns on a regular basis. The family had seemed to glide effortlessly from one lavish party to the next.

  Then one day, police officers had swarmed around the house like bees. News soon spread that the businessman hadn’t been as wealthy or successful as he’d led people to believe. Faced with an avalanche of debts, he’d shot his wife and daughter, and then turned the gun on himself.

  Jill’s shock had been peppered with fury at such a selfish act. She hadn’t minded him killing himself, that was his choice, but she’d been appalled to know that the young girl would never ride out on her beautiful pony again.

  Jill would have given a lot to have been able to sit down and talk to him for an hour. Even at twelve years of age, she’d been certain she could have made a difference to his way of thinking.

  ‘You OK?’ Max asked, and she came to with a jolt.

  ‘Yes. Fine, thanks.’

  And still she wondered why she’d let him spend the night.

  Lust had a lot to answer for, she supposed, as did a longing to turn their relationship into something more solid. He infuriated her at times, but she hadn’t yet mastered the art of not loving him.

  And if she were being totally honest, she would have to say that it was better to have someone in the cottage to answer crank phone calls. She was fairly certain it was nothing more serious than kids playing a joke on her, but all the same—

  ‘What?’ he asked, catching her looking at him.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ he reminded her. ‘Oh, and before you hear this from the office grapevine, Dad’s spending Christmas with me and the boys.’

  ‘Really? Aw, that’s nice.’

  He pulled a face at that, and she knew what he was thinking. His father was being difficult right now, and Max couldn’t seem to get along with him.

  ‘I hope I get an invite,’ she added.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An invite to see your dad. As odd as it may seem, given that he’s related to you, I actually like him.’

  ‘You want an invite?’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘God, that’s rich. You’re the one who insists on living in this godforsaken village. You’re the one who’s afraid of any sort of commitment. Your choice, Jill. As far as I’m concerned, you have an open invite. Marry me. Move in with me. Bring the cats. Sell the cottage and get out of this bloody village. How’s that for an invite?’

  An angry retort sprang to her lips, but she bit it back. As far as Max was concerned, the reason their relationship was so volatile was all due to her supposed fear of commitment. It had nothing to do with him spending the night with another woman when they’d lived together. But there was no point bringing that up. It was old news, and they’d moved on. At least, they’d tried to.

  Her doorbell rang, startling her out of her gloomy thoughts. It wasn’t even seven o’clock, far too early for callers.

  She opened her door to see Wilf Appleby standing on her doorstep. Wilf, who owned and farmed most of the land around Lilac Cottage, would have been up for hours. In fact, it was probably late for him.

  ‘The idiot dropped this at my place yesterday,’ he said. ‘It’s plainly addressed to you, but you know what he’s like. Bloody hopeless!’

  Smiling at the des
cription of their new postman, Jill took the letter from him. ‘Thanks, Wilf.’

  He could have pushed it through the letterbox, but he wasn’t the type. If there was a conversation going spare, you could count Wilf in.

  He peered around her. ‘Is that copper here?’

  ‘Max? Yes, he is. Did you want him?’

  ‘Dunno. I heard a copper called at my place yesterday afternoon, but he missed me. Then, on the radio this morning, they said a girl were found dead on Monday.’

  ‘That’s right. The police are in the village now, asking if people saw or heard anything.’

  ‘Ah, well, I were out in the yard on Monday for most of the day. The farrier were here. I reckon I saw everyone who were about.’

  The wind, a raw easterly, was blowing snow into Jill’s hallway.

  ‘Come in,’ she urged him.

  After a brief hesitation, he removed wellington boots, unwound his scarf, and stepped inside.

  ‘We’re in the kitchen,’ Jill said, leading the way.

  She introduced the two men and they shook hands. Wilf was in a heavy waterproof coat with his feet clad in thick woollen socks, and Max was wearing a dark suit with a grey tie. Getting on for eighty, Wilf was twice Max’s age. They were opposites in every way.

  ‘I hear a copper has called at my farm,’ Wilf explained, ‘but he’ll have a job to find me at home. I need to be out mending the fences before spring.’ He looked at Max. ‘I thought, seeing as you were here, I could tell you what I saw on Monday.’

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ Max said.

  ‘Ah, so I thought.’

  Jill guessed it would be a long conversation.

  ‘Do you want coffee, Wilf?’

  ‘Can’t bear the stuff. I were on my way back to the farm for my breakfast and a brew.’

  ‘Tea?’ she offered.

  ‘Ah, that’d be more like it.’

  While she made Wilf his tea, he sat at her table, leaned back and prepared to tell his story.

  ‘The young woman who was murdered,’ Max began, taking the lead, ‘was Lauren Cole. Do you know her?’

  ‘Lauren Cole? No, I don’t know the name. Mind, I see a lot of people walking round here and I don’t know most of the names.’

  ‘She was twenty years old,’ Max said, ‘with long, blonde hair. Five feet five inches tall. On Monday, she was wearing dark blue jeans and a red jacket. She had a dog with her, a small white shaggy crossbreed called—’

  ‘Charlie?’ Wilf guessed.

  ‘That’s right. You do know her then?’

  ‘I’ve seen her about,’ Wilf said, ‘but no, I can’t say as I know her. I’d know the dog, though. You see, my farm has a right of way across it and people cut through there. She often did. Sometimes she’d say good morning, but that were all. I do remember hearing her call the dog Charlie, though.’

  ‘You didn’t see her on Monday morning?’

  ‘No. Sometimes, though, people drive up and park on the waste ground. If they’re in a rush, they’ll do that. If they do, I won’t see them.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else on Monday morning?’ Max persisted.

  ‘As I were telling Jill,’ Wilf explained, ‘I had the farrier out to the horses on Monday so we were out in the yard all day. From there, you can see everyone who goes out on to the hill.’

  ‘Did you see anyone on Monday morning?’ Max asked again, and Jill smiled to herself. This conversation would go at Wilf’s pace, not Max’s. And that pace would be slow.

  ‘I did.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘Lots of people round here walk their dogs up there. First I saw the woman who’s just moved into the terrace. You’d know her, Jill. About fifty, she is. She has a couple of dogs, both crossbreeds. The young one looks like it’s got a lot of labrador in it. It’s always carrying a ball in its mouth. She carries one of them plastic things that helps you throw a ball. It’s a skittish young dog. Needs a bit of training if you ask me. The other dog’s older. Black. Going grey. A bit of collie in that one. He’s either going deaf, or he’s just a little bugger. She’s forever calling him because he’s wandered off.’

  Jill recognized the description.

  ‘Denise Bent,’ she said, putting a mug of steaming tea in front of Wilf. ‘She and her husband, Eddie, moved in a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Is it as long as that?’ Wilf asked, scratching his head. ‘I suppose it could be.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about her?’ Max asked.

  ‘No. She were having to shout to that black dog, as she often does. Her walk took her about the same time as usual. About forty minutes, I reckon. No, there were nothing unusual. In fact,’ he added, ‘it would have been odd if I hadn’t seen her. Every morning she takes them dogs the same way.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Max asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Next, I saw a chap – don’t know his name – but he walks up this way from Bacup. He has a little brown dog. What do you call them? Ah, yes, it’s a border terrier. Nice little dog. Mind, that one has a tendency to wander as well. So I saw him. I didn’t see him come back because he walks the loop, you see. Once he’s out of sight, I wouldn’t expect to see him till the next morning.’

  Jill, too, knew the man with the little dog. Like Wilf, she didn’t know his name, but she’d often exchanged the time of day with him.

  Wilf might talk too much, but Max couldn’t fault the man’s powers of observation.

  ‘Now,’ Wilf went on, ‘the next person I saw were Steve Carlisle. He walks his dog up there most mornings, too. He has a greyhound,’ he added for Max’s benefit, ‘and it’s the laziest creature you could meet. The dog’d far rather be curled up at home in front of the fire than be out walking. Still, walk he has to. Every morning. At this time of year, the dog’ll be wearing a tartan jacket. Looks right bloody daft in it, too.’

  He took a long swallow of tea and Jill could see Max mentally digesting names and details of these people.

  ‘I didn’t see Steve set off,’ Wilf went on, enjoying his captive audience, ‘only when he were coming back. And that were a bit unusual.’

  ‘Oh?’ Max was struggling to keep his patience.

  ‘He were running,’ Wilf said thoughtfully. ‘Well, when I say running, he were trying to run. He were trotting a bit, then stopping to call his dog. That dog of his only has two speeds; slow and stopped. So the dog were ambling along behind him and Steve were running a bit, then stopping to shout at the dog, then trotting along a bit further.’

  ‘And you say that was unusual?’ Max said.

  ‘Yes. I’ve never seen him run before. In fact, he always walks about in a bit of a dream. He’s a clever bloke so I suppose he thinks a lot. But yes, that were unusual. I’ll tell you summat else that were unusual,’ Wilf went on, warming to his theme. ‘He weren’t carrying nothing. Very often, when he’s on his way home, he’ll be carrying a plastic bag full of rubbish.’

  ‘Rubbish?’ Jill asked.

  ‘Yes. He’s always having a rant about the amount of rubbish folk leave lying around. I have to agree with him on that one, too. Folk chuck empty cans and bottles in the hedge instead of carrying them home.’ He looked at Max, a half smile on his lips. ‘Mind, I blame the police for that. They ban drinking in the towns and villages so people go out to the hills and drink. Bloody daft!’

  ‘So he picks up rubbish?’ Max asked, ignoring Wilf’s last comment.

  ‘He does. Very often he walks back home with a plastic bag filled with empty cans and bottles.’

  ‘A public service,’ Jill said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, and if he’s not carrying rubbish,’ Wilf went on, ‘he’s got a sack full of wood. A year or so ago, he had one of them wood burning stoves put in. Like yours, Jill.’

  ‘I know. I had a look at his before I had mine put in.’

  ‘Ah, well, he often brings back wood from the spinney. I wouldn’t accuse him of cutting the young trees down,’ Wilf put in quickly, ‘but he finds quite a bit of wood. It’s free, you see.’
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  ‘You say he carries a sack full of wood?’ Max said. ‘Does he get small pieces? Or does he chop it up and carry it home like that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Wilf admitted. ‘I suppose he chops it up. Presumably he carries a saw in the sack.’

  Jill looked at Max and she knew exactly what he was thinking. Or an axe.

  Max had conducted the morning briefing, updated his boss on progress, or lack of, and issued a press statement before he finally had time to pay number three Bank Street a visit.

  Officers were almost finished at Lauren Cole’s home, but hadn’t found anything of interest. Her computer had been taken away and Max just hoped there was something useful on that.

  Her flatmate, Jo, was standing in the doorway to Lauren’s room, watching proceedings in a state of shock.

  Everything had been taken out of Lauren’s small wardrobe and was being put back. The mattress had been removed and was standing up against the wall. The small square of worn beige carpet had been pulled back.

  ‘You don’t think he’ll be after me, do you?’ was Jo’s first question to Max.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Nothing in particular.’

  ‘I can’t imagine so,’ Max said, ‘but, until we know a bit more about it, it might pay to be extra cautious.’

  Most of the houses in Bank Street had been bought as investments and several, including number three, had been turned into flats. Max hoped the rents were suitably low.

  Wallpaper that had probably been stuck on twenty years ago was giving up the fight and peeling away to reveal large damp patches. Carpets were threadbare. Furniture was barely serviceable.

  ‘Is there any coffee going?’ he asked her.

  ‘Eh? Er, yeah, if you like.’

  They left officers to finish in Lauren’s room and went into the kitchen where Jo took a dirty mug from a pile in the sink, washed it, thoroughly he was relieved to see, and hunted through cupboards for a jar of instant.

  She was probably about the same age as Lauren, but had dark, almost black hair. Reed thin and pale, she looked as if she, too, was familiar with drugs. She was wearing jeans that needed a good wash, a grey baggy sweater and a huge pair of black boots.