by Matt Brolly
‘You with us?’ said Thomas.
Louise took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
Claire’s bedsit was off the seafront, at the end of a narrow lane above a tyre garage. A man in blue overalls stopped what he was doing as Louise and Thomas left the car. As he walked towards them, he wiped his greasy hands across his chest. ‘DS Ireland?’ he asked Thomas, his accent a thick West Country drawl.
‘Mr Applebee. Thank you for meeting us.’
‘I live here, don’t I?’
A short, stout man, his rotund stomach pushing through the fabric of his overall, Applebee suited his name. He was the owner of the bedsits above the garage. Thomas had made contact with him earlier and explained what had happened to Claire.
‘This is my colleague, DI Blackwell. Would you mind showing us to Claire’s flat?’
Applebee grunted, his eyes not reaching Louise’s as he looked her up and down. ‘Suppose so,’ he muttered, walking back towards the garage.
Inside, a battered Fiat Punto hung precariously on a hydraulic lift. It was missing its tyres and was so rusted that Louise doubted it would ever see the road again. ‘Good little runner if you’re interested,’ said Applebee, taking a set of keys off a rusting key hook. ‘Through here,’ he said, opening a side door that led to a dimly lit staircase.
‘How many flats are there here?’ asked Thomas as they ascended the stairs, Louise fighting the smells of nicotine and urine in the stairwell.
‘Four, though only three are let. Only two now, I suppose. More trouble than they’re worth sometimes. Here,’ said Applebee, opening a door covered in chipped paint. ‘Whatever state the place is in has nothing to do with me.’
Coldness hit Louise as she walked through the threshold. It permeated the room despite the glare of sunshine leaking through the opaque curtains. Calling the place a flat was a misnomer of the highest order. It was a room with a small single bed and a cheap plastic garden table that held a kettle and toaster.
‘Not supposed to cook in here,’ said Applebee, as Louise ran her fingers over the grease-sodden table top.
‘Where did she cook?’
‘There’s a shared kitchen.’
‘And a shared bathroom, I presume?’
Applebee sensed the disdain in her voice and ignored her. Louise opened the window, allowing fresh air to filter into the room. No one should have to live like this, she thought. Claire appeared to have no possessions beyond the few clothes in a chest of drawers and those littering the floor.
Thomas bent down next to the single bed. ‘There’s a power cable here. For a laptop.’
Louise glanced at Applebee, unable to hide her accusing eyes. ‘Have you been in here recently, Mr Applebee?’
‘No,’ said Applebee, a little too vehemently.
‘So if we did a search of this place we’re not going to find Claire’s laptop?’
‘What the hell are you on about? He phoned me a couple of hours ago,’ he said, pointing to Thomas, ‘and I’ve been working on the cars ever since. I never go in these rooms unless I have to.’
Louise could well believe that. ‘That laptop could have some vital evidence for us. If you know where it is, now would be a great time to tell us.’
‘I have no idea. I’ve seen her on a laptop. Huge, monstrous thing like something out of the eighties. Even if I’d been so inclined, that machine wouldn’t have been worth anything.’
Louise ripped the duvet off the bed. Everything in the room seemed coated in a film of dust. ‘Did she have a phone?’
‘I have a number for her so I presume so.’
No phone had been found on the body or at the scene. ‘What about an Internet connection. You provide that?’
‘There is a small fee. They share the Wi-Fi code.’
‘Very generous. We’ll need details of that.’
‘Whatever. Can I get back to my cars now?’
‘A girl has died, Mr Applebee,’ said Louise.
‘Don’t I bloody know it? What am I going to do with all this shit now, and who’s going to pay her bloody rent?’
Louise’s skin tingled, heat prickling her body. She looked over at Thomas, who shook his head. ‘Thank you, Mr Applebee,’ she said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
Chapter Five
DCI Robertson summoned Louise into his office the second she returned. Her boss was about as enthusiastic about the move to the new building as Louise. His office was half the size of his last one and overlooked the grey tarmac of the station’s car park. Like her, Robertson was an outsider. Originally from Glasgow, he retained a thick accent despite spending over half his life south of the border.
‘That girl, Claire Smedley? We’ve confirmed death by suicide?’ he asked, as Louise sat opposite him.
‘Everything points to it at the moment though we’ve only managed to speak to one person to have met her before. There are signs of a small gathering last night by the church. An extinguished bonfire, some empty bottles.’
‘It could have been an accident then?’ said Robertson, momentarily buoyed by the thought before remembering they were discussing a young woman’s life. Lowering his tone to a guttural drawl, he said, ‘Maybe there was a group there, she slipped, and they got spooked and dispersed?’
‘We’re going through all the usual processes to find out who was there. Unfortunately there are no cameras by the church though we’re running through CCTV images from the marina.’
Robertson leant back in his chair, nodding to himself as if weighing up the possibilities of it being an accident.
‘You’ve considered the similarities with Victoria Warrington?’ said Louise.
Robertson stopped rocking as if she’d sworn at him. ‘I don’t want this to be another suicide, Louise,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure if that’s our decision, Iain.’ The comment was unnecessary and she regretted saying it.
‘You know what the press will do with this information, don’t you?’
‘Create something that isn’t there?’ said Louise.
‘That’s hardly the point. The town is still recovering from that psycho Simmons,’ said Robertson, referencing the Pensioner Killer.
‘The town doesn’t seem to be suffering at all. From what I’ve been told bookings are up, the place has never been busier.’
‘You know as well as I do that’s a smokescreen. We were big news for a few weeks in the winter and that spiked the curiosity of a few voyeuristic arseholes. Once this summer is over we’ll be back to normal. I’m on about the residents. The ones who lived through all that shit. Don’t underestimate the psychological damage that sort of thing can have on a community like this.’
‘You don’t have to preach to me, Iain,’ said Louise, irked. Of the two of them, she had far more experience of dealing with violent crime and its aftermath. But he had a point. She’d noticed a subtle change to the town. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly. The place felt quieter, especially at night, as if a sense of unease had permeated its way into the populace. Robertson was right: the last thing they needed was another tragedy and a linked suicide could be just that.
It was different to her time in Bristol. The suspension bridge had long been used as a suicide destination, a gruesome fact connecting it with similar spots worldwide. Sad as it was, they’d expected it to happen there. Suicide was a tragic reality of life, common enough to be accepted without much fanfare and the incidents at the bridge rarely troubled the news.
However, if Claire’s death was a suicide then the similarities between her and Victoria would strike alarm within the town, coincidence or not.
‘I understand your concern, Iain, but if Claire has died by suicide then that’s something we’ll have to face. Yes, the death of two young women both falling from great heights would be a terrible coincidence but we can stop it becoming a drama,’ said Louise, doubting her words.
‘I take it we don’t have a note yet?’
By this time after Victoria�
��s death, the investigation had all but been wrapped up. A note had been found in the house she shared with six other people in Oldmixon. She’d apologised for not telling her housemates first, and told them not to worry about her as she was going to a better place.
It was because of this that after leaving Claire’s bedsit, Louise had cordoned off the whole building while a team of uniformed officers scoured every inch of the place, much to Applebee’s chagrin. She’d heard one of the uniformed officers suggest it was a little over the top and that officer had found out exactly her opinion on that matter, much to the man’s embarrassment. Louise wanted Claire’s life to matter and finding a note was the first step towards that goal. ‘If there’s a note, we’ll find it,’ she said.
The cold atmosphere of the open-plan office didn’t prove conducive to working. At MIT, an officer of her rank would never have dealt directly with such an incident and even now she wondered if she was giving it too much of her time. Robertson’s concerns withstanding, chances were Claire’s death was another unfortunate incident. Nothing suggested the deaths were linked beyond the similarities in ages and the method of death, so why was she obsessing over it?
A quick glance over her open cases revealed the answer: a slate of low-level burglaries in Winscombe, sightings of a drug dealer loitering outside a secondary school, a case of GBH in a town centre nightclub that was already with the Crown Prosecution Service. Louise had wanted more from her career. Worse still, she’d once had it and it had been taken from her.
Forty minutes later, Louise had left the office and was walking up the steep banks of Brean Down. There was a hint of cloud and Louise fought a stiff breeze as she stumbled up the incline. A colony of seagulls circled above her head. They moved as if caught in the air currents, falling and rising, their wings appearing not to move.
Louise caught her breath as she reached the summit. Brean Down was the closest part of the mainland to Steep Holm, and the island was more defined from her vantage point. She gazed across the bay, imposing her own bad memories on the rock of land she’d last visited late last year. A high-pitched squall tore her from her reverie, as a seagull swooped down towards a young boy nearby who was carrying a sandwich. The boy screeched – half in terror, half in delight at the game – as his mother shooed the bird away. Louise smiled at the mother, who rolled her eyes, suggesting the boy was to blame as much as the seagulls.
Twenty yards from where they stood was the spot where Victoria Warrington had taken her life. At the exact place where she’d jumped, a middle-aged man in shorts and T-shirt was being dragged along by a Rottweiler. The dog was having the time of its life, tail wagging, tongue lolling, as the man struggled to keep him under control. The dog’s leash was stretched to breaking point as the man’s flip-flops slid on the grass, the joyous pair oblivious to the tragedy that had occurred on that very same spot a few weeks ago.
Louise gazed down at the jagged rocks, the drop much steeper than in Uphill. It felt wrong to compare the two sites. Had Victoria known what waited for her in the darkness, the pointed tip of the slick rocks that had all but ripped her skull from her torso? Her death would have been instant, but Louise wondered, as she had in Uphill, if Victoria had experienced a split second of unimaginable pain as she’d struck the rocks.
An hour later and they would have missed her body completely. An old couple had discovered the body on a morning stroll and called it in before the sea came in and took the body. It had meant that the SOCOs had little chance to examine the scene, the seawater wiping all traces of evidence minutes after they arrived and took the corpse away.
From there the case had been straightforward. The suicide note was found at Victoria’s flat, another young life no longer prepared to accept what the world had to offer.
Louise wasn’t sure why she was here, only that it felt right, respectful even to visit the site today. She’d attended Victoria’s funeral, dismayed to be the only other person there aside from the undertakers and officials. It wasn’t her job, wasn’t possible to give more than a passing thought to people she dealt with on a daily basis. In her time, one way or another, she’d presided over so many deaths that if she carried them with her she wouldn’t be able to function. Yet it had dismayed her to think that Victoria’s memory would not live on after that moment when her body was rolled into the cremation chamber; dismayed her now to think that the memory of Claire Smedley would fall victim to the same fate.
Louise looked away as her mind played tricks on her – the memory of Victoria’s broken body on the rocks, replaced by a vision of Emily in the same situation. She hurried down the stone pathway as if she could outrun the image. She was breathless by the time she reached the bottom. Getting her breath back, she ordered a take-away coffee from the small café. Paul called as she walked across the gravel car park. She let her phone ring until she reached the car, answering it as she leant against the driver’s door.
‘Paul.’
‘Was it your idea to let Mum and Dad take Emily?’ he said, by way of greeting.
Louise considered hanging up. There was no talking to him when he was like this but she was so agitated at the moment that she welcomed the ensuing argument. ‘We could have let her sleep on the streets if that would have made you happier?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. They had no right to take her.’
‘Can you even hear yourself, Paul? You were too drunk to collect your daughter from school. Too drunk. Dad couldn’t even rouse you when he went to see you. Can’t you understand that?’
The line went silent and she was about to hang up when Paul said, ‘I made a mistake.’
Louise placed her coffee on the roof of her car. The car park faced the mud blanket that was currently the Bristol Channel. It was hard to accept that at times the sea would reach the high sea walls. ‘You made a mistake?’ she hissed down the phone. ‘There are mistakes, then there’s goddamn irresponsibility. You realise if I’d been working I’d be forced to get social services involved in this? I’m surprised the school haven’t got them involved already.’
‘Oh, fuck them.’
‘Jesus, are you drunk now?’
‘No.’
‘Paul, you have to get yourself sorted. If not for you then for your daughter. You’re going to lose her, Paul.’ Louise hesitated, not wanting to bring his wife into the conversation as he always clammed up at the mention of her name. ‘You think this is what Dianne would have wanted?’
‘Don’t,’ said Paul, his voice unsteady.
‘It’s been three years now. I’m not saying you have to stop grieving, Paul, but you have to sort your life out for Emily. We can get you some help, you just have to be willing to accept it.’
‘It was just a mistake, Lou.’
Louise rubbed her forehead. ‘How many mistakes do you want, Paul?’
‘It won’t happen again.’
Louise didn’t believe a word her brother said. ‘That’s not good enough, Paul. You need help.’
‘I’m not going to any bloody counsellor, Lou. They don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.’
‘We’ll find the best help for you. I’ve told you that. You just have to let us help you.’
‘I’m taking Emily back tonight.’
Louise looked away from her phone, her jaw muscles clenched tight. ‘Listen, Paul, do not even try to take Emily tonight. No one is going to stop you seeing her but it is for the best if she stays at Mum and Dad’s for the time being.’
‘I’m taking her.’
‘Paul, if you try to take her back then I will be getting the authorities involved, do you hear me?’
He was beyond hearing. ‘You’d do that to your own brother?’
‘I would do it to protect Emily.’
‘Well, fuck you, sis.’
Louise hung up. She understood his behaviour to a point – he was an addict now, always had been, and had suffered a tragedy many people would struggle to move past – but why couldn’t he think of Emily?
It was the last thing she needed at the moment.
She tried to turn her thoughts back to the case as she drove off. It would be easy to forget about Claire Smedley. Already she sensed everyone moving on. Yes, it was a tragedy but occasionally terrible things happened. As long as procedure was met, Louise wouldn’t need to get any more involved in the case. The coroner’s report was a foregone conclusion and soon Claire would be a statistic, another of the small percentage who took their lives every year in the UK.
But Louise couldn’t leave it at that. She recalled the dingy room where Claire lived and something that had been bugging her subconsciously all day began to reveal itself.
She needed to pay Claire’s landlord another visit.
Chapter Six
The town-centre traffic was at gridlock. The day was ending, the cars parked on the beach – a bizarre allowance particular to the town – leaving the ramp in single file as Louise edged along the seafront. It was only late afternoon but already groups of revellers were out preparing for the night ahead. A group of shirtless young men marched along the promenade chanting songs, a large plastic container of a light-brown liquid being passed between them. They stopped as a hen party – dressed in fluorescent pink – crossed their path. It took a few seconds for the lewd comments to start, Louise laughing at the look of shock on the boys’ faces as the women harangued them for a few seconds. As the hen party proceeded to the beach, the boys moved on in silence. Louise shuddered to think what might happen if the same situation was replayed in a few hours’ time when the boys’ courage had risen.
To her right was the Kalimera, a Greek restaurant she’d used to visit every morning before work. She missed the solitude of that place, the early mornings drinking coffee before a deserted seascape. She even missed the surliness of the restaurant owner, Georgina, who’d treated her with latent hostility on her visits. Louise hadn’t been able to justify her daily jaunt to the restaurant since the station move and had yet to find a suitable alternative. Maybe if she left thirty minutes earlier tomorrow she could make a quick pit-stop.
