Don't Look Behind You: A dark, twisting crime thriller that will grip you to the last page (Detective Eden Berrisford crime thriller series Book 2)

by Mel Sherratt

  ‘Tried again? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? I mean, I reported this about two weeks ago, gave a statement and I’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘We’re looking into something,’ Eden told her. ‘But there is nothing connecting the two incidences so far. I just thought we would come have a chat.’

  ‘Becky, need your help over here,’ a man’s voice boomed across the room.

  Becky stood up and took her notepad from her apron. ‘I do hope you get him. I can look after myself, but you never know what he might do next.’

  As Becky headed over to serve the young mums, Eden stood up too. She was due at The Willows women’s refuge in half an hour. Phil picked up the remainder of his toast and took it with him.

  ‘Don’t any of them think not to go around on their own late at night?’ said Phil as they got back to the car.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Eden turned to him after buckling up the seat belt.

  ‘Well if these young girls didn’t walk around in clothes that were so short you can see everything, then half of these attacks would never happen.’

  Eden’s mouth dropped open. She expected Phil to have a grin on his weather-worn face, even though it would have been a pathetic attempt at humour. But no, he seemed deadly serious.

  ‘With an attitude like that, I assume you think that men can get away with anything,’ she replied, an edge in her voice that she had hoped to keep out.

  ‘It would make our jobs a lot easier, don’t you think?’ He glanced at her through narrowed eyes. ‘If all these women stopped leading men on.’

  Eden stayed open-mouthed for all of a few seconds before she started up the engine and pulled away from the kerb. He was winding her up, she was certain. No one had such a screwed-up moral compass nowadays, surely?

  Chapter Five

  After taking Phil back to the station, Eden drove out to Harold Street for her fortnightly drop-in session at The Willows. The property was at the far end of the street and had previously been two three-bedroom semi-detached houses, but after a large family needed more space, it had been converted into one big home with six bedrooms. The family had lasted all of eight months before they’d caused enough trouble and moved on, leaving thousands of pounds of damage and a thankful street of residents who had suffered their antisocial behaviour for way too long.

  The property had then stood empty for a few months until it had a change of use. Josie Mellor had earmarked it for a refuge and, with the help of a government grant, had set up The Willows. It wasn’t designed to be a safe house as it wasn’t secure enough, but it was a place where a woman could stay: a bolthole for a few lucky victims of domestic violence to get a breather, maybe a handle on moving on for good.

  Although the residents on Harold Street had been outraged at first, Josie had won them over, and even an unruly partner turning up every now and again was better than living near to the ‘Addams Family’. It had taken a few months for everyone to settle and now it was working a treat.

  At The Willows, Eden was trusted by the women and gathered lots of intelligence from them about the people of Stockleigh that she needed to keep an eye on. It was good that some women felt they could talk to her, and her drop-in sessions had proved very useful on several occasions. She’d been pleased to be able to keep them as a responsibility of her new team and was hoping to pass the role on to Amy soon. She would fit in well and be a great asset here too.

  She pressed a button on the intercom. A buzzer went off, and she pushed on the heavy reinforced door. Some of the women inside complained that it kept them locked in as much as it kept their partners out, but it was there for their own protection.

  She stepped into a small but bright hallway. The flooring was old, wooden and hard on the feet, and it didn’t have a long mirror, a coat rack or a welcome mat. This one had nothing close by that could be used as a weapon.

  At the head of the hallway, at the side of a flight of stairs, a woman stood waiting at an open door. Lisa Johnson was in her late thirties. Her face was free of make-up, her dark brown hair cut short and her clothes were tidy yet classic, with not an ounce of fashion.

  Eden had always prided herself in looking good and would have fitted in well in the sixties era that she loved so much, with her blonde elfin haircut, long legs and striking resemblance to Twiggy. She didn’t care if she stood out from the crowd, whereas the woman standing in front of her seemed to feel the need to blend into the background. Eden had seen this so often in her previous role working as a detective constable on the Domestic Violence Team.

  Nothing surprised her much nowadays. Only last year she’d had a case where a man had attacked a woman several times over a number of months, and yet when he’d put a knife into her leg, she still said it was her fault, that she had goaded him. Eden had persuaded her to move out but a week later she was back with him.

  ‘Blustery out there, isn’t it?’ Lisa came towards her.

  ‘I can’t believe the chill in the air.’ Eden shivered as she unwound her scarf from around her neck. ‘Anyone would think it was winter or something.’ She grinned. ‘Oh wait. . .’

  ‘How about a coffee to warm you up?’ Lisa asked with a smile that lit up her face.

  ‘You say the nicest things.’ Eden nodded in gratitude. She followed Lisa into a large kitchen, where a table that could seat up to ten people stood in the centre of the room. The units were a pale beech Shaker style, recently refurbished by Mitchell Housing Association. Winter sunlight blasted in through the window – dust bunnies dancing in the air – and bounced off the yellow painted walls, but still it didn’t make the place feel warm and homely.

  ‘Another day to be thankful for,’ said Lisa. ‘Although I can’t wait for the bitter winter we’re having this year to recede.’

  Eden nodded in agreement. While Lisa made drinks, she read a poster to her right advertising a self-defence class every Tuesday and another session on self-assertiveness starting the next month. Taking back control was the easy part, she mused. It was sticking with it afterwards that was the problem.

  Lisa was a live-in manager and a qualified social worker. She had been at the refuge since it had opened two years earlier. She and Eden had seen a few of the residents through some of the worst atrocities, seen them come and then leave with their violent partners because they weren’t able to cope without them, or were bullied into going back home. Emotional blackmail was a huge part of the control cycle and one that was hard to break free from. Eden couldn’t blame the women, though she found it very frustrating. Lisa understood, because she had been through it all too. Thankfully she had got away. As had others. Some women who left The Willows never came back. They were the fortunate ones.

  Eden found out lots of information when she was at the refuge. She liked to know as much as she could about who was on their patch, what trouble they were likely to cause in the near future. This last month, the refuge had been quiet. Just the way she liked it.

  ‘How’re things?’ she asked as she pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. ‘Anything I need to know before I start my session?’

  Lisa handed her a mug and sat down across from her. ‘One regular back again,’ she said. ‘Tanya White.’

  Eden sighed. ‘How long do we give her this time – two weeks max?’

  It wasn’t an unkind remark, or a dig at Tanya herself, but she had a habit of turning up at the refuge and then leaving a few days later. Recently, she’d had a reprieve when her husband, Vic, had been sent to prison for a year, but as Eden recalled, he had got out recently.

  Even though The Willows housed women from out of the area, Tanya had used its facilities several times already. Lisa wouldn’t turn anyone away, even when it brought trouble to the door. Eden had also tried to help several times over the past few years.

  She hadn’t expected Tanya to be back so soon. In itself it was a sure sign that everything would escalate for her again. The woman didn’t cry wolf, clearly apparent by the bruises she would tu
rn up with, but often, before the bruising had faded, she would be back living with her husband.

  ‘So he’s up to his old tricks again?’ Eden asked. ‘How long has she been here?’

  ‘Two days. Luckily we have room. We’re quite full just now.’

  ‘Ah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Eden explained the situation with Sally and Colin Stanton.

  ‘If you can persuade her to come, I’ll find room for her,’ said Lisa. ‘If she’s desperate, I’ll sleep on the sofa until you can move her to somewhere else.’

  Eden reached across the table and gave Lisa’s hand a quick squeeze. ‘Where would I be without people like you?’

  ‘In a lot of trouble, I’d imagine.’ Lisa laughed then became serious almost as quickly. ‘Something else bothering you?’

  Eden explained what had happened to Ella Brown and Becky Fielding. She took a sip of her welcome warm drink before speaking again.

  ‘I won’t get to see all the women, so could you have a chat to them? I’m concerned this guy might go on to attack more women before we catch him.’

  Lisa nodded. ‘You know me – I’m vigilant anyway so I’ll keep my eyes peeled. You’re certain he’ll attack again?’

  Eden shook her head. ‘Not yet, no. I just need all women to be extra careful at the moment. The story is being covered in the local press but I’m concerned it might not be enough. Will you pass that message on for me please? Just to make the women aware and, hopefully, not to scare them.’

  ‘Carla has a session this afternoon. I’ll mention it to her.’

  Carla Gregory was a counsellor at the refuge, in her early forties, with a tragic past that she hid behind a bubbly persona. Eden had known her for a year now, since she had started to work there. She had sat in many sessions with her and heard her talk at several SWAP meetings too.

  Carla gave presentations on self-defence, self-assertiveness, anything to do with self-help really. Yet Eden saw a distinct change in her as soon as she came off the stage or her talk finished. On stage, Carla was captivating and funny. Off stage, she was less willing to engage with people, keeping herself to herself.

  It helped a lot of the women at the centre to talk to her. She had an air of ‘I know what you’ve been through but I’m not going to tell you my story. I want to know yours.’.

  ‘Thanks.’ Eden gave Lisa a half-smile. ‘Although, I guess, for the best part, they’re always looking over their shoulders for some evil bastard to do something to them.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Sadly, most of them will be doing that for the rest of their lives.’

  Chapter Six

  When Carla Gregory finished at The Willows, she called at the supermarket for a few groceries and then headed home. She had worked for five hours today, but only three of them would be paid. After the 2 p.m. session, she’d started chatting to Marsha Ward, who had gone to pieces when Carla had questioned her gently.

  When it had come to the end of the session, it hadn’t seemed right to leave her in such a state. Carla sensed that the woman needed to talk, felt that she wanted someone to listen. She loved that about her role. She hadn’t been listened to during her earlier life, only talked at and down to constantly. So it was fine for her to be there, even if it went over her working hours. She didn’t mind so much as she had nothing to rush back to nowadays.

  Home for Carla was a small two-up, two-down terraced house on the edge of Harrington, an area in the north of the city. She didn’t need any more than that now she was on her own, and even having a spare bedroom reminded her that Chloe was missing from her life. She could just imagine how it might have been if she were still alive, full of make-up and clothes and shoes, music playing. Perhaps Chloe would be working, or maybe even at university and only coming back at weekends when she could.

  Carla had rented this property fully furnished so that she was ready to go, with just two suitcases to fill. She had moved several times over the past few years from her home in Northumberland – as well as Liverpool, she had stayed in Birmingham and Manchester – and had been living in Stockleigh for two years now. She liked it here. It was a small city, more of a town really, and most of its residents were friendly. Of course, she read tales in the local newspaper of the two large estates notorious for trouble, but there were more areas full of people who prided themselves in looking after their homes and raising families to be proud of.

  Settling in Granger Street permanently was a lovely option but one that she would probably have to put on the back-burner. Most likely she’d have to move on soon now that Ryan was out of prison. Like the Marsha Wards of this world, she had excess baggage to contend with in the shape of a man who was too handy with his fists.

  Once inside, she checked that the house was secure, going into every room, checking locks on windows, bolts on doors. Satisfied that everything was in order, she went into the kitchen and set about putting away her groceries. These days she never switched on the radio or the television for background noise. She preferred to listen to the silence.

  She opened the larder unit and put away the tins. A bang made her jump and she looked up at the window. But it was only Thomas, who was prowling up and down on the sill. She opened the window enough for him to crawl through and then picked him up.

  ‘What have you been up to, you dirty old man?’ she asked, stroking his head and being rewarded with the loudest of purrs.

  Thomas was a tabby cat. Carla hadn’t seen him for three days but only ever worried about him after a week had gone past. He wasn’t her cat officially. Thomas belonged to Granger Street. Everyone knew him, and wherever he laid his paws was his home. He was good company though. Carla couldn’t have a pet in case she had to leave anywhere quickly, and some of the places she could rent at short notice didn’t allow pets, so that would never do. She had to be ready to run at the drop of a hat. Be one step ahead as long as she could.

  Or as long as she wanted to. Because it was getting quite tedious to live her life like this. She’d love to settle down, be safe in her own home without the threat of Ryan finding her, attacking her viciously again like the last time. While he was in prison, she could sleep well, even though she had still moved on with each letter that arrived. She wasn’t sure how he found her, just that he did. And every time he’d made contact, she had moved cities. It was a game he was playing, a deadly game of cat and mouse. She just wished she wasn’t the mouse.

  The feeling of being watched never left her, both here and at the refuge. Yet just lately, for a couple of weeks, she’d sensed it more; although she couldn’t help but hope it was her imagination playing tricks on her now that Ryan had been released from prison. After all, she had been on the lookout for years, always thinking that someone was glancing her way. Often, she’d turn round, scared of her own shadow, and then laugh to herself with nervous relief when there was no one there. She wondered if she’d ever be rid of that fear. Then she doubted it immediately.

  Coffee in hand, she went through to the tiny living room. It was all white plastered walls that she couldn’t decorate, furniture that wasn’t to her taste, but it was better that she couldn’t leave her mark anywhere. She would hate to leave a place that she had sunk her heart into.

  A lone photograph of Chloe stood on the fireplace, taken just before she died. It went everywhere with her, and it was the only one of Chloe she had in her possession. The rest of them were in a safe-deposit box at a bank in Stockleigh. Ryan would never get his hands on those. She knew without a doubt that he would destroy them. He wouldn’t want to keep them because his daughter was dead. He would want to cause her the maximum pain by ruining them.

  It was sad that she had no possessions to call her own, but at least she still had her life.

  Twenty-One Years Ago

  I was completely bowled over when I first met Ryan. Back then I was a shy nineteen-year-old living in Newcastle and working as a receptionist in a local garage and showroom. I loved the job, mostly because the mechanics used to tease me all the
time.

  I lived at home with my parents. I had been to college for two years to train as a counsellor, but I couldn’t find work after I qualified because I had no experience. I took the job at the garage to tide me over. It didn’t pay much but it was great fun, and the women I worked with were good company.

  I remember clearly the first time I saw him. His eyes were the first thing I noticed, deep blue and, yes, there was a twinkle there as he smiled and chatted to me while I booked his car in for a service. His hair was dark, cut short and fashionable for the nineties. Boot-cut jeans and thick-soled boots went well with his Barbour jacket and checked shirt, making him stylish with the minimum of effort.

  His large hands were clean, no signs of manual work. He caught me glancing at him as he filled out a form. And then when he’d handed me the keys to a Porsche 911, well, I’d been blown away. Ryan worked as an insurance sales rep. He told me he had a company car but that this one was his own pride and joy.

  Behind me, I could feel the eyes of Steph and Kerry almost burning a hole in the back of my head as we chatted. I tried desperately not to blush but failed dismally. He laughed at my discomfort, but along with me, not at me. His smile was contagious. I felt myself blush even more.

  He took me to dinner one night the following week, and I think I fell in love on the spot. It’s a cliché, love at first sight, but if you believe in that kind of thing, that’s what happened.

  Ryan was my first serious boyfriend. I’d recently broken up with David who had lasted just over two months. He’d told me he was staying over at his nan’s house because she was poorly and undergoing chemotherapy. His nan turned out to be an eighteen-year-old woman he’d met at the pub one weekend. I soon gave him the push when I found out the truth. I was quite assertive in my younger days.

  Which is why, so many years on, I suppose – in a way – I can understand why I fell for Ryan. He was seven years older than me and felt so mature compared to David. I guess Ryan must have seen something in me that I hadn’t known existed until he’d come on the scene; vulnerability. I was too nice.