by Matt Brolly
Louise joined the commuters heading out of town to Bristol as she made her way to the station down Locking Road – with its Victorian brick buildings gleaming in the sun – towards Worle. As she entered the station’s car park, her pulse quickened as she recognised the man sitting behind the steering wheel of a brand-new Mercedes saloon car. He was on his phone and hadn’t noticed her. She parked up, hating the way her pulse was racing, and waited until he’d driven away.
The man was DCI Finch, currently lead detective from MIT in Portishead. They’d worked together as DIs at MIT before Louise was overlooked for promotion following an incident where she’d killed an unarmed man – Max Walton – who’d been responsible for the murders of tens of innocent people. Finch had told Louise that Walton was armed, a fact he’d denied during the hearing. Louise had never forgiven him for the lie and relations between them had only got worse after her move to Weston. It was as if the case against Louise, and Finch’s promotion, had given him the freedom to be the man he truly was. He’d spent the next eighteen months trying to force Louise out of the police. He’d sent her anonymous texts on an almost daily basis, and during the last major case he’d tried to take over.
The atmosphere inside the station was muted as if everyone was preparing for the fallout from Finch’s visit. As she entered the CID floor, Louise swore she could smell Finch’s aftershave in the air. It made her eyes itch.
‘Morning, Louise,’ said Simone, the office manager.
Louise ignored the smirk on Simone’s face as she headed straight for DCI Robertson’s office. Robertson lifted his hand as Louise entered without knocking, as if to warn her off before she spoke.
‘What was he doing here?’ said Louise.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t give me that, Iain. You bloody well know who. I just saw Finch in the car park. Is this why we couldn’t meet until eight thirty?’
‘Sit down, Louise. Of course it isn’t. DCI Finch called this morning. I suggested he come in early, partly in the hope that you wouldn’t see each other. I thought we were over all these petty games now, Louise.’
Louise’s eyes widened. Robertson knew the story, and in general had proved to be very supportive, so the comment surprised her. ‘He tried to get me framed so he could take my promotion, Iain,’ she said, incredulous.
‘You have to let it go. That was what, nearly three years ago now?’
‘I’ll never let it go, Iain. I think you know that.’
Robertson bit his lip, his head bobbing up and down. ‘You’re going to have to accept that you will run into him now and again. Do you not think I have enemies down here? I went to a conference the other week in Avonmouth and I swear if I’d had a gun there was a good fifteen or twenty officers I’d have happily killed.’ Robertson paused, lost in thought. ‘With no remorse,’ he added.
Louise leant back in her chair. Robertson had a way of diffusing situations and some of the tension left her. ‘Why was he here though?’ She hadn’t even told Robertson about Claire Smedley’s suicide note yet, so Finch’s appearance couldn’t be attributed to that.
Robertson squirmed in his seat as if the truth were worse. ‘He wants to borrow DS Farrell.’
‘Borrow?’
‘They have a couple of officers on maternity leave and there is an organised crime case they’re short-handed on. I think it will be good for him.’
‘Finch or Farrell?’
‘We’re not exactly snowed under at the moment and Farrell has been doing good work.’
Louise couldn’t argue. Although she didn’t want to lose him, she agreed that Farrell could use the experience. ‘He probably won’t come back, you know that?’
‘Why would he give up all this?’ said Robertson, holding his arms out wide. ‘Anyway, you wanted to see me?’
Louise didn’t prolong the argument even though she was convinced Finch was manipulating them. There would be many able replacements at Bristol CID so there was no need for Finch to take one of her team. Finch was beyond petty. It wasn’t enough for him that he’d destroyed Louise’s career. It irked him that she was still surviving, that she was proving a success here in Weston. For his own perverted reasons, he wouldn’t stop until she’d left the force; if he was prepared to stop at all. Trying to forget Finch, she showed Robertson the printout from Claire Smedley’s suicide note, the DCI’s face draining of colour as Louise highlighted the two lines that matched Victoria Warrington’s note.
‘Could this be a coincidence? I don’t want to sound facetious but I imagine “death is not the end” has appeared on a suicide note before.’
‘I’m not saying it hasn’t,’ said Louise, not sharing her boss’s surety. ‘But we have to consider this is something more than coincidence.’
‘Do we have anything suggesting that they knew each other?’
‘Nothing yet, not that we’ve been looking that hard. We need to upgrade this, Iain, to serious crime.’
‘You don’t think it’s suicide?’
‘I’m not saying that. But whether this is suicide or something else, I’m worried that this might not be the last death we have to investigate.’
Chapter Nine
Amy fought a vague dizziness as she turned to face whoever was standing behind her. She’d been in such positions before, had been forced to succumb to unwanted advances on too many occasions in her childhood. She retreated into herself as the figure spoke to her.
‘Amy?’
She opened her eyes, a wave of relief surging through her as she saw Megan. Amy put her arms around her, sensing at first a surprised tension in Megan’s body, then a softening as she returned the embrace. Amy realised she was crying as she pulled back.
‘Amy, what is it?’ said Megan, her voice so full of concern.
It should have been comforting, but Megan’s alarm made her feel even worse. She started shaking, her sobs racking her body.
In the distance, the teenager pedalled away up the hill. In retrospect it had been ridiculous to see him as a threat. ‘I’m sorry, Megan, I’m a bit on edge at the moment.’
‘That’s okay, honey. I’m the same way. With what happened to Claire . . .’
They weren’t supposed to ever speak about the group’s activities outside the forums or their occasional gatherings, though they weren’t supposed to be meeting each other at all. Megan was right, of course. However much she believed in Jay, it was only natural that the death of a friend would weigh heavily on her. She’d felt the same way about Victoria. She’d been so pleased for her, envious even, yet a cold melancholy had come over Amy that lasted for weeks after her passing. At least it explained her jangled nerves. ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she said, as if Megan hadn’t spoken about the other night’s events.
‘You understood my message,’ said Megan, smiling. Her happiness made her look younger and that in turn made Amy smile.
‘I wasn’t sure it was a message for me but here I am.’
‘I know we’re not supposed to meet but I needed to be with someone. The group chat is great but sometimes I feel isolated. Do you know what I mean?’
Amy placed her hand on Megan’s shoulder, feeling the hard ridge of bone, embarrassed by her earlier display of emotion. ‘Jay doesn’t need to know. As long as we’re careful, what harm can it do?’
They walked up the hill together, a lightness to Amy’s footsteps that she hadn’t experienced for some time. The park was still deserted and for a brief time it was as if the place was their personal garden. Megan began running, her thin figure eating up the ground, her long hair streaming behind her, giggling as she went; Amy followed, breaking into a run as she became caught up in the moment. Together they sprinted the remaining yards to the top of the park. By the time they reached the summit, Amy was out of breath. She bent over on her knees, trying to suck in air, her lungs bursting, yet she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.
Megan offered her a cigarette as they walked along the Bristol Road. They had no destin
ation in mind, Amy welcoming the freedom of just walking.
‘Do you think Jay read my message?’ asked Megan as they stopped by a bus shelter, their view of the Bristol Channel and the mud-sea glistening in the high sunshine.
Although he rarely commented on the forum Jay was omnipresent. During their gathering when Victoria had passed over, he’d reprimanded three of the members for talking about DMT on the message board. At that moment the sweet, loving man she knew, the only one she could talk to, had disappeared. His replacement was edged with a darkness she hadn’t seen in him before, a hush descending over the group as the three members visibly trembled before him. The darkness lasted an instant, replaced by Jay’s benevolent smile as he reiterated the risks they were taking. ‘They won’t understand,’ he’d told the group. ‘They’ll try to stop us. We have to be mindful, over the coming weeks and months especially.’
Amy feared seeing that side of Jay again but kept her concerns to herself. ‘As long as we don’t tell anyone else, we’ll be fine,’ she told Megan.
They walked through Grove Park into town. It was a risk but Amy had never seen Jay in the centre before. She didn’t know where he lived but she got the impression it was far out of town. He had an old camper van he drove to the meetings; she’d been inside once but he’d never invited her to stay anywhere.
They crossed the bridge at Knightstone that separated the channel from Marine Lake. At high tide, the seawater submerged the crossing and even now it lapped at the rocks surrounding the walkway. They stopped and gazed towards the horizon as if daring the rising tide. ‘I saw him with Claire,’ said Megan, her gaze still towards the sea and the two islands – Flat Holm and Steep Holm – that rose from the brown water.
‘Saw who?’
‘Jay.’
Amy’s stomach fluttered. ‘What do you mean, Megan?’
‘He was with her on that night, when she, you know . . .’
‘We all were.’
‘I arrived before everyone else. They arrived together in his van. They were holding hands.’
It was ridiculous to be jealous about a dead girl, yet Amy felt that familiar ache.
‘She knew it was going to be her time,’ said Megan, warming to her theme.
‘You don’t know that, Megan.’
‘I talked to Lisa. She said before Victoria died she’d spent the night with Jay.’
Amy breathed in the sea air as next to them on the path two seagulls battled over a scrap piece of food. Megan’s words pained her but she accepted them. She recognised the ache in her friend’s voice, the jealousy so clear in her features. The rest of the group liked to talk among themselves. At times, Amy felt like a mother hen. She was the oldest, and she wondered if that was why Jay had yet to let her go. ‘We’re all so lucky to have found one another, Megan. It will be our time soon. We have to be patient.’
This appeared to placate Megan, the worry easing from her face, her gaze lowering to the seawater that had begun trickling on to the path. Together, they broke into a run to the opposite end, screaming with delight as they raced the incoming sea.
Breathless again, Amy hugged Megan goodbye. ‘I have to get to work,’ she said, noticing the frailty of Megan’s frame.
‘See you tomorrow? In the park?’
‘It will have to be in the afternoon. Three p.m. okay?’
‘See you then,’ said Megan.
Chapter Ten
Louise spoke to Farrell that afternoon. He’d been present for the morning briefing on Claire Smedley and Victoria Warrington but she hadn’t allocated him any duties on the case. They were sitting in one of the interview rooms, Farrell opposite her like a suspect. ‘So you’re leaving us for the big city?’ said Louise.
Farrell lacked some of his usual spark – lines cracked the skin under his eyes and his hair looked brittle and haywire – but his familiar smirk was present. ‘Appears so. Listen, Louise, I wanted you to know that I didn’t ask to be moved. DCI Finch approached me. He remembered how I’d helped out on the Pensioner Killer case. I just thought, you know, it is MIT.’
‘Stop your rambling, Greg,’ said Louise, gently, putting the young DS at ease. ‘It’s a good opportunity for you. I just wanted to speak to you before you went. You need to make sure you don’t waste the opportunity. It would be sad to see you leave here permanently but if it’s right for you then no one will get in your way from this station.’
‘Thanks, boss, that means a lot.’
Louise hesitated. Farrell knew about her time in MIT, how it was Finch’s word against hers that had led her to being moved to Weston. She wanted to warn him about Finch, while not wanting to come across as being unprofessional. Chances were Farrell would end up working closely with Finch and she didn’t want Finch to know that he’d got to her. ‘I have no grandiose words for you, Greg, other than be careful.’
‘I understand, boss,’ said Farrell, his eyes narrowing.
In the past, they’d briefly discussed what had happened to Louise when she’d been working with Finch, and Farrell had seen first-hand what Finch could do to a team during an investigation.
‘Just be careful who you trust.’
‘Ma’am,’ said Farrell, as Louise left the room.
Louise had reopened the investigation into Victoria Warrington’s death. It was now being treated as a suspicious death and being investigated in tandem with Claire Smedley. A separate incident room had been set up in a room adjacent to the main CID office. The day had been spent investigating the backgrounds of the two women but they’d yet to find anything suggesting they knew each other. Claire’s landlord, Mr Applebee, had been called in for questioning as had Victoria’s former landlord. Already, the investigation felt loose and Louise could tell some of the team were not fully committed to its necessity yet. The only connection was the two notes, and she conceded the two matching lines could be coincidental.
Louise’s phone rang as she returned to her desk. It was her mother. Louise had texted her earlier when she realised she was going to have to work late. ‘Hi, Mum. Sorry I can’t see Emily tonight.’
‘Hi, Lou. Don’t worry, she’ll get over it. That’s not why I’m calling. Are you busy?’
‘Always, but I can chat. Anything the matter?’ Her mother fell silent and Louise’s first thought was that she was calling about Paul. ‘What’s he done?’ she asked.
‘He tried to pick Emily up from school yesterday. Your dad was there and they had a bit of an argument.’
‘Jesus, I’d only just spoken to him. What happened?’
‘Your dad told him in no uncertain terms that Emily was coming with him.’
‘And she did?’
Her mother paused. ‘Yes, but I’m worried he might do the same again today.’
‘Christ, Mum, why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
Louise laughed to herself. Telling her now when she was unable to help was the most worrying thing she could do. ‘I’m not going to be able to get there today, Mum, I have too much on.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting you should,’ said her mum, sounding impatient.
‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You said you’ve spoken to Paul?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how was he?’
‘Belligerent, unresponsive. Paul, basically.’
‘What are we going to do, Lou?’
Louise clutched her phone. ‘Look, I’ll come over on the weekend. I’ll try and spend some time with Emily to give you a break and we can make a plan about what we’re going to do next.’
‘Okay, darling, that sounds good.’
‘Okay, Mum, bye.’ Louise ran her fingers through her hair, her scalp dry and itchy. She had no idea what type of plan they were going to put together. The only person who could solve the situation was Paul, and he was hell-bent on destroying himself and his family. She would get him help if he would take it but he wasn’t at that st
age yet. Maybe the incident with Dad would shake him up, make him realise how close he was to losing Emily. Maybe it was simply too late.
Louise looked around the office, concerned that one of her colleagues might have overheard her conversation. It wasn’t like her to drag her personal life into work and she didn’t want anyone to accuse her of a lack of focus.
On her laptop she loaded pictures of Claire Smedley and Victoria Warrington. She hated thinking this way but as she stared at the images of the two women, she began to imagine them as they would have been at Emily’s age. She played over the countless scenarios that could lead from a happy childhood to taking your life as an adult. Emily’s mother was dead, and her father was a selfish alcoholic. It wasn’t a great leap of imagination to picture her niece’s life unravelling like those of the two unfortunate women.
Louise shut the screen, more determined than ever to solve the reasons behind Claire’s and Victoria’s deaths; as if understanding the reasons behind the tragedies could somehow prevent it from happening one day to Emily.
Chapter Eleven
Four men dressed in loud shorts and wife-beaters had been hassling Amy ever since they’d arrived that morning. The smell of alcohol was pungent in the air as she placed the fried breakfasts on the table. ‘Thanks, love,’ said one of their number – a thickly muscled skinhead – in a broad Black Country accent, as he placed his hand around Amy’s waist.
Amy slipped from the grip, her gaze moving to Keith, who was behind the counter smiling at the scene.
‘I didn’t think they were shy down here,’ said the skinhead.
Amy was used to such inappropriate attention. The café was a beacon to such men, who were drawn to Keith as if sensing a kindred spirit. As Amy returned to make coffee for a lone male smoking outside, Keith moved over to the group of lads. Instead of reprimanding them, he appeared to make a joke, the laughter fading as Amy walked past them.
