‘I know what student digs are like.’
‘Smoke alarms.’ She held one of them up.
‘You’ll need them if you’re doing the cooking,’ he joked, but Fabian knew she was a great cook. It was other people he didn’t trust.
‘Dried herbs, stock cubes, olive oil, fresh garlic. I was going to shop when I got there. I’ve got enough to carry as it is.’ Tilly sighed and shook her head then caught his look. ‘But thanks.’
‘What time do you want to leave tomorrow?’ he asked her.
‘Nine?’
‘Seven,’ Harriet interjected. ‘Give yourselves plenty of time.’
Tilly nodded reluctantly.
‘OK.’ Fabian knew Harriet was right and pursed his lips at his daughter. ‘So you’re out with Toby tonight?’
Tilly nodded unenthusiastically.
Fabian was hoping she might have cancelled. But Harriet had told him Tilly was planning to break it off with Toby before she left for Exeter University. Looked like tonight was the night. He’d always thought Toby was a bit wishy-washy but knew he was very keen on Tilly. More so than she was on him. He knew how difficult it would be for Tilly to do it to him – she’d stayed with Toby so long because his mother had recently died. Poor lad.
Still recalling the rawness of young heartache Fabian thought that perhaps he shouldn’t feel so crestfallen they weren’t spending her last night at home together. The three of them had been out for Thai food the night before last but he wanted to capitalise on any last time Tilly was around. He was grateful she’d spent the majority of her travel year off at home. And he’d have her to himself on the drive to Exeter. ‘What time are you seeing Toby?’
‘Have to get ready now. He wants to take me out for a meal, but I told him to meet me in The Crooked Billet.’
‘I could always meet you there for a drink… if things don’t go well?’
‘Tom,’ Harriet warned from behind him.
‘OK. Stupid idea. So what’s cooking?’
‘A quick hot dog for Tilly.’ Harriet took some frankfurters out of the fridge.
It didn’t seem like much of a last meal to Fabian but tubes of filthy processed stodge were Tilly’s comfort food.
Tilly came round the breakfast bar and leaned up to him to kiss his cheek. ‘Got to have a shower. See you tomorrow morning at seven then.’ She rolled her eyes in her mum’s direction and then turned and headed out of the room.
‘She’s going to be fine,’ Harriet reassured him.
‘I was about to say the same to you.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Tea?’
‘No time. I’m out tonight as well.’
‘Oh… right.’ He’d guessed as much and waited for her to elaborate.
‘Thanks for dropping those off.’ She nodded at the bags.
‘Out for dinner?’
‘Yes.’ She met his eye.
Harriet never lied to him and he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. It was none of his business. He knew there was somebody on the scene, Martin, but he’d skirted around it as he would now.
‘OK, I’ll leave you to it. See you tomorrow morning.’ Fabian kissed her on the cheek and then made his way back to the front door. As he passed the bottom of the stairs he could hear Tilly singing in the bathroom. When was the last time he’d been upstairs? Not since Harriet and Tilly had decorated the landing and shown him their handiwork. They hadn’t intended it but it had made him feel even more redundant to them. When was that? A year ago?
He realised it was actually three.
He let himself out into the dark again and shrugged his coat against the icy draught.
Chapter Four
Fabian wasn’t surprised to find there were no spaces further along Cavendish Road. Parking spaces in Wimbledon Village were as rare as hen’s teeth, so he grabbed his own single bag of shopping, left his green Audi where it was, crossed over to the opposite pavement and passed eleven houses until he came to his own front door. At least, the front door to the staircase that led to his first-floor maisonette.
He unlocked and closed it then tugged the glass door that led to the stairs. The property had been put up for sale around the time he and Harriet had decided they could no longer live together. His job had instigated so much friction they’d both decided to separate before their friendship became a casualty as well as their marriage.
They’d met at university when they’d both been seeing other people but had got together when they realised it was the logical solution during their mutual therapy sessions. When things had started to go wrong, twenty-two years later, they were both pragmatic about Fabian remaining part of Tilly’s life. Harriet had never attempted to stop him seeing her but didn’t want to expose her to their spectacular rows any longer. Their daughter had been fifteen at the time. The set-up had worked for the last four years but now Tilly was leaving he realised things were about to shift.
He knew Harriet had seen one other man since their break-up but that had amounted to nothing. But from what he’d gleaned from Tilly this new guy had been on the scene for a couple of months.
Fabian reached the top of the stairs and let himself inside his front door. The heating was rumbling and he could hear the boiler vibrating unhealthily. That was a service long overdue. He’d expected to come home to a house as cold as the office, but it looked like he’d been given another day’s grace. First thing tomorrow he would call about getting it looked at.
God knows where he would get the money if there were something seriously wrong with it though. Although Harriet’s job with the Ministry of Defence kept the family home running he still insisted on contributing to its upkeep as well as having to subsidise his own. But it worked. He got daily access to Tilly and, until it became a problem for Harriet, he’d carry on the family life he’d always had.
He was luckier than all of the colleagues he knew who were in a similar situation, but what would happen if Harriet’s new man became a permanent part of the equation? Harriet had to get on with her life. He knew that. But now that Tilly’s was moving forward as well he was sure everything was about to change fast. Was his proximity about to become uncomfortable for Harriet as well as him? Would he have to relocate? He had no family and no friends nearby. The only other people he conversed with were his colleagues.
Fabian carried the groceries through the hallway and opened the door in front of him. On the rare evenings like tonight, when he got home at a decent hour, he liked to busy himself in his small kitchen. Rigidly following a recipe, assembling the ingredients, preparing then cooking them was a way to dislodge the day’s professional stresses. It was the equivalent of watching flames or ocean waves, relaxing but diverting enough to prevent the mind from wandering onto familiar treadmills.
He was no bon vivant and actually enjoyed the process more than the end result. After being in the smells and steam he rarely ate much. He would occasionally go for a walk around the block while something was simmering and get some fresh air into his lungs to sharpen his appetite, but tonight it was dark, wet and foggy outside. So it was likely he’d only eat a small bowlful. That was also because he had to sit in the dining room alone. Mini bottle of wine and News 24 for company. The usual roster of stories – strikes, Brexit, Trump, and paedophilia. As a force of habit he still cooked enough for three, which meant he would be doling the cassoulet into tubs and freezing them as individual meals for the majority of evenings he came in late. He always had a freezer full of them and so did Harriet.
He occasionally played music but usually preferred to cook in silence. After the frenetic office atmosphere he needed to remind himself what it sounded like, as much as he could, living in a maisonette with neighbours above and on the ground floor below. Tonight he was cooking a southern French classic – cassoulet de lapin – and had picked up the prepared rabbit from his South Wimbledon butcher on the way home.
He methodically sliced the onions and shaved the garlic. His knife skills were pretty good, and he liked focussing a hundre
d per cent on such a simple and precise procedure.
It was all about the cooking ritual, being in the kitchen, engaged and industrious, tasting, seasoning, adjusting further and enjoying a pre-dinner drink beside the chopping board. Everything that happened before actually dining. Prep underway, Fabian decided, even though it was Monday, he was going to allow himself a gin martini. He had some cured sausage for the cassoulet, which he knew would go very nicely with it.
A gin martini was the ultimate palate cleanser – the heroine of the cocktail world. One wasn’t enough, two was too many. He didn’t like dirty martinis that added extra oil but was partial to a Gibson where the olive was substituted by an onion. Tonight was Gibson night.
He’d just poured the liquid into a glass through the ice in the shaker when his mobile rang.
The display told him it was Banner. He’d left her at the Doddington Estate trying to locate their witness. ‘You found her?’
‘You haven’t heard about Whiting?’
‘Has Metcalfe given him his marching orders?’
‘No.’ She paused. ‘He’s passed.’
‘Passed what?’
‘Died.’
Fabian thought he must have misheard.
‘They think it was a stroke. Carried him out of the office today but he was dead before the ambulance got him to the hospital.’
Fabian shook his head. ‘How old was he? Thirties?’
‘Just thought I’d let you know.’
‘Thanks.’ He realised why.
‘You haven’t heard from Metcalfe yet?’
‘No.’ But Fabian knew it was only a matter of time. ‘Carry on in the meantime but be prepared tomorrow morning.’
‘OK. Finch is waiting for our witness to get home but looks like she might be staying away.’
‘Don’t freeze to death.’
‘We’ll give it another hour.’
‘OK. You’ll know as soon as I do.’
Six minutes later, he did.
Chapter Five
At what point would she stop overfeeding her dog? The man observed the basset hound’s sagging belly dragging along the wet pavement, its short legs barely able to nudge it along. Its owner, Emily, huffed as the animal stopped to sniff the base of an illuminated orange streetlight outside her house and jerked the lead slightly to get the dog to follow.
‘Come on, Mostyn,’ she scolded, and her breath billowed in a cloud around her face.
The basset hound puffed out a few clouds as it hung out its tongue and waddled to keep up.
He knew she wouldn’t be walking far. It was the same routine every night at nine. Up one side of the short street and back the other, and Emily kept her head bent forward against the cold, the bottom half of her face submerged in her thick caramel scarf and only her eyes visible beneath her black bobble hat.
Emily was in her mid-forties and lived on her own. She turned off the lights downstairs soon after she’d walked Mostyn and then relocated upstairs for the rest of the evening, only her landing light burning from the front. He knew her bedroom was at the rear of the property and, from over the wall at the back, he could watch her naked blur at the frosted window of the bathroom before she retired. She spent twenty minutes there each night taking off her make-up and applying cream to her face.
She didn’t appear to go anywhere during the day. Who was she making herself up for? Just on the off-chance that someone would knock on her door? Maybe she just liked her bathroom routine every night.
That would be the time to break in. He had no idea if she took the dog upstairs with her or not but the animal was far from capable of defending her. If it barked when he got in he’d have to silence it quickly, however.
The house to her left appeared to be unoccupied, but the one to her right had all its lights on. He watched her reach the end of the street, cross the road and start walking back the same side as he was on. He shrank further into the recess of the hedge but knew she would cross back over to her drive before she reached him.
She paused as her pet squatted on the grass border. Steam rose from its hindquarters and Emily gingerly held the lead and stared at her feet as if the dog’s activity was nothing to do with her. Once he finished she walked him quickly on.
No attempt to clear it up with a bag? He wondered how popular Emily was with the neighbours. Not even a look around to check if her transgression had been noticed. Which was fortunate for him because she kept her face directed at the ground before they stopped ten yards away from him.
Emily crossed back over to her small driveway, her bony behind scarcely disturbing her grey tracksuit bottoms. Mostyn paused to sniff something on the border on the other side but she dragged him towards the front door.
‘Come on, Mostyn,’ she said with her clipped voice.
He’d leave her to her night-time routine now. She’d sleep tonight but he would return the following evening. He could use a jemmy on the double-glazed window that overlooked the patio. No alarm. Just the dog. And the jemmy could take care of Mostyn as well, if need be.
He watched her walk into her lit hallway and kick off her crocs. He could hear the dog’s nails clicking on the polished floor as it wobbled to the kitchen at the rear. Then she closed the door.
Chapter Six
There was an aura of shock around the office when Fabian got in early the following morning, and he knew his meeting with DCI Alec Metcalfe would be brief and perfunctory.
‘Detective Feltz will commandeer the Doddington inquiry.’ His bald superior’s complexion was bloodless and he distractedly tucked his shirt over his paunch and surveyed his office as if he’d misplaced something.
‘I’ve just spoken to him. Banner’s briefing him now.’
‘Good. Whiting’s team are in the canteen.’
‘I’ll talk to them.’
Metcalfe sat down and rubbed the sheen of grey hair on his scalp. ‘I’ve just got off the phone to his wife. She’s expecting their first child in six weeks.’
Fabian shook his head. There were no words. ‘I’ll try to make sure we don’t lose any impetus.’
‘Impetus?’ Metcalfe made eye contact. ‘There was no impetus. No handover time on this. You’ve been sharing the same office, so you already have a head start.’
Was that the main reason he’d been chosen?
‘Whiting hadn’t made any connection between the four victims. Each one had been murdered in a different area of the city.’ Metcalfe consulted his notes. ‘First was female – an affluent black law student, second was a white, male, middle-aged taxi driver. Third a white teenage girl who worked in a supermarket and the fourth a geriatric white female, Janet Wells.’
Fabian nodded. He knew everything he was being told except the details about the last victim. ‘Same injuries to the face?’
‘Same balisong blade, then random stab wounds to the face. Nothing precise about it. Always the face but sometimes deep wounds, other times only superficial cuts. Almost as if they were rushed.’
‘Maybe they were nervous about getting caught.’
‘On the first two occasions maybe. Janet’s wounds are the deepest. Perhaps they’re gaining confidence.’
‘But no witnesses.’
‘No. First victim was attacked in a car park at night, second under a railway bridge, third in their garden. Janet Wells was the first victim of a break-in. As far as we know, the attacker wasn’t interrupted on any occasion.’
‘I’ll get the files. Anything else I need to know?’
Metcalfe looked as if he was about to tell him something else but then shook his head. ‘No. Speak to DS McMann. You’ll soon be up to speed.’
Fabian had scarcely spoken to the young detective but knew he’d been Whiting’s right-hand man.
‘I’ll be reassigning the rest of Whiting’s team over the next few days.’
That meant Fabian had the same amount of time to absorb as much information from them as he could. ‘OK.’ He ran his hand through his white hair and
sighed.
‘You up to this, Fabian?’
‘Of course.’ He could see the doubt in Metcalfe’s eyes and regretted exhaling.
‘If not, say now. I need headway on this.’
Fabian wondered whom else Metcalfe had considered. But there weren’t many candidates with his experience, so perhaps that did count for something when panic set in. ‘I’ll get started,’ he said stolidly.
‘And stay away from the media with this one.’
Was that why Metcalfe had taken against him? It had been key to apprehending Christopher Wisher, but Metcalfe made no secret of his mistrust of the press. Did he think Fabian liked the cameras too much, as his previous superior had?
‘The media haven’t connected the victims yet. Let’s keep it that way for the moment. Perhaps you can exercise the same diplomacy and discretion as Whiting.’ Metcalfe’s weary tone said he thought otherwise.
‘I can’t gauge that until I’ve spoken to his team.’
Metcalfe blinked irritably and looked down at Fabian’s shoes. ‘I’m here should you need me,’ he said, significantly.
Fabian had already turned to the door.
Chapter Seven
Fabian’s canteen meeting with Whiting’s listless team was as awkward as he expected. In half a day they’d not only lost their boss but also the purpose that had been occupying their every waking moment.
‘I know you’re all feeling pretty shocked and dislocated and that your thoughts are with Adrian’s family, so please feel free to take a day to absorb what’s happened.’
Nobody replied, and the three men and three women remained slumped in their chairs, their gaze fixed on the tabletop.
Fabian knew the other occupants of the canteen were listening in. ‘As you’ve already been told, I’ll be assuming control of the investigation with my own team as of today.’ He tried to make eye contact, but nobody glanced up. ‘I know that’s a difficult pill to swallow on top of everything else but it’s vital we don’t lose momentum on what you’ve achieved so far.’ He fixed on McMann, but the auburn-headed officer was focussed on the plastic coffee stirrer between his fingers. ‘I want to build on that, so I’d really appreciate you making yourselves available to me in the next few days.’
Never Say Goodbye: An edge of your seat thriller with gripping suspense (Detective Tom Fabian Book 1) Page 2
