Shades of Evil

by Shirley Wells

  As they ran round to the back of the property, Grace was thankful it was the end property in the terrace. In the small yard, Foreman was lying face down on the ground while PC Wilde tried to get handcuffs on him. When PC Jones added his weight, they managed to contain him.

  ‘Barry Foreman?’ Grace yelled at him. ‘We want to talk to you about a fifteen-year-old girl called Yasmin Smith. We know she contacted you via—’

  Foreman twisted his head enough to spit at her.

  For his trouble, he got a sharp kick in the ribs from PC Wilde who, with blood dripping from a cut above the eye, was living up to his name.

  ‘Obstructing police officers, assaulting a police officer, judging by the state of PC Wilde’s face – you’re under arrest, sunshine.’

  ‘Fuck off, pig!’

  He continued to kick and spit until the two PCs finally had him under control.

  ‘Right, take him in. Then you,’ she said, nodding at PC Wilde, ‘need to get yourself to a hospital.’

  Barry Foreman wasn’t going quietly but he was at least going. They marched him through his house and outside to the waiting patrol car.

  When they’d gone, Grace looked round the house, pulling open cupboards and checking under beds, but there was nothing of interest to be found.

  ‘Asda carrier bags,’ she murmured to herself.

  He’d walked in with three but they were nowhere to be seen.

  Then she spotted another door. It was half hidden behind a wardrobe in what was a ground floor bedroom of sorts. Apart from the wardrobe and a narrow single bed that was covered in boxes and assorted junk, the room was bare.

  Thankfully, the wardrobe was fairly easily shouldered out of the way. All she needed now was the key to the door, and that was probably on the way to the nick with Foreman.

  She went to the kitchen, found a small vegetable knife and began unscrewing the lock. She was still desperate to use the toilet, but she didn’t fancy venturing into Foreman’s bathroom.

  Eventually, the lock came free. She should have guessed these properties had cellars. There was a switch at the top of the stairs and although the light from it was dim, it was enough to stop her falling headlong into the cellar.

  The smell as she descended was something she couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was merely damp.

  When she reached the ground, she saw three Asda carrier bags. There was a single mattress on the floor and it took Grace a moment to realize that the mounds beneath the grubby quilt were human. Two girls lay side by side.

  ‘Holy shit!’

  She put a finger to their necks. Both were breathing.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When Max reached his office the following morning, he didn’t bother opening the blinds. He swallowed two aspirin, put his feet on his desk and closed his eyes. It had been after nine o’clock last night when he’d suggested they call it a day and have a couple of drinks at the Green Man to celebrate one of their more successful days. Max rarely suffered from hangovers, but when he added vodka to the equation, a drink he didn’t even like, he gave himself real problems.

  If Mel made it to the office today, he’d be amazed. She’d been last seen staggering through her front door singing ‘Yellow Submarine’ at the top of her voice. For her sake, Max hoped she had understanding neighbours.

  That she’d been knocking back Jack Daniels as if it was water had taken them all by surprise. Maybe she was finally seeing herself as part of the team.

  He supposed it was difficult for her. While the rest of them were out in the field talking to people, she was staring at a computer. A lot of the time, she only had the flimsiest of background information for a particular inquiry. Added to that, she was a naturally reserved person.

  It had been a good day, though, and Max had saved the best job for himself. He’d been the one to phone the Smiths and organize the car that took them to the hospital and their daughter.

  Max hoped Foreman was put away for a very long time. Better still, he wished Adam Smith could be allowed five minutes alone with the man. It would be a long time before the word forgiveness found its way to Smith’s lips. He’d lost sleep, lost his job and almost lost his sanity.

  As yet, they had no idea of the extent of the abuse suffered by the girls. It would come out later perhaps. Meanwhile, trained counsellors were doing all they could.

  Yasmin’s companion had been a young teenager from Arbroath, Angela McCann, who, like Yasmin, had been fooled enough by Foreman to take a train from her home in Scotland.

  It was too easy for men like Foreman. With so many young people chatting with virtual friends, it was simple for Foreman to prey on the naive and vulnerable. Online, Foreman had been a fun-loving, caring nineteen-year-old who wanted nothing more than friendship. The reality was that he was a sick and very sinister individual.

  In Yasmin’s case, her love of ice cream and the cinema had taken her straight into danger. She’d expected to miss school for the day and see the latest blockbuster with a nineteen-year-old.

  At least Foreman had fed the girls well and, thankfully, he’d only given them sleeping tablets. Heavy doses, but nothing that would do any permanent harm. The mental scars would take longer to heal than the physical damage.

  As tempting as it was, Max knew he couldn’t stay in his office all day. He was adjusting the blinds to let in the daylight when Phil Meredith came inside.

  ‘Yasmin Smith. Excellent work, Max!’

  Meredith spoke as if it was news to him, yet he’d made sure he was on the small screen last night telling the public what an outstanding job his officers had done.

  ‘All down to Mel,’ Max replied.

  ‘Yes, and I’ve already spoken to her,’ Meredith said.

  Max was glad she’d received some recognition from above.

  ‘I wanted to let you know that Carlisle is conscious,’ Meredith went on. ‘So that’s more good news. He’s not allowed visitors yet but he’s off the danger list.’

  ‘That is good news.’

  ‘No visitors before two o’clock this afternoon at the earliest apparently. Anyway, I won’t keep you,’ Meredith added. ‘I’m sure you have plenty to do.’

  He did. Like proving that Maurice Temple had killed both Vincent and Lauren Cole.

  Perhaps Carlisle would be able to tell them something useful. Max would make sure someone was by his bedside at two o’clock sharp to see if he was up to answering questions. In fact, he might even go himself.

  While he was almost certain that Temple was guilty of Lauren and Vincent Cole’s murders, he could find nothing to link him to the attempt on Steve Carlisle’s life.

  Amazingly, Mel was at her desk, taking a sip of water from a bottle she always had with her.

  ‘You OK, Mel?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. You?’

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ he admitted, and she smiled.

  ‘It was a good night, though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was.’

  He was glad she’d enjoyed herself. They knew nothing more about her private life than they had the day she’d started working with them, but hopefully that would come in time.

  ‘Any sign of Fletch?’ he asked. ‘Or Grace?’

  ‘They were both in early, but – sorry, boss, I don’t know where they are now.’

  A search of the building didn’t help, but Max guessed Fletch and Grace would be busy on something. It was Christmas Eve and, like everyone else, they’d be wanting to go home and start the holiday. They would both give the job everything until they finished for the day though.

  Max was about to call Jill when Grace rounded the corner at a run.

  ‘We’ve got him, guv. Temple, I mean.’ She was breathless with excitement and struggling to get the words out quickly enough. ‘They’ve found traces of blood on a pair of his jeans and I’ll bet it’s Lauren Cole’s.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Grace was another, it seemed, who didn’t have the word hangover in her vocabulary.
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br />   ‘You feeling OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Dog rough,’ she admitted, ‘but this has perked me up. I knew he was guilty. It was just a matter of proving it. And we almost have.’

  ‘If it’s her blood,’ Max reminded her, but Grace wasn’t to be put off.

  ‘Sure to be.’

  Before Max could comment on that, Fletch came over to them. He looked how Max felt. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he walked very carefully so as not to succumb to motion sickness.

  ‘You look like death,’ Max told him.

  ‘Yeah? I must be improving then. Anyway, you’ll never guess—’ He broke off and looked from one to the other of them. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve found blood on a pair of Temple’s jeans.’ Grace relished every one of those words. ‘We’re still waiting to hear from the lab, but it has to be Lauren Cole’s.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Fletch didn’t look too impressed. ‘Well, this is what I’ve got.’

  He held out an evidence bag. Inside was a red dog collar that was studded with mock diamonds. A matching red tag hung from the collar.

  Max took the bag from Fletch. He didn’t need to read the tag to know what was engraved on it, but he did anyway. Beneath the name Charlie was Lauren Cole’s phone number.

  ‘Please tell me this was found at Temple’s place, Fletch?’

  ‘’Fraid not, Max. It was right at the bottom of Vincent Cole’s rubbish bin.’

  ‘What? Oh, shit. How the hell did it get there?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Grace said slowly, ‘it had been in Temple’s pocket for a week and he decided to dump it when he broke into Cole’s house?’

  Max would love to believe that, but it was on a par with thinking that a fat man in a red suit really was coming down the chimney tonight.

  Jill was cold and tired, but, thanks to copious amounts of coffee and a couple of paracetamol, her hangover had more or less gone. It was Christmas Eve, though, and she was finally in the mood for the festive period. She didn’t want to be at work thinking of murder; she wanted to start the holiday. Her copy of the TV Times was still unopened so she had no idea what she’d be viewing over Christmas. The Great Escape would follow the Queen’s speech, she supposed. It’s a Wonderful Life was sure to be on, too. She’d bought lots of junk food, mostly chocolate. Max and the boys would attack the savouries. Jill longed to sit and watch rubbish on TV with a box of chocolates to hand.

  Before then, though, she had to share the same air space as Maurice Temple. He’d asked to see her, and she needed to satisfy her own curiosity about his involvement in Lauren Cole’s murder. He was innocent, she was sure of it, but he had to be involved somehow.

  ‘How are you, Josh?’ she asked when she’d taken off her coat, settled herself in the chair opposite him and switched on the recording equipment.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Wait a minute, have I got this wrong? I was told you wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He shrugged, and Jill wondered if he’d changed his mind.

  ‘I suppose you’re a bit upset because of everything that’s happened this morning?’ She spoke casually and pretended to search in her bag for something. ‘That’s understandable.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Haven’t they told you?’ She knew damn well they hadn’t, but she shook her head at the incompetence of coppers. ‘They’ve informed your lawyer and he’s on his way, but you’d think that someone would have seen fit to tell you.’

  ‘What happened?’ he asked again.

  ‘They’ve found evidence,’ she said, still speaking casually. ‘Enough evidence to prove that you killed Lauren and Vincent Cole.’

  ‘That’s crap.’

  His tone was scoffing, as well it might be.

  ‘It’s true. I’m only surprised no one’s told you. I bet you could get them into trouble for that.’

  ‘What evidence?’

  ‘Plenty, I’m afraid. You know I was talking to you about Charlie’s collar? They found that. You threw it out, didn’t you? When you broke into Vincent Cole’s house, you realized you still had Charlie’s collar in your pocket. So, while you were lurking around the outside of his house, you chucked it in the rubbish bin, didn’t you?’

  ‘I – what?’ Several times, Temple opened his mouth, but he couldn’t force any more words out.

  ‘They also found a pair of your jeans,’ she went on. ‘They’ve got blood on them.’

  Except the lab results were back and it wasn’t Lauren Cole’s blood. It was his own.

  Temple didn’t even attempt to speak. His whole demeanour changed and tears welled in his eyes.

  ‘I didn’t kill her. You have to believe me. I promise you, I didn’t kill her. Someone’s trying to frame me.’

  Jill did believe him. His alibi was worthless, as he could easily have killed Lauren and raced back to the hospital for his appointment, but she knew in her heart that he was innocent.

  All the same, he had to be involved. He had to know something about it.

  ‘I’m sorry they haven’t told you,’ she said. ‘I assumed that was why you wanted to see me. And it’s why I came as I soon as I could, to see if you were all right.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill her. They’ve got it wrong. That blood on my jeans – it’s not hers. How the fuck can it be?’

  ‘Whose is it then?’

  ‘What?’ He looked at her as if she was mad. ‘How the fuck do I know? They must have planted it. Fuck, I don’t know.’

  ‘So if you didn’t kill her, who did?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ He screamed the words at her.

  ‘How did you get the key to Vincent Cole’s house?’ she asked him.

  ‘I told you. Lauren gave it to me ages ago.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘OK,’ he admitted. ‘She didn’t give it to me. I had a copy made.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just in case – Look, he had some valuable stuff there.’

  ‘And you thought you were set up, didn’t you?’ Jill went on. ‘You let yourself into her dad’s house—’

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill him!’ Temple buried his face in his hands and began to sob. ‘It was a mistake!’

  The sudden display of emotion took her by surprise. It wasn’t for his victim, obviously. It was a mix of fear at the prospect of a life sentence and regret that he’d finally admitted to his crime. Even so, she hadn’t expected tears from him.

  She didn’t care, though. They finally had a confession from him.

  ‘You hit him too hard, did you?’ she asked, her voice calm.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then tried to make it look as if he’d committed suicide?’

  He nodded, tears and snot running into his mouth.

  He must have panicked on realizing he’d killed Vincent Cole, but would have thought himself little short of genius to come up with the suicide idea. He would have hunted for a length of suitable cable, tied it around Cole’s neck, grabbed a couple of chairs from the kitchen, stood on one and hauled Cole, a big man, close enough to the beam to tie him up. Josh didn’t look strong enough, which proved how potent adrenalin could be.

  Satisfied with the picture of suicide he’d created, he would have returned one chair to the kitchen and put the other on the floor as if it had been kicked away by Cole. Jill could picture him admiring his handiwork.

  ‘But I didn’t kill Lauren. I swear to you, I didn’t do it.’

  Jill sat back in her chair, arms folded as she tried to decide how to play this. If he hadn’t killed Lauren, and Jill believed him, who the hell had? She needed Temple’s help, which meant treading very carefully.

  ‘OK, Josh, you’re in a lot of trouble. You know that, don’t you? Now, if I were you, I’d be as helpful as I possibly could. If you offered them information about Lauren’s killer—’

  He lunged forward and, if Jill’s reactions had been any slower, his head would have crashed against hers.
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br />   ‘I don’t fucking know anything! Got that, you stupid bitch? I don’t fucking know who killed her!’

  Jill was thinking about taking an early lunch when her office phone rang. Temple was having his lunch, and she thought she may as well do likewise. She was feeling better now, and her appetite had returned.

  She picked up her phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Merry Christmas!’

  The connection was cut immediately, leaving her to stare at the instrument. His call hadn’t come via the switchboard. Her stalker had come direct to her extension number and that really was a disturbing thought.

  There was something else, too. He’d only said two words, yet something in his voice had sounded familiar. She closed her eyes and tried to bring the sound to mind again, but it was too late. It had gone.

  Forgetting lunch for the moment, she set off in search of Max.

  ‘He’s at the hospital,’ Grace told her. ‘Apparently, Steve Carlisle wanted to speak to him.’

  ‘So early? I thought no one could see him before two o’clock. Is he all right? Steve, I mean?’

  ‘I suppose he must be if he’s able to talk to people.’

  Jill began walking to the hospital. The wind cut through her like a machete and she pulled up her coat’s collar as she walked. She didn’t mind winter, so long as she could keep warm, but she hated the short days. It hadn’t really got light today.

  The hospital was as warm as ever. No cold air, or even fresh air, managed to penetrate the building, and it was always stifling.

  A tall Christmas tree with twinkling lights stood in the corner of the main reception area and decorations hung from the ceilings and above framed pictures, but they did little to add cheer. There could be few things more depressing than a hospital at Christmas.

  She took the lift to the intensive care unit, only to be told that Steve had been moved to Watling Ward on the second floor.

  She went back down the stairs and followed the arrows to Watling Ward.

  Before she reached it, she came to a small room filled with chairs and tables, magazines and children’s toys. Sitting in the corner were Ruth and Frank Carlisle. Ruth was clutching a teddy in her hands, but she rushed forward on seeing Jill.