The Langston Hotel was built on the brow of the steepest bluff overlooking the town. The hotel had undergone a refit since Maggie last had occasion to visit, for a friend’s thirtieth birthday party two years ago. A waist-high glass wall now flanked the walkway from the car park to the front door, up a set of steps into which small, round spotlights had been set at regular intervals. Maggie carried Eleanor’s suitcase and offered her other arm for support, but Eleanor gingerly pulled herself up the steps holding on to the top of the glass wall, which was freezing cold to the touch. Her face was pinched with pain and again Maggie worried how she’d manage in the hotel on her own.
When they reached the door, Eleanor stopped.
‘I don’t want anyone here knowing who I am,’ she said firmly. ‘You mustn’t tell them.’
Maggie hesitated. ‘But what if you need someone to help you, if your shoulder starts playing up?’
‘Then I’ll ask for help. But there’s no reason for anyone to know how I got injured. Okay?’
‘I can’t guarantee the press won’t track you down to here,’ Maggie cautioned. ‘Your name is already circulating.’
‘I’ll worry about that if and when it happens. But I mean it: I don’t want anyone at the hotel to know why I’m here.’
Maggie wasn’t happy about it, but she nodded. She appreciated Eleanor’s desire for privacy but it made her job harder if there wasn’t anyone else looking out for her when she couldn’t be there.
She kept quiet as Eleanor checked in. The Langston was a fairly big hotel and there were a number of rooms available, including a studio-style double room that came with a small kitchenette. It was the priciest of those on offer, but Eleanor liked the idea of catering for herself whenever the mood took her.
‘I just want to shut myself away,’ she told Maggie, which sparked an inquisitive look from the receptionist. ‘In fact,’ she went on, pulling Maggie aside so the receptionist couldn’t hear them, ‘I don’t want you checking up on me while I’m here. I don’t need babysitting.’
Maggie wasn’t easily deterred.
‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple,’ she said pragmatically. ‘My job as your FLO is to maintain regular contact and keep an eye on you. I also thought you’d like me to take you for your outpatients appointment.’
‘I’ll get a taxi.’
‘Really? Because I can pick you up.’
‘No, I’ll go alone,’ said Eleanor. ‘Please, I don’t want any fuss.’
‘Fine,’ Maggie sighed. ‘Look, I get that you don’t want me popping in constantly, but is it okay that I stay in touch with you by phone?’
‘Do I get a say in it?’
‘Not while the investigation is ongoing.’
From the corner of her eye she could see the receptionist watching them. Eleanor noticed too, and lowered her voice.
‘After what I told you about my marriage, I thought you’d understand. I want peace and quiet. No more shouting. No more threats. No more fearing for my safety.’
Years of apparent pent-up grief cast a shadow across Eleanor’s face. Maggie knew she should back off.
‘I do understand and I promise I’ll only call you if there’s important information to pass on, or when we need to check something with you.’
Eleanor’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.
‘All I want to hear from you is that my husband is dead and can never hurt me again. I want this to be over.’
42
Maggie settled Eleanor at the hotel and was driving back to the centre of town when her phone rang. It was Alex Morgan and he sounded upset.
‘It wasn’t at all what I expected. I’ve never seen a dead body before and I thought she’d just look like she was asleep. But she didn’t. She looked dead. It was horrible,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Della’s in pieces now.’
‘I’m so sorry. I should’ve come with you.’
‘I don’t think you being there would’ve made any odds to the experience. It was . . .’ He tailed off.
‘Why don’t I come round now and see you both?’
‘I don’t think Della’s in a fit state to talk to anyone. That’s why I’m ringing. Can we please leave it until tomorrow? With everything that’s happened, and now this hospital inquiry, Della needs some time to herself.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am. It’s getting late in the day now anyway.’
Maggie glanced at her watch. It was already five o’clock and dusk was creeping its way across an already moody sky.
‘If Della does need someone to talk to, I can arrange for Victim Support to come round. Their counsellors are fantastic and talking about it might help her begin to process what’s happened.’
‘Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Why don’t I call you in the morning to let you know what time I’ll be round? I do have more questions to go through with Della. In the meantime, if there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll keep my phone on all night.’
‘Fine. I’ll let her know.’ Alex paused for a second. ‘What questions?’
‘I need to check some details about her grandmother’s movements on the day prior to her being attacked,’ Maggie fudged, deciding Alex didn’t need to be privy to the mysterious reporter coming round on Monday evening.
She could almost hear him frowning down the phone. ‘I’ll have to make sure I’m here when you ask them. I don’t want Della upset again.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Maggie.
To her surprise he hung up without another word.
When she reached the CID office she went to find Renshaw to ask if Alex’s alibi had been checked yet, but the DS was nowhere to be seen. She made a beeline for Nathan’s desk instead.
‘Is Anna around?’
He glanced up briefly. ‘No, she’s got something on. She had to leave.’
‘To do with the burglaries?’
‘No, hot date.’
‘Lucky her.’
‘What’s up?’ asked Nathan. ‘Anything I can help with?’
‘Do you know if Alex Morgan’s alibi for Monday night and Tuesday morning has been established yet?’
‘Sorry, I don’t. She must’ve asked someone else to do it.’
Maggie decided to check her computer to see whether the information had been uploaded onto the system yet. Returning to her desk she saw someone had left a Post-it note stuck to her computer screen asking her to call DI Green. There was a mobile number to go with it. Maggie used the landline phone on her desk to call it back and Green answered on the first ring.
‘Ah, about time we had another chinwag, DC Neville,’ she said. ‘How’s it going with our victim? Is Mrs Bramwell still being a madam at helping us with our inquiries?’
‘She’s not the easiest of witnesses, no. But I think anyone in her position would be on edge, ma’am.’
‘Point taken. Now stop with that ma’am nonsense, it makes me sound bloody ancient. Guv will do fine,’ said Green with a throaty chuckle. ‘Right, I read the statement you took from her yesterday and it’s a bit Swiss cheese in places.’
Maggie was unnerved. Was the DI implying she’d missed something?
‘Don’t hit the panic button,’ said Green sagely, as though she could hear Maggie’s mind galloping. ‘You asked the right questions – it’s her answers I’m not happy with, especially the bit about him stopping halfway through breaking down the bathroom door. Do you think she’s telling the truth about what happened?’
‘I don’t think she’s being entirely honest, no. She has kept information back, including the fact that her husband abused her.’
‘How bad?’
‘Broken limbs bad.’
‘Hmm. I shall be interested to see what Mr Bramwell says about that.’
‘That’s my point. If she wants us to believe that he tried to kill her, why not tell us immediately about the history of violence? Why withhold it?’
‘Fear? Shame? There are plenty of reasons why wives don’t s
peak out against their abusive spouses. What we need now is his side of the story, which I’m hopeful we can get in the next couple of days. He’s been kept under because the docs were worried the overdose might’ve damaged his brain, but his vital signs have improved and they’re going to try to bring him round tomorrow morning.’
Eleanor’s last words to Maggie rang in her ears: All I want to hear from you is that my husband is dead and can never hurt me again. She didn’t relish the next conversation they’d have if he regained consciousness.
‘I think I need another face-to-face with Mrs Bramwell before I question him,’ Green mused. ‘I can get to Mansell by nine a.m. tomorrow. I’d like you to meet me at the hospital.’
‘Actually, Mrs Bramwell was discharged today. She’s now staying at a hotel in the town. She didn’t want to go back to Trenton.’
‘Discharged? Why didn’t I know that?’ A discernible flintiness sharpened Green’s voice.
‘I was told to wait for your call,’ said Maggie, careful not to sound defensive. ‘I did ask if she could be moved to a general ward but there was no clinical reason for her to stay in hospital.’
‘Her wounds are not that bad then?’
‘Not enough to keep her in hospital, no, but she’s still in a lot of discomfort. She’s said she doesn’t want me checking up on her constantly though.’
‘Tough,’ said Green. ‘Simon Bramwell seemed intent on killing himself with all those pills but he didn’t do such a good job on his wife, did he? I want to get to the bottom of why.’
‘He might not have intended for either of them to die. Maybe the row spiralled and he attacked his wife without thinking of the consequences.’
‘Nice theory, DC Neville, but I’m not using that one to build our case against him,’ said Green. ‘If I’m going to charge him with attempted murder, I need premeditation and previous broken limbs gives me that. We need to know what he’s done to her over the years, so let’s meet with Mrs Bramwell in the morning, get this one wrapped up. Where is she staying?’
Maggie gave her the Langston’s address.
‘Let her know we’re coming, will you?’ Green added. ‘There’s no point in spooking her even more by turning up unannounced. Right, I’m calling it a day here and I suggest you do the same, unless your other case needs you? I had a call from DI Gant earlier and he’s let me know the score on you doubling up as FLO with this case and the robbery victim’s granddaughter. If you start feeling overworked, let me know. I did Family Liaison on a couple of cases way back when I was a DC. Didn’t suit me – I couldn’t cope with all the grief. Drains you.’
‘It can do, but only if you let it.’
‘That’s where I went wrong. Just let me know if the two cases do get too much, DC Neville. I need you on top of things and I don’t want anything or anyone slipping through the net.’
43
Maggie stayed in the office to answer a few urgent emails and to fire off some of her own. Afterwards she did a PNC trawl to double-check there wasn’t anything else on Helen Cardle aside from what was included in the file Pearl had dug out for her. It didn’t matter that Renshaw had tasked someone else on the team to do exactly the same: Maggie’s curiosity drove her to seek the answers herself.
Where had Helen been for almost two decades? Why did her parents stop looking for her? Had something or someone stopped her coming back? Yet nothing came up on the PNC and Maggie’s extensive Google search for any related news items and any social media mentions was equally unrewarding.
It was gone nine when she finally got home. Her flat occupied the top floor of a converted Victorian townhouse on a street a few minutes’ drive from the town centre. It was the first and only property she’d viewed when house-hunting, but it wasn’t just its location, high ceilings, sash windows and two bedrooms that had convinced Maggie it was the perfect home. Thanks to its close proximity to the railway line that shuttled passengers and freight between London and the Midlands it was also the most affordable, with an asking price far less than that of identical properties in quieter locations. Almost every visitor to the flat remarked on the noise, wondering how she could stand it, but Maggie found the deep rumble of trains passing beneath her windows oddly comforting.
She’d previously rented out the spare bedroom to bring in some extra cash to help cover Lou’s bills as well as her own, but it had recently dawned on her she could just about manage on her salary alone and she’d decided she would rather live by herself than go through the rigmarole of finding a new lodger. The last one, a veterinary assistant called Susan, had been disappointingly antisocial, shutting herself away in her room any time Maggie was also home.
She changed out of her work clothes into thin grey cotton trousers designed for yoga but which she’d never used for their intended purpose, a cable-knit sweater she’d nicked off her dad the last time she’d visited her parents near Portsmouth and the thickest socks she possessed to keep out the evening chill. Then, after summoning the energy to cook herself a vegetable stir-fry with noodles and chicken, she cranked the heating up to high and slumped down on the sofa to flick through the channels, eventually settling on a repeat of Game of Thrones.
She must’ve dozed off because she was woken at 11.15 p.m. by the sound of the doorbell buzzing through the intercom. Still half asleep, she stumbled into the hallway, presuming it was another late-night pizza delivery for the couple who lived on the ground floor. Callers always got their doorbells mixed up and Maggie made a mental note to put a sign up spelling it out.
She held down the talk button on the intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me.’
Suddenly she was wide awake.
‘Will?’
‘Can I come up? We need to talk.’
Umpire’s sentence slurred to a finish and she hesitated. If he’d been drinking, any attempt at a meaningful conversation would probably end in even more misunderstanding. But her keenness to see him shoved the misgiving aside.
‘It’s open,’ she said, pressing down firmly on the button with a key symbol on it to unlock the main front door downstairs.
Maggie yanked open the door to her flat and listened as Umpire plodded up the three flights of stairs. At one point she heard him stumble and swear as he collided with either the wall on one side or the metal-railed banister on the other.
When he reached the tiny landing outside her flat, she realized he was the most drunk she’d ever seen him. His eyes slipped in and out of focus as he stared at her, their whites shot through with red, and the smell of alcohol clung to him like fog.
‘Maggie.’
He said her name with such foreboding that in an instant she forgot that he was drunk, forgot that she was embarrassed for him to see her in such slovenly clothes, forgot that she was annoyed with him for telling Belmar to lie to her and for the way he’d dismissed her at the hospital.
‘What’s wrong?’ she rasped.
His answer was to stagger forward, cup his hands round her face and plant his lips firmly on hers. Her mind screamed what the hell? but her mouth quickly succumbed, not caring that his lips and tongue tasted of stale whisky and cigarettes. The feelings she’d held back for months erupted inside her and she kissed him back as ferociously as he kissed her.
Later, she wouldn’t remember which of them pulled away first, but she would always remember it was him who said, ‘This is wrong.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. I have to go.’
He backed away from her on the landing, his hand feeling behind him to make contact with the banister.
‘Will, wait. You can’t just turn up and then . . . then leave. What’s going on?’
‘I’m sorry, Maggie. I can’t do this to you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I can’t do this to you. You’re amazing. The most amazing woman I’ve ever met.’ He groaned and clasped his hand to his forehead. ‘I’m . . . I’m a shit. A total shit. You deserve better.’
‘Why don’t you let me decide what I deserve?’ said Maggie in frustration. The imprint of the kiss thrummed through her. She didn’t want him to leave: she wanted him to stay the night. She wanted him to stay every night.
‘I did something,’ he said.
‘Did what?’
‘Something I can’t undo. Something you’ll hate me for.’
‘To do with us?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ He floundered. ‘No, it’s to do with me. My life.’
His eyes met hers and there was something so wretched about the way he looked at her. Her mind raced through every possible explanation until, finally, she landed on it.
There was someone else . . . that’s why he’d been holding back all those months . . . she wasn’t the only one.
Instantly her stomach gave way, like someone had ripped it out and thrown it at her feet.
‘I think you should go,’ she said quietly, trying not to cry.
Somewhere over her shoulder, inside the flat, her phone was ringing. Or was it? Was she imagining she could hear it, wanting some other noise in her head to drown out this agonizing silence? But Umpire had heard it too.
‘You should get that,’ he said. ‘It might be important.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and went to close the door, but he moved forward again and took her hand.
‘Maggie . . .’
‘Don’t,’ she said, but she didn’t pull away.
‘How I felt about you was real,’ he slurred. ‘Really fucking real. You need to know that.’
How I felt.
Past tense.
Maggie yanked her hand from his, stepped inside her flat and shut the door. She waited for a moment, her forehead pressed against the cool wood surface, listening to him retreat down the steps and hoping he’d change his mind and come back. He didn’t.
Her phone was still ringing as she moved away from the door. She stumbled through the flat in search of the noise and found her mobile on the floor by the sofa. Caller ID said it was Lou and Maggie choked up at the sight of her sister’s name and picture flashing up in front of her.
Wrong Place Page 19
