‘Ryan, watch that house like a hawk – understand? And let me know the minute he gets back, if indeed he ever gets back.’ Tom put the phone down carefully. Early in his career he had learned that slamming the phone down did no good to anybody, and the person at the other end heard nothing more than a click, the same as if the phone had been replaced normally. So it was his first step to restoring calm after a frustrating call. He took a deep breath and beckoned Becky to come in.
‘We’ve just heard from the police in Anglesey,’ she said. ‘They got to the guest house, B&B – whatever – at about eight o’clock. They thought it would be early enough, but they were wrong. The landlady had already had a visitor. Robert Brookes was there just after six this morning.’
Shit. This was all they needed: a suspect in what may or may not be a crime going on the rampage and trampling over potential evidence. He’d crucify Ryan when he got hold of him.
Becky was still hovering just inside the doorway, so Tom signalled her to sit down, glad to see she was looking slightly better today. Perhaps the excitement of a new case had driven out some of her demons, whatever they were.
Becky gave an exasperated shrug. ‘Bloody witnesses. Sometimes I could string them up. The police said that Mrs Evans seemed really uncomfortable talking to them, but she apologised. She said she’d been completely wrong. Robert Brookes hadn’t visited his wife last week. In fact, she’d never met him until this morning.’
‘So why did she tell us he was there, then?’
‘Well, she now says she was probably a bit confused. There had been a visitor one night, and she’d been sure it was Mr Brookes. But perhaps it was one of her other guests who had somebody to stay over for the night. She says she has so many that sometimes she gets muddled.’
Tom thought for a moment. ‘Did the local guys believe her?’
‘I’m not sure they did. They said she seemed flustered and keen to move on. They tried to push her, to find out why she’d changed her story, but she just got upset. She was adamant that she’s never seen Robert Brookes before, though, and that bit they did believe.’
‘All a bit too convenient, if you ask me. What did Brookes say to her? Anything significant?’
‘Not really. He asked if he could see the room Olivia had slept in, but when she showed him he just stared at the bed, then walked over to the window and looked out at the beach. She said he was muttering about the colour of the sand, but she didn’t know what he was talking about, because it’s just, well, sand coloured. And that was it. Oh, and he kept looking at his watch. He probably realised the local police would be coming round any time soon, because we told him that last night. We don’t know where he is now, though. Very possibly on his way home, or at least, we can hope so. I’ve got somebody checking the cameras, see if we can pick him up on the A55 or the M56, but if we don’t spot him soon we’ll need to widen the net.’
‘Keep me updated on that. I want to talk to Robert Brookes the minute he’s back.’ Tom pushed his frustration to the back of his mind, and leaned back in his chair. ‘What do you make of it all, Becky? Give me your gut reaction.’
Becky shrugged. ‘I think Brookes is as guilty as sin.’
‘Of what, though?’
‘I’m not sure. I keep going back to the fact that he took the children once, so has he done something with them and killed Olivia? There was the whole bit about the kids being taken out of school, which he claims he knew nothing about, and then the schedule we found in the bin. He had no real explanation for that, did he? But he seems to have kept tabs on every move Olivia made.’
Becky was right. They had quizzed Robert about the need for such a detailed timetable, but he was adamant it was designed to help Olivia, although Tom couldn’t see how. It also suggested that Olivia was there until just before Robert got home, but the timings for picking the kids up from school were nonsense.
‘It’s the whole idea of the thing that creeps me out,’ Becky said, pulling a face as if she were eating something unpleasant. ‘If it was just a diary of events, in case of forgetting things, that would be one thing. But it’s got everything on it. I’m surprised it didn’t say when she’d been to the toilet, to be honest. Then there was the locked study door. We need to get a better look at that computer. He wasn’t at all keen on us looking too closely last night. My every instinct is screaming that there was a complete lack of trust between the two of them.’
‘And the missing sheet?’ Tom added. When the house had been searched, PC Mitchell had noticed there was no bottom sheet on the bed in the master bedroom, so he checked in the laundry bin on the landing and there was nothing in there either. A utility room housed the washing machine and tumble dryer, but they were both empty. Of course, the sheet could have been washed and put back in the airing cupboard, but the rest of the bed was made, so it had seemed a little odd.
Becky shook her head. ‘No idea what that’s about, but we’ve flagged it, of course.’
‘No joy from hospitals, I gather, and nothing on any local CCTV?’
‘No sign of a woman and three children on foot, and as she wasn’t in her own car there’s not much else we can check there. We’ve looked at the recent calls on her mobile as well. Nothing – she doesn’t seem to use it.’
Tom put his clasped hands behind his head.
‘Robert Brookes says he spoke to his wife every day, and she was at home. But I don’t think anybody’s been in that house for days. There was the dust, which could be down to bad housekeeping. But who disinfects their bins, and doesn’t dust? More to the point, the dustbin was empty of any household waste. The bin men come on a Tuesday – three days before they went missing.’
‘I know, and I checked the fridge,’ Becky said. ‘There was nothing out of date, and there was no milk – the one thing guaranteed not to last. And not a single vegetable to be found anywhere.’
‘In other words, we have a schedule full of lies, and we have Robert Brookes swearing she was in the house until Friday. But nothing, absolutely nothing, is missing from the house.’ Tom leaned forwards again. ‘Apart from a woman and three children, of course. What’s the plan you’ve drawn up?’
Becky pulled a sheet of paper from the pile she was clutching and handed it to Tom.
‘An incident room is being set up. We’re going to interview the neighbours to see if anybody has seen Olivia Brookes in the past two weeks. Somebody’s going to talk some more to the head teacher, just to try to get a better understanding of the whole “homeschooling” malarkey. And we’re going to take a look at those computers – all three of them. For now we’ve just got the laptops. We’ve alerted the press, although the absence of photos is a bit of a nightmare. We’ll issue an urgent plea for Olivia to get in touch with us, if she’s still alive and kicking – promises of confidentiality and all that, of course. We’ll try to see if anybody at all has recent photos of the children from kids’ parties, school trips and so on. We were going to look into CCTV from the hotel where Brookes was staying – the garage in particular – to see if he was lying about visiting his wife in Anglesey. But that seems irrelevant now. What do you think?’
‘I want it checked anyway. I don’t trust Robert Brookes, Becky. There’s something not right about him. He’s hiding something, but I don’t know what.’
‘If my theory’s right and he’s killed her, what about the flowers, and the other presents? They suggest he was expecting them to be in the house when he got back, don’t you think?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Tom was about to put forward an alternative, infinitely more sinister theory when his mobile vibrated on the desk. He was at a loss to know why this was ever called ‘silent mode’ as to him it was even more distracting than a subtle beep. He saw it was his boss.
‘Philippa, what can I do for you?’ he asked, groaning inwardly because he was sure that given her interest in this case, Ryan’s spectacular performance last night would by now have come to light.
But he was wrong.
This was rare praise indeed from Philippa, but Tom decided to say nothing and let her continue.
‘I wrote down a couple of things that may be relevant now. One was the fact that I felt Brookes somehow seemed rather pleased with himself, although outwardly his response to his wife’s obvious distress and confusion was sympathetic, and the other was the fact that we learned from the school that Jasmine had retained her real father’s name and talked about him as if she knew him. She always spoke of him in the present tense. We didn’t think much about it then and I don’t know if it’s still the case, but before we become obsessed with the notion that all four of them are buried in the back garden, I think you should see if you can track down Danush Jahander.’
14
‘I shagged the boss.’
Tom Douglas was about to take a sip of espresso from a dinky little cardboard cup as Becky made her pronouncement. Coming as it did, as a complete non sequitur, Tom could only think that she had been slowly plucking up the courage to reveal the source of her obvious melancholy.
He took a mouthful of his coffee and waited.
‘That’s why I’m so miserable. I shagged the sodding boss,’ Becky repeated, a slight tremor in her voice. Tom glanced at her, and she looked away – out of the side window.
They were parked down the road from the Brookes’ house, waiting for Robert to return home. He’d been clocked on the M56 heading in this direction so they were fairly sure he was on his way back, and they’d decided to be ready for him. In theory, while they waited and drank a much needed cup of coffee purchased en route, they were trying out a few different ideas on what could have happened to Olivia Brookes, although Becky had made her opinion very clear.
Tom turned in the driver’s seat so that his whole body was angled slightly towards her. He wanted her to know he was listening. He gave her a moment. He saw her shoulders rise and fall, as if she had taken a deep breath, and she turned back to face the front, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. Tom looked at her worried face, her lips clamped tightly together.
‘I thought it must be something like that,’ he said, keeping his voice neutral.
Becky spun round towards him. ‘What? Had you heard something? Did somebody tell you?’
‘Don’t worry – nobody’s said a thing to me. Do you want to tell me what happened? Like which boss for example?’
Becky turned back to face the window.
‘Peter Hunter.’
A Detective Chief Superintendent, no less. That really was the boss. Tom had never been a big fan of Peter Hunter since he’d taken over from James Sinclair while Tom was still working for the Met in London. He was a good copper, no doubt about it. But as well as his obsession with treating crimes as items on a spreadsheet, he was the sort of guy who thought he was still young and hip despite being in his mid fifties. He always pretended to be up to date with the latest music, not quite getting the fact that he just wasn’t. And he liked to use what he believed to be trendy words, which just made him sound ridiculous in Tom’s view. He had an impressive career behind him, but instead of winning respect within his team for his undoubted ability, recently he seemed to be losing it as they quietly scoffed at his posing. An affair with a junior officer won’t have helped either, and it was a sure thing that it wouldn’t be a secret.
Tom said none of this to Becky.
‘I thought I loved him,’ she continued. ‘He was so attentive, so thoughtful. We could only meet three or four times a month, but he rang me all the time when I was off duty, and he just made me feel great.’
Tom closed his eyes and stifled a groan. He knew Peter Hunter was married. He had met his wife, who seemed pleasant enough, but in spite of that he wasn’t one little bit surprised about his extra-marital behaviour. He was more surprised by Becky.
‘I know it was stupid. I knew he was married, but I think I was mesmerised by him.’
Becky was quiet for a few moments, and Tom thought maybe it was time for him to speak.
‘You’re not the first to be dazzled by somebody like him, you know. It’s the old wealth, power and fame bit, renowned for being huge aphrodisiacs, and Peter certainly had power. I gather it’s over now?’
Becky gave a bark of unamused laughter.
‘And how. His wife came to see me.’
Tom didn’t know whom he had the most sympathy for – except it definitely wasn’t Hunter.
‘She told me her husband was unfortunately addicted to adoration, and that I wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. I said that I loved him, and she laughed at me. She said I was confusing infatuation with love, and it was time to grow up; that I have an idealised concept of what love is, and it’s not all about passionate nights, and flowers. That was the general gist, anyway.’
Mrs Hunter had a point. It was all so easy when romance ruled the day. Tom’s mind flipped to Leo – terrified of letting him get too close in case being together was the very thing that would drive them apart. He couldn’t force her to drop her guard, though, so he could either wait it out or move on. He dragged his thoughts back to Becky, who clearly wanted to get it all off her chest.
‘I asked her why she put up with it, if this wasn’t the first time. Do you know what she said? She told me that she despised him for his weakness. He was less of a man in her eyes, and he’d hurt her very badly. But love was about so many things, and she had long ago decided that perfection was unattainable. What do you make of that?’
‘She could be right – I’ve certainly never experienced perfection. Have you? Even those we’ve loved all our lives are highly unlikely to be perfect.’
Becky was quiet for a moment, so Tom continued.
‘I’m sure that what you had with Peter felt great. Secrecy itself can be intoxicating. But in the short times you had together, it would have been all about giving each other your undivided attention. At home he might be the person who expects to be waited on hand and foot, or speaks with his mouth full, or picks the hard skin on his feet when he’s watching the television, or farts in bed.’
That, at least, raised the hint of a smile from Becky.
‘Some people can live with these things,’ he continued, ‘and some can’t. I once knew somebody who divorced his wife because she wouldn’t let him put his football trophies on the mantelpiece. Peter and his wife may have rubbed along just fine together, and she may prefer to live with somebody who she thinks less of for his infidelities than to be with somebody who on a daily basis irritates the hell out of her for his thoughtlessness and lack of consideration. We don’t know. We’re not in their marriage.’
Becky dropped her head. He gave her a moment.
‘What was the outcome?’
‘Basically, she told me to “get out of Dodge”. Either I looked for another position or she would have words with her uncle – who naturally just happens to be the Deputy Commissioner – and she would see to it that my career was stifled. I’m not sure she could do that, but it was all irrelevant because he never spoke to me again, other than to refer to me as Sergeant Robinson when, and only when, he had to.’
Tom could see how difficult it was for Becky to admit this.
‘I read a saying once,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure where it’s from but it goes something like this: “If a man tries to steal your wife, the best form of revenge is to let him have her.” Switch genders, and that’s how it might have ended for you and Peter. Imagine she’d chucked him out and he’d ended up on your doorstep. How long do you think it would have lasted?’
Tom watched Becky’s face as she weighed up what that would have been like. Poor kid still looked like death warmed over. ‘Thanks f
or telling me, Becky. It must have been hard on you and you must miss him.’
Becky turned to him with her eyes wide open. ‘You think I’m like this because I’m missing him?’ She gave a harsh laugh. ‘You’re wrong. I feel wretched for so many reasons, but mainly I feel so guilty. I don’t know who I am any more. That’s what’s been eating away at me. I’ve always thought of myself as a kind, thoughtful person, but I’m sure Ruth Hunter sees me as a callous, manipulative bitch. So which one of us is right?’ Becky paused. ‘And then there’s my total stupidity, which obviously needs no further explanation.’
This time her smile was more genuine, and it seemed to Tom that this might be an appropriate moment to change the subject. He didn’t want Becky to think he was dismissing her confession lightly, but there was little he could say. She was going to have to come to terms with it herself.
He watched her as she took a huge gulp of coffee, and he could almost see her dragging her mind away from the dark place that was still haunting her.
‘Speaking of dodgy marriages,’ she said, ‘there was one thing I noticed last night when we were talking to Brookes. It seems he always chooses to call his wife when the children are out of the way. Either before they get up, or after they’ve gone to bed. And then, on top of all of that, he kept going on about finding his wife. He’s barely mentioned his kids. Have you noticed that?’
‘I certainly have.’
‘It seems odd, seeing as how last time it was the children he appeared to care about. Unless he knows exactly where the children are, of course, which brings us neatly back to my theory.’
Becky turned to Tom with a trace of a cheeky smile, but before he could respond Tom glimpsed some movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look through the windscreen just as Robert’s Jag swung through his gates.
‘Hang on, Becky, here he is, and unless I’m mistaken, that’s our very own DC Tippetts chasing him up the drive. Come on,’ Tom said, scrunching his now empty coffee cup and thrusting it into a paper bag. ‘We can’t wait for bloody Ryan to put his foot in his mouth again.’
[DCI Tom Douglas 03.0] Sleep Tight Page 7
